A Dangerous Road: A Smokey Dalton Novel

by Kris Nelscott

  I had to walk down to Second—all the parking on Beale had been taken that morning, and I hated parking in the alley in the back. My car was parked on the other side of Capitol Loans, and as I got closer to the building, I saw Joe standing there.

  Joe jittered between the two parking meters in front of the large striped awning, looking once at the display of watches and jewelry in the window. Then he tripped on the grate, grabbed one of the meters for balance, and stood for a moment as if he were dizzy.

  I shoved my keys into my pocket and walked toward him. He looked up, saw me, and shook his head, as if he didn’t want me to come any closer.

  I kept walking, though, and got close enough to call his name. He waved uncertainly, and in that jerky awkward movement, I realized what was wrong.

  He was high.

  I took a deep breath, shoved my hands in my pockets and headed toward him. As I did, an older man came out of the Capitol’s double doors at a run, grabbed Joe’s arm, and tugged him down the street. Joe looked over his shoulder, then turned south on Second.

  By the time I got there, he was gone. And I couldn’t resist. I wandered into Capitol, afraid of what I might learn.

  Capitol smelled of dust and dirt, tobacco and desperation. The floor was made of uneven wood slates and supported dozens of glass counters filled with stuff people had pawned for a fraction of its worth.

  Steve, the man who worked the counter in the afternoon, was a backup musician at Stax and made extra money playing clubs in the evenings. He had the largest afro I’d ever seen, and it look right with the multicolored dashiki he wore.

  “Whatcha need?” he asked, not very welcomingly. Usually I was tracking some stolen item, and if I found it in this place and could prove the item was stolen before it had been brought in, Capitol lost money. Steve wasn’t the owner, but he’d lost enough items to me over the years to get yelled at a few times, and he needed the job bad enough that he didn’t want to be yelled at much more.

  “Saw that guy run out of here,” I said. “You okay?”

  Steve raised an eyebrow at me, a surprised and calculated look. “You think I was robbed?”

  “I thought it was a possibility.”

  He nodded. “I thought so too. I think they was casing me. I let ’em see the shotgun under the counter, made it clear I wasn’t ’fraida usin’ it, and they was gone.” He tilted his head. “Ain’t never seen that bro before. You?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. He could have been one of the older men with the Invaders that night in the Little Hot House.

  “But looked like Joe Bailey’s with him. That yer interest?”

  “Initially,” I said.

  “He was on something. Too jittery for weed. Thinkin’ maybe he was shootin’ up.”

  I was thinking the same thing, and I didn’t like it. “Keep an eye out.”

  “I will. I don’t like how thing’s goin’ right now.” He patted the cases. “These babies gonna fill up and nobody’s gonna have money to empty ’em.”

  “Let’s hope the strike ends soon.”

  “May as well hope for a black president of the United States,” he said.

  I shook my head at his pessimism and left. Outside, I scanned the street for Joe, but didn’t see him—not that I expected to. I got into my car and drove to Joe’s apartment, the one he had once shared with his mother and Jimmy. An eviction notice, days old, was thumbtacked to the scarred door. Joe hadn’t been here in a long time.

  I wondered if he even knew that Jimmy was gone.

  THIRTEEN

  THURSDAY MORNING, I found another anonymous note taped to my door. This time, before touching it, I went downstairs and asked my neighbors if they’d seen anyone suspicious in the building. Of course they hadn’t. They hadn’t noticed anything unusual at all.

  I unlocked my office door and got the fingerprint kit. Then I dusted the glass and the area around the note. I saw lots of prints, most of them undoubtedly mine, and nothing near the note.

  Someone had wiped the area clean.

  I slipped my winter gloves over my hands and pulled down the note. It was the same as the last one: words cut from newspapers, clean tape, no marks.

  The message was different, though.

  Stay home tonight.

  I guess I finally knew what the notes were connected to. The strike. Somehow it made sense.

  I took the note inside and put it with the other. I wondered how many I would collect before the strike was over.

  I worked with Laura for most of the day, continuing to sort and study. The new records hadn’t arrived yet, but we still had material to go through. We found all sorts of messes in those boxes, from old dress ads torn from newspapers to society portraits of people Laura didn’t know. She guessed that her mother used those pictures as inspiration; her mother had been horribly insecure when she finally started mingling with Chicago society.

  I sent Laura home early. She knew I was going to hear the speeches and she wanted to come along. But there had been disruptions all week—most of them by the Invaders, who blocked traffic and tried to persuade students to leave school. I was worried that there would be more at the meeting that night.

  The leaders of COME had assured me that Wilkins and Rustin would have their own personal security. They wanted me to focus on the site of the speeches itself.

  Clayborn Temple was an old stone church, pitted and soot-covered, its stained-glass windows covered in grime. It had been the starting point of the daily marches to city hall and site of several volatile meetings. I was more worried about the location than I was any crazies in the audience. Too many people went in and out of that building all day.

  Too many people had access, and too much access meant trouble.

  The speeches were supposed to start at eight. My crew, such as it was, was coming fifteen minutes before the doors opened at seven. I arrived at four and went through the church from top to bottom.

  I found things in that building that people hadn’t seen for years, from old sneakers to moth-eaten choir robes. I investigated the plumbing and the boiler. I shone a flashlight in all the vents and was happy to see cobwebs blowing with the heat. I liked finding dust so thick that it coated my hands and dirt so old that it crumbled at my touch.

  No one had planted a bomb, at least not that day. That day, we were safe.

  * * *

  I didn’t hear much of the speeches. I spent most of my time circling the outside of the building, making certain that no one tried anything suspicious. A group of teenage boys in leather jackets and berets arrived at eight-thirty. I followed them in just in time to see them line up in the back, under the balcony.

  I signaled to Roscoe’s son, Andrew, to keep an eye on them. He nodded and signaled his partner, who then signaled another. Some of the training stuck.

  The Temple was full that night—a sea of black faces, punctuated by an occasional white face, usually that of a reporter. Television cameras had appeared outside, but were already gone. The only people inside were print journalists, and even they seemed weary, as if they had heard it all before.

  The audience wasn’t weary. They cheered and whistled, pleased to have speakers of Wilkins’s and Rustin’s stature involved in this strike.

  But the meeting did not go easy. The teenagers were loud and disrespectful. One of them asked loudly how anyone could listen to those “Uncle Toms.”

  Andrew started toward them to throw them out, but I stopped him. I didn’t want a scene if we could at all avoid it.

  I was about to leave when one of the boys stepped forward. He put his hands to his mouth and shouted, “When you talk about fighting a city with as many cops as this city’s got, you better have some guns! You’re gonna need ’em before it’s over.”

  “That’s it,” I muttered. I signaled my men, and we grabbed the boys, dragging them outside. They didn’t resist. They seemed to enjoy the attention, which angered me all the more.

  When we reached the door, we shoved th
em out. They staggered forward, tripped on the stone steps, and almost fell into the street.

  “Stay out,” I said.

  “Don’t like truth, do you, man?” a boy yelled in the dark.

  “He don’t know it’s time to move from resistance to aggression. He’ll learn,” another said.

  “Resistance to aggression,” I said, putting my hands on my hips. I couldn’t see the boys’ faces in the dark. “Why don’t you finish the quote? You want to move from revolt to revolution, don’t you?”

  “Hey, man!” a different voice shouted. “You do know.”

  “I’ve heard of H. Rap Brown, same as you,” I said. “I just don’t believe he knows what makes the world work.”

  Then I led my team back inside and pulled the Temple doors closed.

  * * *

  We had no more disruptions that night, but I stayed late to make sure we’d have none the next day. Wilkins and Rustin left with their body guards and assistants, feeling as if they had inspired and led.

  Like it or not, half of me agreed with the teenagers. Speechifying wasn’t settling this strike. Involvement from national figures would only entrench Loeb and his henchmen all the more. I was beginning to worry that the garbage was going to pile up until summer, when the heat and the humidity would make people older than Joe ready to listen to the words of H. Rap Brown and Bobby Seale.

  I was the last one to leave the Temple. It was nearly midnight. The sky was clear after a cloudy day and the air was cold. I was tired, and the hope I had felt earlier in the week had evaporated when I heard black-clad teenagers talking about guns.

  Maybe if I hadn’t been so self-involved, I would have seen him. But I didn’t. I didn’t notice at all until he grabbed my arm and pulled me toward him.

  I swung and he caught my fist in his large hand. He was alone. His dark skin looked almost purple in the streetlight. He was holding me like a lover would, a lover who wanted the first dance. Only the tightness of his grip and the look in his bloodshot eyes convinced me that we were involved in a different kind of dance—one that he controlled.

  “You’ve gotten lazy,” he said.

  I recognized the voice. It was the man who had been trying to hide from me in the Little Hot House the week before. Only this night, he had his beret tilted back, his broad scarred face visible in the pale light.

  “Thomas Withers,” I said. “The last time I saw you, you were wearing a uniform and praising the work of your comrades in that oxymoronic place, Army Intelligence.”

  His grip on my fist tightened. “Things change.”

  “Not that much.” That was why he had made me feel uneasy. “What’re you doing preaching revolution?”

  “I saw the light, Smokey. Maybe it’s time you did too.”

  “What light?” I asked.

  “You been saying some things that don’t support brotherhood. We got a situation coming up, and we need people behind us, not opposing us.”

  “Really?” I said. “I’m a little old to be convinced by rhetoric like that. I told you. I don’t believe in burning cities.”

  “It’s the only way,” he said. “Then we rebuild in our own image.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” I asked. “Does the strike give you grounds to infiltrate Memphis? Do you think that bringing down Mayor Loeb will be the start of a black utopia?”

  “You always did have a smart mouth,” he said. “I came to get you on our side.”

  “I don’t take sides,” I said. “But I tell you, I’d rather work with the Committee on the Move for Equality than you guys.”

  “All those ministers,” he said. “I didn’t take you for the religious type.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “That’s my point.” Then I tilted my head. “And why do you want me? Did I make you nervous, Tom? Think I recognized you and might tell those kids how you lived when you were their age? Should I tell them that you worked for the Man?”

  “They know.”

  “They know you worked for him, not that you enjoyed it.” I yanked my fist from his grasp, then shoved him away from me. He stumbled backwards a few steps before catching himself. Even though he was bigger, he wasn’t an experienced street fighter. I was. He was easy to move.

  “I’m not that lazy,” I said.

  “You watch out,” he said, tugging on his jacket to straighten it. “You don’t know who you’re touching.”

  “Threats now. Who am I touching, Tom? Is there some other reason you’re in Memphis? Are you still working for the Man?”

  “If I was, I wouldn’t be teaching Invaders about Black Power.” He shook his arms as if I had hurt him.

  “Is that what you’re teaching them?” I asked. “Or are you infiltrating them? Are you teaching those kids how to disrupt things so that there’ll be an excuse for some harsh police action? Maybe just enough to bring in some of your friends from the government and shut this entire section of the city down.”

  “I never seen a man so cynical as you,” he said.

  I shrugged. “I remember you, Tom. I remember what you were like.”

  “I changed.” The words didn’t sound sincere. He stood, his hands at his sides, ready if I made a move.

  “Someday you’ll have to tell me what caused the change,” I said. “But tonight’s not the time. And if you think I’ll come over and help you tear this place apart, you’re wrong.”

  “Your loss, Smokey,” he said. “It’d be better for you if you were on our side.”

  “That’s the second threat in a matter of minutes,” I said. “How come I make you nervous, Tom?”

  “You don’t,” he said. “But some of the kids respect you. They asked too many questions after you left. They don’t need you confusing them.”

  Joe. Maybe I had gotten through, a little. “Seems to me I’m not the one doing the confusing. You’ll mess with this place and then you’ll leave, and where will they be?”

  “They’ll be the ones in charge.”

  I shook my head. “Funny you should come to me, Tom. Don’t you remember how much I hated fools?”

  “You’re the one who’s the fool, Smokey,” he said softly. “You should listen to Dylan. Times, they are a-changing.”

  “Bob Dylan’s a white man’s guru.” I grabbed my keys out of my coat pocket. “You give yourself away in the details, Tom.”

  His eyes narrowed as he watched me. “Leave the kids to me, Smokey,” he said.

  I shrugged. “You can have them,” I said. “If they want to play revolution, it’s not my game.”

  “I have your word on that?”

  “On what?” I asked. “That I won’t play with the children? Sure.”

  “And you’ll leave us alone?”

  “It depends on what you’re planning, Tom. Care to share that with me?”

  His grin was wide and easy. “Already have, Smokey.”

  “Somehow I don’t think so.” I turned the keys outward with my fingers, creating a weapon that I hid against my side in the dark. “You’re the one who’s been leaving those notes on my door.”

  He grinned. His teeth flared white against the darkness. They were perfect. The last time I had seen him, in Korea sixteen years before, they’d been chipped and broken. He’d come into some money somewhere.

  “You don’t scare easy, Smokey. I respect that. I really do.”

  I crossed my arms. Knowing that Withers was behind the notes calmed me a little. I’d let it slip in Korea that I’d spent time in Atlanta.

  “But what do you think your daddy would have thought of that white bitch you’re trailing after?”

  I almost lunged for him, and then I realized that was what he wanted. “Why do you keep bringing my parents into this?”

  Withers shrugged. “Interesting people, your parents.”

  “How do you know about them?”

  His grin faded. “I know more about you than you do,” he said. “That’s one thing I did learn in the Army. Knowledge is power, Smokey. And sometimes
the right fact can be mighty useful.”

  He brought his beret back down over his face. Then he tapped my hand.

  “You can put your keys back the normal way now,” he said. “I’m not going to fight you. I know when I’m outclassed.”

  Then he walked away. I watched him go. I had no idea why he was letting me see him now, or what he wanted to prove by it. Except that he had escalated his threats.

  They didn’t just include me any more.

  He had also mentioned Laura.

  FOURTEEN

  THE NEXT MORNING, I got up early and went to see Henry in his office. My run-in with Withers so disturbed me that I tossed and turned all night.

  Thomas Withers and I had had several run-ins in Korea, most of which I didn’t like to think about. He worked for military intelligence then and had left to continue his nasty ways with the FBI. I couldn’t believe that all these years later he had seen the light and gone to the other side.

  He wasn’t that kind of man.

  His presence made me realize just how complicated this sanitation workers’ strike had become. I wanted to tell Henry about it as soon as possible, and I couldn’t do it at breakfast in public. Nor could I talk to him in my office, not with Laura due at her usual ten o’clock.

  I knew that he spent his Friday mornings writing the Sunday sermon. That gave him Saturdays to revise and practice the material. Henry always felt insecure about his speaking skills—probably because the competition in Memphis was so high—and he worked harder on his sermons than almost anyone else. The writing was always excellent, the expressed thoughts brilliant, and the execution a little dry. Henry had been trying to stop reading his sermons aloud, to memorize them instead, but it didn’t work. He simply didn’t allow himself enough time.

  That morning was frosty. Winter hadn’t let us go yet. The chill cut down the odor from the garbage, though, and for that I was grateful. The church’s parishioners kept the sidewalks clean and made sure that the church’s garbage was moved. I didn’t know if some brave soul took it to the dump—which many of the strikers would have seen as crossing the picket line—or if the garbage was simply put in another location, waiting until that day, whenever it would be, when the strike was over.