by Toby Ball
“Records?”
A gray woman eyed him over her bifocals. “Fifth floor.” She nodded back toward a bank of elevators before turning to a man whose hand, Westermann saw to his alarm, was being consumed, slowly, by a large, brownish snake.
Westermann hastened to the elevators and ascended with an elderly couple who stared silently at the floor and shuffled out at the fourth floor. The fifth floor, the administrative floor, was quiet. An orderly smoked against the opposite wall, ignoring Westermann. The tentative sanitation attempted in the lower floors was absent here. The linoleum floors were filthy, the air reeked of stale cigarette smoke and urine. A second orderly made slow progress down the hall with a cart full of files. Westermann asked him for records and he pointed vaguely down the hall.
“The door says RECORDS.”
Westermann followed the corridor past dozens of closed doors. He paused at an open door, thinking he might ask directions again. Inside, two small men in white lab coats were examining a fleshy mass suspended in clear liquid in a specimen jar. The men looked up at Westermann and he saw that they must be identical twins. Westermann opened his mouth to speak, but the two men had returned to the jar.
He walked down another empty corridor, took a corner, and arrived at the door marked RECORDS. The room was huge, rows of shelves guarded by a service counter on which file folders sat piled in uneven stacks. The place hummed with the sound of the overhead lights. Westermann banged on a bell and waited. A bald kid, face scarred with burns—maybe from a grease spatter—emerged from the stacks.
Westermann flashed the badge. “I need the file for a Mavis Talley.”
The kid squinted at him. “She a patient?”
“Was.”
The kid hesitated. He hadn’t seen a warrant yet. The badge alone didn’t compel him to get the file. Westermann pulled a five from his billfold and tossed it on the counter. The kid palmed it and turned back into the stacks, walking with a strange roll to his hips, as if he were pulling his feet out of mud. Westermann leaned against the counter with his back to the files, watching as an orderly peered through the wire-reinforced window in the door, saw Westermann, and disappeared again. Westermann drummed his fingers absently on the counter until he heard footsteps from behind him and the kid returned with a file and dropped it on the counter.
“You can’t take it out of this room,” he said sullenly.
“You bet,” Westermann said, and gave a grateful smile. The kid apparently didn’t trust Westermann enough to leave him alone, so Westermann opened the file while the kid watched.
The doctors’ puzzlement was clear from the records. Mavis Talley had been admitted with a fever near 105 and pain in her abdomen and chest. She was coughing up blood. The attending doctor noted the blisters covering her body. He also detected swelling in multiple organs—spleen, liver, kidneys—during his physical exam. They took blood samples and stuck her in an intensive-care room. Shortly after, she had apparently been discharged into the care of her doctor, a Raymond Vesterhue. That was it. Westermann read through the papers again, noting that Mavis Talley was twenty-three years old, that she was born right here in City Hospital, that she was five feet five inches tall, and that she weighed ninety-three pounds at intake. Westermann flashed on the corpse in the river, how the wet dress clung to her emaciated ribs.
“It says in here that they took a blood sample from her, but there’s no report.”
The kid shrugged.
“Where would that report be?”
“Probably didn’t do it.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s always a backlog of tests. Patient dies or is discharged, they usually don’t get done.”
“But this case, they were dealing with an unknown disease. They considered quarantining the patient. You think they’d scrap the test, even in that circumstance?”
The kid shrugged again. “Probably.”
“Any way of finding out for sure?”
The kid waited, looking at the counter. Westermann pulled a card with his name and phone number from his pocket and put it on the counter.
“You find that file, give me a call, and there’s a tenner in it for you. Understand?” Westermann couldn’t get the kid to make eye contact.
The kid picked up the card, studied it, put it in his pocket, and retreated with that peculiar walk of his, silently back into the stacks.
22.
Grip brought Morphy along to Crippen’s, both men slumping into chairs, drained by the day. The door to the outside was open, fans blowing, making no difference. Angry rhetoric and static blared from the back, the hate tangible even if the words weren’t. The bartender brought over whiskey shots and bottles of beer. His right arm was amputated at the shoulder—Belleau Wood, or so he claimed. He set the tray down on the table.
Wayne was sitting at another table with a couple of younger guys that Grip recognized but didn’t know. Grip could feel the energy radiating from their group; hot and dangerous. Wayne looked over at Grip and nodded, then eyed Morphy warily. Morphy wasn’t a regular here and guys on the force tended to be unnerved by him, his strangeness.
“Seen the door?” Wayne said.
“What’s that?” Grip asked.
“The door.”
“What about it?”
“Have a look.”
Grip walked over to the open door. Morphy watched, tilting his beer bottle into the corner of his mouth. The bartender watched, too, as Grip took a look.
“Yeah?”
“Other side. The outside side,” Wayne said.
Grip opened the door and checked the other side. “The fuck?”
Beneath two TRUFFANT FOR MAYOR signs that had been nailed up there weeks ago, someone had, in black paint, traced the outline of a top hat above two rounded triangles and, below them, four vertical lines; the whole thing maybe two feet high.
“What d’you think?” the bartender asked.
“It’s a skull in a fucking top hat. Who did it?”
The bartender frowned. “Damned if I know. It was there when I showed up this afternoon.”
“Jesus.” The figure gave Grip the creeps.
When Grip sat back down, Morphy was smiling. “Nice place.”
Grip held up two fingers. He needed another shot.
23.
It was cool in the German Street Cabaret; almost too cool when you came in from the night heat. Frings kept his jacket on as he sat at a table near the stage, drinking a beer and smoking with Lenny Moskin, who owned the joint. The place was full. Onstage a pianist and saxophonist accompanied a blond singer, her voice as smoky as the room.
“She’s still got it, Frank. Twenty years on and she can still sing. Her voice ain’t the same, but it’s better. And the people love her.”
“Yeah,” Frings said vaguely. Her voice had changed; she had changed. Just look at her, still beautiful but thicker; her face softer; weight in her shoulders and back. All this had changed since they were together, over a decade ago.
Moskin looked at him funny, asked, “How is the lovely Renate?”
Frings could tell by Moskin’s tone, his expression—he knew about Renate’s philandering; the news was around.
“She’s fine.” Frings took a drink, ending that line of conversation. It didn’t bother him, people knowing about her affairs. It was, he thought, almost expected of people like her, couples like them; some association of glamour with different moral calculations—sex, drugs. And it was accurate where he and Renate were concerned.
Nora Aspen leaned on the baby grand, purring some tune.
Moskin moved to a new topic. “You must be spending your time on the election.”
“Some of it.”
“You know, I’m not the mayor’s biggest fan, but this Truffant … he scares the piss out of me. Is there any chance he could win?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. It’s not out of the question, I think.”
“The problem is, with the mayor, it’s like
the City is a sinking ship and he’s trying to plug up each little leak, like if he keeps doing that the ship will stay afloat.”
Why did everyone want to try out their shit metaphors on Frings? Jesus.
Moskin kept going. “Truffant, he says to hell with it, let it sink and we’ll build a new one.”
“That’s not bad,” Frings lied.
“Yeah, but what’s that new ship going to be like?”
“That’s the question,” Frings said as Nora ended her set, mercifully bringing this conversation to a close.
Nora made her way over to Frings, smiling at the tables of people as she passed by. Frings stood and kissed her chastely on the cheek. Moskin surrendered his seat, kissing Nora’s hand extravagantly as he left.
A waiter brought Nora a glass of white wine. “It’s nice to see you, Frank. What brings you over?”
Frings smiled. “It’s always great to see you sing. I forget. I should do this more often.”
“You’re blowing smoke, Frank.” Nora gave him a smile that carried years of familiarity and the remnants of love. “But did you really enjoy the set?”
“Very much.”
“Such a gentleman. Why are you here tonight, though, Frank?”
Frings looked at her; little lines spidered out from the corners of her eyes.
She put on a pout. “I think maybe I know.”
Frings raised his eyebrows.
“Word gets around, Frank, in the music world.”
“I guess so.”
“She’s a nice girl, and God knows she’s beautiful, but she’s a tramp. You know she’s slept with her bandleader—I can’t remember his—”
“Warren. Dickey Warren.”
“That’s right.” Nora shook her head. “With Dickey, with other men in the band.”
Frings nodded.
“Are you going to kick her out?”
Frings shook his head.
Nora rolled her eyes. “Of course not.”
“She’s an adult. She can make that kind of decision. I’m supposed to tell her she can’t?”
“You’re a weird guy, Frank.”
“The thing that bothers me, I don’t like being alone at night; or at least I like to know if I’m going to be alone or not. I like company.”
“So get some, Frank. There are a lot of women in the City. If she’s sleeping around …”
“Too complicated.”
Nora smiled sadly. “I’m not going to have an affair with you, Frank. I love you, but we’ve been down that road.”
Frings laughed. “I don’t think either one of us needs that.”
“Frank, you haven’t changed—that’s a good thing. But you still haven’t told me: Why did you come here tonight?”
“I don’t know. To see you. See how you’re doing.”
“I’m doing fine, Frank.”
“I know,” Frings said. “I can tell.”
24.
Moses Winston was second on the bill at the Checkerboard that night. He came in through the back and stepped out from behind the stage and into the bar. The joint was nearly full, and smoke—some tobacco, some mesca—was heavy in air that carried dozens of conversations, threatening to overwhelm the duo on the stage, a skinny cracker with round glasses playing the house piano while a big woman with her hair piled on top of her head caterwauled her way through some jazz number.
Winston scanned the crowd and saw more Negro faces than he’d seen here before, though that number seemed to grow a little each night. He was used to being popular, even revered in some small towns that he’d played. But he hadn’t known how things would work out in the City. Now he was beginning to see.
He left his guitar case by the stage where he could keep an eye on it and maneuvered his way to the bar, aware of people pointing at him, feeling the occasional clap on his back. He’d smoked some mesca that Billy Lambert had bought off kids who’d starting hanging around the perimeter of the shanties, offering wares of this sort and that. It had been good smoke. Winston felt it in his body, and the crowd seemed somehow like a single, huge organism, the faces and bodies blended together, the place pulsing.
The bartender had a glass of water with a brownish lime waiting for him. Winston’s shirt was unbuttoned but clung damply to his back. Cephus was behind the bar, too, dripping perspiration into the drinks that he was imprecisely preparing, looking up now and then as if to assure himself that this crowd was, in fact, really there.
Winston leaned against the bar, listening to the girl onstage as she struggled with the realization that the crowd mostly wanted her to finish up. The crowd cheered a little, jeered some more, but mostly ignored her. He felt bad for her in a way. But it wasn’t often that white people had given way to him, and though it didn’t exactly give him plea sure, there did seem to be some kind of justice.
He felt a paw of a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Cephus’s enormous face beaming at him through the rivulets of sweat.
“You see this crowd, Moses?” Cephus was nearly yelling so that Winston could hear him over the crowd.
Winston nodded, looking into the crowd, roiling like the sea.
“They’re here to see you. Do you see what we’ve done?”
This was something that Winston was familiar with in dealing with white people, too. As far as he could tell, Cephus’s role in “their” success was simply to own this broken-down joint. Winston’s playing had brought people into this oven to drink Cephus’s shitty drinks and listen to the music. It was really what Winston had done for Cephus.
Winston smiled at Cephus, but not particularly kindly.
“I’m going to have them off the stage after their next number. You going to be ready to go?”
Winston nodded. “Sure.”
Cephus turned to walk away, then turned back to Winston, putting his hand on Winston’s shoulder again.
“Moses?”
“Yeah?”
“I know you two are friends. You seen Lenore lately? She hasn’t shown up around here.”
Winston felt a tingle in his hands and legs. He stared at Cephus until Cephus became uncomfortable and said, “I guess not,” and went back to making drinks.
25.
Westermann arrived at Headquarters early the next morning to find Morphy sitting on Souza’s desk, jawing with Grip, who sat on his own. Grip was telling some story about a fight he’d witnessed at a bar the previous night. Morphy drank coffee and listened, looking bored. Westermann walked over to them and Grip let his story die.
Grip said, “We’re on the Jane Doe this morning.”
“Any leads?”
“We’re going to make some leads.”
Westermann was about to ask Grip to explain what he meant by that when Kraatjes came through the door, grim, moving fast. Kraatjes was wearing the bow tie that he kept in his desk for visits to the mayor’s office.
“Detectives,” Kraatjes said, acknowledging Grip and Morphy. “Piet, the Chief needs to talk to you.”
“Okay.” Westermann searched Kraatjes’s face for a hint of what was up, but saw only stress. He turned for his office, to drop off his briefcase.
“Now, Piet.”
Westermann nodded and handed his briefcase to Morphy, who seemed to be thinking this through.
Kraatjes led Westermann down the stairs and into the lobby where the Chief was waiting, talking to a couple of uniforms; smiling, but without much conviction.
The three of them walked briskly out the door, down the stairs, and onto the street, ignoring the cops who made way before them. The Chief talked the whole while.
“Piet, your Jane Doe case on the river, there’s been a development. A second body turned up several hundred yards upstream. Another white woman. Young. I haven’t seen photos, but the report indicated that this woman was severely underweight, sores covering her body. Sound familiar?”
Westermann felt his face grow hot. “Of course.”
“What do you think this means, Piet?”
&nb
sp; Westermann was trying to figure this out, but was struggling to slow down his thoughts. A second girl murdered, and he had to assume at the same spot as the girl they had moved. This time Mel Washington hadn’t found out before the police found her. Westermann tried to focus on the Chief’s question.
A police cruiser pulled up and Westermann followed the Chief into the backseat. Kraatjes sat up front with the driver.
“Piet?” the Chief prompted.
“They have to be connected. It gives us a chance to look for a connection between the girls—”
Kraatjes had turned in his seat. “We can see the obvious,” he said, asserting his rank, something he rarely did. “What do you think this means? Does this implicate the Uhuru Community?”
“I don’t know, but I think we need to sit on this for now. If this gets out—”
“If it gets out that we were sitting on two homicides, that’s not going to reflect very well on us, either.”
“Is this why you’re headed to the mayor’s office, to tell him about the second body?”
Kraatjes looked to the Chief. The Chief said, “You know the politics here, Piet. If this comes out, Truffant is going to go after it full bore. The mayor needs to be on top of this, whether he wants to keep it quiet or release the information on his terms. If he releases the information, he’ll be wanting to go hard after the Community; try to preempt what’s going to come from Truffant. But it’s more complicated than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“The officer at the scene was Ed Wayne.”
Westermann sighed, trying to seem casual, his heart pounding.
Kraatjes said, “He’s under orders to keep this tight, Piet. But with Wayne …”
The Chief lowered his voice a little, ratcheting down the intensity. “I think the mayor is going to want us to do everything possible to keep it quiet. If this gets out, there’s going to be trouble down at the Uhuru Community, and that doesn’t do his campaign any good, either. Sergeant Wayne knows the consequences if he talks. But Wayne, you know how he thinks. He probably figures if he plays this right, he comes out a hero.”
