Frings stood on the roof of a building across the street from the Uhuru Community, resting his forearms on the low wall that ran along the edge. The sun had set and the sky was a fading scarlet dotted with wispy orange clouds. Frings smoked a reefer in the breeze and watched the last few members of the Uhuru Community walk out of the shanties through an opening made by tearing down two shacks. They retreated out the side away from the field, slinking off where they couldn’t be seen by the mob that had grown to at least a couple hundred. Even up here, Frings could sense the latent violence waiting to be unleashed. He spotted Deyna, notebook out, talking with Ed Wayne. Deyna was crossing a line Frings had crossed long ago, but he was crossing it to the other side.
Washington had arranged this evacuation, the only way he could see to prevent a tragedy. Womé had been barely better than catatonic as he was led away by two bodyguards, Frings still not sure if he was spent from the rituals or if he’d been overwhelmed by the situation, by the raw physical presence of it.
Mel Washington was down there now, talking to Lieutenant Ving and Kraatjes. Washington had earned the right to be free of police persecution. He’d assessed the situation and formulated the course of action. Frings had volunteered to accompany him, introduce him to Ving. Washington had shaken his head. “This is our affair.”
Frings understood and moved aside.
He watched Washington’s approach to Ving, then the body language of the two men as their inaudible conversation progressed, thinking Washington was lucky to be dealing with Ving, who was smart and not afraid to take bold steps. Frings watched as Ving nodded along with whatever Mel was proposing. They shook hands and Ving strode across the field, alone.
Ving had returned with three white guys, Ed Wayne among them. Washington met them by an oil drum, smoke still billowing, the Samedi ginks long gone. They worked out the compromise. The mob would give the people in the shanties time to leave—a couple of hours—then they would level the shanties or burn them or whatever it was they wanted to do. There was no way to save the Community, Washington realized, but this way he could at least save the people.
Frings tossed the last bit of his reefer over the edge of the roof and stretched, feeling the strain of the day ebbing from his body. Below, one of the prowl cars gave a quick siren blast, which must have been the signal because the mob began to move on the shanties. Their noise drifted up to Frings like a primal roar, and he thought that this was what happened in the City: Grace was devoured by brutishness, utopias by the ignorant.
He watched as the mob took to the shantytown like ants to a carcass.