Scorch City

by Toby Ball

  80.

  Winston’s voice was shot from singing five nights a week, so this night he was just playing guitar. Floyd Christian’s clientele didn’t seem to mind, which was all that really mattered to Winston. Christian seemed like a good guy to play for; he paid Winston up front in cash—much more than Cephus ever had—and came across as a decent cat. The kind of cat you’d show up and play for even if your voice was nothing but a wheeze.

  It was at least one thirty under the spots. Winston switched to a slide and plucked at the strings with fingers too slick with sweat to grip a pick.

  As he sometimes did, Winston closed his eyes and let his thoughts roam. He thought about the previous night—he’d only been scheduled for the first set and had spent the rest of the night outside the shanties with about a dozen other Samedi cats who’d taken on the task of guarding the Community against the crazy ofays who wouldn’t leave well enough alone.

  It was spooky, standing in the flat no-man’s-land outside the shanties, watching the men melt away into the shadows under a purple sky spattered with high, red clouds; watching the man they sometimes called Glélé and sometimes called Samedi walking around like a goddamn puppet, the strings being pulled by the lwa himself. Winston could call up the essence of what he had felt in Glélé’s presence, a feeling of supernatural confidence—of invulnerability. It puzzled him, this feeling. He was not superstitious, not even particularly religious given his upbringing. But he sensed something with these Uhuru Community gods, something different from what they had preached in his church down South. More like ghosts. Not that he really believed in ghosts, but he’d seen how the Community people felt about the lwa, and they were in a better position to judge than he was. He saw no reason to dismiss their beliefs, especially since he saw the evidence for himself in the Square and in Samedi; more evidence than he’d ever seen of his mother’s God.

  He could feel as much as hear the screaming that he was coaxing from his guitar, and the feeling conjured the sensation of Samedi’s presence—the presence of the lwa.

  Last night, a car rumbled through—a DeSoto he thought, though he was not good with those things—packed with white kids. He’d experienced the action with a kind of hyperclarity, like a slow-motion dream or looking through aquarium glass. The car stopped and the kids got out, holding bottles with something sticking out of the tops. Lighters flared. Winston watched what the boys couldn’t see—shapes of men emerging out of the shadows, advancing silently on the car. When the white kids had their bottles lit, a wild ululation came from somewhere—Winston guessed Glélé—and the Samedi men, Winston among them, ran at the ofays.

  Winston now worked the slide violently, his fingers frantic on the strings, howling coming from the amp.

  The boys panicked, throwing their Molotov cocktails wildly. The Samedi cats closed the distance quickly, but the first boys had already made the car. One took the wheel. A bottle exploded with a pop. Another. The car began moving, four boys inside, two more running alongside, hands on the open windows. More pops; more bottles exploding. Winston ran at an angle to intercept the car and thought he might have a chance to jump on the hood or get his arm in a window. The fifth boy was pulled inside the car by his shirt and the sixth was halfway in, his legs dangling out the window as his buddies tried to pull him in. The car accelerated. Winston cocked his stick back as he ran and then swung it as hard as he could as the car swept past. He made contact with something that made a sound like a tree branch being snapped over someone’s knee, then heard a scream.

  Winston’s right hand now dropped away from the strings and he massaged a few last whimpers out of the fret with the slide, then let that hand drop, too. He opened his eyes to the smoke and the half-seen faces in the crowd. There was a silent moment, then the cheers came hard.

  81.

  Arriving to work, Panos found Frings sitting in one of the leather chairs in his office with his feet up on the desk and the newspaper in his hands. The place smelled of stale coffee. Panos hung his jacket on a hook on the back of the door and lowered himself slowly into his chair. He stared at where Frings’s coffee cup sat on his desk. Frings set the cup on the floor under his chair.

  “Don’t keep me in suspense, Frank. Tell me your troubles.”

  Frings read from the paper. “This is, what? … One, two, three, fourth paragraph: ‘Councilor Truffant alleged that the police and the mayor conspired to cover up the murders of three young Caucasian women whose bodies were found in the vicinity of a Negro shantytown known as the Uhuru Community.’ Caucasian, Panos?”

  Panos nodded. “It’s accurate, Frank.”

  Back to the paper. “ ‘Truffant alleged that the Uhuru Community is a communist enterprise, pointing to self-proclaimed communists Melvin Washington and Warren Eddings as leaders in the Uhuru Community.’ ” Frings skipped ahead. “Truffant, quote, ‘Based on the cover-up of the three murdered girls and the savage beating of an off-duty police officer, one has to wonder where the mayor’s sympathies lie, with the people of the City or these violent Negro communists.’ ”

  Panos gave a pained smile.

  “ ‘Truffant asserted that his first action as mayor would be to bulldoze the shanties.’ Quote, ‘This would be the top priority for me. But I understand that, if I win the election, I will not take office until three months from now. I would not blame any citizen for thinking that this was too long of a wait to address this problem.’ End quote.

  “Panos, this is an incitement to riot and we ran it in the paper. That’s reckless. We’ll have a lot to answer for if something happens in the shanties.”

  “Frank, it’s news. The Sun has this. The Post has this.”

  “We’re better than that, Panos. This could get people killed. Look”—Frings held the paper up to Panos—“the front page has a picture of goddamn Piet Westermann talking to Mel Washington down at the shanties. Jesus, Panos, think of the implication. The guy’s not supposed to interview Mel Washington because he’s supposedly a commie?”

  Panos banged his fist on his desk. “Enough. Enough, Frank. I understand you don’t like it, okay? But, Frank, why does your pal Westermann bring Prosper Maddox into police headquarters to talk, but he meets with Mel Washington on the outside, when he thinks no one is looking? Ah? What does it mean? Maybe nothing. But, Frank, you can’t pretend that it doesn’t happen.

  “Listen, Truffant is an asshole. You see this; I see this. We print this story, the people who know better, they, too, will see this. People who don’t … There are problems in this City, Frank. I don’t know if most people think like you and I.

  “We ran your column, Frank. I think that makes our standpoint clear.” Frings shook his head. “We didn’t run it on the front page, Panos. Not on the front page.”

  THE GAZETTE

  Editorial, August 12, 1950

  FLIMFLAMMERY

  History is written by the victors and news is written by the powerful. Only a naïf can read the newspaper with the expectation that he is receiving “The Truth,” a concept that in and of itself seems to be negotiable in these unsteady times. Would that this paper were immune to this practice, but the briefest perusal of today’s front page shows its—our—complicity.

  I refer specifically to allegations aired by Councilor Vic Truffant regarding the tragic murders of three young women and the somewhat less troubling beatings of four men, all in the general vicinity of the Uhuru Community, of which we have previously written. It is a testament to Vic Truffant’s strategic acumen, if not to his honesty, that he was able to preempt any journalistic investigation of the story by holding a press conference where he presented his conspiratorial version of these events; this version—a fetid brew of half-truths and innuendo—because of a combination of apathy and laziness, graced the front pages of all the major papers, this one not excepted.

  But while Vic Truffant correctly anticipated the retarded work ethic of most City reporters, his version does not deserve to go unchallenged, as it is as lacking i
n actual evidence as it is awash in bad faith. To be brief, Councilor Truffant claims that the perpetrators of these felonious actions were one or more Negro men from the Uhuru Community. The evidence: the proximity of the victims to the Uhuru Community and the alleged communist ties of certain Community residents. Yet questions exist that stymie the logic of this conclusion. I will focus the rest of this column on the assault on the four Caucasian men and make explicit the flaws in Truffant’s specious claims.

  Why, one asks, would these Caucasian men be in those environs in the dead of night? The reason for this may be illuminated by a different series of assaults, events deemed not sufficiently important to merit a mention in any of the City’s major papers—again, this paper included. Over three nights, three separate assaults were carried out against Uhuru Community residents—unprovoked attacks against unarmed citizens. It will be no surprise to frequent readers of this column that the police were decidedly indifferent in their response.

  So let me posit another scenario, one that I believe is more consistent with the facts and with the context of the events of the past week. Four Caucasian men return to the scene of their previous attacks, anticipating another night of preying upon unsuspecting and defenseless Negroes. They have not foreseen that the Uhuru Community will resist this attempt at intimidation and are therefore caught unawares when members of the Uhuru Community take steps to preempt the next violent incident.

  In the absence of any witnesses beyond the participants in this incident, the reader must discern which scenario most likely played out. If you accept the scenario that Vic Truffant has described, you are placing your faith in the author of the story rather than in a plausible reading of the facts.

  There is a larger motive here, I believe, to Vic Truffant’s advocacy of these four men’s soft martyrdom. That motive is Councilor Truffant’s oftstated and well-known wish for the destruction of the Uhuru Community shanties. Perversely, he seeks to use the very people who terrorized Community residents as the victims who will garner public support for this aim. Do not fall victim to this flimflammery.

  F. Frings

  82.

  An air of expectancy greeted Westermann the next morning as he arrived at Headquarters, maybe ten minutes after Maddox and Koss and their lawyers. Cops hung around the squad room, ignoring the reports they had to type or the beats they had to walk. They chatted in groups of four or five, drinking coffee, sucking on cigarettes. Westermann felt their eyes on him and understood the complicated expectations. For the most part, these people didn’t like him, and his failure with a high-profile figure such as Maddox would quietly be cheered. But cops reflexively rooted for the big bust—bagging big game. In some ways, this was a no-lose situation, and they stuck around, knowing that any outcome would be worth the wait.

  Souza and Kraatjes met Westermann at the interview rooms. Souza looked harried, a cigar smoldering in the corner of his mouth. Kraatjes stood calmly, eyes in a slight squint, head cocked back a little. He was ready to go, but something was bothering him, too.

  Kraatjes said, “Chief’s office.”

  Westermann didn’t believe it.

  “Part of the negotiation. Maddox doesn’t want to be treated like a suspect.”

  “We’re—”

  “Piet.”

  “What?”

  “Maddox’s lawyer, in the Chief’s office—it’s your father.”

  Westermann stared at Kraatjes, bit his lip, felt the adrenaline. How could this have happened? Did his father not know that he was handling the case? He must have, it had been in the papers. What the hell was he thinking? Another test. Another goddamn test.

  “You okay?” Kraatjes asked.

  “Sure.”

  “You want someone to take your place?”

  “No.”

  Krattjes kept Westermann’s eyes until he seemed to make a judgment. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  “Just a question—how can this be allowed?”

  “We’re just questioning, Piet. This isn’t a trial. Maddox hasn’t been arrested. They’re just trying to mess with you—with us.”

  Westermann shook his head, confused by this betrayal, wishing he were surprised.

  “Where’s the Chief?”

  “He’s at City Hall, keeping Truffant and His Honor away. Let’s not ball this up, okay?”

  Westermann shook his head. Pissed.

  Maddox and Big Rolf were sitting in leather chairs that had been brought in specially for the questioning. Big Rolf stood, shook hands with Kraatjes.

  Big Rolf looked at Westermann. “Our first professional encounter. I suppose I should feel a father’s pride.”

  “Hello, Rolf.”

  They shook hands. It was strange.

  Maddox watched this from his chair, hands placidly laced in his lap. He looked unhealthy, his skin oily and pale.

  Kraatjes said, “Thank you for coming today.” As if he were going to launch into some kind of stand-up routine.

  Maddox unlaced his fingers and turned his hands palms up in a practiced motion, a gesture of clerical grace.

  Everyone sat.

  “Have you been told why you’re here?” Kraatjes asked.

  Big Rolf said, “Our understanding is that Dr. Maddox might be able to assist you in a murder investigation.”

  Kraatjes nodded. “The murder of three young women.” His voice was quiet, deferential; almost apologetic. “One’s name was Lenore. We still don’t have her last name. The other two remain unidentified.”

  “A tragedy,” Big Rolf said.

  Westermann clenched his teeth, not rising to the bait. He watched Maddox, whose mind seemed elsewhere. Maddox looked vaguely in his direction, but didn’t seem to be particularly focused on anything.

  Kraatjes turned to engage Maddox directly. “Do you know a Dr. Raymond Vesterhue?”

  Maddox turned his head toward Kraatjes, but kept the unfocused stare. “Of course.”

  “Can you elaborate on that, Dr. Maddox?”

  “We retain him, as an excellent doctor and a Christian, to tend to the medical needs of our congregation.”

  “Do you engage him in other ways?”

  “We pay him to perform charitable acts on behalf of the church—to minister to the poor.”

  “By poor, Dr. Maddox, are you referring to prostitutes?”

  Maddox made the palms-up gesture again, and this time Westermann took it as an acknowledgment.

  Kraatjes continued the questioning. “Were you aware that Dr. Vesterhue provided medical services to the murdered woman named Lenore?”

  Big Rolf seemed about to say something, but Maddox put up a hand. Westermann wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone do that to his father before and was surprised that his father seemed to accept it.

  “I’m afraid that I must confess a failing in this regard,” Maddox said. “While we provide money to Dr. Vesterhue to cover his time and expenses during his work with these unfortunate women, I do not, in fact, have any contact with them, nor do I follow their medical travails. Dr. Vesterhue, as a condition of our agreement with him, gives the women materials from our church. Sadly, to date, none has taken advantage of our offer of salvation.”

  “Did these materials include anticommunist pamphlets in addition to religious ones?”

  Maddox smiled. “I don’t believe I need to tell you or the lieutenant that communists prey on those who are already morally degraded. To not alert them to this danger would be derelict on my part.”

  “Do you know a Mavis Talley?” This question—Westermann breaking Maddox’s rhythm with Kraatjes—seemed to startle Maddox a little.

  “I assume that she is one of Dr. Vesterhue’s patients as well, and as I said before, I was less than vigilant regarding Raymond and his patients.”

  “We’ve learned that several of Dr. Vesterhue’s patients have contracted an illness that the hospital can’t seem to identify.”

  Kraatjes cut in; picking up the pace. “Has anyone in your congregation been ill? Ser
iously ill? We believe that this disease is potentially fatal.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Maddox smiled apologetically.

  Westermann said, “Tell me about the Uhuru Community.”

  Big Rolf stood up. “Dr. Maddox did not come here, of his own volition, to be harassed by you. We will cease to cooperate if this continues.”

  Kraatjes gave him a startled stare, and Big Rolf looked to Maddox, back to Kraatjes, then sat down. He’d done his job, giving Maddox a chance to breathe.

  “The Uhuru Community?” Maddox asked.

  Kraatjes nodded. “Why do you want the Uhuru Community shut down?”

  “Do I want the Uhuru Community shut down?”

  “You were meeting with Councilor Truffant before the press conference yesterday; before he more or less called for the Community to be razed.”

  Maddox considered this behind half-closed lids. “As I said before—”

  Westermann pressed, “Communism. We got that. You say you think that the Uhuru Community is a serious communist threat? I don’t believe you really do.”

  Big Rolf started to speak but Maddox held up his hand again.

  “Lieutenant, I’m not a fool. Nor do I go looking for threats under beds and such. But Scripture is very clear about the attributes of the Antichrist and his dominion. We have the privilege of living during the End of Times, Lieutenant. This fact may have escaped you, but it is as plain as the leaves on the trees. The Jews have returned to Israel. Russia is risen. The conditions are just as foretold, and we—or I—am in a unique position to thwart the Antichrist’s ascent.”

  “Father Womé?” Westermann said, incredulous.

  Maddox stared at Westermann. Westermann looked to Kraatjes, who kept a neutral expression.

  Big Rolf broke the silence. “I’m sorry. What does this have to do with the murdered girls?”

  “Nothing,” Kraatjes said, his voice distant.