A Dangerous Road: A Smokey Dalton Novel

by Kris Nelscott

  I let the door close softly, but at the click she stirred and looked up. Her hair was as messy as it had been when she woke up that Friday morning, the first morning, but she looked nothing like that woman. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face lined.

  This time I went over to her, and she rose, falling into my arms. I held her and she held me and neither of us moved for a long, long time.

  I should have kissed her then, but I didn’t. There still remained a chunk of ice in my heart. Eventually she let me go and wiped her face with the back of her hand, like a child.

  Neither of us seemed to want to speak. Finally, she said, “I think I have to go to Atlanta.”

  “You can forget about it, pretend you don’t know,” I said.

  She bent down, picked up her coat, and flung it over my chair. “Can you?”

  Of course not. That was what I was struggling with. But I didn’t say so. “Those people, they’re just your biological parents. They named you Scarlett.”

  “And went to the Gone With the Wind premiere in Confederate costumes owned by some family member. I know.” Her smile was small and didn’t go to her eyes. “But it doesn’t matter who they are. It matters that they are. Do you know what I mean?”

  The hell of it was, I did. She had to do this. She started this odyssey with her mother’s death, and damn her, she would take it to the very end.

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked.

  “Come with me.” The small smile faded. “But you won’t, will you?”

  I shook my head.

  She blinked hard. Her eyes were still red. “I’m not—I didn’t intend this,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

  “I know that, Laura. But it doesn’t matter. It happened.”

  “To them,” she whispered.

  “To me,” I said. “I took your mother’s money.”

  “Oh.” She sat on the chair, on the coat, and tried to pretend that she wasn’t uncomfortable. “And you think that implicates you somehow.”

  “Doesn’t it? I knew there was something wrong with that money then.”

  “She was trying to make amends.”

  “You can’t pay for a person’s life.” This time, I managed to get the words out without acrimony. “They weren’t the best parents, but they were mine, and they died horribly. My cousin told me it took them hours to die, judging from the condition of their bodies. Tortured to death, Laura. Tortured.”

  “Because of me.”

  “Not you,” I said. “Your parents.”

  “I’ll bet they didn’t know,” she said. “I’ll bet they were appalled when they found out.”

  “I’ll bet you’re right,” I said.

  She lowered her eyes. “It doesn’t make things better, does it?”

  I shook my head.

  “And the rest of the money, you don’t want it, do you?”

  “No.”

  “But it’s yours, legally. Can’t you start some fund or something?”

  “You start it, Laura. And put in the money I send you as well. I’ll pay the other back.”

  “You can’t afford it, Smokey.”

  It was my turn to smile. “Sure I can.”

  She raised her head. She thought I was bluffing. She thought I would hurt myself to return that money.

  She was right.

  “I don’t want it,” she said.

  I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what you want, Laura. It’s the right thing.”

  She stood, removed the coat, and clutched it over her arm, much as she had done that first day we met. She looked as uncomfortable, too, but more miserable. “When this money isn’t between us, Smokey, do you think—”

  I put my finger over her mouth. Then I ran it over her lips, caressing them, and touched the softness of her skin. I wasn’t sure I’d ever do that again. “You need to go to Atlanta without me,” I said. “You need to see your real family, and make your own decisions.”

  She closed her eyes, but leaned into my touch. “Maybe I want to stay here.”

  “I don’t want you here,” I said gently. “Not until you’re done with this.”

  Then she kissed my palm and moved her face out of my grasp. She opened her eyes, and for the first time since I had returned, they were clear. “And what about you, Smokey? When will you be done with this?”

  It was a good question.

  I had no answer for her.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I STOOD AT MY WINDOW and watched her walk across Beale Street. She didn’t look back. She made her way toward Union and the Peabody and I wondered if I would ever see her again.

  It was nearly six. I supposed I should go home, make myself dinner, maybe read a bit, but I didn’t feel like it. I didn’t feel like doing anything.

  Then the phone rang.

  I turned and picked it up, thinking it was one of the clients I had called earlier, or maybe Henry with a request that I come to dinner.

  Instead, Selina Nelson said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I can’t find Jimmy. I was wondering if he’s with you.”

  “No, he’s not,” I said, feeling the inside of my stomach twist.

  “He went to school,” she said. “But one of his little classmates said Jimmy wasn’t there the last hour. I think he’s looking for Joe.”

  I closed my eyes. That was what I would do. I would try to find my brother and see if the words reported to me were true. Why hadn’t I seen Jimmy’s action coming?

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have thought this through.”

  “It’s not just you,” she said. “I’ve been taking care of children through the church for nearly ten years now. You’d think I’d know too.”

  “Well,” I said, sighing. “Here’s what I suggest. Call Henry and have him get a group together of as many people as he can find. You got paper?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Here’s a list of places that Jimmy might search.” I rattled off the names of the places I had been over the last week, places I had told Jimmy about, places where Joe had been seen, or had hung out. Selina Nelson asked me to slow down, and as I did, I heard shouting from the street below.

  Male shouting, angry shouting. A woman wailed.

  “Something’s going on,” I said to Selina. “Hold on a minute.”

  I went to the dirty window and peered out. I saw people milling in the street, their bodies shadowy against the age-old grime. The street had been nearly empty just a few minutes ago.

  What had happened?

  One woman fell to her knees, her arms stretched above her head in supplication. Horns were blaring, and the shouting continued.

  I went back to the phone. “Selina, can I call you back?”

  “I’m not sure I’ll be here,” she said. “But I think this is enough to start. Is everything all right there?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Something’s going on. After I find out what it is, I’ll start looking for Jimmy. I’ll call you if I hear anything.”

  “I’ll make sure someone does the same for you,” she said, and we hung up.

  I grabbed my coat and ran out of my office, slamming the door behind me. I took the stairs four at a time and was on the street within seconds.

  A man had his face in his hands and was leaning against the brick of the Gallina Building. Another man was shaking his head, and a woman was sobbing so hard that it seemed like she couldn’t get any air.

  “What is it?” I said, grabbing one of the employees of Schwab’s who was standing in the middle of the sidewalk looking lost.

  “Didn’t you hear the gunshots?” she asked. “Down at the Lorraine. They say Dr. King was shot.”

  “Who says?”

  “Everybody. They been running through the street, shouting it.”

  The man’s voice I had heard while I was talking to Selina. I hadn’t heard the gunshots—the Gallina was too well built to pick up a sound from several blocks away—but it was possible. It was possible.

  “I knew,
” she said, “I knew something was going to happen when they gave his room number last night on the evening news.”

  I focused on her. “What?”

  “The news. They announced that Dr. King was in town and staying at the Lorraine, and then they said what room number he had.”

  “Oh, shit,” I said. Those white sons of bitches. They’d finally nailed him.

  I didn’t even thank her. My brain had shifted from Jimmy and Laura and the speech to Martin. If we lost Martin, then what?

  Then what?

  I ran down to the end of the block and turned on Second, going the same way Joe had gone after he had tried to rob Capital Loans. Other people were running with me, their faces blank or full of a vain hope. Sirens echoed all over the neighborhood, and police were beginning to appear like magic. There had to be fifty already. At Linden, I followed the crowd west to Mulberry, and more and more people joined us.

  Mulberry was already blocked off, mostly with cars. Several firemen from the nearby station were hauling barricades. I slipped past them. At the Lorraine Motel, an ambulance was just pulling out. There were police all over the balcony, in front of the main doors, and in the parking lot. Some were holding rifles and a few were pointing. On the street below, two of King’s friends were talking to an officer who wasn’t taking notes.

  It was true then.

  It was true.

  I felt as if I had been shot in the gut. I doubled over, unable to catch my breath. Someone took my arm, and I shook him off. Then the grip came again, firmer.

  I looked up. It was a white officer wearing black horn-rimmed glasses. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth, and a rifle in his left hand. He was holding me tightly with his right. He was maybe thirty years old and just beginning to get a paunch. I could take him if I needed to.

  “This area’s restricted,” he said.

  “Who was shot?” I asked.

  “King.”

  No title of respect, no nothing. Just King.

  I was shaking. “Did you get the shooter?”

  “You have to leave,” the officer said, his grip tightening.

  Officers were standing on all sides of the street, but didn’t seem to be doing anything. Others were removing bystanders. Near the fire station at the other end of the block, I saw two officers struggle to shove a little boy in a squad.

  The little boy had his hands splayed on the side of the car, and he was shouting. He turned his head slightly.

  It was Jimmy.

  “I’ll leave,” I said, as calmly as I could to the cop holding me.

  Jimmy was fighting so hard that one of the cops yelled for another. More people slipping past the makeshift barricade. If the cops didn’t have the shooter, finding him now might be impossible.

  “Just let go of me and I’ll walk out of here,” I said to the cop.

  I must have said it with enough force because he let me go. I started to turn to throw him off, make him believe I was leaving the restricted area. Then I switched directions and ran down the middle of Mulberry toward Jimmy.

  Cops reached for me. I dodged through them. It was only a few yards to Jimmy, and it only took me a moment to cover the distance. No one seemed too concerned about me, or the others who were infiltrating the crime scene. I’d never seen such passive police.

  Except for the ones fighting with Jimmy. I didn’t hesitate. I got to Jimmy’s side, elbowed one cop in the stomach, and shoved the other away.

  A third came toward me, and I kicked him before he could get close. The driver of the squad car started to get out, but by then I had Jimmy’s arm.

  “We’re getting out of here,” I yelled.

  He didn’t have a chance to respond. I yanked him forward, and we cut down Butler to Second. I was running, and Jimmy was struggling to keep up. Half the time I pulled him along. The cops were following us this time and yelling. One pointed a gun at Jimmy, and I dodged into a group of people, hoping no cop would be stupid enough to fire into a throng of innocents.

  I pushed our way through and onto Second. When we got there, we found chaos. A growing crowd watched, and more cops milled. I had never seen so many cops in my life. It was as if they had been there already, as if they had been waiting for something.

  The cops behind us shouted and pointed at Jimmy. I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see that and the communication that went from those cops to the ones in front of us. Some leveled weapons at us.

  Jesus, I thought. They think Jimmy killed him?

  I pulled the kid as hard as I could. The bystanders were beginning to realize something was happening, and they formed a group between us and the cops. A man who looked vaguely familiar tried to shove us toward a VW Bug, but I refused to go. I wasn’t going to accept help from anyone I didn’t know. We wove our way through the crowd, and others started running off in different directions, some of them grown men with kids.

  They were helping us. They were acting as decoys, even though they didn’t know what happened. It was an axiom down here: if a black man was running from cops, he needed protection.

  I thanked a god wasn’t sure I believed in for that.

  Jimmy and I took advantage of the decoys to get us to Vance and then Third. There we stopped.

  No one was following us any longer. We had lost the police.

  I was breathing hard, and Jimmy was breathing harder. I gave us a moment to catch our breath. It had grown dark. The sirens were still wailing, but at a distance now, and I suspected that was only the beginning.

  “Take off your cap,” I said when I could, “and give it to me. Then turn your coat inside out.”

  Jimmy didn’t ask any questions. He was clearly terrified. He took off his cap and gave it to me. I stuffed it in the pocket of my jacket. Then he removed his coat, and we turned it inside out.

  “When we walk, put your head down, and if someone stops us, make like you’ve been crying. All right?”

  “We’re gonna walk?” he said, his voice trembling.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Running’s too suspicious.”

  It was a wonder we hadn’t been shot, considering how trigger-happy police usually were after an incident like that. I walked us down Third all the way back to Beale. People were standing in the streets, many clutching transistor radios, listening for news. As Jimmy and I walked, we learned that Martin had been taken to St. Joseph’s Hospital and that police were still searching for a suspect.

  The crowd, at this point, was strangely hushed, and we were too as we walked. It wasn’t until we had turned on Beale and were almost to my car that someone screamed, “He’s dead!”

  A woman held her transistor up, and the voice of the announcer repeated the information.

  Screams started again, and this time, it was as if everything broke. People began shouting, others shoved each other, still more cried. The place was going to erupt again, and I had to get Jimmy out of there.

  I shoved him into the passenger seat of my car, then got into the driver’s side and started it almost before I was settled in. I drove through the crowd slowly so that people would move, and they hit my hood, shaking the entire vehicle. When we could finally break free, I turned on a side road.

  Jimmy turned on the radio, and the news was being repeated. Martin was pronounced dead at 7:05 P.M. at St. Joseph’s Hospital. We listened on the drive, watching as people poured out of their houses, their businesses, their cars, as if they couldn’t remain inside with the news.

  Already there were reports of breaking windows on Union and claims that someone had started a fire downtown. I shut off the radio, not ready to process the news yet, and drove toward home.

  My neighborhood was silent. Either no one had arrived home, or everyone had left. I got Jimmy out of the car and helped him up the stairs and into the house. I didn’t turn on any lights in the front, only in the kitchen. I didn’t want anyone to know we were there.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. But he didn’t lo
ok all right. His face was gray and his eyes luminous. He perched on the edge of a chair as if he expected me to make him get up.

  “You want something?” I asked, even though I didn’t know how he could eat, not now.

  “Water,” he said.

  I got him a glass and then poured myself one too. I was thirsty and hadn’t realized it. I was still shaking, and part of my mind was trying to deal with the day’s events. I focused on Jimmy. It was easier.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “They said they wanted to shut me up.”

  “Who, the police?”

  He nodded and looked away.

  “Why were you there?”

  “I was looking for Joe.”

  My mistake. I had told him that I had searched for Joe in that area, in the Canipe Amusement Company on South Main. That explained why Jimmy was there, but it still didn’t explain how I found him and why the police wanted him. “And what happened, Jimmy, that the police got you?”

  “I went to them.” His voice was so soft that it was a whisper. He had my attention now. Jimmy knew better than to go to the police.

  “Why?”

  He raised his head, took a deep shuddery breath, and said, “I seen it. I was in this lot across from the motel, and there were these guys, sitting on some cardboard, and they say, ‘Hey look, it’s King.” So I look up, and there was Mr. King—”

  “Dr. King,” I said, automatically.

  “Dr. King,” Jimmy said, allowing the correction, “and then I heard this shot right behind me. This guy jumps out from the bushes and he runs across the lot in front of me, and I don’t get to see his face, and as he’s running, he’s taking his gun apart. When he gets to the corner of the lot, he throws part of the gun into some bushes, and puts the rest in his jacket. Then he jumps to the street and starts to walk like nothing’s happened.”

  I was cold. I watched Jimmy. His eyes were bloodshot and staring down at the water glass as he spoke. It was as if he were seeing it all over again.

  “And I seen them men on the balcony with Mr.—Dr. King and they was pointing at me, and he was on the ground, and I go to them bushes and I see the gun barrel, and I think somebody’s got to know.”