Scorch City

by Toby Ball

  Rudi grunted. “Close enough.”

  “So this is where I kind of lose the plot, Rudi. It looked like an easy score, right? You wait until everyone heads off to church and go house to house—no hurry, no hassles. But it didn’t work that way and that’s what I don’t get.”

  Rudi talked quietly, but his eyes blazed. “Who did you talk to?”

  “Don’t worry about that. He knew that I wouldn’t come down on you.

  Just trying to get chits; you know how that goes. So what happened, Rudi?

  Why wasn’t this the perfect score?”

  Rudi shook his head. “Not so good, going down to Godtown. Not a good place. See, I went down there with another guy—”

  “Who?”

  “Christ, is it important?”

  “I won’t know unless you tell me.”

  Rudi sighed.

  “I’m not going to roust him, Rudi,” Westermann said quietly. “It probably means nothing.”

  “It was Klaus Hess.”

  The name wasn’t familiar. “Do I know him?”

  Rudi shrugged. “He’s not so big. Some people call him Der Flederklaus. Ugly bastard.” Rudi half-smiled, not feeling it.

  “Okay.”

  “Klaus, he does locks. So him and me, we’re in Godtown, thinking just like you said, we’re going to go down the block, take what looks good. Like shopping, okay? But we start on the first house, we’re up on the stoop and my friend is working the lock, and I hear this tapping from across the street, so I turn and look to see what it is, and it’s this guy, big boy, tapping his piece against this steel rail.” Rudi grimaced. “Look, what’s this got to do with?”

  “Keep going, Rudi. You’re doing great. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

  “Yeah,” he said ruefully. “So I tell Klaus, I tell him look over there, and we both look over at this guy, and he’s looking back at us, holding his gun at his side, okay?” Rudi seemed genuinely astonished by the incident; even now. “We’re not carrying, you know. No reason to tack on time if we’re caught, and I take care of myself, you know? Gun or no gun.”

  Westermann nodded. Rudi was sweating hard, beads rolling down his temples, dropping off his jaw.

  “Then this guy, this big boy, he takes his gun and points it at us. He’s, like, maybe thirty yards away, something like that. He points it at us and just kind of slowly jerks it up, points it again and jerks it up; like he’s just shot us both. Then he just stands there, holding the gun.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “What the fuck would you do? We got out of there. Not running or anything like that. But we got down off that stoop and we walked away.”

  “And that was that?”

  “Look, Detective, don’t take this wrong, but you’re not a street guy. Everyone knows that. You’re tough and smart and all that, but you didn’t grow up with it, okay? That guy up in Godtown, you don’t want to take a piss with him. Some people, you’re better off steering clear. Like this guy.”

  “So he just backed you off?”

  “You been listening to a thing I said?” Rudi sighed in frustration. He probably didn’t have many stories where he was the victim.

  “This guy, he a big guy? Big as you? Blond hair? Cat tattoo?”

  “I wasn’t close enough to see no tattoo, but, yeah, that could be him. Very big.”

  Westermann thought about Koss and his aggressive posture; how he had all the cops’ nerves jangling.

  “And you haven’t gone back?”

  “Would you?”

  Westermann ignored that one. “Then you put the word out.”

  “That’s right. Stay the fuck away from Godtown.”

  62.

  Frings found a spot in the shade under a maple tree in a leafy residential neighborhood; the kind of place where old women fed squirrels that were half-domesticated. One of these squirrels was perched on a limb several feet above Frings, making a chittering sound while Frings sipped from a paper coffee cup. Two elderly men had put a table on a stoop and were playing chess, while a small group of bright-eyed children played catch and occasionally stopped to look at whatever move had been made.

  At five o’clock, the first wave of domestic help left the brownstones for the journey back to their more modest homes. Frings watched them file by. He’d perfected the art of looking as if he belonged wherever he was, even if he was not actually doing anything. Nobody looked at him funny; no one seemed to even notice him.

  He half-expected to see Deyna somewhere, shadowing him. But Deyna would be looking for a second source; the source to get his story on the front page. Frings thought about who might be a second source, wondering if he could maybe head Deyna off.

  He was nearly done with his coffee when he saw Ellen Aust across the street, walking wearily in her formless maid’s dress. He hadn’t seen her in five years or so, but she was easy to pick out; shoulders forward and chin tucked into her chest as if someone had her by the scruff of the neck. Frings poured the rest of his coffee into the dirt at the foot of the tree, put the crumpled cup into his pocket, and crossed the street to intercept her.

  Ellen turned, eyes wild with fear at the sound of her name. It took her a moment to place Frings, her body relaxing, her eyes going dull.

  “Mr. … I mean, Frank?” Her face was flattened out, pale, her eyes set a little too far apart.

  “Ellen, how are you?”

  She paused, wary, knowing that there must be more here than a chance encounter. “I’m doing fine,” she said cautiously. “Why are you here?”

  Frings flashed her a smile and let it die. “I was hoping maybe you’d have coffee with me. Or, better yet, dinner.”

  Frings could see her exhaustion, something deep and more than just physical. Her eyes were weary. “Coffee would be okay. I have church soon.” “You sure? You don’t want dinner, get something good?”

  “Just coffee is fine.”

  Frings walked her down to a glass-fronted diner that looked onto a dingy postcard stamp of a park. They sat at a table by the window and the waitress brought two coffees. Frings could taste the cigarette smoke in his.

  “You sure you don’t want something to eat?”

  She declined again, looking worried. She sat with her back straight, her hands flat on the table before her.

  “How have you been?” Frings asked, and realized he had asked the same question minutes before.

  “Been fine, I guess. Like I said.” He could tell that she knew this small talk wasn’t the point, that he wouldn’t have been waiting for her so that they could talk about the weather. But Frings made small talk anyway, getting the cadence established, getting her used to talking to him, as she had five years before when Frings was working the Maddox article. But it was hard; harder than he remembered. She responded to his questions with one-or two-word answers, rarely looking him in the eye. She hadn’t exactly been playful five years ago, but the change was stark.

  She’d had enough of the back-and-forth by the time she’d finished her coffee. Maybe she’d given him that much time, the empty cup the signal to get to the point.

  “What do you want, Frank? I’m tired. I need to be getting home.”

  “Okay, I’ll get right to it. Do you know a Mavis Talley or someone named Lenore?”

  She frowned, shaking her head. “Can’t say that I do.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She nodded.

  “It was a long shot. Anyway, how’s the church these days?”

  She turned suspicious. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. I hear the flock has grown, people joining from the City.”

  She nodded again.

  “Is that a problem, you know, with the Fort Deposit people, all these new people coming in?”

  She shook her head. “Are you trying to sow the seeds of dissension, Frank?”

  Frank signaled for a coffee refill. “Ellen, let me be straight with you. Those two women I mentioned? They’re dead. Both of them. And
they both had pamphlets from your church, Maddox’s church. Did someone from the church murder them? I don’t know. But for some reason, Dr. Maddox has not been helpful in the investigation, and I’m just trying to get a sense of what’s happening there.”

  Ellen nodded, looking small and drawn. “Are you asking me if anything’s changed?”

  “Sure, we can do it that way. Has anything?”

  She sighed. “Things are harder. Our flock is in a time of tribulation.” It came out sounding like a question.

  “Tribulation?”

  “The Last Days are advancing upon us.”

  He had nothing to say to that.

  “History is coming to an end.”

  Frings moved his head, trying to catch her eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

  Ellen looked confused, her eyes suspicious. Frings backed off, letting her think about it a little.

  “Okay, these women, the two that were killed, they were prostitutes. Have you noticed women like that at the church?”

  Ellen was spent, absently spinning the coffee cup between her hands, staring at the whorls she made.

  He said, “Listen, maybe tomorrow? I’ll take you for coffee again. We can chat some more.”

  She looked dubious. “I don’t know what I’m going to be able to tell you, Frank.”

  He flashed her the Frings smile. “We’ll figure something out.”

  63.

  Westermann walked along the periphery of a silent Godtown, taking his time. He’d arranged for two uniforms to do a night walk. Their orders: Keep Koss occupied, if only briefly. Westermann had left them less than five minutes ago and was giving them time to attract Koss’s attention before he moved in. Not exactly what Kraatjes had in mind, Westermann thought, but a hell of a lot better than sending Morphy and Grip again.

  Koss was taking on new dimensions in Westermann’s mind. His intimidation of Rudi Odeline was startling. Rudi was notoriously tough; maybe psychotically so. And Koss backed him down. Ran him off and Rudi wanted no further part of him.

  Westermann needed a better read on Prosper Maddox, who was emerging in his mind as the key to the investigation, like a figure materializing from the fog; Maddox and the missing Dr. Vesterhue. Was this an accurate assessment? Was he chasing connections where there were only coincidences? Would he be this eager to pursue Maddox if Maddox wasn’t the only way to absolve the Community and, in doing so, absolve his own actions in moving Lenore’s body?

  Westermann came to the next corner and took a left, walking toward the Church of Last Days. The lights of downtown towered over the low buildings in this part of the Hollows, an almost violent intrusion upon the dark and quiet.

  He stopped at the church, rubbing the sweat from the back of his neck, listening to the singing coming from inside. A hymn he didn’t recognize; the words hard to decipher in the wave of voices. He walked to the opposite side of the street and sat on the high curb, leaning back on his elbows, legs in the street, crossed at the ankles. He listened to this hymn and then another, dimly recognizing the tune. He sensed eyes on him—probably Koss—but he was beyond caring, so exhausted that he could have leaned back and fallen asleep. But he heard footsteps and watched as Ole Koss appeared around the corner across the street and to his right. Koss ambled over, arms slightly away from his body as if his musculature wouldn’t allow them to fall any closer.

  “Lieutenant,” Koss said.

  “Evening.”

  Koss approached, his eyes alive, scanning the street, turning once to check behind his back. He sat down next to Westermann, leaning forward, his corded forearms resting on his knees. The man radiated physical strength.

  “Any more of you out tonight, more than you and the two officers?”

  Westermann shook his head.

  “Why’re you people suddenly in our place all the time?”

  “I think you know.” The singing had stopped. The street was silent but for their conversation.

  “Those girls? Those girls didn’t come here, sir. They’d have stuck out. This is a small community, Lieutenant.”

  “How’d they get the flyers from the church?”

  “Dr. Vesterhue? Maybe spreading the Good Word? Lots of ways it could have happened.” Koss was tense, head turning from side to side, looking for something.

  “Well, it’s my job to figure exactly how it did happen.”

  “Lieutenant, I don’t know if you realize the amount of consternation and stress you’re causing in Dr. Maddox’s flock. These are God-fearing, honest, simple people. They’re not used to the ways of the world.”

  Westermann looked at Koss, trying to read if he was aping Maddox.

  “Mr. Maddox gives us that congregation list we’re asking for, maybe we can end this intrusion and things here can get back to normal.”

  Koss turned his head away from Westermann and spat. “Well, I don’t speak for Dr. Maddox, but my strong impression was that he’s not going to provide that list.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I don’t think pushing the issue is going to do you any good.”

  They sat for a moment until the silence was shattered by noise from inside the church, like a group yell. Or scream. Or howl. It continued for maybe thirty intense seconds. Westermann felt the charge in his neck and scalp. He looked over at Koss, who stared hard at his hands. The howling ceased and the street returned to silence.

  Westermann said, “What the hell was that?”

  Koss looked over at him, lids heavy, and Westermann caught the vibe of imminent violence that must have spooked Rudi Odeline.

  The howling started again and Koss’s head shot to the church. Westermann watched him. Clearly, this communal outpouring of noise bothered him.

  The sound ceased again and this time Koss rose to stand over Westermann. Behind Koss, Westermann thought he saw movement in the shadows, but Koss commanded his attention and the impression was lost.

  “I think it might be time for you to be on your way, Lieutenant.”

  Westermann stood, too. “Tell Mr. Maddox that I’ll be in touch.”

  Koss nodded. The howling began again.

  64.

  A solitary Negro sat on a stool playing guitar on the Palace stage, teasing a slide over the frets and coaxing a fierce wail from the amplifier on the floor next to him. He wasn’t singing, just hunched over his guitar, eyes shut, sweating as if he were in the ring. Frings twisted his beer glass in slow rotations on the table, listening to the music; waiting for it to stop so he could talk. Renate sat next to him, tracing circles on his neck with her fingertips. It was this way when she was around, as if there were no one else. This is what troubled Frings, not her infidelity, but that she behaved as though it hadn’t happened, or that it was normal. While he didn’t hold her infidelity against her, he was puzzled that she so lacked any sense of culpability; it was almost pathological.

  Across from them sat Carla and Mel Washington. Carla, like Renate, was drinking a martini. Washington didn’t drink alcohol and kept his fingers occupied with cigarettes. Washington was enjoying the music, a side of him that Frings had never seen, Washington experiencing happiness.

  Floyd Christian came by, asking Frings if he wanted to use the back room for a meeting. Frings thanked him, no. He wanted to coast for a few minutes, let his mind rest. He closed his eyes, the notes impacting his stoned mind like little bullets, bursting into colors on impact. Renate talking over the music in Portuguese at Washington, a language he apparently understood. Father Womé hung in the periphery of Frings’s mind. Not his face. Not even his physical being. The idea of Father Womé; the presence. He was the sea in which the guitar sounds swam; the air that they breathed. Womé churning, insinuating himself into Frings’s thoughts. Frings opened his eyes, breaking this trance. Carla was looking at him, maybe concerned. He smiled, but wasn’t confident that he was making the right expression.

  The music stopped, replaced by the din of dozens of conversations as the house lights came on. Washington le
aned across the table. The other three leaned in, too, forming a conspiratorial circle.

  “Where are we with the investigation, Frank?”

  “That second girl’s really a problem. Piet has—had—a different angle, keeping things away from the Community.” Frings explained about Mavis Talley and about the second girl also having the sores. He told Washington about the links between Lenore and Mavis and the Church of Last Days. “Piet is going after Prosper Maddox, but it’s harder now with the second girl. It’s much harder to keep the investigation away from the Community.”

  Washington looked peeved. “You’re not thinking—”

  “Come on, Mel. I’m giving the Community the benefit of the doubt, but seriously, on its face, the case that it’s someone in the Uhuru Community seems reasonable. Piet’s doing the best he can, but he can’t push too hard away from the Community, for reasons that I think you know.” Frings didn’t mention Deyna’s progress; Washington’s nerves were already jagged.

  Washington pulled off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I know, Frank. I understand. Things are coming fast right now. Truffant running for mayor. The girls. The assaults.”

  “It sounds like you guys got a bit of revenge there.”

  “Us guys? Nothing to do with me. The Samedi people, I think. Some of those guys—”

  “Not Community?” Frings asked, surprised.

  “No, they’re Community. Just a group in the Community. Haitians, some of them. But there’s a bunch.”

  Frings felt Renate’s hand grip his arm and turned to her, following her gaze to where Christian was hurrying toward them. Christian never hurried. Frings stood to meet him.

  Christian leaned into Frings so that his mouth was by Frings’s ear. “We’ve got to get Mel out of here now.”

  “Okay,” Frings said, knowing that Christian would have his reasons.

  Christian took Washington by the arm, leading him on a quick traverse of the room, back toward Christian’s office, where, presumably, Washington could hole up. Maybe some kind of hiding place.

  “We’d better split,” Frings said to Renate and Carla, who were already gathering their purses. They were standing when the cops came hard through the front door and the place descended into bedlam.