A Dangerous Road: A Smokey Dalton Novel

by Kris Nelscott

  The church was over fifty years old, built of wood, and painted white every few years or so. It was due for a new coat. The steeple was small and the only thing that made the church stand out from some of the larger homes in the neighborhood. That, the parking lot in front, and the small sign that had been erected in the lawn with the church’s name in white, and the title of the upcoming sermon in small block letters.

  This week it read:

  Look carefully then how you walk, not as unwise men

  but as wise, making the most of the time,

  because the days are evil.

  —Ephesians 5:15-16

  The words chilled me. I walked past them and averted my eyes from them, wishing that they would go away. They didn’t. The days are evil felt like a warning, a premonition of the time ahead. Or perhaps I was just feeling what everyone else was, the strange unraveling that had started months before and was continuing with alarming swiftness, not just in my life, but in the country as well.

  The front doors were open and I went inside, taking the side stairs that led to Henry’s office. It was a large, old-fashioned room with a high ceiling and a view of the garden. In the summer, the church held functions there and I sometimes attended them at Henry’s invitation, even though I didn’t consider myself a religious man.

  I found Henry at his desk, pouring over a Bible, three concordances stacked beside him. His coat and hat were on a nearby chair as if he meant to put them on and had forgotten.

  I stood in the doorway and knocked. Henry looked up. “Smokey.” He smiled. “It went well last night, don’t you think?”

  “That’s what I’m here about.”

  Henry’s smile faded. He took his coat and hat off the chair and indicated that I sit.

  I did. The spot had a good view of the windows and the winter garden. It was overgrown now, dried leaves providing a bed that was usually grass. The trees were bare; dark lines against a darker sky. It almost looked ominous. Hard to believe that in the summer it was one of the most welcoming places in Memphis.

  “Something did happen,” Henry said.

  I nodded and then I told him about my encounter with Thomas Withers, and who Withers had been. I tried to explain the kind of man Withers had been in Korea—a career soldier, the kind who believed all the crap they fed him.

  “I’m afraid I’m not making the connection you are,” Henry said. “We know that there are outside agitators here. We’re a community ripe for it right now. That’s why we formed COME.”

  I hated the acronym for Community on the Move for Equality almost as much as I hated the committee’s name. It was unwieldy and didn’t represent what Henry had said it would.

  “I don’t think Thomas is your ordinary agitator.”

  “Obviously,” Henry said.

  “No,” I said. “You’re not listening. I think he’s FBI. He joined up after the service. I can’t believe he’s left to become a Panther.”

  “What would the FBI be doing teaching high school students how to revolt against the government?”

  “Black high school students,” I said. “Didn’t Frank Holloman used to be a special agent for the FBI?”

  Holloman was the head of Memphis’s police and fire departments.

  “Yes,” Henry said, sounding confused, “but I’m still not following your reasoning, Smokey.”

  “Mayor Loeb wants to win this strike. What better way to do it than to use it to discredit the entire black community? And what better way to do that than to turn the whole thing violent?”

  “But the FBI, Smokey.”

  I suppressed a sigh. We had disagreed over this before. Despite our upbringing, despite the separate water fountains and the segregated schools, Henry had a naive belief in the power of government as a force for good. Not southern government. Northern government. He said it was the same sort of belief that inspired men like Adam Clayton Powell to run for Congress.

  “The FBI has been messing in local politics for the last twenty years,” I said. “Ever since someone first breathed the phrase ‘civil rights’ down here. Well, you guys have started connecting the phrase ‘civil rights’ to the sanitation strike, and suddenly an old Army buddy of mine shows up.”

  “But he wouldn’t go after you if he were government.”

  “Of course he would, Henry,” I said. “He was afraid I would do exactly what I’m doing now. He was trying to convince me as to how much he’d changed. But you know, he never told me what caused the change. If he had, I might have believed him.”

  “But he’s one of us, isn’t he?” Henry asked, meaning Withers was black.

  “Only on the outside.” Anyone could be coopted and often was. The FBI had a history of using certain blacks to infiltrate civil rights organizations. I was sure Withers was one.

  Henry was silent for a long moment. “If what you say is true,” he said, “then what?”

  “Warn the labor leaders this is going on. That’s another reason the FBI could be involved. They don’t trust organized labor, and they’ll do what they can to bust this up.”

  “And then what?”

  “Be cautious, Henry. Don’t put yourselves in any situation that can get out of control. You’re still doing daily protest marches to city hall, right?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Make sure you know everyone who is marching, and make sure you’ve got some trained security people of your own guarding the troops.”

  “All right.” He folded his hands on his Bible. “What else?”

  “Don’t bring in any more national speakers. And hire some professional security. My small team isn’t going to be good enough.”

  “We can’t call Dr. King now,” Henry said. “He’s making Memphis a stop in the Poor People’s Campaign. He’s going to take this strike and use it to focus on the plight of poor people all over the country.”

  “It’s not a good idea, Henry,” I said. “At least have Reverend Lawson call the SCLC. Tell them that the FBI is involved, that we have some internal dissent—“

  “They know that,” Henry said. “They know about that riot.”

  “Henry—“

  He frowned. “You can’t tell me that you believe the FBI would hurt Dr. King. They wouldn’t allow that to happen.”

  I sighed. I didn’t believe it. “I’m worried about the disruptions.”

  “We all are. You can stop them. You know what to do.”

  “Henry, he threatened me and one of my clients.”

  Henry stared at me for a moment. “And then he recognized that you’re not easily intimidated. You’re not, are you, Smokey?”

  I was silent for a moment. I wasn’t easily intimidated, but I also knew that things here were larger than I was. Once Martin was involved, if something spiraled out of control here in Memphis, things would spiral out of control nationally. It had happened before in places that rang with the short, modern history of the civil rights movement: in Montgomery, Birmingham and Selma. Most of these were great victories, but I had a hunch that Martin was due for a defeat.

  I didn’t want it to be here.

  “Warn the SCLC,” I said. “Let them decide.”

  “What do I tell them?” Henry asked. “That you suspect a man from your past is an FBI officer? That there could be trouble? Smokey, these people know about trouble. They live with it every day.”

  “Warn them,” I said as I stood. “Promise me.”

  Henry’s fingers smoothed the surface of his Bible. “I’ll tell Jim Lawson,” he said finally. “It would be better coming from him.”

  I sighed and made my way to the door. I wanted more of a promise, but I understood what Henry was thinking. He was worried that Martin wouldn’t come. Everyone saw Martin as a savior. They didn’t realize that he was as human as the rest of us.

  “Smokey?” Henry said as I started out the door. “One more thing.”

  I turned.

  “I’m worried about Jimmy.”

  That got my attention. �
��He’s not doing well?”

  “Oh, he is. He goes to school. He gets good grades, and he studies hard.” Henry took his chair and scooted it forward. He marked his place in the Bible with a piece of yellow legal paper and closed the book. “But more than once, he’s gone off campus for lunch and missed the first hour afterwards.”

  “How’s the family?”

  Henry shrugged. “They try. But Jimmy is not talking to them. To be fair, he doesn’t really know them.”

  “And Joe?”

  “I don’t know if there’s been contact. I think so. I can’t think of any other reason Jimmy would be off campus.”

  I nodded. “I’ll see him. It’s time I meet the family anyway.”

  “They’re good people, Smokey.”

  “I know that.” I didn’t tell him that my concern was more with Joe, with the jittery boy I had seen outside the pawn shop two days before. “I’ll get the address from you tomorrow.”

  “Good,” Henry said. “Jimmy needs you. He needs to have some continuity from his previous life to this one. I’d rather it be you than his brother.”

  “Me, too,” I said and hoped Jimmy felt the same way.

  * * *

  I managed to get to the office shortly before Laura. She was struggling with two boxes small enough that she could cradle them in her arms. I opened the door for her and she came inside, dropping the boxes on my floor.

  “What are those?”

  “Courtesy of my father’s secretary,” she said.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Those are all the records from his entire career?”

  “All that she had.”

  “Why don’t I believe that?”

  Laura’s gaze met mine. “Because I don’t?”

  “Well,” I said, “at least it’s a start.”

  I gave Laura one box and I took the other. We sat in our customary positions on the floor and began working. The materials inside my box were difficult to handle. Blurred carbons of old letters and tiny receipts with no labels on them. We would be at this for hours, if not days.

  After half the morning went by and I found no letter more informative than one that began, “Enclosed please find the memo from last Wednesday,” I gave up.

  “Laura,” I said, “maybe you should go back to Chicago and get what records you can. I’ll go through these and see what I can find.”

  She set down a sheet of onionskin paper and wiped her fingers on her jeans. “I’ve asked her to send more.”

  “And she’ll find more junk. It would be better if you go.”

  I didn’t want her out of there as much for the records as I did because of the threat Thomas Withers had made. Withers probably wouldn’t make good on any threat, but I didn’t want to take chances.

  Not with Laura.

  Laura shook her head. “Not yet, Smokey. I hear Dr. King is coming to town. I’d like to hear him speak. Do you think that’s possible?”

  Out of the frying pan, I thought.

  “Things are volatile here, Laura. I don’t think going to Martin’s speech would—“

  “You know him?” Her eyes widened.

  A slip. I had been concentrating on her so much that I hadn’t paid much attention to what I was saying.

  “We went to school together,” I said as I always did. People understood that to mean Boston University, where we did go to school at the same time. But I meant elementary school. I simply never corrected anyone.

  “Then you can definitely get me in, Smokey. Please. He’s such a great speaker.”

  I stared at her for a moment. “I didn’t think this would be your thing, Laura.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Because I’m white?”

  I didn’t answer her. That was what I meant and we both knew it.

  “He has a lot of white supporters, you know. I’ve been following his career for years. I think he’s a great man, Smokey.” She said this last as if she were challenging me to show that she had never had these beliefs.

  “Laura,” I said softly. “There’s been a lot of violence here. The week before you came—”

  “I know about the riot,” she said.

  “And since, there’s been trouble as well. It’s not going to be safe.”

  “Surely no one would do anything while Dr. King is here.”

  Henry had said the same thing. Had most people assumed Martin’s profile had gotten so high he would be safe? I didn’t think any black man achieved that level of safety, no matter who he was.

  “It’s possible something could happen,” I said.

  She shrugged one shoulder. “I’m a big girl, Smokey. I’ve lived in the roughest city in North America for years. What did Carl Sandburg call it? The city with big shoulders? I can handle trouble. I know how to stay out of the way.”

  I doubted that. “I don’t want to worry about you,” I said.

  Her eyes sparkled. “Would you?”

  I nodded. Just once. It was an admission I didn’t want to make.

  “You can sit beside me. Then you’ll know I’m safe,” she said.

  “I can’t sit beside you,” I said. “I’m working with a security detail that night.”

  “Oh.” She smiled. “Then things will be fine.”

  I wished I had as innocent a view of the world as she did. But I didn’t. And I knew that, if someone wanted to do something bad, one person—even a prepared person like me—wouldn’t be enough to prevent it.

  No matter how hard he tried.

  FIFTEEN

  NO MATTER HOW MUCH WORK my small security team and I did that weekend, nothing prepared us for the reality of Martin’s speech. And we did work. Hard. Except for a brief stop to listen to Robert F. Kennedy’s announcement that he was running for president—something that did not thrill me since I remembered the Robert F. Kennedy who argued against sending troops to Arkansas to protect the students—and a few trips to Jimmy’s foster home only to discover the family had gone on some kind of outing, I worked my small team as if they were a military unit and their lives depended on their ability to perform.

  Monday morning, I did not meet with Laura. I had a brief meeting with Reverend James Lawson. He assured me that Martin would have his own people, and that there would be a professional security team as well. All my group had to do was watch for local troublemakers.

  Which was harder than it sounded. By the time eight o’clock rolled around, the Mason Temple, one of the larger venues in Memphis, overflowed. Crowds sat on the floor, on the stairs, in the aisles, and in the doorways. Hundreds who couldn’t get in waited in the streets outside. I managed to find Laura a seat in the middle only because she came with me when I began sweeping the building for bombs. She sat there, a small white figure against a sea of black, looking proud of herself just for being there.

  I tried not to look at her. I didn’t want her to take my mind off my impossible job.

  I looked at this like it was a military mission. The bomb sweep produced nothing, but there was little I or anyone could do if this crowd got out of hand. Reporters and crowd watchers at the scene estimated that there were seventeen thousand people in and around the Temple.

  I saw none with black berets. I could only hope that the Panthers and the Invaders had decided to stay away from this meeting.

  We had set up a side door for Martin to enter through and I had planned to wait there, to say hello and maybe have a word or two with him. But as the crowd grew, I knew that wasn’t possible. I spent most of my time pacing the perimeter of the building, threading among the people.

  I wouldn’t have known that Martin had made it to the podium if it weren’t for the sudden deafening roar of applause, the stomping feet, and the whistles that greeted his arrival. I stopped in the back of the Temple and watched him, a small man with dark sincere eyes, letting the wave of adoration flow over him.

  Hard to believe this was the same person who had played with me as a boy, who had shoved me back at the Gone with the Wind premiere, who had worried about his ow
n father’s disapproval. He had had something even then, but I never would have guessed that he would have come to this.

  The applause continued, a live thing. Martin was loved here. He held out his hands for silence, but it still took five minutes for the crowd to settle down.

  As he began his speech, I went back to surveying the building, sure that I could see anything awry before someone else did.

  So I only caught snatches of the speech. But through the whistles and applause, the pounding feet and the shouts of “Yessir” and “All right!,” he caught the spirit of Memphis.

  “We are tired,” he said over and over again. “We are tired of working our hands off and laboring every day and not even making a wage adequate with the basic necessities of life. We are tired…”

  After a long hour, he ended by advocating a massive downtown march on Friday, and he urged all black employees to stay home from their jobs and all black students to stay out of school. The hall erupted into pandemonium. People screamed their approval, waved their arms, shouted how wonderful he was. Martin stepped down to the front row, and the applause went on forever.

  By that point, I was watching from a side door. Laura was applauding too, her face flushed with the moment, her eyes shining. She seemed as caught up in this as the rest of them did. Only I wondered what Mayor Loeb would think, and only I worried what a march of that size might do to the city—not the white city, but the black city that had already received so much punishment.

  After a moment, Martin went back to the podium. The applause died down. “I’ve just received a note from two of my lieutenants,” he said, “suggesting that I return on Friday to lead the march. The Poor People’s Campaign will begin in Memphis! I will see you here in four days!”

  The screaming and shouting rocked the building, and I wondered if we would be able to get Martin out. I hurried toward him and his lieutenants. Martin saw me over the crowd and grinned. He mouthed, “Billy!”—he’d never called me Smokey—and I nodded back. His group moved him forward, and I guarded the back, and somehow they got him outside and to a car.