Scorch City

by Toby Ball

  “You know about him, though?”

  “Preacher out in the sticks until six or seven years ago. One of our reporters—can’t remember who now—went out there. Fort Deposit, I think. I took a piece of it; a couple of interviews to flesh the story out. Anyway, this reporter says he poked around a little, talked with the people at his old church. The thing he played up was the snake handling—‘serpents’ they called them. I remember the guy—O’Hare, now that I think about it—saying the snakes were pretty tired, no life in them. We didn’t play that part up in the story. Drinking strychnine was another thing. But the reality, O’Hare said, was that this was a detail, that the services were long: music, testifying, speaking in tongues. A real experience.”

  “But he’s in the City now.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s a story there, but I’m not sure that I know it. You know, they’re not playing with snakes here. He’s gone a different direction. You caught one of his sermons?”

  Westermann shook his head.

  “End-of-the-world stuff. Not what he was doing out in the sticks. Not sure what caused the change, but there you go.”

  Westermann flashed to knocking on Mary Little’s door in Godtown and her reaction to him—maybe not panic, maybe terror. “You got another beer?” Westermann asked, trying to reestablish their partnership.

  Frings returned to find Westermann watching the traffic below, so absorbed in his thoughts that Frings had to touch him with a beer can to get his attention. Frings sat down again, but Westermann stayed leaning against the ledge, legs crossed but not relaxed.

  “You get anywhere with Womé’s complaint?”

  Westermann nodded. “What he says is basically true.”

  Frings frowned.

  “I don’t need to tell you that the force’s manpower doesn’t …”

  “Doesn’t allow you to investigate every reported crime to the fullest extent, et cetera, et cetera. I know the line.”

  “So, that’s basically what happened here. A couple of assaults, no suspects …”

  “Negro vics.”

  “Frank.”

  “Communists.”

  “Come on, Frank, that’s not—”

  “So this cop—we’ll get to that in a minute—this cop takes a look, doesn’t like the reward he’s going to get for his work, and drops it.”

  “He’d say he didn’t want to tie up resources in an investigation without prospects.”

  “What? Are you trying to defend this son of a bitch? Look, Piet, there just aren’t assaults around the Community. Ever. There’s hardly any crime at all. You know that. Call it self-policing, call it failure to report, call it one of the safest places in the goddamn City; but you get two, three assaults and the force doesn’t feel the need to follow up; doesn’t see it as something new, something they might want to get a handle on?”

  “Like two dead prostitutes?”

  “Yeah, actually. There’s been a lot of violence in the Community, lately.”

  Westermann nodded. “Frank, I’m telling you what I heard.”

  Frings settled a bit. “This cop who took the calls, he okay?”

  Westermann didn’t answer, looking at his shoes.

  “He dirty?”

  “I didn’t say that. He’s got a rep.”

  “A rep like maybe he’d sit on this case.”

  Westermann shrugged. “There’re a lot of guys heavily into anticommunism on the force. He’s one of them.”

  Frings shook his head, angry. “What the hell do you guys think about, putting a cop like that on a Community case? This cop, he got a name?”

  Westermann gave him a pleading look.

  “What? You want to protect this gink? Is this some kind of cops-covering-for-cops thing? You’ve already fucked with me once. My patience is wearing thin.”

  “Your patience is wearing thin? You don’t have a fucking photo in the newspaper, being called an anti-Christian bigot.”

  “That’s out of my hands. He got his way, he’d have run shots of you with Mel and Warren by the shanties; you and one of your guys working over some gink in a cowboy costume. Rogue cop. Commie rogue cop. I had to talk them out of that.”

  “You need to get Art Deyna out of the picture.”

  “What? Have him done?”

  “Don’t be an asshole, Frank.”

  Frings laughed cynically. “I don’t see how I can make that happen.”

  Westermann stood. “I’ve got to go.”

  Frings smiled. “You owe me something first.”

  Westermann raised his eyebrows.

  “The cop. The name of the cop who took the Uhuru Community calls.”

  Westermann looked skyward, a few stars beating the ambient light from the City. “Ed Wayne.”

  “Wayne?”

  Westermann nodded.

  “Don’t you feel much better now,” Frings said, and drained the rest of his beer.

  Westermann took a pull off his beer. “Now that you know his name, you should probably know a couple of other things.”

  “Okay.”

  “I saw him talking with your buddy Art Deyna.”

  Frings shook his head, sucked in his lips. He could see the look in Westermann’s face, the cruel relief to be sharing some of the pressure.

  Westermann said, “And Wayne found the second girl.”

  Shit.

  51.

  “You ever seen anything like this?” Grip asked, voice low, thinking that it might echo on the empty street.

  Morphy shook his head. They were on the first block of Godtown, looking down its length; nobody on the streets. Both men did scans, trying to pick up something in the shadows where the illumination waned between streetlights, wondering what was going on. You could find deserted streets such as this at night in some of the ware house districts or, of course, in the abandoned blocks of the Hollows. But a residential neighborhood? The row houses all had lights on, but no silhouettes were in the windows.

  “What do you think?”

  Morphy shrugged, wary. “Let’s knock on some doors.”

  They began where Westermann had started days earlier, where Mary Little had panicked. Their footsteps echoed, bringing the emptiness of the streets into relief. Indoor lights backlit strawberry-print curtains. Grip banged the door and they waited. He banged again and said, “Police,” his voice unnervingly loud on the quiet street. Morphy looked back over his shoulder, despite himself. Still nothing from inside.

  “Next one,” Morphy said, and climbed down from the stoop. They repeated this routine on the next two houses with the same result.

  Morphy said, “You figure they’re not answering the door or there’s just no one home tonight?”

  “I don’t think there’s anyone in there.” Grip usually got a feeling when someone was on the other side of the wall, willing the police away. He wasn’t getting it now. They stood on the third stoop and looked out over the block, trying to get a handle on the situation. Grip couldn’t shake the sense that he was seeing something moving about in the shadows. But it was like something in his peripheral vision that disappeared when he turned his head toward it.

  Grip was about to say that maybe they should move down to the next block and start again, then he saw Morphy go tense.

  “What?” Grip whispered.

  “Next block, about a third of the way down, opposite side.”

  Grip found the spot and squinted and damned if there wasn’t someone standing in the shadows, not really hiding but not standing in plain sight either. Just watching.

  “Jesus,” Grip said, then, recovering, “Okay,” but Morphy was already down the steps and halfway across the street.

  They approached the man from opposite sides of the street, both detectives fingering their pistol grips. When they were within thirty yards, the man stepped forward into the light. Both police drew in response to the sudden movement.

  Grip recognized Ole Koss. Koss was in suit pants and a blue, open-collared shirt, his hands out fr
om his sides, empty palms facing the cops.

  “Shit,” Grip said. “What are you doing out here, Ole? The fuck is everybody?” Then to Morphy: “It’s okay, I know him.”

  Grip noticed that Morphy kept his hand by his gun.

  “What are you doing here?” Koss asked; his voice cold.

  “Police shit,” Grip said. “Where is everybody?”

  “Service.”

  “Church?”

  Koss nodded. “Every night.”

  “Every night?” Grip asked, shooting Morphy a can-you-believe-this-shit look. He noticed Morphy’s physical confidence wasn’t quite there, maybe shaken a little by Koss, bigger than Morphy and holding himself as if he knew what to do if things went south.

  Koss said, “Just about.” He kept looking away from Morphy and Grip, eyes darting up and down the street.

  Morphy said, “You. What are you doing?”

  “Keeping an eye on the place.”

  Grip said, “With everyone at church?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You got a piece?” Morphy asked.

  Koss shook his head.

  Grip said, “Jesus, Ole, it’s weird you hanging in the shadows. You ever catch anyone? Anybody ever come here?”

  “Not often, anymore.” Koss turned suddenly, as if something in the shadows had caught his eye. He turned back.

  Grip gave him a second to explain and, when he didn’t, said, “All right. We’re just going to do a walk around.” They started to move off.

  Koss shrugged. “The street’s public.”

  Grip stopped. “Opposed to what?”

  “Houses. The church.”

  “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Grip asked, not liking Ole taking that tone with him in front of Morphy. They were cops for chrissake.

  Koss shrugged. “Nothing you ain’t already heard.”

  Grip gave him a hard look, angry now. “There something you want to say?”

  Koss returned the stare, not aggressive but not backing down. Grip would have to make the first move.

  Morphy put his hand on Grip’s shoulder. “We’ve wasted enough time with your friend.”

  Grip kept the stare going for a few more seconds before breaking away.

  Halfway down the next block they began to hear the noise, not identifiable at first, but as they approached the church, it became clear that it was singing coming from inside. On the empty street with its unpredictable echoes, the singing seemed to come from everywhere, like the voices of hundreds—men, women, and children—rising and falling together. A hymn. Grip recognized the tune but didn’t know the words. He looked over at Morphy, who stood with his eyes closed, his face turned up slightly, letting the sound wash over him.

  Grip waited him out. Morphy eventually opened his eyes and, without a word, scanned the street, looking for Koss. But they were alone.

  As they walked to their prowl car, Grip said, “Unusual for you, the lieut giving you a night detail.”

  Morphy shrugged. “I’m sure he has his reasons.”

  52.

  Westermann lay naked in Morphy’s bed, Jane Morphy next to him, drinking from a glass of water.

  “You don’t have him off somewhere dangerous tonight, do you?”

  The question made Westermann uncomfortable and he found himself looking around the room for his discarded clothes. “Of course not. Just a nighttime walk-through in Godtown. Safest place in the City, if you look at the stats.”

  “Which you do.”

  “Which I do.”

  “The reason I asked is that it probably wouldn’t look too good if something happened to him while you’re carrying on with his wife; you sending him out so you can make time for yourself.”

  She was needling him and he tried to let it roll off his back, but couldn’t manage it entirely. He didn’t feel like talking, but she kept at it.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you doing a walk-through of our safest neighborhood?”

  “Long story, but they’re not being helpful with an investigation.”

  “An investigation? I thought you said it was safe.”

  “Might be peripheral, we don’t know yet.”

  “So, what, they don’t want you poking around in their church?”

  “Something like that,” Westermann said, feeling uncomfortable making pillow talk with Morphy’s wife while he, Morphy, was out on the beat.

  “You know, it might have to do with them not wanting you in their affairs, more than having a problem with the investigation, as such.”

  “I’m not sure I see a distinction.”

  “Well, you might not have been brought up religious, but I was. Some people, they like to make a real fine separation between their church and the rest of the world. They don’t like the rest of the world leaking into their church community, no matter if they don’t have anything to hide. They think it’s like an infection.”

  Westermann nodded, rolling out of bed, going for his clothes. “Well, that’s fine, but I still have to conduct this investigation and I need some cooperation from them.”

  “I’m just … I just thought maybe you wouldn’t know.”

  “Okay,” he said, pulling on his pants, needing to get out of there; trying not to imagine Morphy’s footsteps on the stoop outside.

  Jane sat up in bed, exposing her breasts to Westermann, and lit a cigarette.

  “Are you in love with me, Piet?”

  Westermann grunted something noncommittal.

  Jane ignored his nonanswer, talking dreamily. “Men, I don’t know what it is, but they all fall in love with me. Larry, of course, and you. You do love me, right, Piet?”

  Westermann didn’t speak. Jane, as she so often managed, had the edge on him.

  “Larry says that Tor Grip only visits whores with red hair. He says, ‘What do you think of that?’ And I say, ‘What do you think? He wants me, he finds whores that remind him of me.’ ”

  Westermann, feeling cruel, said, “But he’s not man enough for the real thing?”

  Jane laughed. “Man enough? Oh, he’s man enough. You’re man enough. But neither one of you is the man that Larry is. He’s out of your league. No, Tor is smart and he’s not going to kick the hornets’ nest just to prove that he can. He knows his way in this world. You don’t, so you kick the nest to find out what might happen.”

  53.

  Winston sat in the deep shadows beneath a wall whose original purpose wasn’t entirely clear. Across the road lay the expanse of open ground upriver from the Uhuru Community; an expanse marked by the low silhouettes of weeds and shrubs and, farther on, rocks that had been built up on the riverbank as protection from the occasional floods.

  Winston looked to each side, spying a half dozen or so other faintly sketched human forms, knowing that there were others that he couldn’t see. He was in the minority—both among this group and in the Community as a whole—in that he wasn’t from the Caribbean islands. He was from the South and had moved North, under the vague impression that his lot in life would improve with each northward step. His disappointment had come in realizing that the increments by which his life improved were very small. And this had led him to the Community, where he had found, well, a community that was not dependent on the tolerance of whites.

  He flexed his fingers, reminding himself to be careful with his hands. He’d been in plenty of scraps when he was younger where he’d hurt his hands and ended up playing slide for a couple of weeks until his fingers could move freely again. Now he was a little more careful. Maybe this was what happened as you got older and wiser, or maybe it was just the steady paycheck he’d been getting from Cephus and, starting tomorrow night, from Floyd Christian over at the Palace. Anyway, he was starting to put together a little chunk of money and didn’t want to ball it up by breaking his fist on some crazy ofay’s head.

  Another hour passed and he felt himself getting sleepy, his mind wandering to his life down South; memories coming to him as abstractions of
rage, sadness, and, mostly, fear. This reverie was interrupted by a shrill whistle and a surge of adrenaline. In the open space he saw the silhouettes of two men and a woman walking in the direction of the Community, gaits stiff with tension. A block and a half away, headlights approached at a crawl. Winston adjusted the stick in his hand, getting his grip tight and comfortable.

  The car entered his block and rolled past, less than a dozen yards from him. He watched the car move beyond the group walking in the open space and then stop, the occupants now in position to cut the walkers off from the shanties. Winston watched as four men emerged from the car, holding things—bats, tire irons. The men moved at a trot on a course to intercept the walkers if they tried to make a run for the shanties. Winston’s pulse pounded, blood pumped in his ears, eyes wide and unblinking.

  The guy giving the signals waited until the men were too far away to get back to their car, then whistled again. Winston charged, sprinting along with a dozen other men. It was surprisingly quiet, this violent rush; just the slapping of feet on pavement. But it was enough to get the attention of the men from the car and they froze, looking in Winston’s direction. Then they scattered, running in panic.

  In some kind of instinctive division of forces, the Community men split up to chase the men from the car, who had, wisely, run in different directions to avoid being caught together. Winston sprinted after a guy, medium height, a little overweight, carrying a tire iron. He was surprised by how nimble the guy was, really moving. But Winston was fast, too, and the overweight guy tired quickly, eventually turning on Winston with his tire iron up, trying to get in a surprise shot. Winston was ready, though, and brought his stick up hard onto the man’s forearm and he dropped the iron, let out a yelp, grabbed at his arm. Probably broken. Winston cracked him across the knees with the stick and the man went down; not fighting back, going fetal and covering his head with his good arm.

  Winston caught a blur in his peripheral vision as a kid whose name he didn’t know brought a bat down into the prone guy’s ribs. Winston gave him a couple of shots to the spine and then lost his heart for it. No satisfaction in beating a man when he was down; reduced you to his level. The kid gave the guy a good kick in the face and Winston put a hand gently on the kid’s chest. The kid accepted this and backed away, gasping for air.