Scorch City

by Toby Ball

  Deyna paused for a moment to let that sink in. “Okay, so next thing, the lieutenant heads down to the bar district with another cop, named”—Deyna looked at his notes—“Grip. Torsten Grip. Anyway, I think you saw the picture. Lieutenant Westermann and Detective Grip find this pimp”—again to the notes—“Stanic, and they rough him up a little. Fine. Dead whores, find a pimp. Knee him in the jewels? He’s a pimp, right? No problem. Not the image that Westermann puts out there, though. Not exactly the System.

  “So then, for some reason, Lieutenant Westermann heads to Godtown not once, but twice. Godtown. You saw the photos, he’s harassing Dr. Maddox, a preacher. I talked to Dr. Maddox and he said that he’d promised to cooperate with the lieutenant, but Westermann starts banging on doors despite Dr. Maddox’s specific request that he not. Then, and this is the interesting part, a police cruiser arrives and Westermann and his people up and leave. Just like that.”

  Frings looked at Panos. “So?”

  Deyna said, “You’re the genius, Frings. What does it mean?”

  Frings didn’t look at Deyna. “Is there a story here? Cop investigates murder?”

  Panos winced. “Frank, why are you like this? We are simply asking what you think.”

  “There’s nothing to think, Panos.”

  Deyna said, “Golden Boy cop, lawyer’s kid, cuddling up to commies and bullying preachers? That’s nothing?”

  Frings looked to Panos. “What? We’re going to start attacking people for their associations based on a photograph? He’s investigating a crime, talking to community leaders where the body was found. What’s he supposed to do? Panos, I don’t care one way or the other about Westermann, but we have some standards here, right?”

  Deyna’s voice rose with his irritation. “We may have a communist in a position of authority in the police department. Maybe that doesn’t bother you, but it sure as hell bothers me.”

  41.

  Even with the windows down, Grip felt trapped by the heat in his car, as if it were physically restraining him. He sat in the driver’s seat with Ole Koss next to him. Ed Wayne was in the back, taking a pull from a flask of whiskey he was sharing with Grip. They were parked at the curb in the Negro East Side of the City. The buildings seemed lower here, the streets wider.

  “Nearly shit when I saw you today,” Grip said, dangling his arm out the window, cigarette in his hand.

  “Yeah?” Koss was eyeing the sidewalk traffic, giving a hard stare to anyone who looked at the car too long. It was getting on in the evening, probably ten-ish, though none of them had a watch.

  “I knew you were in with Maddox, but I didn’t realize you’re that close.”

  “What’re you saying?”

  “Nothing, Ole. Just surprised that it would be just you and him.”

  From the backseat, Wayne asked, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Koss ignored him. “Surprised to see cops in our neighborhood, myself. I didn’t hear about a crime or anything, and suddenly you guys are crawling all over the place.”

  “Yeah, well,” Grip said, not willing to go down this path.

  They sat in silence for a while, watching pedestrians but mostly a storefront a half block away and across the street, waiting for the lights to go off and the people to leave. Grip and Wayne passed the flask back and forth. Grip felt light-headed, his body charged with energy. Koss sat relaxed in the shotgun seat. He looked placid enough, but Grip sensed something in him and decided not to engage him again. Grip was getting restless, though. He needed to move.

  Grip asked, “Ed, you ever been down to the Uhuru Community?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “What don’t you understand?”

  Wayne grunted a half laugh. “As little as I can get away with. Bunch of colored Reds? Not my idea of a good time.”

  “Yeah? I thought it was your beat.”

  Wayne shrugged. “Like I said, not my thing.”

  “Well, I was there this morning.”

  “What the fuck were you doing down there?”

  “What do you think?”

  “What was the call?”

  Grip stole a glance at Koss, who didn’t seem to be listening. “Dead girl on the riverbank a week back. You must’ve heard. And then two nights ago …”

  Wayne leaned forward, his hands on the seatbacks, excited. “That was my call. You should have seen her; sores all over. Never seen anything like it. Couldn’t have weighed a hundred pounds.”

  “Same as the first girl.”

  “That right?” Wayne seemed to mull this over. “You figure one of those Uhuru Community Negroes for that one, too?”

  “What, you got a suspect for your girl?”

  “Nah, they took me off the case; said you guys were on it. But it’s got to be one of those commie Negroes, right?”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not real clear at the moment. The lieut is working a few different angles.”

  “The lieut,” Koss said, mocking, “needs to keep out of Prosper Maddox’s business.”

  The conversation ended. They sat in silence, Grip staring out the windshield, the tension in the car up a notch.

  Koss said, “Here we go.”

  Grip turned to Koss, then followed his sight line to the storefront. Lights out. Man locking the door.

  “About goddamn time,” Wayne said.

  Koss shot him a furious look, the Lord’s name taken in vain.

  Ole Koss didn’t believe in doing these kinds of jobs by stealth. Instead, the three men walked to the unmarked storefront, and Wayne and Koss stood facing the sidewalk while Grip jimmied the lock. It was a decent lock, so it took Grip nearly a minute of delicate fiddling. Wayne didn’t like doing things this way and became more and more agitated as the seconds rolled by.

  “Hurry up. What’s the fucking problem?”

  Grip ignored him. Koss had his arms folded, his muscular chest pushing them out before him. Nobody in his right mind would mess with Koss. Grip slipped the bolt and pulled the door open, holding it for the other two. When they were all in, he pulled the door closed again and locked it with a latch from the inside. Wayne was already at one of the desks, pulling drawers out and emptying their contents on the floor. Street light filtered in through the storefront glass, just bright enough to illuminate everything in monochrome.

  Koss found the door to the back room and tried the handle. When it didn’t open, he kicked the door down with three strong stomps.

  Grip sifted through the crap that Wayne had dumped on the ground, moving papers around with his feet. It was barely light enough to read. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular and didn’t actually expect to find anything of interest. This visit was about sending a message to the Reds in the Uhuru Community. Any information they turned up would be a bonus.

  Wayne finished with the desks and took a wooden chair by the back, swinging it hard against the wall, splintering it on impact and leaving a small hole in the wall. He found another chair and did the same. Loud crashes sounded from the back room as Koss threw file-cabinet drawers. Grip peeked in. Koss had turned on the light and papers were everywhere. Koss sensed Grip in the doorway and looked over.

  “You almost done out there?”

  Grip nodded. “Anything interesting in here?”

  Koss shrugged. “Could be. It’d take hours to go through this.”

  Wayne joined Grip in the doorway, holding a lighter in one hand and a burning sheet of paper in the other.

  “The fuck you doing?” Grip asked, alarmed.

  “Let’s burn this place.”

  It wasn’t part of the plan. “The fuck’s wrong with you? Put that thing out.”

  Wayne looked to Koss. Koss didn’t hold any kind of actual authority beyond that which came with being the guy nobody wanted to mess with.

  “Ole,” Grip said in a let’s-be-reasonable voice.

  Koss said, “Put it out. Let’s stick with what we set out to do.”

  Wayne spat, dropped t
he piece of paper, and stomped out the remaining flames.

  Grip stepped back out into the main room and froze. Looking in through the front glass from the street was a skinny Negro with very dark skin, a bowler, and sunglasses. He stood motionless, arms by his side. Something was familiar about him; maybe from the Community. Grip’s breathing went shallow.

  “Fuck,” he said, voice unsteady.

  “What’s wrong?” Koss asked.

  Grip didn’t answer, still staring at the man looking in on them.

  Koss and Wayne walked in from the back room, saw the man. Koss gave a kind of gasp and started for the door. The Negro turned and walked jerkily out of view, his gait almost unnatural. Koss got to the door and yanked on it twice before realizing it was locked. He tried to turn the key in the lock but was too anxious and fumbled with it, not coordinating the key in the lock with the doorknob. They finally made it out to the street, but the Negro with the bowler and sunglasses was nowhere to be seen. Koss seemed rooted to his spot on the sidewalk, clenching and unclenching his fists, head darting to look up and down the street, his face gone white.

  42.

  Westermann shared an elevator with an elderly couple who he recognized but couldn’t place, giving them a warm, whiskey smile—he’d had a couple at the bar across the street, steeling himself for this party. The woman was wearing a fortune in diamonds. Westermann was in a tux, required for any party at the Helios Club. The elevator doors opened to the sound of a swing band grooving over dozens of conversations. The air was cool.

  Westermann followed the elderly couple into the room, scanning the crowd for familiar faces. He wasn’t sure of the occasion for this party, but you didn’t turn down an invitation from his father. A Negro waiter approached with a tray of champagne glasses and Westermann took one.

  He walked into the midst of the party. Powerful men and women who were either beautiful or once beautiful socialized, gossiped, and made deals over cocktails. This had been Westermann’s world for the first twenty years of his life, as far from the world of the street cop as you could get in the City. He was comfortable here; he found that troubling.

  He saw his father first, his balding head high above the crowd, and then his mother beside him. They were talking with a banker named Finnerty and his wife, a looker maybe twenty years his junior. Westermann headed toward them. His father, Big Rolf Westermann, was a lawyer who only represented people of a certain class; the class Westermann himself been raised among. Big Rolf was successful because he was smart, relentless, and ruthless. He brought those same qualities to bear on his family.

  Westermann’s mother caught sight of him as he weaved his way through the crowd. He edged past a woman, sleeved in a gold dress, who had been his father’s mistress. Maybe still was.

  When he reached his mother, her eyes were bright from drink and he gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  He shook his father’s hand. “Hi, Rolf.”

  “Piet. So glad you came.”

  “You knew I would.”

  His father smiled the same way he’d smiled at Westermann as an obedient ten-year-old. Westermann greeted the Finnertys, the wife holding his eyes for an extra beat. He took down the rest of his drink and looked at his mother, still beautiful but withering somehow. She was half in the bag and nattered at him about her concerns over his safety. He’d heard it before, repeated his usual empty assurances. His father continued his conversation with Finnerty. Westermann watched Big Rolf grow impatient with his wife’s incessant chatter in the background. A waiter came by. Westermann exchanged his empty glass for a full one. Mrs. Finnerty tried to catch his eye. His mother talked.

  A judge named Asplundh joined the group along with his beautiful wife and even more beautiful daughter: dark eyes, dark hair, tall and slender, maybe twenty years old. They were introduced. Her name was Cora.

  “I hear you’re a police officer.”

  Westermann downed his drink, exchanged the empty for another.

  He learned that she was at the Tech. He told her some cop stories, noticed Mrs. Finnerty still eyeing him, smiling conspiratorially when their eyes met.

  Lenore, rotating slowly in the moonlit current.

  Cora told him about her summer in Europe. The rest of the group had moved off a few feet to give them some privacy. Westermann flagged down another drink. Cora wasn’t drinking.

  While she talked, Westermann watched a man he recognized approach his father, get his attention, then engage him in conversation, both men looking over at Westermann. Cora noticed his wandering attention and turned to see Big Rolf and the other man walking toward them.

  Big Rolf made the introductions. “Cora Asplundh, this is Vic Truffant.”

  Truffant kissed her hand.

  “And I think you know my son, Piet.”

  Westermann shook hands with Truffant. “When you were younger, Piet. Still in short pants.”

  There’s a photo of me with Mel Washington.

  Big Rolf turned to Cora. “Would you excuse us for a moment? I’ll make sure Piet finds you after we talk a little business.”

  Cora looked to Westermann. He smiled and shrugged. She retreated to join her parents, who were still talking with his mother and the Finnertys. Westermann grabbed a drink from a passing waiter. He was drunk, feeling good.

  Truffant said, “Let me get right to the point. I have a constituent … well, a friend … who says that you have been—and I want to be careful with what I say—but that you have been harassing him and his people about a crime that he has, to his knowledge, only the most tenuous connection.”

  “Does your friend have a name?”

  “Dr. Prosper Maddox.”

  Westermann laughed. He was aware of his father’s gaze on him, an appraisal being made. There were expectations; but what were they? Stand up to Truffant? Show respect to his father’s contemporaries, his elders?

  “What do you want from me, Mr. Truffant?”

  “To think about why you want to pressure Dr. Maddox, who, it is my understanding, is truly peripheral to your investigation. Surely it’s not worth upsetting him and his congregation.”

  “I’ve hardly pressured him.”

  “That’s not his impression.”

  Westermann laughed again, looking to his father. “Mr. Truffant, I asked Prosper Maddox for cooperation in a murder investigation. He declined.”

  “The investigation of a murdered whore.”

  Feeling very drunk, Westermann stared at Truffant.

  Big Rolf said, “Just tell the boy what you want, Vic.”

  Boy?

  “Stay away from Dr. Maddox, Piet. A word to the wise.”

  Westermann’s ears rang. He stared at Truffant murderously.

  Big Rolf said, “Come on, Vic, you’ve told him what you wanted.”

  Truffant extended his hand. Westermann didn’t even look at it.

  Big Rolf was a couple of steps away now. Truffant leaned close, his lips inches from Westermann’s ear, whispering, “Don’t fuck with me, boy. I’ll take your head off. I don’t care who your father is.”

  Westermann watched his father put his arm around Truffant’s shoulders, steering him toward Westermann’s mother and Judge Asplundh and his wife. Westermann watched Truffant kiss his mother on the cheek; kiss the judge’s wife on the cheek; shake the judge’s hand, leaning in to whisper something. He felt Cora’s eyes on him, turned to her, caught the questioning look across twenty feet. He had to get the hell out of there.

  * * *

  The cabbie was barking something at Westermann. He must have passed out on the ride; his head spun, his shirt was soaked with sweat.

  “I said, which house?”

  Westermann squinted at the block, not sure at first where he was. He didn’t remember giving the cabbie an address. But it became clear.

  “Just go a half block down. Slow.”

  The cabbie did as Westermann asked. They came to Morphy’s house and Westermann saw, almost to his relief, that the curtains wer
e closed.

  “Never mind,” he said, and gave the cabbie his address.

  The cabbie turned to him. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

  43.

  Grip woke in the night, something disturbing him, bringing him to consciousness. His eyes were hazy from sleep, the room dark. He registered the familiar silhouettes of his apartment: table, chairs, wardrobe, the brighter squares of shaded windows. He registered the silence, none of the normal street noise. In his semiconsciousness he found it vaguely strange, but not particularly troubling. And there was something else, a presence in the room. Another person? He thought he might have seen a silhouette, but he wasn’t sure, and anyway, he was overwhelmed by fatigue, unable to stay awake.

  His dream came intensely. A woman, as there often was, but a Negro—beautiful, tall, dark. It didn’t make sense, this dream; no coherence; no logic; but there was lust and there was fear.

  He woke when the sun came through his window, the dream still with him in its essence, its impressions; the details lost. His head throbbed from dehydration and last night’s whiskey. He wondered if this might be causing the dread that seemed to wrap itself around his chest, constricting him. He drank a couple of cups of tepid tap water that pooled, stagnant, at the bottom of his stomach.

  He showered and shaved, nicked himself below his chin. He put on a lightweight suit and knotted his tie loosely. The day was already hot. He shut his windows in case of rain, shrugged on his shoulder holster, and slipped in his Colt. He looked around the apartment before leaving, decided not to make his disheveled bed.

  Out in the hall, he pulled the door shut behind him, turned to lock it, and saw that someone had painted the same skull-in-top-hat on his door that he’d seen at the bar two days before. His mouth went dry, the tepid water and whiskey bile churned in his stomach.

  “Oh, fuck,” he said. His sweat ran cold.

  44.

  THE GAZETTE

  August 8, 1950

  Editorial Page

  A CLEAR, HONEST CHOICE

  By Frank Frings

  It is confounding that in their ill-conceived crusade against all things bearing even a speck of Red, certain elements within the City—most notably mayoral aspirant Vic Truffant—have cast their rapacious gaze at the Uhuru Community.