The terrain of Praeger’s Hill at night seemed, to Grip, oddly hostile. He was aware that he and Morphy reeked of cop and would be met with nothing but fear and anger in these blocks of prostitutes, johns, and other parts of the City’s dark clockwork. Tonight, though, there seemed an extra element of threat. Grip tried to get a purchase on this sense; tried to determine whether to pawn it off on his own inebriation or on the accumulation of so many sleepless nights for so many people being manifested as some kind of directionless rage. But, whatever the reason, Grip was puzzled and unnerved as they worked their way through groups of defeated-looking prostitutes, asking if they’d ever been seen by Dr. Vesterhue or had a connection with the Church of Last Days.
Grip watched Morphy work the prostitutes. The guy could talk to women; you had to give him that. The younger pros perked up when they saw him coming, the older ones had long since stopped giving a shit about who their customers were, as long as they had the cash.
Something about Morphy’s interactions with these women bothered Grip. He was so natural. Grip was troubled by Morphy’s ability to so convincingly act like someone he wasn’t. It was just as convincing as when Morphy was being himself. Grip wasn’t sure what to make of it.
He had initially planned to talk with Morphy about the recent doubts he’d been having about Westermann: the photo of Westermann and Mel Washington, his resistance to investigating the Uhuru Community, and his vigor in going after Prosper Maddox—his alleged communist leanings. He’d always trusted the lieut. Did his maybe being a Red change this?
He’d wanted to talk to Morphy about these things, but seeing him in action, he wasn’t sure he could trust his partner, either. How could he when Morphy could so easily fool these hardened women of the street who must have seen it all?
Another source of disquiet: Were they—or rather, was he—being followed? Plenty of Negroes in this part of town, and while Grip, whatever his flaws, didn’t harbor anything beyond the usual racial unease, he was fighting the sense that the jangly-limbed man was here and the proliferation of black faces was making him hard to locate. Grip felt he might have seen the man, his eyes yellow beneath a narrow-brimmed cap, among groups of men drinking or throwing dice. This sense was strong, as if he’d seen the man up close, noticed details in his face, but Grip was never that close to the man—never, indeed, was sure that he’d actually seen the right man.
A red neon light flickered on another block—a strobe effect—and this was almost more than Grip’s electric nerves could handle. He took another drag off his whiskey flask and offered it to Morphy, who declined with a wave of his hand, but took a cigarette. They stopped to light up and Grip did another crowd scan, thought he saw the man, and then, when he focused on the spot, saw nothing. He shook his head.
“What?” Morphy asked.
“Nothing.”
Morphy grunted but didn’t pursue the matter and they continued on.
Another block and they found a group of three prostitutes, no different from countless other groups, except maybe a little younger, a little less weary. They could flash the dead-eye as quick as the others though when they saw the two cops approach, at least until they got a better look at Morphy and warmed a bit. They’d staked out a bar called Drake’s, but it was too early for people to be leaving in any numbers.
“Evening, ladies,” Morphy said, grinning, charming. “We won’t take any of your time, but we’re trying to track down any girls who saw a doctor name of Vesterhue.”
One of the girls, small, dark, a pixie face, and shabby cocktail dress, met Morphy’s gaze. “Sure. What’s it to you?”