The Hard Stuff by Wayne Kramer

Author:Wayne Kramer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Da Capo Press
Published: 2018-08-13T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

BUSTED

It was springtime 1974, and the weather turned pleasant again. Tim Shafe had returned to Detroit from New York, and Mel and I and a new organist were trying to get some work again. I was walking up to my front porch when I noticed a fleet of police cars coming down my street. A couple of marked cruisers and an unmarked detective unit, followed by another couple of black-and-whites. I thought to myself, Someone’s in serious trouble.

They pulled up to my house and slowed to a stop. In the back seat of one of the unmarked cars was one of my tenants: a kid named Stuart. He was from the neighborhood, and had ingratiated himself into the flow at the house. He would show up from time to time with stolen goods, drugs, or guns, which I’d buy for resale. He needed a place to stay, and I rented him a room. I knew he was untrustworthy, but that was a case of the tosspot calling the kettle black.

He kept cracking on me to introduce him to Mark, so he could get in on the B&Es. I denied knowing anything about burglaries. I hadn’t worked any robberies for a while because I was busy with my band again.

And now here was Stuart in the back seat of a police car in handcuffs, giving me the peace sign. The uniformed cops were coming up on me, guns drawn, and yelling at me to raise my hands and not move. A detective walked up and asked if I was Wayne Kramer. I mumbled, “Yeah,” and he said in a reassuring voice, “Don’t worry, son. You’re not in trouble. We know you’re not a bad guy. We’re just trying to get some missing property back. Is this your house?”

My mind was racing; I couldn’t figure out what to say or do. “Err, ah, well…”

“Can we just go in the house to talk and check for some property? If it’s not there, we’ll be on our way.”

Before I knew what was happening, my house was overrun with cops. “We’re looking for a set of large brass candelabras. You don’t happen to have them, do you?”

The candelabras were in a corner of the living room; we were both looking right at them. Cops were running upstairs and down, going through the closets. They found all manner of loot. One cop said to another, “This motherfucker,” referring to me, “is so dumb, he left the owner’s identification sticker right here on the camera!” I couldn’t have said it better.

I regained my senses and refused to talk to them without a lawyer, but the damage was done. I was in cuffs and on my way to the police station. The neighbors lined the curb as we drove away.

When I got to the Birmingham police headquarters, a detective stopped me as I was getting fingerprinted. He took a look at me and said, “I know who you are. I was on duty the night the call came in about a burglary.

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