Scorch City

by Toby Ball

  “No, ma’am, I’ve got a guest.” He looked at Frings.

  Carla introduced Frings as a newspaper reporter. “He’s trying to learn more about the attacks outside the Community.”

  Billy nodded, friendly but wary.

  Frings didn’t even have to ask; Billy told the story, his island accent pronounced even though his swollen lips slurred his speech.

  “Me and Tom Belgrave was coming back from passing out papers down by City Hall. We’d been there all day. It was night, you know, and there’s a couple blocks were there’s no streetlights and it’s real dark; real dark. Me and Tom were walking down on these blocks and hear a car behind us, running slow, and we get real nervous ’cause a few others been beaten this last week. But you can’t outrun no car, no? So we just walk along and the car gets right up next to us and is just cruising right beside us and we can’t see inside the windows ’cause it’s so dark. Well, the car stops and those doors open and out comes three men with bats and we didn’t have no chance to run. Those men just start swinging and down we went, and they give us several whacks while we down on the ground, covering our heads, like, and they’re screaming nigger and commie and commie nigger and all, and I’m just praying that they stop before they kill me.” He paused to take another sip from his bottle.

  Carla asked, “Do you know who they were?”

  “No. They’s wearing something over their faces, makes it hard to see what they look like. They’re ofays, though. No doubting that.”

  Frings again took in the damage to Billy Lambert. This was what he’d really come to see, the seriousness of the crime. No way the police would ignore an assault like this on a white kid. Lambert’s story was useful, but essentially just confirmed what Frings had already assumed. The important part was the police reaction.

  Frings asked, “Did you talk to the police?”

  “Yeah. Sergeant came with another man, but they just asked a couple questions, that’s all. Never heard from them again. They didn’t even talk to Tom, look around where we got beat. Those kids that play on the street say the coppers just get back in their car and drive away. If there’s a copper car around, those kids see, they let me know. Cops came back last night, but not for this. Kids say they were down on the river, searching.”

  Frings nodded. “You remember the name of the sergeant you spoke with?”

  “Nah.” Billy shook his head. “I was still hurting then, not keeping track of the names.”

  “Maybe Sergeant Wayne?”

  Carla looked at Frings, as if she was wondering what he knew.

  “Yeah,” Billy said. “Coulda been.”

  “How’s your buddy?”

  “What? Tom? Like me, I guess. Laying low.”

  Frings thought for a moment, then looked over at Carla. She frowned, nothing more to add.

  Frings said, “Billy, I’m really sorry about what happened to you. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”

  “Yes, Billy. Thank you so much,” Carla added. “I hope you get back on your feet soon.”

  Billy nodded. “You going to get those bastards what did this?”

  “We’re going to get the police to get them.”

  Billy snorted cynically and went back to his bottle.

  28.

  By prearrangement, Frings and Westermann met after lunch at Veteran’s Park, a modest triangle of grass nestled in the angled intersection of two streets near the Gazette building. A statue of a World War II soldier carrying an apparently windblown flag stood high on a pedestal overlooking a grassy common and the occasional wooden bench, most of them occupied by sleeping derelicts. Beneath the statue, a crowd had gathered around a Negro in a sleeveless T-shirt, bowler, and dark glasses, who was speaking with great animation into a microphone attached to an amplifier that spit out his words, distorted and angry. From this distance, Westermann couldn’t make out what he was saying. Another man distributed leaflets to the crowd, which seemed evenly split between whites and Negroes.

  Frings arrived and shook hands with Westermann.

  “You know what’s going on over there?” Westermann asked.

  “One of the reporters checked it out. They’re Community guys, trying to get donations. Proclaiming the Gospel according to Father Womé.”

  Westermann blanched at this unexpected Community presence.

  “You all right?” Frings’s tone was more challenging than sympathetic.

  “Yeah, I’m making it.”

  “Do we have a problem?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “One of our reporters, Art Deyna, looks like he’s taken an interest.”

  “Maybe you can tell me.”

  “I can tell you that he’s got a photo of you and Mel in front of the shanties. I can tell you that he’s not stupid. But that’s all I’ve got.”

  Westermann was surprised that Frings wasn’t more concerned about this; putting it all on Westermann. “What are you—the Gazette—going to do with the photos?”

  “Nothing right now. Sit on them. But I’ve got no guarantees about later. It might be a matter of days. Or a day.”

  “Shit. You know what that’ll do to me.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Piet. But this isn’t in my control.”

  Westermann closed his eyes.

  Frings said, “How about on your end? Anyone getting close?”

  Was anyone getting close? Grip? “One of my guys, he’s interested in how the currents work down there; tossing sticks in to see where they end up.”

  “Really? He find the spot?” From the tone, it seemed that Frings was more interested in this news from a technical viewpoint—how did Grip figure it out?—than he was alarmed.

  “I don’t think he’s got it that exact, but he thinks he knows basically where the body came from.” Westermann decided to keep the second body to himself for now; he was beginning to feel the weight of desperation, and this was the only leverage he held.

  Frings nodded.

  Westermann said, “There’s no reason for him to connect me or you to it.”

  Frings thought that this was probably true. “I was down in the Community today, talking to one of the kids who was jumped the other night. There’ve been several assaults on Community people over the past week. They don’t seem to think the police are taking it all that seriously.”

  “Wait.” Westermann saw all the crime stats and he hadn’t seen anything about assaults near the Community. “You sure? Several assaults?”

  “I saw the kid myself. Somebody’d done a number on him.”

  “There’s no record of it.”

  “Well, it was called in and an officer, at a minimum, interviewed the victim. Like I said, there wasn’t a whole lot of confidence that he did much else. Guy named Sergeant Wayne.”

  “Wayne?”

  “Yeah.”

  Westermann shook his head in disgust. “I know him. He was the guy put on the Community assault case?” It wasn’t hard to imagine Wayne burying it. “I’ll look into it.”

  “Let me know what you find.”

  Frings didn’t think Westermann looked so sure about that.

  “Don’t jerk me around, Piet. Jesus. Cops, you’d let anything happen before you’d put the brakes on another cop. What’s more important, Piet, some bent cop or justice?”

  Westermann winced.

  “Because institutions, Piet, you start making them more important than people, that’s how things get balled up. You’re smart enough to understand that.”

  Westermann nodded and changed the subject. “You run anything about the girl in the Gazette?”

  Frings gave him a long look, then decided to move things along. “Couple of grafs buried in the middle. Jane Doe on the riverbank. You know …”

  They noticed by its absence that the amplified speech had come to an end and the small crowd was dispersing. The speaker and the man who’d been passing out leaflets were gathering their things and preparing to leave.

  Watching this, Westermann
said, “I don’t like the way the Community’s looking for attention.”

  “Nothing we can do about that, but I think we’re okay. Even if someone figures where the body was originally, it’s a long step to connecting it to us.”

  “Maybe not to Mel Washington.”

  Frings shook his head. “Mel? Maybe, but I don’t see it. What’s his connection?”

  Except that he was connected, Westermann thought. He was very much connected and so was Frings and so was he.

  29.

  The night heat had transformed these marginal blocks just off Capitol Heights into a scene from a more lawless era. Bar patrons gathered on the sidewalks, their sheer numbers forcing them into close quarters. Voices overheard in passing carried the tense pitch of latent violence, the people’s faces set in angry concentration, lit blue, yellow, red, by storefront neon. And on every block, whores, looking weary and spent, going through the motions of enticement.

  Westermann and Grip were in short sleeves and straw fedoras, badges visible, clipped to their belts. It was the kind of night where you didn’t want to have to take the time to find your badge.

  Morphy was home tonight with his wife.

  Westermann scanned the crowds, looking for Joey Stanic. He carried a photo of Stanic in his pocket, a small guy with delicate features, almost like a girl but with a trim mustache. Difficult to picture a guy like that as a hard case, but a couple of uniforms at the station told Westermann not to take Stanic lightly; that a healthy caution was wise.

  Grip walked with his arms slightly out—gunfighter style. “That body they found?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Souza filled me in a little. No ID. Same sores as our girl; same underweight.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Souza also told me where they found her.”

  “He did?” Westermann bumped a heavy guy, spilling the guy’s beer on the sleeveless T-shirt stretched over his gut. The guy turned on Westermann, eyes lit with booze and rage. Westermann showed him the badge. The guy didn’t back down, kept eye contact, but didn’t press it.

  Grip picked up as if nothing had happened. “Yeah. And it sounds like they found her about where I think the body must have been before she was tossed in the river.”

  “If she was tossed.”

  “Right. But, Lieut, I think we need to focus on the shanties. That’s two with at least one of them on their doorstep. Probably both.”

  Westermann nodded thoughtfully. They continued on, concentrating on the crowd.

  “What do you think?” Grip said, nodding to a couple of drunks getting surly, grabbing each others’ shirt, fists balling.

  “You been drinking?” Westermann asked, catching a whiff of scotch on Grip’s breath.

  “Just a nip before we headed out. We’re working late, Lieut.”

  Westermann shook his head, leaving it at that. This was how he preferred to handle things, letting the men know if they crossed some line, but not dwelling on it. Move on; give them the opportunity to make adjustments themselves.

  “The fight?” Grip asked.

  “We start making busts, we’ll be here all night. Let’s find Stanic.”

  They walked another block, people clearing out of their way, making them as cops, or at least people you didn’t mess with.

  Westermann’s adrenaline was jacked; his chest tight. He talked, trying to chase off the feeling. “You know a Detective Wayne?”

  “Yeah. Ed Wayne,” Grip said, still walking and peering into the crowd.

  “He a friend of yours?”

  “Nah, we drink at the same bar, have the same politics. He’s an asshole.”

  “What about as a cop? He a good cop?”

  Grip thought for a moment. “I don’t know. He’s smart enough, I guess. I don’t know …”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got no idea how he does police work, but I know him a little and I wouldn’t be surprised if he pushes the limits sometimes.”

  “Think he’s bent?”

  Grip stopped. “Where are you going with this, Lieut?”

  Westermann shrugged. “His name came up.”

  Grip shook his head. “I don’t know. Like I said, he’s an asshole.”

  Westermann was satisfied with this and they moved on to the next block, crowd noise vying with a guitar keening from the open door of the Checkerboard. Westermann saw two Community Negroes standing on a corner, handing out pamphlets. Passersby mostly ignored the proffered sheets, but some took them, mostly Negroes. Westermann wondered how many Community people might be out tonight.

  “Shit.” Grip was focused on a spot in the distance like a hunting dog.

  Westermann peered into the crowd where Grip was looking, but didn’t see anyone resembling Stanic. “You see him?”

  “Yeah, pretty sure.” Grip was already moving faster, clear of the crowd and doing a half trot in the street.

  Westermann followed, adrenaline kicking in. He saw Stanic—small and slender-hipped—as Grip got to him. Stanic was wearing some kind of cowboy getup—boots, yoked shirt, flat-brimmed hat. There was the boyish face and the tight mustache from the photo, and now, in person, Westermann could see two parallel vertical scars in one eyebrow. He was almost pretty.

  Grip sidled up to him. “You Joey Stanic?”

  “You a cop?”

  “What gave it away?”

  “I ain’t causing no trouble.”

  “Save it. I’m not interested.”

  Westermann hung a couple steps back, letting Grip work. He eyed graffiti on the wall above Stanic. BETTER DEAD THAN RED.

  “What the fuck d’you want?”

  “We fished a girl out of the river the other day, thought maybe you’d know her.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Hunch. This girl was pretty, dark hair, but real skinny. And she was sick, sores, the whole thing.”

  Westermann saw Stanic giving Grip a blank face while he worked out the situation, trying to figure Grip’s angle.

  “Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to say any more until I see a lawyer.”

  Grip looked back a Westermann, putting his all into a can-you-believe-this-asshole look. He turned back to Stanic. “You think you’re under arrest here? You’re not under arrest, I’m just asking you a question.”

  “If you’re not arresting me, you can take a walk.” Stanic squinted at Westermann and his voice changed from brash to genuinely curious. “I know you from somewhere?”

  Westermann reddened, caught off guard.

  Grip got up into Stanic’s face and spoke quietly. “Keep with the program, pal. I just asked you a question. I’m waiting on an answer.” Grip pulled away.

  Stanic made eye contact with Westermann. “I thought he was going to kiss me there.”

  From behind, Westermann could see Grip’s shoulders tense. He stepped in, putting a hand on Grip’s shoulder. To Stanic, Westermann said, “Let’s take a walk.”

  Stanic laughed, his chin raised to Westermann in a provocation.

  Westermann smiled. “You going to make me work for this?”

  Stanic smiled back at Westermann. “ ‘You going to make me work for this?’ ” Stanic mocked. “I’m paid up. You want to talk to me, work it out with Riordon and Mossberg, they work this block. Now take a walk, you’ve wasted enough of my time.”

  Westermann turned away, trying to keep his cool. The mob scene on the street gave them some camouflage, nobody much paying attention to the three men facing off. But on the periphery, maybe twenty feet away, he saw two men watching. Something about them …

  Facing Stanic again, Westermann said, “Okay, I’ve changed my mind, punk. We’re arresting you.”

  Stanic squinted at him. “For what?”

  “Suspicion of murder.”

  “You’re crazy,” Stanic said, smile still in place, but the confidence ebbing from his posture.

  “Turn around.”

  Grip came forward, cuffs out. He pus
hed Stanic hard into the wall, kicked his feet apart, and kneed him in the groin from behind. Stanic’s body sagged a little, but he didn’t make any noise and even turned his head, forcing his grimace into a half smile. A flash exploded and all three men turned to the source. Westermann took a better look at the two men and now recognized Art Deyna and his cameraman. The cameraman got off another shot as they stood there. Grip looked to Westermann.

  Westermann said, “I’ll handle it.”

  While Grip cuffed and frisked Stanic, Westermann strode over to Deyna.

  Deyna smiled. “Lieutenant, good to see you again.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Deyna raised his eyebrows and pointed to himself. “Me? The question here is why you’re pulling a pimp roust. This isn’t your usual beat.”

  Westermann shook his head.

  Deyna said, “I don’t want to keep you from anything, Lieutenant. We’ve got our story and our photos. But I would like the chance to meet. Soon.”

  Westermann stared at Deyna for a moment, then walked away.

  Deyna called after him, “This story isn’t going away, Lieutenant. You want to give me your side, you call me.”

  Westermann ignored him, but thought, What story?

  Grip had Stanic by the back of the collar, pushing him into the wall. Grip gave Westermann a questioning look. Westermann frowned and shook his head. With a rough yank, Grip pulled Stanic from the wall to face Westermann.

  Stanic, still queasy from the knee to the groin, said, “It’s like I’ve been telling him, I’m paid up. Talk to Mossberg. What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

  Grip said, “Shut up.” They’d finally attracted attention, a small crowd eyeballing the action. Stanic kept his stare hard, working on his rep.

  They walked Stanic off the block and down a residential street.

  “Where the fuck you taking me?” Stanic asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe nowhere,” Grip said. “Why don’t you make life easier on yourself, you dumb asshole.”

  Stanic didn’t like this answer. “You say you found a body in the river?”