Adam Blakeney sat on a barstool in Murphy’s Tavern on Jefferson Street in Detroit. As he drank the last of his Irish coffee, he lit a cigarette. The blue smoke wafted in the bar fan. He heard the honking horns of the traffic outside. He heard a siren wail. Whether it was a police car, fire engine, or ambulance, he didn’t know and didn’t care. “Hey, Murph,” he said, pointing to his cup. “Refuel, please.” “Sure, Father,” said the portly man. He brought Adam another drink. “Thanks. And don’t call me Father.” Murphy leaned on the counter, propping his chin in his hands, elbows on the bar and stared at Adam. “What’s wrong, Father? Bad day at McDonald’s?” Adam still wore his green McDonald’s uniform and reeked of grease, onions, and pickles.  “No. Don’t you have other customers to tend to?” Murphy looked over his right shoulder, then his left.…