Scorch City

by Toby Ball

  “Sure.”

  “I think I saw him down in the shanties the other day.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s just interesting. He don’t look like he’s passing paper.”

  Westermann was thinking about this when he saw a white guy from the crowd rabbit-punch one of the Negroes still standing from the fight, putting him on his knees, bringing roars of approval and protest. More skirmishes broke out. Westermann turned to see the two white men and the Negro walking into a club called the Checkerboard.

  Pieces of paper littered the street—Uhuru Community flyers and others. Grip picked one up, looked at it, handed it to Westermann. It was simple enough, the white paper red in the fake light. The same block print of Womé’s face as on the Community flyers. Above the print, the word ANTICHRIST.

  33.

  Westermann lay in bed, a deluge of thoughts keeping him awake. They had a name now, Lenore, and a potential second front in the investigation, an alternative to the Uhuru Community. But his thoughts strayed to his problems. Why hadn’t he told Frings about the second girl? It was a stupid play, childish, petulant, desperate. It was only a matter of time, maybe even just a few hours, before Frings found out anyway. What had he been thinking? Asserting some control over the situation? Spite? He wished he could have it back; make a different decision. But what was done was done.

  He was puzzled by Art Deyna’s reappearance. What the hell did it mean? Did Deyna have any idea what was going on? Had he seen enough to draw any conclusions? Couldn’t Frings keep the Gazette off his back?

  He worried about how the location of the second body confirmed Grip’s theory about Lenore’s original resting place. He wasn’t surprised that Grip had figured it out. Westermann wondered where Grip would be now if he had grown up as wealthy as Westermann had, gone to good schools and then to university. But Grip had been raised by a grandmother in a hard-scrabble block of Praeger’s Hill, and he had done what the boys who hadn’t already fallen into habitual criminality did, he joined the army, and when his time was up, he became a cop.

  Westermann got out of bed, looked around his empty apartment, wiped the sleep from his eyes.

  In the shower, trying to slow his thoughts, he flashed back a decade, when the City had practically vibrated with possibility. After the assassination of Mayor Henry and the end of his successor’s term, the people of the City had found the good judgment to elect an aging millionaire named McCree. In hindsight, the golden age that McCree seemed to auger never quite came to pass. His reforms—changing the City government to a council with a figurehead mayor, modernizing the police force—had since slowly eroded under the relentless stream of government corruption.

  Six councilors proved no less corrupt than one mayor. The police chief’s progressive notions had been crushed by the sheer volume of crime in the City. The System was one of the few remnants of this brief period of reform, and Westermann had come to defend it with grim resolve rather than the pride of success he felt it deserved.

  Westermann had been pitched by the mayor and the Chief, personally, in the mayor’s office. Westermann was what the new City was all about: innovating, taking advantage of the most original thinking. He would be a big part of the City’s renaissance.

  How could he refuse the chance to see his theory, created in the halls of the Tech, tested in the real world? But he hadn’t wanted to sit at a desk studying stats, putting pins in maps. That was something that people hadn’t seen at first, his wanting to be a part of the action. The brass fast-tracked his training. He’d learned the craft during the day, and at night he’d worked with statisticians and cop brass to figure out how the System would work. They needed a couple years of stats to create a plan, so they’d started compiling.

  Kraatjes had struggled to pull together a small squad of detectives who were willing to work for Westermann. Some refused the assignment. Others undermined the work or quietly boycotted, putting in empty hours. Eventually Westermann and Kraatjes sifted these people out, and the men that remained were willing to work with Westermann. Some did this because their pensions were coming up and they didn’t want to make waves; some because they really believed the innovation that the System represented. Morphy was willing because he didn’t give a shit about much and found a certain plea sure in being associated with the least popular man on the force. Grip liked working for one of the rare cops who he considered at least as smart as himself. And Grip was very smart, which was why Westermann lay awake, staring at the topography of his ceiling, worried that his deception would be undone by one of his own men.

  34.

  “Have you been to Godtown?” Westermann asked Plouffe from the passenger seat. They had the windows down, the heat this morning again suffocating.

  “No, sir.” Plouffe was nearing his pension. Westermann knew that Plouffe was getting a little extra in his monthly checks for working Westermann’s squad. Plouffe wasn’t a great cop, but he didn’t dislike Westermann, which was something.

  “You been down here?” Plouffe asked.

  Westermann shook his head, watching out the window as people made their way on yet another blistering day, wondering when the heat would finally break.

  Godtown, as it turned out, was rather hard to miss, two square blocks of reclaimed row houses on the eastern edge of the Hollows, the houses painted in bright colors: purples, yellows, oranges, blues. Beyond them, the blocks of abandoned buildings that made up the Hollows

  “What’s this?” Plouffe said, pulling to the curb. No one was about, the sidewalks empty and clean, planters bookending many stoops. By any standard it was a cheerful-looking place. But the deserted streets were strange, like a movie set.

  “Let’s find the church,” Westermann said, as Plouffe drove on slowly, eyeing the row houses, expecting one of them to be the church. In the next block, though, they saw a steeple a block west, rising above the low houses. It was clear why Prosper Maddox had chosen this area to bring his people: this fine old stone church apparently abandoned until his flock had acquired it and fixed it back up. A man in a suit was at the near corner of the church, scrubbing stones with a sponge and soapy water where someone had painted graffiti on the wall. He didn’t look up as the prowl car passed.

  Westermann told Plouffe to stay with the car and took the steps up to the heavy wooden double doors. He paused for a moment, not sure if he should knock. He decided to just go in, but found the door locked.

  He banged on the door and waited. It took a minute, but he eventually heard the scrape of footsteps, and the door opened a crack. Westermann tilted his head to look in. The man at the door was young and big, his blond hair shaved military-style.

  “Can I help you?”

  Westermann looked past the man into a dim vestibule and a set of closed wooden doors on the far wall. He showed his badge. “I’m looking for Prosper Maddox.”

  “Can I ask what for?”

  “Just some questions.”

  “Pertaining to?”

  Westermann noticed a scar tugging at the man’s upper lip when he spoke. “Is Mr. Maddox here?”

  “Dr. Maddox.”

  “Okay.”

  “Hold on.” The man shut the door. Westermann heard the lock slide. He waited.

  The door opened again and this time a man came out—medium height, slender, tan suit, blue eyes, very clean.

  “Prosper Maddox,” he said, offering his hand. “How can I be of service?”

  Westermann shook hands and introduced himself. Maddox had a round, childish face, and his grip was dry and weak. His hair was carefully parted and stiff.

  “Dr. Maddox, is there somewhere we could sit down?”

  Maddox gave a regretful smile. “Unfortunately, we are presently having a Bible study and I am reluctant to interrupt it. Is there a problem, Lieutenant Westermann? I’m sure we can talk out here.” Maddox noticed the cruiser and ducked a little to get a better angle from the steps to see in.

  “That’s my colleague, Detective P
louffe,” Westermann said, getting Maddox’s attention back. “I guess we can talk here. I don’t know if you read about it in the newspaper, but a couple of days ago we found the body of a young woman washed up on the riverbank. We’ve found out that her name is Lenore; we don’t have a last name. Dark hair, attractive, very thin. Seemed like she might have been sick; had these sores on her body.” If Maddox recognized the name, he hid it well. “We took a look at her place and found some church materials from here, so we thought maybe you could help us with an ID.”

  “Lenore?” Maddox said, looking up at the sky as if seeking divine assistance with his memory. “I don’t recall a Lenore at our church, Lieutenant. Of course, it is possible that one of our people might have passed on these materials, helping to spread the Word.”

  Westermann nodded. “That’s possible. You know, it might be a coincidence, but we found materials from your church in another place; this time the apartment of a woman who’s turned up missing. Her name was Mavis Talley. That ring a bell with you, Dr. Maddox?”

  Maddox smiled sadly and shook his head. “I’m certain I would remember a name like Mavis Talley, Lieutenant, but I’m quite sure that I haven’t heard it before. And you say she had materials from this church? The Church of Last Days?”

  Westermann nodded, angry at Maddox’s casual dismissal of his questions. “So you would say it is a coincidence that these two women, one missing and one dead, had programs from your church?”

  “I’m not saying that at all, Lieutenant. I’m simply saying that I do not know who they are. It is entirely possible that someone in the congregation knows both of them and gave them both materials.”

  “Well, then, we’ll probably want to talk to your congregation.”

  “I could save you some time by making an announcement, asking anyone who knows either one of these unfortunate women to come forward. I could even start now with the Bible-study group.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I think we’re better off doing the questioning ourselves. I’ll send some detectives over, get a list of congregants from you, with addresses.”

  For the first time, Maddox seemed bothered. “Lieutenant, you understand, of course, that you are asking for confidential information. This puts us in a very awkward position. Would your detectives be bringing a warrant?”

  “We can arrange that.”

  “I think it would be better if you did. For both of us. You understand, of course.”

  “Mr. Maddox, I have a dead girl and a missing girl who seemed to know your church. Two nights ago we found a second dead girl that we believe might be connected to the other two. Do you understand the urgency?”

  Maddox frowned. “Of course. If you bring a warrant, we will do our utmost to assist.”

  Westermann hid his frustration, bowing his head a little in mock supplication.

  Maddox clasped his hands in an act meant to bring the conversation to a close. “Lieutenant, I look forward to speaking with you again. May the Lord walk with you.”

  35.

  Winston sat with a group of elderly men in an area of shade carved into the square by the low shanties, hiding the morning sun. He was working on a guitar that lay in his lap, its tuning post loose, unable to keep the tension in the string. He could have been doing this in Billy Lambert’s shack, but he liked listening to the old men talk, their funny patois, their conversations reminding him a little bit of home.

  One of the old men—a talker with a patch over his left eye—was going on about cops walking the shantytown alleys, asking about a white girl found dead on the riverbank. The other men murmured their agreement. Winston kept on with his work, but he felt the heat in his arms and face.

  One of the geezers, wearing a formless straw hat, said, “I hear they found another girl, night before last. This one was on the river where those boys fish. Right by the Community.”

  Winston was confused by this, but kept his head down, adjusting the tuning posts and tweaking strings.

  The man with the patch said, “I’ve heard no such thing.”

  “I heard it from old Letourneau, who heard it from his boy what saw the police down on them rocks. Said he saw them pull away a body; a white girl, same as before.”

  Winston realized that he was squeezing the tuning post hard, grinding it into the wood of the guitar neck. He eased off.

  The man with the patch adjusted in his seat. “Like I said, I’ve heard nothing to that effect.”

  The tuning post fixed, Winston played quietly, testing to see how his repair work would stand up to actual use. He was half-listening to the geezers, hoping and fearing that the girls would come up again. His real concentration was on the pitch of the guitar strings until he heard the old-timer with the patch say something about the young man and realized that he had now been brought into the conversation.

  “Ask the young man. I’ve seen him playing that drum at the ceremonies.” The man with the patch banged a few times on an imaginary drum, his head cocked back. “He’s been there. Ask him.”

  He was talking to a cat who was a little younger than the rest; skinny, very dark skin, with an accent Winston couldn’t place. Not Caribbean. African, Winston thought. Winston knew the man’s name was Glélé, but he’d also heard him called Samedi. He seemed to carry some weight in the Community, though Winston didn’t know why. He seemed to command the same respect that Winston sometimes received when he was onstage—a fierce, highly emotional adulation. But Glélé did not have to perform to earn it. His mere presence seemed enough. Winston had never spoken to him, but respected and feared him in the way that a stranger always fears men with power.

  Glélé’s eyes were hidden by dark glasses, but he turned his head toward Winston. “You a religious man?”

  Winston stopped playing. “I suppose.”

  “I suppose not.”

  Winston raised his eyebrows.

  Glélé’s voice was direct, making statements, not expressing opinions. “Religious men don’t suppose.”

  Winston nodded, keeping his eyes low, not wanting to look the man in the eyes.

  “You don’t fall for the white man’s religion, no? You don’t pray to no white God, keeps you in your hole.”

  Winston nodded. He felt his breathing go shallow. Glélé was right, though Winston hadn’t thought of it quite that way, that the church in his home had promised him a better life in the hereafter; that it kept people from seeking to improve their earthly lives.

  The old-timer with the patch was grinning broadly now, apparently enjoying this interaction.

  Glélé said, “Young man, you’ve been at the ceremonies, you’ve seen the African gods made flesh.”

  Winston looked up at Glélé despite himself.

  “You know. You’ve seen me mounted by Samedi. You’ve seen others: Legba, Senjak. Tell me you’ve not.”

  Winston kept looking at Glélé. He wasn’t sure that he’d seen it, but he wasn’t sure that he hadn’t. He had no experience to compare to what he’d seen in the Square.

  “What has the white God brought you? Huh? You see those young men in these here shanties, Samedi’s boys?”

  “Your boys?”

  Glélé spit theatrically into the dirt; the old men laughed.

  “Do I look like Samedi to you? Do you think I’m mounted?”

  Winston shook his head because he knew that was the correct response, though he didn’t know why.

  “Samedi is an African god. He’s the Africans’ past and the Africans’ future.”

  Winston went back to picking at the guitar strings, playing a faint tune.

  “Think on Samedi, young man. Dream on him. Talk to his boys. Samedi brought me to this place from Africa. Samedi brought this Community here—to the City. There is a purpose. I have a purpose. The Community has a purpose. You can be a part.”

  Glélé turned his attention from Winston, and after a brief silence, the geezers started in again with their gossiping. One of the men pulled out a pipe and lit it, th
e smell of mesca suddenly filling their little space as the pipe made its way around the circle.

  36.

  Grip wore a straw fedora to keep the sun off his face as he and a hatless Morphy navigated the narrow passageways of the Uhuru Community. Grip was exhausted and sweating whiskey he’d downed just a few hours ago at Crippen’s, winding down from bracing Joey Stanic. Morphy seemed fresh, but his hair was damp with sweat.

  Negro kids had been playing outside the shantytown entrance when they’d arrived. Young boys and girls engaged in some kind of tackling game with a ball made from a stuffed sack. The same two girls Grip had seen before stood in canary-yellow dresses with their cow, watching from a distance. The cow, Grip noticed, seemed to be putting on weight, though it was still thin through the back and shoulders. Grip waved to the two girls, but they didn’t wave back.

  Grip and Morphy made their way to the shacks closest to the river, feeling their way along by a kind of dead reckoning. Kids ran past them, laughing, and women with bright scarves on their heads made way for them, keeping their eyes down. Morphy smiled and excuse-me’d and Grip, for once, let him do the talking. Grip eyed the symbols painted on the doors and walls: weird crosses, elaborate designs with triangles, ovals, stars, weird arcing lines, and, on some, tiny phalluses.

  “You see these drawings?”

  Morphy nodded.

  “What do you think?”

  “Weird island shit, I guess. Who knows?”

  “Not much like that thing painted on the door back at Crippen’s.”

  “Not much like that, what we’ve seen so far.”

  “So far,” Grip echoed.

  Grip was feeling sick from the combination of the heat and the alcohol still in his bloodstream. His hand rested on his gun as they moved along. He didn’t consider himself a racist. In fact, he reserved a special disgust for racists. But he had an idea of what America looked like and this wasn’t it.