The lights were as bright as Plymouth Road east of Greenfield had ever been.
The applause died down from the mayor throwing the switch and illuminating the court, and then more applause as former Piston Kent Atkins threw the ball in the air for the ceremonial tip off.
Dennis “Duke” Rasmussen scratched at his arm, over the flaming guitar tattoo he got in B Rock, about two years into his fifteen to twenty, stared up at the Rashford Foundation banner over Pastor Isaac’s fancy new court at his Streetwiseman Ministries.
Walt Bell shook his head. “Never thought anyone would ever hand Ike Lubbert any clean money.”
Duke just nodded. He and Ike had gone up for the same crime. Duke had been a fugitive once he heard they caught Ike.
By the time Duke got into the Southern Michigan Correctional Facility at Jackson, Ike was already doing Bible study.
Ike got out four years before Duke, and started the ministry.
The state of the art basketball court was another victory for a guy who had been one of the meanest kids in all of Brightmoor.
Walt put his hand on Duke’s knee.
“A lot of people from the old crew wouldn’t say this, but we’re proud of both of ya. In my whole life, I never seen one guy come out of Mother Stone reformed, not close. Not my brother, not Freddy Simpkins, nobody. And both of you are like…whatta they say? Pillars. Pillars of the community.”
Walt smiled. “Now you gotta get your hands on some of that Rashford Foundation money, fix up the Norwest Theater.”
A hot feeling, like indigestion ran up Duke’s throat.
Eliza Martell would find out eventually.
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