Scorch City Page 13

  He and Morphy were in plainclothes, but no one in the shanties mistook two crackers in suits for anything other than cops. They hadn’t run into any other white people and they attracted a lot of attention as they moved through the alleys. Older kids—teens—sometimes hurled taunts at them, playing courage games. Morphy and Grip ignored them, though Grip could see from Morphy’s tensed shoulders that he was becoming irritated.

  “Let’s just get to the river side of the shanties,” Grip said, trying to keep Morphy’s mind on the objective.

  Morphy grunted. They walked on.

  They came to an intersection and saw, to their right, a group of five men, younger than Grip, standing in an alley, drinking from mason jars filled with some kind of cloudy liquid. The men caught sight of Morphy and Grip and their conversation stopped, all attention on the two cops.

  “Let’s go, Morph. We aren’t going to accomplish anything here.”

  Morphy stared back at the group.

  “Come on.” Grip grabbed Morphy’s arm and pulled him down the alley away from the men. As they passed out of sight, Grip could hear the men’s laughter. He looked nervously at Morphy, whose face was impassive.

  They walked to the next intersection and Morphy paused, surveying the paths of the alleys. “Wait here.”

  “Come on, Morph, let’s not get sidetracked.”

  But Morphy was already headed down a perpendicular alley, intending, Grip had no doubt, to come up on the group of men from behind. Grip found a spot in the shade. He leaned back against a tin wall but it began to buckle under his weight and he stood straight.

  Grip waited, expecting to hear yelling or a scuffle or some other Morphyinitiated mayhem. Instead, Morphy appeared back in the alley he had walked down. He looked pissed off, but that wasn’t unusual.

  “What the hell?” Grip walked over to meet him. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  Morphy frowned. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You go soft all of a sudden?”

  “I was going to start a little fire in one of their shacks.”

  “Morph,” Grip said, alarmed.

  “You set one of those things on fire, the whole place is liable to burn down. So I didn’t.”

  “But you know you could have. If you’d decided to.”

  “Yep.”

  “Maybe you’re not going to rot in hell.”

  Morphy shrugged. “Let’s go.”

  They happened upon the Square by accident, suddenly walking out into it, surprised at the expanse after the cramped alleys. A half dozen men, mostly old, sat in chairs arranged in a rough circle, passing a pipe. A younger guy sat with them, plucking quietly on a guitar with his fingers and playing a slide over the frets. Grip thought he recognized the guitar player from the street fight the previous night. He filed it away, unsure of its significance.

  The smell of marijuana wafted slowly toward Grip and Morphy in the stagnant air. Grip snorted. Morphy elbowed him and pointed to a dark patch, maybe two feet in diameter, in the middle of the square.

  “What’s that?”

  They approached the spot and the old men stopped passing the pipe to watch in silence. Morphy flashed them a broad smile and got down on a knee while Grip watched. Morphy stirred the discolored dirt a little with his finger, pulled it up stained with rust-colored residue.

  Grip narrowed his eyes. “Blood?”

  Morphy frowned. “Could be.” He turned to the group of men. “Excuse me. Any of you gentlemen know what made this stain here?”

  The men looked at each other, communicating something with their redrimmed eyes. An old-timer with a patch over one eye spoke. “That’s blood right there.”

  “Blood?”

  “That’s right. From the meeting last night. Blood.”

  Grip and Morphy exchanged a look. Morphy asked, “Whose blood?”

  “Got no name, so far’s I know.”

  “No name?”

  “I don’t know how you do, but the people down here don’t often name our roosters.” The man with the patch kept a straight face but the other men broke up in laughter. Morphy, too, laughed.

  “Jesus Christ,” Grip said, shaking his head.

  They stood and strode over to the circle of men. One of them was making a cock-a-doodle-doo sound, to everyone’s amusement.

  Grip spoke. “You gentleman hear about the girl’s body they found two days ago down at the riverbank?”

  The men quieted down, exchanging glances, noncommittal. The pipe made the rounds again.

  “You see a white girl around here two days ago?”

  There was a collective shaking of heads, the men avoiding eye contact. The guitar player seemed to be ignoring them, focusing on the guitar and, when it came around to him, the pipe.

  “How about a week or so ago—another white girl?”

  The geezer with the patch seemed to be their spokesman. “No, sir. Just like we told those boys come round the other day. No white woman been through here for months, save Mrs. Bierhoff, and since we seen her yesterday, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t her body they found on them rocks.”

  Morphy asked, “Who’s Mrs. Bierhoff?”

  “She’s a girl, works with us. Helps out in the Community.”

  Grip shook his head. “Carla Bierhoff?”

  “That’s right.”

  Grip turned to Morphy. “She’s Red.”

  Morphy nodded, not thinking this was as important as Grip did. “So you all don’t know anything about this girl who they found on the riverbank?”

  The man with the patch shook his head. “I was you, I’d ask those men go fishing down at the riverbank. Anyone know about it, it’d be them.”

  “Where’re they?” Grip asked.

  The man with the patch recoiled as if it were the dumbest-ass question he’d ever heard. “Riverbank. Where else?”

  They didn’t follow the same path out, getting off track almost instantly in the seemingly identical alleyways. Grip noticed different kinds of graffiti on the doors of some places, more representational, like the skull and hat, but not that exact design; elongated brown faces with eerie, liquid eyes; crimson hearts that seemed to vibrate where they were painted against the wood; bearded men with three-horned hair and halos. The torrid air seemed to impede him, the tin reflecting the sunlight into the alleys, washing out the colors. The scents of marijuana smoke, sweat, and spices inundated him as they walked. He was getting shaky, not sure how to get out of the maze, bile rising into his mouth, the acid taste of whiskey coming up from his stomach.

  “You know where we’re going?” Grip asked, his voice pitched high as it came out, sounding to him as if someone else were speaking—someone far off.

  “Hmm?” Morphy asked.

  “You know how we’re going to get out?”

  “Yeah.” Morphy sounded distracted.

  Grip’s heart pounded. Kids ran past laughing, voices echoing off the close walls; women watched silently with suspicious eyes from inside their shacks. Morphy made turns seemingly at random, Grip following close behind, fearful of getting separated; the two of them silent. Morphy seemed to be walking faster. Grip had to take a skip every third step to keep up. His vision tunneled.

  The exit came upon them out of nowhere, a rectangle of green and brown and the distant skyline. Grip followed Morphy into the open, sweat pouring down his face and soaking his shirt.

  “Jesus.” He looked at Morphy, who was smiling, but not very convincingly.

  37.

  “You been in the shanties, Lieut?” Grip turned his head slightly, keeping an eye on the road while speaking to Westermann, who sat in the backseat of the prowl car.

  “No.”

  “It’s different in there.”

  “Grip didn’t like it so much,” Morphy said.

  “I have no problem admitting it.”

  “Can you explain?” Westermann asked. Grip didn’t have a problem with Negroes, so far as Westermann knew, and was never reluctant to get in the face of an
yone he thought had some Red in them.

  “I don’t know.”

  Morphy said, “It’s these narrow, little alleys that get confusing, and the symbols and pictures they’ve painted on their doors and walls. Nerve-racking. And hot as hell.”

  Grip nodded. “That’s not the only thing, though. Something weird.”

  “A lot of reefer being smoked,” Morphy suggested.

  “Maybe,” Grip said.

  “Any luck?” Westermann asked.

  Grip shrugged. “Not really. We talked to some older ginks in the shanties and they sent us to these guys that fish down by the riverbank. Said if anyone’d seen a body on the rocks, it would have been them. Went down and found about a half dozen and talked to them one by one. They didn’t have much. One guy said he saw someone down by the rocks the night that the second girl was killed—said he was drinking at the time—but that the guy was too far off to give any kind of description.”

  Westermann felt the tension ease in his shoulders, but kept on with the questions. “Nothing? White? Negro? With a girl?”

  “I gave you the whole thing, Lieut. Someone on the rocks—too dark to see anything else.”

  Westermann saw Morphy nodding along to Grip’s account. “So, nothing useful.”

  “No,” Grip agreed. “But that feeling about the shanties, something about it …”

  “Okay,” Westermann said, trusting Grip’s instincts, wondering what he was picking up on and if it had anything to do with Lenore. “Pull over here.”

  Morphy pulled to the curb on the edge of Godtown, behind two other prowl cars.

  Westermann had sent Plouffe off to work on getting a warrant to bring back to Prosper Maddox’s church. In the meantime, Westermann wanted to let Maddox know that he wasn’t going to be backed down, so he’d returned with his men to canvass the neighborhood. Grip and Morphy moved down a block and Portillo and Breda worked the houses across the street. Westermann was with Dzeko, who normally paired with Plouffe. Dzeko was tall and lean with narrow shoulders; a gray mustache under a beaked nose. He was a somber guy, Westermann thought, or maybe just dull.

  They banged on two doors without reply and then on a third—a purple row house with a periwinkle door. They waited, not expecting anything, but the door jerked suddenly open, then closed, then opened again. Westermann saw the broad, red face of a woman through the crack in the door. Her eyes showed panic.

  “What do you want from me?” Her voice was tremulous, pitched high.

  “Ma’am,” Westermann said softly, “my name is Lieutenant Westermann with the City police.”

  The door closed and then opened again. The door shook as she held it open with unsteady hands. From inside came the smell of boiling potatoes.

  “Ma’am?”

  “What do you want from me?” Her voice approached hysteria.

  “Ma’am, what’s your name?”

  “Mary Little. What do you want from me?”

  “I’m with the—”

  “In the name of Jesus—” Something over his shoulder seemed to catch her attention and she went suddenly silent. He kept his eyes on her, trying to get a read from what he could see of her through the crack in the door.

  “Lieut?” Dzeko said.

  Westermann turned toward the street to see Breda and Portillo, holding his cigar at his side, facing a big man with a blond military cut and Prosper Maddox. The door closed again. Westermann and Dzeko crossed the street toward Prosper Maddox. Two other men were converging, too, hats low, one carrying a bulky square bag.

  Shit.

  “Mr. Maddox,” Westermann said, extending his hand.

  “Dr. Maddox,” Maddox corrected, shaking Westermann’s hand with a fixed smile but hostile eyes.

  “I see you’ve met Detectives Portillo and Breda. This is Detective Dzeko.” Westermann looked past Maddox’s shoulder; Deyna and his cameraman, ten yards off. The cameraman was unpacking his camera.

  Maddox ignored Westermann’s pleasantries, but kept his smile in place. He seemed unaware of Deyna’s presence. “Lieutenant Westermann, my understanding is that you were going to return with a warrant. Your detectives indicated to me that you do not, in fact, have a warrant.”

  “We’re canvassing the neighborhood, Mr. Maddox. It’s fairly routine in these types of cases. No one has been compelled to talk to us, we’re merely asking questions.”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to desist.”

  Westermann looked at the big blond man, thinking it was probably he who had initially opened the church door on Westermann’s first trip to Godtown. “Who’s this?”

  Maddox’s smile was nearly gone. “Do not ignore me, Lieutenant.”

  Westermann darted a look at Deyna, who met his eyes. Back to Maddox, keeping his voice down. “I’m not ignoring you. I hear your every word. I want to know who this is.” He pointed hard at the big man. “Who’s this?”

  Something about the big man had Breda and Portillo on edge; maybe his stance, as if he were waiting for something to happen. In the periphery of his vision, Westermann saw the two detectives, hands hovering by their holstered pistols. Their attention switched from Maddox to Deyna. Back and forth. Back and forth. Their nervousness made him nervous.

  Maddox said, “Ole Koss. He’s with the church. Now Lieutenant Westermann, I insist that you stop questioning my people.”

  “Your people?”

  “Yes. Everyone in this neighborhood is in the congregation.”

  “And because of that, you speak for them all.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Many of these people are country folk, Lieutenant. They, quite honestly, do not have the guile that comes from a lifetime in the City. They will not weigh their words.”

  “What’s to weigh, Mr. Maddox? Our questions are very straightforward. Do they know Mavis Talley or a woman named Lenore? No guile required. Are you afraid of something?”

  Deyna’s partner was snapping photos. Maddox saw Westermann’s distraction and turned to see the two Gazette men for the first time. He turned back to Westermann.

  “Newspaper,” Westermann said.

  Maddox’s eyes widened. “First it is the police and now the newspapers? This is your doing, this intrusion of the world—your world of vice and sin—into our little congregation. You and your detectives have brought the world that we have worked so hard to protect these holy children from.”

  Behind Maddox, Westermann could see a prowl car heading their way. Maddox and Deyna both turned to see the car.

  Westermann said, “It was nice talking to you, Mr. Maddox. We’ll be back to the church with a warrant. Right now, we have some more doors to knock on.”

  Maddox smiled. “You may want to wait a minute.”

  Westermann watched as the car entered their block and pulled up to them. The driver rolled down his window.

  “Lieutenant Westermann?”

  Westermann stepped to the car and leaned over, one hand on the roof, aware of Deyna and Maddox watching, photos being taken.

  The driver said, “Y’all’ve been called back to Headquarters.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re to stop the canvass and come back to Headquarters. Orders are to do it right now.”

  “Orders from who?”

  “The Chief.”

  “You sure?”

  The driver nodded.

  Westermann heard Maddox’s voice from behind him. “Lieutenant, I believe it’s time for you to go.”

  Westermann turned to him, teeth clenched, furious. Maddox’s smile was back in place, Koss smirking next to him.

  “We’ll be back,” Westermann said.

  Maddox’s gaze shifted over Westermann’s shoulder, his eyes unfocused. “I’m sure you will, Lieutenant. I’m sure you will.”

  Climbing into the back of Grip and Morphy’s prowl car, Westermann saw Deyna, notebook open, speaking with Maddox.

  38.

  Frings still found it jarring to drive into the Hollows
and find a place like this: blocks and blocks of abandoned buildings, slowly crumbling in on themselves. Some not so slowly. Past these blocks, a huge fallow field—maybe a dozen acres—and scattered about, like motionless livestock, rusting railway cars. The rails themselves, long out of use, lay half-hidden in the weeds. Frings met Warren Eddings, Mel Washington’s right-hand man, at the edge of the field. Eddings wore a dark suit and bow tie, sweat beading below his skullcap. Behind him, waves of yellow humidity rose from the tall weeds.

  They walked into the field, through the loose maze of train cars. Some, Frings noticed, seemed to serve as homes of a sort, clothes hanging off roofs, makeshift furniture visible through the sliding gates.

  “Mel couldn’t make it.” Eddings left it at that.

  “That’s okay,” Frings said. “Why did he … why did you want me out here?”

  Eddings laughed a little, but his face stayed tight. He didn’t look at Frings.

  “Mel’s concerned that you might not understand about the Community. You know, Mel feels like you think he’s got the Community wired. Like Father Womé just attracts all these people and then Mel takes over; that Womé’s okay with that arrangement somehow. It’s not like that, bo. And Mel wants you to see that. You know, we do what we can with the Community and we’re proud of what we’ve done, but if you think it’s about us—about Reds—you don’t have the picture.”

  “Okay,” Frings said, wondering what was out here that would give him the picture. His collar was soaked. His shirt was pasted with sweat to his chest. He took off his straw fedora to get some air on his head and wiped his face with his sleeve. He watched a thick black snake push its way through the weeds to their right.

  Eddings continued, “So, Mel wanted to make that clear to you. Father Womé isn’t just some cat with a hoard of money and a shantytown full of people he supports. He’s more than that. He’s got his ideas that we have to work around. That and the Square.”

  Frings gave him a questioning look but Eddings’s eyes were straight ahead.

  “Okay, you’ve got my attention. What are we here to look at?”

  “You’ll see.”

  They walked around a line of boxcars, each identically labeled TRANSCON in a feminine cursive, each rusting through. On the other side, looking as out of place as diamonds in the mud, were four passenger cars, gleaming an immaculate black in the sun. A thin horizontal stripe of gold ran under the scarlet-curtained windows. Above the windows in the center of each car BLACK COMET LINE was written in golden block capitals. Negroes were at work on these cars, crouching on the roofs, working on the undercarriages, entering and exiting through narrow doors, maybe three dozen in all.