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Back Dead of Winter Save as PDF
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The roads on Belle Isle had barely been plowed since the conservatory was closed for major renovation. Mostly I followed the tracks of a couple snowmobiles and construction trucks. I parked eighty to a hundred yards from the conservatory, hoping the contingent of help I’d prayed for would make effective use of my payload. As I walked to the conservatory, I thought about how nice it might be to be buried next to my folks beneath an old-growth oak.

At the main entrance of the conservatory, I was met by three of Bojing’s men—two big white guys and a trim Black guy—all of whom were pointing what looked to be heavy-duty Ruger AR-556 MPR rifles at me.

“Hi,” I said brightly. “I have a dinner date with Bojing. Sorry I didn’t bring flowers.”

One of the white guys gestured for me to come closer.

I did.

He pressed the barrel of his rifle to my forehead while the other two men carefully patted me down, taking the gun I’d retrieved from one of the guards at the island’s entrance. The Black guard picked something off the lapel of my suit coat and showed it to the guard holding his rifle to my forehead.

“Real soon,” the man with his rifle to my head said, “that’s gonna be your brains, asshole.”

The Black man flicked the piece of his comrade’s brains into a snow pile, then took up his rifle again.

All three men stood at my back, ready to shred me with their semi-automatic rifles.

“In you go,” one of the white guys said.

It had been a while since I’d been to the Anna Scripps Whitcomb Conservatory, which proved once again people don’t really know of or embrace the treasures surrounding them in their own hometowns.

The towering glass greenhouse conservatory fans out over thirteen acres and includes the Palm House, the Tropical House, the Cactus House, the sunken Fernery and the Show House, full to overflowing with all manner of exotic flora. And while most folks don’t normally associate Detroit with the growth of oranges, bananas and figs, you can often find a few budding to life at the conservatory, which is the oldest continually running conservatory in America.

Unfortunately, the Albert Kahn–designed conservatory, with its fogged-over glass, had begun showing its age. The low Palm House dome limited the growth of the collection of palm trees. In early November—while Detroit was battling snowstorms, subzero temperatures and high winds—the conservatory had been closed for major renovations, making it the perfect home away from home for a band of well-funded cutthroats.

As I followed the tree- and flower-lined path to the reconstructed central dome, two guards trailed me. I had no doubt they would lay waste to hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of rare flowers and exotic trees to cut me in half with their semi-automatic rifles.