by Toby Ball
“Like someone just off the boat in the Community,” Plouffe suggested.
“Maybe,” Grip said.
Westermann was about to say something, try to move this in a different direction, but decided against it. He couldn’t control things to the degree he wanted and he had to accept that.
“Not necessarily,” Morphy said, which seemed to end that particular line of inquiry.
“No missing persons that match. We’re going to look into if she might have been a working girl, see if that turns up anything.”
Westermann nodded.
“Also,” Grip said, “we’re going back to the river to check the crime scene again.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’ve got a thought. Let me get back to you when I’ve had a chance to look into it.”
“Okay,” Westermann said, sensing danger. Grip got ideas in his head and more often than not they bore fruit. He mentally ran scenarios of uncomfortable conversations with Grip—trying on diversions, counterarguments, deliberate misinterpretations—while Grip and, sometimes, Morphy responded to questions from the other detectives.
A fuse blew—probably all of the fans running—and they were plunged into darkness and a din of impressively varied profanity.
13.
Frings watched City blocks go by from the back of a jitney. They passed through a neighborhood of low buildings and signs in Chinese characters. The streets here were narrow and the sidewalks teemed with women in wide, conical hats who made way for crouched older men, shuffling along with purpose. Frings caught quick glances of people gazing out of second-story windows, their faces blurred by the sun hitting the glass.
He thought about something Mel Washington had said the other night, that Frings was sympathetic to their cause. This had gnawed at him—sympathetic to their cause. Frings, contrary to some people’s belief, wasn’t a communist and not even a communist sympathizer, though he preferred them to the rabid anticommunists whom he saw more and more frequently—Truffant their best-known face. Frings was, though, sympathetic to racial justice, and he rationalized that this was the “cause” he’d struck the deal with Washington to support. Mel’s communism was his means to achieving freedom and equality, and Frings didn’t necessarily have a problem with that. He wondered, though, if this distinction—his support of justice, not communism—would make much difference if their plot was uncovered.
The cab dropped Frings in front of Father Womé’s brownstone, in an elite neighborhood of high-level bureaucrats, lawyers, and doctors. A group of maybe a dozen clearly impoverished Negroes sat on the stone steps below the stoop, where two imposing guards stood impassively, sweating in dark suits and bowlers. Frings’s arrival brought an end to whatever activities had been taking place as everyone’s attention turned to him. Frings gave them a stoned grin and turned to the two men on the stoop.
“Hi, fellas, I’m expected.”
“Frank Frings?”
“That’s right.”
“Clear the stairs,” the man ordered, and to the extent that a dozen people can be a sea, they parted.
Frings ascended, half grin still in place.
It was, Frings thought, an ostentatious home for a man leading a community of the destitute. Inside, the place was appointed with a seemingly random assemblage of objects—a greenish vase on a pedestal; an embalmed leopard rearing unconvincingly on its hind legs, front claws extended and face in blood ecstasy; colorful, wall-hung hammered-tin masks; a bust carved from dark wood, its face elongated; and so forth. It was the type of place that should have been dim and dusty, but all the surfaces shone. Frings paused, checking out the artifacts, noticed the guard waiting for him, and took a couple of quick steps to catch up.
He followed the man as they climbed a broad staircase into a hallway with honest-to-God flaming sconces—in this heat?—and waited as the man knuckle-rapped three times on a heavy oak door. Apparently hearing an answer, he pushed the door open and stepped aside to allow Frings to enter.
Father Womé sat in a chair that he probably considered a throne, high-backed with dark wooden arms ending in lion-head finials that Womé cupped in his small, well-manicured hands. He had, Frings thought, a very African face—high, wide cheekbones and dark eyes set far apart. His forehead was broad and sloped gently back. His smile, as he greeted Frings, was brilliant. Sitting across from him, Frings could feel Womé’s energy. It was similar, he thought, to the odd sensation of putting your finger between two repelling magnets. Or maybe it was the reefer.
“Forgive me for being surprised by your decision to visit,” Father Womé said. “We don’t enjoy much notice in your newspaper.”
“I should be the one to apologize.” Frings wasn’t sure what to call the man. “I’m afraid we’ve been negligent in our duties where you are concerned.” He wondered why he was speaking so formally. He felt as if he were in church, overdoing the deference to compensate for his atheism.
Womé motioned, putting the palms of his hands up as if to say that these small injustices happen. “What brings you here today?”
“As I said, we’ve been negligent. You must be aware of the rumors and lies about the Uhuru Community. I think we have a duty to investigate the truth.”
Womé smiled. “I’m gratified that you find our Community newsworthy.”
Frings smiled back, not sure how to interpret this response. Was he being mocked or thanked? Frings pulled his pad and pen from his jacket pocket. “Maybe we can start with why you created the Uhuru Community in the first place.”
“Mr. Frings, I know that you aren’t oblivious to the struggles faced by Negroes in this City and, in truth, this country. In bad times, in times of war, the Negro’s status is elevated—he is called upon as an equal to help defend his country of residence. We fought in the war and we saved Europe. The Negro fought—whether he was British, French, yes, if he was American. But in times of peace, the Negro is once again consigned to inferior status.
“There is no justice, Mr. Frings, but through strength. And there is no strength but in freedom. As long as we are deceived into believing that Negroes can be strong and receive justice in a society where they hold no power, we are trapped.
“We are endeavoring to create our own enclave where Negro peoples can achieve success. Does this answer your question?”
It was a well-rehearsed sermon, and Frings found himself moved despite the lack of spontaneity. He was tempted to ask Father Womé to repeat it, but more slowly so that he, Frings, could get all the words. Or, better yet, maybe Father Womé had a printed copy available. Instead, Frings tried to get beyond the rhetoric.
“But you aren’t oblivious to the fact that the very people who are doing the organizing that you talk about are admitted communists. Is this really how you want your Community to be governed?”
Father Womé squinted his eyes in a merry expression. “I bring people together, Mr. Frings. I give them a safe place. I provide them with sustenance. I give them freedom from oppression. What they do with this freedom …” He shrugged. “That is their prerogative. And I suspect”—here Frings detected a gleam in Womé’s eyes—“that your feelings about the political philosophy of some of my people are not as negative as your statement would suggest.”
Frings laughed, wondering if Womé had intuited this or knew more about Frings than he was letting on. “Let’s go back for a second. You said that you wanted a place where Negroes had freedom, power, justice; have you achieved this in the Uhuru Community?”
Womé’s face went serious. “We have no justice in the Community.”
“Why do you say that?”
“An example: just this week, three assaults against my people. Groups of young Negroes coming back to the Community, attacked on the street in the night by men in masks.”
“Masks? Like the Klan?”
Womé shook his head. “My children said they wore stocking masks or masks around their eyes.”
“Did you notify the police?”
/> “They call the police. The police come, but they do nothing. No investigation. No arrests.”
This didn’t sound right. “You’re sure there was no investigation?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Womé thundered, giving Frings a peek at another facet of the man’s charisma. “They did nothing.”
Frings ratcheted back. “Father, the impression that a lot of people outside the Community have is that you are worshipped by members of the Uhuru Community. That they consider you to be divine in some way.”
This seemed to change Womé’s mood and he laughed deeply, his hands on his stomach and his head tilted back. “I may not think of the divine in the way that you do.”
Frings didn’t think about the divine at all, but that was beside the point. “How do you mean?”
“I will bring you to the Square sometime. I think you would find that interesting. That would give you something to write about for your paper.”
“The Square?”
“In the Uhuru Community. I’ll bring you there and you can see what you think. God works in mysterious ways. But you must do something for me in return.”
Frings raised his eyebrows.
“Find out why these assaults are not being investigated, Mr. Frings, then you’ll understand why we need the Uhuru Community.”
14.
The Uhuru Community had a storefront business office between a butcher shop and a newsmonger’s in a low-rent neighborhood just outside Capitol Heights. No sign identified it as such, but the window front was plastered with signs supporting the Community. Grip glanced at them with a sneer, Father Womé’s face prominent in block print. A campaign sign for the mayor was positioned above them, and Grip didn’t think that the mayor would be too happy about that.
Morphy was already through the door. Inside, four desks sat scattered in a seemingly random configuration around the front room. Three were empty, and behind the fourth sat a middle-aged woman with coffee skin and her hair wrapped in a red scarf. She looked up at the men with nervous eyes.
“Can I help you?” Definitely Caribbean.
Morphy flashed the badge. The woman’s eyes turned down to her desk. A ceiling fan squeaked rhythmically above her.
Morphy said, “We’re trying to find Mel Washington. Is he here?”
The woman kept her gaze fixed on the desk; her hands trembled, but she was otherwise motionless, maybe thinking that if she didn’t show signs of life they’d go away.
“Ma’am,” Morphy said, his voice soft, the way it often was around women, “Mel Washington?”
The woman turned her head slightly toward a door leading back. Morphy nodded and Grip went to the door, hand on his holstered Colt. He opened without knocking. Mel Washington sat at a table with two other Negroes, both in suits, papers spread out before them.
“What the hell?” said one of the men, fat, with red suspenders and pants hiked up so that a strip of skin showed between socks and pant hem.
Grip showed the badge. “I’m here to talk to Mel Washington. You two, screw.”
The two men looked at Mel Washington, who nodded slowly, not looking at Grip. The man who wasn’t the fat man scooped the papers on the desk into a leather satchel and the two men stood, paused briefly to look at Washington, and, reluctantly, made their way out. Morphy escorted them out of the building, locking the front door behind them.
“Hold Mr. Washington’s calls,” Morphy said to the woman at the desk, and joined Grip, who was now sitting across from Washington. Morphy stood by the door.
“Comrade Washington,” Grip said, a nasty grin on his face, “I don’t know if you heard, but we pulled the body of a white woman from the river just downstream from your shanties. You heard about that?”
“I have.” Washington was leaning forward with his elbows on the table and his palms together prayer-style, the tips of his index fingers touching his nose.
“What do you make of it?”
“I don’t make anything of it.”
“You know what I make of it?”
“No. But I imagine you’re going to tell me,” Washington said neutrally.
Grip brought his fist down hard on the table. “Don’t have a piss with me.”
“Okay.” Washington leaned back in his chair now, massaging his neck absently.
“I think some of you commie degenerates had yourselves a good time with a white woman and then killed her to cover up your perversions. How does that sound?”
“I don’t know anything about that. You have some evidence to support this … conjecture?”
With both hands, Grip tossed the table over to the side. He grabbed Washington’s legs and flipped his chair backward so that he lay sprawled out on the ground, his glasses skittered against the wall.
“I’ll get the fucking evidence. Don’t worry about that, comrade. There are people in this City that know what is going on in the Uhuru Community. Patriots. The clock is ticking.”
Washington lay still on the floor, looking in Grip’s direction, but without his glasses on, his eyes were unfocused.
Grip took a step so that he was standing directly over the prostate Washington. “All I’m looking for is a wedge, just a little wedge, and I’m going to use it to pry open your whole goddamn operation. You hear me?”
Washington just looked up at him.
“You hear me?” Grip repeated louder, nudging Washington hard with the sole of his boot.
“I hear you,” Washington said, keeping his voice strong.
“I thought so.” Grip turned and went out the door.
Morphy walked over to where Washington’s glasses had slid and picked them up. He knelt down next to Washington and placed the glasses over Washington’s eyes and gently tucked the arms behind his ears.
“I thought you might have a hard time finding these,” he whispered, then blew gently in Washington’s ear.
15.
Frings leaned against the doorframe of Panos’s office, cradling a cup of coffee and watching this new kid, Art Deyna, looking satisfied with himself.
Panos was leaning back in his chair, his eyes bright with amusement. “Deyna here thinks he has a scoop.”
“That right?”
Deyna was slender, with a delicate face, like a girl’s. Probably didn’t shave. He said, “A source called me, said there was something going on with a dead whore; cops giving it a lot of attention. He said the police consider it, quote, very important.”
Alarm bells. “A dead prostitute?”
Deyna nodded, the eagerness plain in his eyes. His first big hunch story right there.
Panos said, “Deyna tells me your buddy Westermann is on this case. I remember the story you wrote on him and I think maybe you might have some things you can tell him; help him with the background.”
Frings pulled out a pack of cigarettes to buy some time. He offered them around, found no takers, and put one to his lips, worried that his hand might be shaking. It wasn’t.
He looked at Deyna. “Who’s the prostitute?”
“Goes by the name of Jane Doe,” Deyna said with a half grin.
Fuck you.
Deyna continued, “They found her on the bank by the abandoned warehouses a little downriver from the Uhuru Community.”
“The Uhuru Community?”
Deyna nodded. Frings looked at Panos.
Panos said to Deyna, “Frank, here, just interviewed Father Womé.”
Frings watched Deyna do the mental calculations and didn’t like what he saw.
“You know, Panos, since I know Westermann and I’ve just interviewed Womé, it might make sense for me—”
Deyna was out of his seat. “Hold on. Are you poaching my story?”
Frings ignored Deyna as much as he could. “Panos?”
Panos scowled. “Really, Frank? You want to take this story, this story about a dead whore, from your young colleague?”
Frings’s breathing was shallow. Deyna glared at him.
“You two can talk lat
er.” Panos looked to Deyna. “Frank will help you. But now I must speak with him alone.”
Deyna nodded at Panos, gave Frings a cocky smirk, left.
Now just the two of them.
“Frank, why do you try to take his story? It’s not what I expect from you.”
Frings shrugged, pissed off by Deyna’s arrogance. “I don’t know, Panos. The kid rubs me wrong.”
“What? People you don’t like can’t have stories? Listen, Frank. You know I love you and the work you do. But lately, you smoke the reefer; have other things in your life. You’re a writer now, Frank. The best we’ve got. But I don’t know that you’re a reporter anymore. I give you slack, let you do what you want; but we need reporters at a newspaper. Deyna is a reporter. He finds stories, works sources, investigates, hustles. You used to do that, Frank. You don’t anymore and that’s fine. But let Deyna do the reporting. You just write.”
Frings stared at Panos, wondering if he agreed with this assessment and, if so, what he thought of it.
16.
Westermann walked from headquarters through a night unsettled by a hot wind careening through the streets, carrying debris on crazed, rudderless journeys. Men on the sidewalks seemed cowed by its force, staring bleakly at the ground or taking deep pulls from bottles held in paper sacks. Women and children stayed off the streets, and the night pulsed with violent possibility. Westermann took the journey at an easy stroll, enjoying the effect that his size and physical confidence had on other men. He neither sought nor avoided eye contact, but never conceded once engaged. His pulse pounded; his body coiled like a spring; desperate energy.
He thought about the girl lying in the morgue. He thought about Grip watching flotsam riding eddies in the river. He thought about a note left on his desk by one of the duty officers, asking him to return the call of an Art Deyna from the Gazette. He didn’t know that name. What the hell did he want?
Westermann walked without conscious direction, but there was, on some level, no doubt as to his ultimate destination. He wandered through neighborhoods that he’d never before visited, signs in unfamiliar languages, stocky men smelling of garlic and liquor. He passed through an abbreviated neighborhood, maybe two blocks square, where women clad head to foot in dark robes—only their brown eyes visible beneath their chadors—were accompanied by men with long beards wearing flowing white robes and sandals. The neighborhood smelled of tea, and two sets of street signs hung on the poles, one in English and the other in Arabic script.
