Lou Souza walked the dirt alleys of the Uhuru Community shantytown carrying a handkerchief that he used to mop his brow every few steps. It wasn’t just the heat. The smell of the shanties was getting to him, too: spices, exotic-wood burning, sweat, baked dirt, marijuana, and, underlying it all, sewage and rotting garbage.
“I’m having trouble breathing,” Souza said to Remy Plouffe as the two detectives trod warily through the claustrophobic alleys on the edges of the shantytown.
“It’s in your head, Lou.”
Negro children in ragged clothes scattered laughing when they saw the two white men in suits and straw fedoras approaching. Something about these kids bothered Souza, made him uneasy.
“I’m telling you, there’s something in the air. Something’s working on my lungs.”
Plouffe shook his head. “What’s in the air is this shit smell and the heat.”
Souza mumbled something under his breath and Plouffe said, “What did you say?” and Souza told him to never mind and nodded up ahead of them where four men stood, passing a huge reefer between them.
The morning had been frustrating. They wore their badges clipped to their jackets, neither one comfortable in the shanties and counting on their authority to give them some kind of protection. They’d been met with silent wariness, fear, and hostility. Their attempts to question people had consistently been rebuffed, the people either ignoring them or claiming ignorance.
“Have you seen or heard about a young white woman around the shanties the last few days?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I haven’t.”
Souza saw Plouffe’s increasing frustration in the set of his jaw and the narrowing of his eyes. Souza didn’t much care if they came away with nothing from this canvas. Some whore found dead? Was it that important? And there was something he didn’t like about the group of men they were approaching, the way they dominated that end of the alley; the way the other Negroes seemed to walk down side alleys so as not to walk past them.
Souza and Plouffe stopped a few feet from the group of men. Up close, Souza saw their matted hair and yellowed eyes. The men met the two detectives with a heavy-lidded, menacing silence.
Plouffe said, “We’re investigating a missing person. White girl; word is that she was seen around here. Any of you seen a white girl hanging around here? Or heard about one?” His voice had an edge, the morning’s frustrations creeping in.
The men stared back without expression, but their eyes burned.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” Plouffe said, moving forward a stride, stepping up the tough-cop vibe. “I asked if you’d seen or heard about a white girl around here the past couple days.”
One of the Negroes stepped forward. He had a good five inches on Plouffe and tilted his head back to look down condescendingly.
“We’ve heard nothing.” Deep voice. Island accent.
Souza saw Plouffe’s back tense. Plouffe wasn’t real fond of Negroes to begin with.
“Rem,” Souza whispered. Plouffe was in a staring match with the big Negro and ignored Souza. Souza saw people beyond the other three Negroes, out of their shacks to see what was going on. He looked over his shoulder and saw more standing in the alley, checking out the action. Souza rolled his left shoulder back a little, pulling the jacket away from his shoulder holster in case he needed to go for his gun. Behind the standoff, the crowd parted to allow a short, thin man with coal black skin move up front. He wore round sunglasses. Souza felt the man’s eyes upon him.
The big Negro said, “You asked your question, Mr. Cop, and got your answer. Now you can go.”
Souza moved up quickly next to Plouffe, trying to head off Plouffe’s response.
Souza whispered in Plouffe’s ear, “Rem, look around. We’ve got to be smart here.”
Souza saw Plouffe break off the staring match and look down the alley. The onlookers weren’t belligerent, but Souza didn’t know how they’d react if the confrontation escalated. The little man was still there, standing motionless.
“Come on, Rem. Let this one go. They probably haven’t seen anything anyway.”
Plouffe nodded. He looked at the big man. “Next time.”
The big man snorted and then laughed. His friends joined in. Souza felt his face flush and he grabbed Plouffe by the elbow as they retreated down the alley. The crowd seemed to understand what was going on—or they were looking to buy some favor with the four men—because they began to laugh as well, the noise gathering volume as it echoed through the narrow confines of the alleys. Souza cleared a path through the people with his right arm as he pulled Plouffe along with his left. Plouffe had his hand on the gun still holstered under his arm, and Souza thanked God that he had the good sense not to pull it.
They walked back toward where Souza thought they had come in, but the alleys didn’t seem the same somehow. Or maybe they did. Plouffe was calming down and they walked in silence, not bothering to question the people they passed. Souza looked down an alley of dilapidated and makeshift huts and thought he saw the man with the sunglasses moving parallel to them. But as soon as the man disappeared from view, Souza thought that maybe he hadn’t actually seen him. His memory of the way the man moved seemed wrong.
Souza began to feel as if they had walked more than far enough to reach the exit, but there was no way they could have missed it. He looked at Plouffe and saw that he, too, was trying to work it through.
They passed a small lot between two shanties. It looked as if a shack might have stood there at one point and been torn down or stolen or whatever happened to shacks here. At the far side of the tiny space was a wall made of corrugated tin, and through the cracks in the tin, Souza could see the fields outside the shantytown.
“Goddammit,” Souza said, took two steps, and put his shoulder into the wall. It sagged. Plouffe joined him and they kicked at the wall until it finally ripped away from where it was attached to the plywood wall of the adjacent shanty.