scorch city

8/4/2019 Scorch City

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel areeither products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

scorch city.Copyright 2011 by Toby Ball. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States ofAmerica. For information, address St. Martins Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

ISBN 978-0-312-58083-4

First Edition: September 2011

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1


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1

1.

Moses Winston had learned from years of being a stranger everywhere he

wentsuch was the life of an itinerant musicianhow to recognize trouble

and how to avoid it without backing down. It never did him any good

scrapping in a place where he wasnt known. So, as he walked through thesmoky shantytown alleys, breathing fumes from the tar roofs baking in the

sun, he kept his head up and his eyes on nothing in particular, save the oc-

casional passing woman who, even today, earned his glance. This day, of all

days, was one to stay out of trouble.

He moved quickly through the maze of shacks, the route playing with

him, disorienting him. The way out never seemed quite the same. The con-

figuration of the alleys seemed to be constantly changing, like dunes shift-

ing in the wind.

Children appeared out of the smoke like apparitions. Winston moved to

the side to make way, stepping into the threshold of a shanty. A baby was

crying inside.

He walked toward where he thought the way out was. His skin prickled

in the heat, his eyes burned red from the smoke. On his back he carried a

guitar case with a rope rigged as a strap. Hed left Billy Lamberts shack

minutes before, after several hours spent rooted to his bedroll, paralyzedinto inaction, watching Lamberts bruised body across the room, chest ex-

panding and contracting with each sleeping breath.

Inside the little shack hed felt isolated, even protected, as if history

didnt exist there. But he had a gig tonight and had reluctantly left, trading

static anxiety for the uncertainty of the shantytown alleys.

Winston turned a corner and found himself at the far end of an alley

from a group of four older men who were sharing a pipe and watching his ap-

proach. Winston knew of these men and his pulse quickened. Trouble.Hekept his head up and eyes focused beyond the men, down the shantytown

alley. These were big, hard men with indifferent expressions but malevolent


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eyes. Winston didnt worry about much, but men like these concerned him

more than the teenage kids who roamed the shanties like jackals, looking

for isolated prey. The kids had material wants. Who knew what the hell

these men wanted? Maybe nothing.

Their gazes as he passed them had a physical quality, repelling Winston

into a new alley, this one a confusion of chickens pecking wildly in the dirt

and a tethered goat lying either asleep or dead.

Eventually he found his way out, emerging from the shantytown into a

field defined on one side by the riverand on the opposite by crumbling low-

rise buildings. The fresh air hit him like waking from a dream; but with

this wakefulness, fear.Winston was playing that night at a broken-down joint called the

Checkerboard, located in the midst of several seedy blocks of bars and

clubsthe streets haunted by hustlers, whores, and working-class drunks

where the edges of Capitol Heights drained into the Negro East Side. The

Checkerboard was run by a fat white cat by the name of Cephus, who kept

the drinks weak and ran a half dozen whores who looked better than the

usual fare on the street.

Winston arrived early. The bartender unlocked the front door to let him

in, locked up again. Winston grabbed a shot of rail whiskey and a bottle of

beer from the bar and sat on the tiny wooden stage, playing with the ampli-

fier, tuning his guitar. It was just Winston on the stage and the bartender

stocking his bar for the evening when Cephus rolled in from the back wear-

ing a Hawaiian-style shirt that could have doubled as a pup tent. The collar

and underarms were dark with perspiration, and the top buttons were un-

done to reveal a mass of damp, white, hairless flesh.Winston watched Cephus amble over and register the empty shot glass

and half-empty beer sitting on the stage. Winston didnt normally drink

before playing. Cephus knew that.

You dont look so good, Moses, Cephus said in his high, wheezy voice.

Winston kept to his tuning. No?

No, you dont. And the drinking . . . Something wrong, boy?

Winston looked up, not liking this fat-ass cracker calling him boy. But

something in Cephuss face, some kind of ignorant sincerity, made Winstonthink that Cephus probably called his white musicians boy, too. Probably.

And now that Winston had a good look, Cephus didnt seem to be doing so


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S c o r c h C i t y | 3

well himself, his face an alarming shade of red under a sheen of sweat. The

early-evening heat was taking its toll.

Nothing wrong, Winston said, forcing himself to hold the fat mans

eyes for a couple of beats before turning back to his guitar. Nothing wrong.

Cephus shrugged. I must be mistaken. He thought for a moment, then

asked, You need something from the bar, Moses? Another whiskey, or a

beer, or something?

I dont believe so.

Suit yourself. Cephus gave a concerned scowl, seemed to contemplate

saying something further. Instead, he made a kind of clucking sound,

checked his pocket watch, and headed to the front door. Winston watchedhim go, heart pounding.


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4

2.

Frank Fringss apartment smelled of marijuana smoke, the half-smoked

reefer stubbed out in an ashtray on the coffee table. Frings leafed through

the early edition of the Gazette,taking his time with a bottle of beer. He

didnt have a column in the days paper, so he skimmed through the head-lines, perused the obits, read up on the horses. He checked his watchten

past one. Renate wasnt home.

Frings finished with the paper, picked up his beer, and walked to the

window, looking down onto the street. A couple of cabs crept along, look-

ing for fares. A group of young men, their ties loose around their necks,

made drunken, boisterous conversation as they jostled down the block. Two

derelicts huddled in a doorway, sharing a smoke. Frings finished his beer,

took it and the newspaper into the kitchen, and left them on the counter

next to the sink.

She would have been off the stage by eleven forty-five and home by twelve

thirty. Thats the way it always was, except when she didnt come home.

Frings sighed, drank a glass of water. He didnt wonder whom she was with

tonight. He was annoyed that hed stayed up waiting for her and would be

tired the next day. He was annoyed that he would be alone in his bed to-

night. But he didnt think about her in another mans bed. It didnt matterto him.

He undressed, set his alarm clock. The phone rang.

His shirt pasted to his back with sweat from the cab ride, Frings walked

into the Palace, shook hands with the bouncer, and glanced around at the

crowdmaybe a couple hundred peoplewhich seemed to be suspended

in the thick air. Years ago, a few whites had been regulars at the Palace, but

tonight there wasnt another white person in the joint. Frings felt eyes onhim and then, because he was a regular, the attention returning to the stage.

He watched as the owner came his way, weaving gracefully between tables,


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nodding, smiling, giving the occasional brief handshake. Floyd Christian

was about Fringss age, but could have passed for ten years younger if not

for the beginnings of gray in his hair. His body was still lean, the coal black

skin of his face unlined. He might have been the only person in the place

not sweating.

How are things at the Gazette,Frank? Christian asked by way of greet-

ing, gripping Fringss hand, flashing a grim smile.

Good. Fine. You know what time it is? It was a rhetorical question;

they both knew it was two in the morning. Christian had rung him, pulling

him out of bed, the urgency in Christians voice getting Frings here in yes-

terdays clothes, no time to pull out new ones. He was rumpled, his facegreasy from the pillow. Christian didnt make calls like that, dragging the

best-known newspaperman in the City over to his club during the wee

hours. Frings wondered what the hell was going on.

Christian said, Sorry to pull you away from the lovely Renate.

You didnt pull me away from her.

Christian raised his eyebrows, concerned.

Its nothing, Frings said. Shes young.

Christian frowned and clapped Frings on the shoulder. Come on. Lets

go back to my office. Frings followed him along the back row of tables.

Frings, at just under six feet, was shorter than Christian and a little thicker

around the waist, too. But despite an unmemorable face, Frings had a smile

that drew people in, and the presence that sometimes comes to those who

are comfortable with their celebrity.

Christian turned his head and yelled over his shoulder, What do you

think of them?Onstage a band was playing languid jazz, the musicians dressed in ma-

roon tuxedos. The crowd murmured dozens of low conversations and

smoked and drank. Frings wobbled his hand. So-so. It wasnt his kind of

thing.

Christian knocked twice on his office door, which opened from within.

Christian went in first. Frings followed.

He eyed three Negroes sitting at Christians meeting table; two men,

one woman. His mouth went dry. Hed met one of the men before andcould guess who the other two were. Something was really wrong. Christian

wouldnt have brought Frings together with these people at this time of the


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night and in secret unless it was big. He didnt like it. Christian could have

filled him in, warned him about what he was walking into.

The man in the middle stood uptall, very thin, black-framed glasses,

close-cut hair.

Christian said, I think you know Mel Washington.

Frings had met Washington before, smart, elegant, rumored homo-

sexual. Fringss editors, Panoss, take on Washington: Black, queer, and Red?

God doesnt hate nobody that much.

Mel Washington extended a slender hand with long, pianists fingers.

They shook. Nice to see you again, Mr. Frings.

Frank. Frings saw the tension in Washingtons jaw.Okay. Do you know Warren Eddings and Betty Askins?

Only by reputation.

The other two nodded in silent greeting. Washington, Eddings, and

Askins: the Citys three leading Negro communists. Frings looked at Chris-

tian. Christian nodded, acknowledging the difficult situation hed put

Frings inbetter to have done this during the day, in public. Right now

things lookedsuspicious.

Frings and Washington sat. Christian stood by the door, overseeing,

removing himself from the conversation. The room was furnished in black

leather; a one-way mirror looked out on the club floor. Barbershop fans

pushed the stifling air around the room to no effect. Eddings and Christian

smoked Luckies. It was hard to breathe.

Frank, Washington began, elbows on the table, fingers steepled, we

asked Floyd to bring you here to meet with us because we have a very diffi-

cult situation. A verydifficult situation. Were hoping youll be . . . discreet.Were coming to you because we know you are sympathetic to our cause.

Canwe trust you to be discreet?

Frings looked at Washington, then turned in his seat to give Christian a

questioning glance.

Frank, I wouldnt bring you . . .

Frings nodded, trusting Christian. He turned back to Washington.

Okay. We can talk.

Two men over at the Community were fishing tonight on the riverbank.They found a dead woman in the rocks. A dead whitewoman.

On Community land?


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More or less.

Betty Askins nodded along with Washington. Warren Eddings scowled

at his hands folded in his lap.

Yeah, thats not good. A dead white woman by the all-Negro Uhuru

Community was trouble.

Washington continued, We dont know what happened yet, but it doesnt

really matter, does it?

Frings shook his head. It didnt. Frings knew how perception worked in

the City. Anticommunists and the blue press would make lurid speculations,

and these would be digested by many people as unquestioned truth. The

Uhuru Community, he thought, would burn.Betty spoke. She was younger than the two men and attractive in a

finishing-school sort of way; her hair in a chaste bob. We have people trying

to find out if it was someone in the Community that did this. We cant rule

it out, but . . .

What would a white girl be doing there? Frings said.

Exactly, agreed Washington.

Working girl?

Betty Askins looked down at the table, embarrassed.

Washington said, Could be. But our understandinghe looked un-

comfortably at Bettyis that . . . this type of commerce is generally kept

within the Community.

Frings nodded.

Warren Eddings wore a skullcap. He had high cheekbones and a narrow

patch of beard that hung a couple of inches below his chin. His voice was

low and controlled. This is a setup, white folks putting this on the Com-munity.

Washington looked pained. Frank, I realize this might put you in an

awkward position.

Fringss pulse hammered in his ears. Jesus, Mel, I dont know why you

say that. Why was he here?

Eddings and Betty looked to Washington. We need this to be kept quiet.

Theyd said that. Thats going to be difficult.

Washington said, Im afraid Im not getting to the point. We need thissituation taken care of. We cant let this crime be associated with the Uh-

uru Community. The Communitys the most successful Negro endeavor in


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this Citys history. Its existence is at stake. You know that white folks wont

tolerate the Community if this news gets out. They wont. And Im worried

that, like Warren said, this is a setup, specifically to put the Community at

risk.

Frings nodded. I get the situation. Im not clear what you think I can do

about it, though.

Wed like you to talk to someone on the force, convince them to alter

the circumstances of the bodys . . . disposition.

Wait a second. If Im hearing you right, you want to move the body?

Frings was incredulous. Why didnt you just do it yourself; keep it simple?

Eddings snorted a cynical laugh.Washington removed his glasses and rubbed the lenses on the front of

his shirt. Rivulets of sweat eased down his temples. We thought about

that. Two reasons we didnt. First, we feared that if someone had, in fact,

planted the body in the Community, they might have in some way docu-

mented this fact and our moving the body would simply further implicate

the Community in the crime. Second, we want a police investigation.

Frings ran his fingers back through his hair and pulled them away wet.

Really? You want the police to doctor the crime scene to absolve the Uh-

uru Community but also conduct an actual investigation into the crime?

Thats your plan?

There was a pause before Betty said, Yes. And wed like you to make it

happen.


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