Stone Cribs: A Smokey Dalton Novel

by Kris Nelscott

  “I know what I see,” I said, “and I see a lot of discrepancies in your story.”

  “Oh, really?” Yancy asked.

  “Don’t do this, Bill,” Sinkovich said so softly I wasn’t sure if anyone else could hear him.

  “Really,” I said, ignoring Sinkovich. “First of all, for a boy to jump off a bike and keep his balance, the bike has to be going relatively slowly. If you were at the mouth of the alley…”

  I swept my hand toward it.

  “…then you weren’t that far away. Any man could have caught up with the bike rider before he reached the corner, grabbed the back of the bike, and stopped him.”

  “You weren’t here, Grimshaw,” Yancy said. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  Two of the uniforms, though, looked at the alley and then at the corner. Then they glanced at me. Both of them looked pale.

  “Secondly,” I said, “neither of you have a drop of blood on you. If you tried to help Truman like you say you did, then you’d be spattered.”

  “It fucking poured, man,” Jump said.

  “Yeah, it did,” I said, “and you’re not even wet. Explain that to me.”

  “Who the hell is this guy?” Jump asked Yancy. “Internal Affairs?”

  “C’mon,” Sinkovich said. “You’re upset. Let’s go.”

  “You’re right, Jack, I am upset,” I said. “There are a lot of questions that I can see that none of these so-called trained professionals seem to care about.”

  Yancy was ignoring Jump and Sinkovich. He was staring at me. “You think you’re so goddamn smart. I’ve never liked that about you.”

  “You don’t know me,” I said, “but you’ll get to know me if you don’t work on solving this murder.”

  “We’ve done what we can. It’s Homicide’s now.”

  I nodded. “And you’re going to tell them why you’re not carrying the guns you allegedly used to shoot at the car and the van?”

  “The first officers on the scene confiscated our weapons.” Yancy’s entire face was only a few inches from mine. “Just like they’re supposed to.”

  I nodded toward his tight clothing. “Where did you carry the weapon? I don’t’ see any holster. Did you have it stuck down your pants?”

  One of the officers behind me snorted, then put a hand over his mouth as if he hadn’t reacted at all. Yancy’s gaze flicked toward him, and the officer let his hand drop.

  “I was carrying it. In my hand.”

  “I see,” I said. “You had time to get your weapon from wherever you keep it, but you didn’t have time to get to the scene to save Johnson.”

  “I already had it,” Yancy said.

  “Oh?” I asked. “Why? Was something else happening?”

  He poked a finger into my breastbone. His fingernail was long and sharp against my skin.

  “You’re just a civilian,” he said. “Illegally on a crime scene. I can make your life hell.”

  “Are you threatening me because I questioned your behavior?” I asked. “Or because you’re lying?”

  He shoved me and I shoved back. Sinkovich got between us. Two uniforms grabbed my arms and held them tightly. Yancy came at me again, and I kicked him, missing his balls, which I was aiming for, and getting his thigh.

  He staggered backward.

  “Come at me again,” I said, “and I know you’re lying.”

  “Stop it.” Sinkovich moved away from me and put a hand on Yancy’s chest. “This doesn’t solve anything. Grimshaw’s upset about Johnson’s death. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

  “Oh, yes, I do,” I said.

  “He’s a goddamn asshole,” Yancy said, pushing against Sinkovich’s hand. “He thinks he knows everything.”

  “All I know,” I said, “is that you covering something up, probably your own incompetence. You can’t be a hero all the time, Yancy.”

  “I’m not trying to be a fucking hero.” Yancy was still pushing at Sinkovich, but not as hard as before. “I’m not the only witness, you know.”

  “Yeah, you and your friend here with the interesting name.”

  “That’s Sergeant to you, asshole,” Jump said, giving me at least his rank. Next, I would try to get his real name.

  “Not just us,” Yancy said. “There were people in the bar, and a few on the street. They’re being interviewed. They saw the whole thing.”

  “And if they’re from this neighborhood, they’re not going to identify anyone because they don’t dare. The last thing they want to do is get between the Red Squad and the Stones,” I said, using the derogatory name the black community called the Gang Intelligence Unit.

  “You can question every fucking thing I’ve done,” Yancy said, pointing his finger at me over Sinkovich’s shoulder. “But my word is gold around here. I’m clean. I’m not the one who makes deals with gangs.”

  Everyone looked at me, including Sinkovich, as if I had suddenly sprouted a red sun on my head.

  I knew what Yancy was referring to, and I wasn’t going to go into a long defense. There wasn’t much I could say that would be useful or would put me in a good light.

  “I told them to leave my son alone,” I said. “They have.”

  “They don’t listen to anyone. You gave them something,” Yancy said. “You gave them us.”

  My eyes narrowed, but I didn’t know how to respond. On the afternoon I met with some of the members of the Blackstone Rangers Main 21 leadership, I had seen the Gang Intelligence Unit van a few blocks away. I had used the van as proof that I knew what I was talking about. In exchange for leaving Jimmy alone, the Stones wanted me to provide them with information. I made something up, something plausible, giving them the impression that I would filter more information to them when I had it.

  I found it curious that Yancy knew I had made that promise.

  “If I had given them you,” I said, “you wouldn’t be standing here.”

  Yancy stared at me for a moment, then shoved Sinkovich’s hand away and stalked off. Jump followed, with a nervous glance at me over his shoulder.

  The uniforms continued to hold me. I didn’t struggle.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Sinkovich wasn’t even trying to keep his voice down. “Do you even know what kind of people you’re pissing off?”

  “You gonna take a swing at me?” I asked him.

  Sinkovich looked confused, as if he didn’t know what I was talking about.

  “Because if you’re not,” I said, “I’d like the use of my arms again.”

  “If you fuckin’ stay here and don’t go pissing off any more people. Jesus, Grimshaw.” Sinkovich shook his head.

  The uniforms seemed confused since Sinkovich did not give them a direct order. After a moment, the guy on the right released my arm. I moved it, flexing it, and the guy on the left let go, almost like he was afraid I would hit him.

  “We’ve got to figure out who exactly is in charge of this investigation,” I said to Sinkovich, “because it stinks.”

  “I don’t know how you can say that,” he said. “For crissakes, Bill, he’s still lying there. No one’s double-checked the statements, sure, but the wounds match up. And so does the story. Everyone knows about the assassin squads.”

  “I didn’t,” I said.

  “But you knew they recruited kids, sometimes taught them to kill.”

  “I didn’t know it was so organized,” I said.

  Sinkovich opened his hands as if he were appealing to a higher power. “I swear to Christ, you’re ignorant sometimes.”

  “And you have the ability to close your eyes at the exact wrong time.” I moved closer to him. The uniforms still crowded us, listening, maybe, or perhaps they were protecting Sinkovich from the large pissed-off black male they suddenly found in their midst.

  “There could be a thousand reasons for those things you say are important,” Sinkovich said.

  “All right,” I said. “What if I give you that?”

  “Wh
at do you mean?”

  “Let’s say I believe them.”

  “Okay,” Sinkovich said. “Then there’s nothing.”

  “There’s everything,” I said. “Think about it, Jack. If those boys were truly assassins, they were gunning for Truman. They knew he was going to be here.”

  Sinkovich’s gaze met mine. He shook his head slightly.

  No one else around us spoke.

  “And somehow,” I added, “they knew when he’d be standing right outside.”

  TWENTY

  “You can’t know that,” Sinkovich said.

  “I can’t?” I asked. “It’s logical, Jack. If these boys are coming by to do a hit on a bicycle, they’re not going to come inside a bar, especially one in a basement. The hit doesn’t work that way. Imagine a twelve-year-old walking in, carrying a shotgun. Everyone would see him, everyone knows they’re in the Gaza Strip, and everyone would duck.”

  “Shit,” someone whispered behind me.

  “So unless you’re going to try to convince me that this is a random event, that little boys on bicycles just shoot passersby for sport, and have getaway cars waiting for them on the same block where the so-called random shooting takes place, then I’m saying this was a setup.”

  Sinkovich looked over at Yancy and Jump, who were talking to a thin white man at the mouth of the alley. I didn’t recognize him, couldn’t even tell if he was a police officer since he was wearing brown pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

  They glanced at me once, then continued their discussion.

  Sinkovich turned back to me. He scanned the cops standing around us. His lips were thin with fury and there were two bright spots of color on his cheeks.

  “We’re getting the hell out of here,” he said to me.

  “You can leave if you want to,” I said, “but I’m staying.”

  “For what?” he asked.

  “There’s a few things I want to check out,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because,” I said, “I owe Truman.”

  “Well, I sure as hell don’t,” Sinkovich said, “and I’m the one with the car, so you’re leaving with me.”

  “I’ll catch you later, Jack,” I said, and headed toward the tavern.

  No one flanked me. No one seemed to care that I was still inside the police lines. The coroner’s truck had arrived, and several uniforms were scrambling to their own cars, trying to move them so that the coroner could get close to the body.

  I wanted to look at Johnson’s body one last time, but knew, now that the coroner was here, that I wouldn’t get the chance.

  Instead, I walked down the steps into the tavern itself.

  Greenwood’s, like so many taverns in Chicago, was built below street level. The floors above had once been stores or a restaurant or storage. It was impossible to tell now, with the door that led to the upper level sealed off.

  But the tavern door was still open. The candles still burned in the red bubble glasses, and the jukebox’s flashing lights invited me to pick my favorite song.

  The place was silent, though—no radio playing, no voices. The silence was unnerving in a place that should have been filled with conversation.

  I stepped inside. The smell of beer was stronger here, and the cigarette odor, while present, had faded—especially compared to Yancy’s fresh smoke. A Budweiser sign was lit up in the back corner, and someone had pasted posters of alpine meadows on the brick wall beside the door where a window would have been if the bar was farther above ground.

  I heard footsteps behind me and turned quickly. Sinkovich came down the stairs two at a time, his jaw set.

  “I ain’t never doin’ you another goddamn favor,” he said as he came up beside me.

  A third man hovered near the top of the stairs. Aside from Yancy and Jump of the Gang Intelligence Unit, he was the only other black man on the site. He wore a uniform that was rumpled and rain-spotted. His hair had lost its straightening oil to the storm, and was beginning to sprout tight curls.

  He peered down at us as if he couldn’t see us clearly in the tavern’s darkened interior.

  I moved Sinkovich away from the door.

  “What’re you doin’ in here?” he asked.

  “Looking around,” I said.

  He glanced up the stairs. “Can’t even see the street from in here.”

  “That’s how it’s designed,” I said. “So that you can forget about the world.”

  “Who the hell would come here, right here on the Gaza Strip?”

  I didn’t answer him. I was certain there were regulars who felt comfortable here or perhaps the tavern itself was a gang hangout. I wasn’t going to make any assumptions.

  Still, the interior was nicer than I expected it to be. The tables were all polished wood, and they had expensive cut-glass ashtrays next to those candles.

  Around a glass brick divider just inside the door stood a coat tree, and on it were two denim jackets and a man’s suit jacket, black and large. I left it alone for a moment, not wanting to draw attention to it, and walked deeper into the tavern.

  The fresh scent of lemons cut the beer smell the closer I got to the bar itself. I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the dimness, and saw a black man behind the well. He was trim, broad-shouldered, and narrow-hipped, which made him look younger than he was. I suspected he was my age, even though he looked about thirty.

  He wore a green bowling shirt with Greenwood’s on the breast pocket. He had twisted himself so that he wasn’t visible from the doorway, and his back was protected by a stack of glasses piled nearly three feet high.

  He was cutting lemons with a very small, very sharp knife.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “You been here all afternoon?”

  “Not like I’m able to leave,” he said with just a touch of bitterness.

  “Is this your bar?”

  “Part of it,” he said.

  “Which part?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “My brother and I inherited it from our dad.”

  “So you saw what happened this afternoon,” I said.

  He picked up the cutting board and slid the lemon slices into a bowl near the well. He didn’t look at me as he answered. “I didn’t see nothing.”

  “Heard it, then?” I asked.

  “The jukebox was on. Modern shit. Always too loud for my tastes.” He picked up a lime and started to slice it, the knife narrowly missing his fingertips.

  “A shotgun blast and you couldn’t hear it?”

  This time, he looked up. His eyes were bloodshot. “My dad left this place to me and my brother,” he said. “That’s all he left. And despite the neighborhood, business is good. Especially on the weekends.”

  I sat on one of the stools and wiped my hand across the bar’s polished wood surface. “The man lying facedown out there is a friend of mine.”

  “I’m sorry, man,” the bartender said, although it didn’t sound as if he meant it.

  “There’s something strange about what went down,” I said.

  He shrugged.

  Sinkovich prowled the tables, pacing, guarding my back and obviously waiting for me to finish, all at the same time.

  “You know that the guy who died today was a cop,” I said.

  The bartender picked up the cutting board and shoved the lime slices into a different bowl. “Not the first time this year that’s happened around here. They never get resolved, neither, even though we all know what’s going on.”

  “What is going on?” I asked.

  He looked at me as if I were crazy. Sinkovich stopped pacing.

  I held out my hands. “I’m not a cop. You won’t get in trouble for talking to me.”

  The bartender shook his head. “It’s not trouble I’m worried about, man. Not on this one.”

  He looked past me at Sinkovich.

  “It’s a goddamn war, Bill,” Sinkovich said. “Thought you knew that.”

  “Between the Disciples and the Stones, sure,” I sa
id.

  Sinkovich glanced at the door before saying anything. “Between some of the cops and the gangs,” he said, his voice very low.

  “Some of the cops?” I asked.

  “Christmas Day,” the bartender said, “found one cop wounded at the Southmoor Hotel. He wouldn’t say what happened.”

  The Southmoor Hotel was one of the Stones’ headquarters.

  “But the next week, eight Stones were picked up by cops at various times, driven across the Gaza Strip into Disciples’ territory, and pushed out of the cars. The cops told them to walk home.” The bartender set his knife down. “They never made it.”

  I looked at Sinkovich. He looked down.

  “You think Truman was connected to all this?” I asked him.

  Sinkovich shrugged. “I don’t know what he worked on. We’re from different precincts.”

  “Had you ever seen him before?” I asked the bartender.

  “The guy that was shot?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “No.” The bartender set the knife in the sink, turned on the water, and scrubbed his hands. Then he wiped them on a bar towel.

  “Do you still have his gun?” I asked.

  Sinkovich’s eyes widened. The bartender started, then tried to cover the movement by shifting some glasses around.

  “What are you talking about?” The bartender’s voice was slightly higher pitched than it had been before.

  “Well,” I said as I got off the bar stool. “He came in here, took off his coat and hung it on the coat tree, just like he had been told to do. He’s still wearing his shoulder holster. It was there when he died.”

  Sinkovich stared at me. The bartender kept his head down. He used the bar rag to wipe off already clean glasses.

  “The gun is visible, which isn’t that much of a problem here because you’re used to weaponry. You have to be, to keep this place open.”

  Sinkovich tilted his head, as if I were a fascinating bug. The bartender turned his back on me and put the glasses on top of the pile. But he was listening. He was listening closely. He just knew he couldn’t hide his expression from me, so he wouldn’t let me see his face.

  “Still, you mention the gun, and he says it’s okay because he’s a cop.”