Thin Walls: A Smokey Dalton Novel

by Kris Nelscott

  Three had signs—one was a pool hall, the other a pawnshop, and beyond that, a bar. The rest were homes, or what had once been homes. They looked pretty empty now.

  Beyond the empty lot was the back of a warehouse. The huge wall was covered in graffiti. Most of it was done in blue spray paint, the words unreadable at a distance. But someone had spent a lot of time on a central image, which dominated the wall.

  The painting—and it was a painting—depicted a mountain with a red sun behind it. A blue four-pointed star filled the center of the mountain. Forming a circle around the mountain were these words: “Almighty Black P. Stone.”

  The Black P. Stone Nation, still commonly called the Blackstone Rangers. We were in the heart of their territory now.

  Malcolm swallowed audibly. I glanced at him. “You came down here alone?”

  “I wasn’t alone,” he said. “I had a few friends with me.”

  I didn’t like it. Not a single car had passed us since we turned onto Sixty-seventh. The only other cars on the road were rusted out hulks, some stripped for parts. In an alley, I noticed several cars cherried out and untouched. A white van, its engine running, appeared to be stalled two intersections down.

  I parked in front of the pawn shop. “You listen to me,” I said while I glanced in the rearview mirror. So far, no one was coming toward us. “If I tell you to do something, you do it, no questions asked.”

  “Okay,” Malcolm said.

  He was scared now, probably because of my mood. I didn’t care. I got out of the car and he followed.

  A drop of something wet and cold hit my forehead, startling me. I wiped it off, looked at my fingers, saw water. I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting. Another drop hit me, then another, and another, thicker than rain, but not light enough to be snow.

  Malcolm raised the collar of his coat and ducked inside the shop. I followed, shivering. My jacket wasn’t good protection in this weather.

  The pawn shop was small and dark. An overhead light barely penetrated the gloom. A reading lamp sat on one of the glass cases. It was on, but illuminated little else than the merchandise below it. The shop smelled of must and incense mixed with cigarette smoke so ancient I suspected it coated everything in a layer of yellow.

  Directly behind the lamp, a man sat up. The reading lamp’s glare hid his features.

  “Help you?” he asked in a voice raspy from too many cigarettes.

  I let the door bang closed behind us. “I understand you have my watch.”

  Malcolm stiffened beside me.

  “I have a lot of watches,” the man said. “Could be there’s one for you here.”

  “You misunderstand me.” I walked toward him. “You have my watch. It was given to my father. It’s silver, quite old and distinctive, with an E and a G intertwined on the back.”

  His face became clearer the closer I got. He was thin and balding. He had a graying beard that was tobacco-stained around the mouth. A reddish-brown mole, large as one of my fingernails, protruded from the skin beneath his left eye.

  “Got a watch like that,” he said. “You got proof it’s yours?”

  “I don’t need proof,” I said. “It was stolen from my son a month ago on the El. We’ve been looking for it ever since.”

  “You’re awful big to have something stolen from you,” the man said, and it took me a moment to realize he was looking past me at Malcolm.

  “His younger brother,” I said.

  The man’s bushy gray eyebrows went up. He reached into the case in front of him and pulled out a pocket watch. It had been polished, the silver so shiny that it reflected the light.

  “How’d I know your boy here didn’t just tell you about it last night and you decided to make believe it’s yours.”

  I scanned his case. There were some other overpriced watches inside, several diamond engagement rings, and a ruby-and-pearl necklace that looked real.

  “Because,” I said, my voice low, “if I wanted to steal from you in that way, do you think I’d go for the stupid watch?”

  His eyes widened a little. “I don’t give stuff over without proof. You want the watch, you pay for it, same as everyone else. I’m out cash for this thing, and I mean to get it back.”

  “Get it from the Stone who sold it to you,” I said. “I’m not paying you.”

  “How’re you going to avoid it?” he asked, and I watched his other hand move to a hidden part of the counter, probably going for his gun.

  “There are a variety of ways,” I said. “I could appeal to your good nature.”

  “Tried that just now, didn’t you?” he asked. “Failed because I don’t have one.”

  “I could reason with you.”

  “Nope,” he said.

  “Or I could call the police and tell them I have proof you’re fencing for the Stones. It’s illegal to traffic in stolen goods.”

  “Like the cops don’t know what I do.” But his hand shook.

  “I’m sure they need proof, just like you said you do. And at home, I have proof that this watch is mine.”

  Behind him, something rattled. My eyes were becoming adjusted to the strange light. Someone had come through a beaded curtain strung across the back.

  Malcolm still stood near the door. He nodded toward the curtain as if I hadn’t noticed it.

  But it was the man behind the counter who looked the most nervous. In fact, he looked terrified.

  “Look,” he said. “I’m out about fifty bucks on this watch. You pay me and we’ll call it even, okay?”

  “No,” I said.

  The other man stepped into the light. He wasn’t much older than Malcolm. He wore his red sun down over one eye and a leather jacket so new that it was still shiny.

  “I been hearin’ ‘bout an old man who been causin’ trouble,” the newcomer said. “Kids in the back, they tell me it’s you. Threatenin’ little boys, knockin’ one in the nuts so bad he couldn’t walk for a week. We don’t like that shit around here.”

  So someone in the back had recognized me. “I don’t like your shit either,” I said. “I’m just trying to find a way to live with it. But somehow you keep interfering with my life.”

  “Interferin’, Gramps?”

  “Messing with my kids,” I said. “Stealing my possessions. I don’t like any of it.”

  “You a one-man army? You think you can stop us. Cops can’t even stop us.”

  “That’s because they got rules to follow,” I said, repeating what I had said at the playground a few days ago. “I don’t.”

  “What you got with you, a bazooka? Because we got more guns on you than you ever seen all at once.”

  “I doubt that,” I said, sounding calmer than I felt. My heart rate was up. The anger that I’d been suppressing was right below the surface, ready to serve as fuel for anything that came my way.

  Malcolm shifted, then glanced at the door as if he wanted to escape through it.

  The man behind the counter still held the watch. “Tell you what,” he said to me, his voice two pitches higher from his fear. “Thirty bucks and it’s yours.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not paying for the watch because it already is mine.”

  “See?” said the younger man. “That’s what I hear about you, Gramps. You ain’t reasonable. The man gave you an offer.”

  “A bad offer, considering the watch was stolen from me.”

  “But if you take it, Gramps, maybe we can have us a little talk.”

  “What do you care about whether I pay him?” I asked.

  The Stone shrugged. “You focus on stupid shit. Stupid and small. I don’ like stupid or small. It bores me, man. And I hate bein’ bored.”

  Malcolm shifted again. I wished I had explained my thinking to him before we arrived. I figured that if we encountered a few Stones, we could talk our way out of the problem. The Stones were still trying to look reasonable in the eyes of the law. If they weren’t going to be reasonable with us, well then, that was what my gun was
for.

  “Why should I care about how you’re feeling?” I said. “I’m talking to this gentleman here about my watch. You’ve just butted into the conversation.”

  “Settle this,” he said to the man behind the counter. “Or we got to deal with it.”

  The threat seemed like it was directed at him, but it was really directed at me.

  “You want to deal with me?” I asked. “Fine. Let’s deal. I have some information that you guys might be interested in.”

  He turned slowly, a move so calculated that it had to be practiced. “What kinda information?”

  “Some things that the Gang Intelligence Unit is planning.” I figured if he knew who I was, he would believe this. I’d been seen talking to the Unit more than once. “I’ll trade that information for your guarantee that you’ll leave my family alone.”

  Malcolm had come up beside me, his rigid young form guarding my back.

  “Okay, Gramps.” The Stone grabbed the watch from the pawnbroker and tossed it at me. I caught it with one hand, neatly, the way a pro ball player would snatch a fast-moving baseball out of the sky. “I ain’t the one you talk to ’bout this. You come wit me.”

  I followed and so did Malcolm. The cigarette stench grew behind the beaded curtain, the smell so thick that the tobacco oils seemed to actually live in the air. An accumulation of junk, some of it decades old, was piled against a wall in the back. Boxes covered another wall, and a small table, obviously used to repair some items, sat near the door.

  The Stone pushed open a wall panel that led directly into the next building. Malcolm and I followed.

  We were in a dark, narrow hallway. The cigarette odor faded here, replaced by the faint malty scent of beer, the kind of smell that old bars had. To our left, a boy with a short-cropped afro bent over a desk. From the back, he looked like someone doing school work, but as I got closer, I realized he was cleaning a gun.

  The Stone opened a doorway on his right, and we entered a large room that had no furniture, only a stage built into one wall and murals covering the others. The murals had a pink background, and depicted famous black faces. They seemed to move in some sort of progression, a progression that I didn’t understand.

  The largest faces belonged to Martin Luther King Jr. and Jeff Fort, the leader of the Blackstone Rangers. The two men stood side by side, with Malcolm X in the background.

  “You wait,” the Stone said, then went back through the door.

  Malcolm shifted. The wooden floor beneath him squeaked. “I don’t like this.”

  I didn’t reply. Instead, I stared at the painting of Jeff Fort for a moment. I’d seen him on television a number of times, and I’d passed him on the street. He could make logical arguments and he might listen to reason. But he had a coldness in his eyes that rational men didn’t have.

  While I waited, I walked around the room, studying the mural. It had clearly been painted by a talented amateur—or maybe a series of amateurs. There were words mixed into the flowered backdrop, and faces I didn’t recognize. But the ones I did were famous—Nat King Cole, Aretha Franklin. Not something I would expect to find down here.

  I heard a shuffling from the door before it opened, and I turned quickly.

  Three young men entered. All were older than Malcolm, though not by much. None of them were Jeff Fort, but they clearly had some kind of power. One had a long thin goatee; another hunched forward in his leather jacket; the last, the shortest one, had a pair of coke-bottle-thick wire-rimmed glasses.

  Here in this room, without their friends behind them, they didn’t seem that tough. But I wasn’t going to take any chances.

  I’d already noted two other ways out of this back area besides the door they used. The stage had two exits on either side, and I would wager one of them led to the back. I also thought I saw the outline of a door inside the mural.

  The Stone who’d brought us in stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

  “I hear you gonna make us a deal, old man,” said Goatee.

  “It’s real simple,” I said. “I have some information you can use. If I give it to you, you swear to keep your people away from my family.”

  “Now why’d we care ’bout your people?” Glasses asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But you tried to recruit two of my boys. I protested, and now they and their sisters are being harassed.”

  Malcolm stood beside me, feet apart, face impassive. At least he was keeping up a good front.

  “It’s best for boys to join with us,” said Leather Jacket.

  “Maybe,” I said. “But in my family, we take care of our own.”

  I was parroting a gang credo back at them, letting them know, as best I could, that we were a gang in and of ourselves.

  “Ain’t nobody take care of you on the street, bro. Jus’ your friends. Maybe you should let your boys make some friends,” Glasses said.

  “We could argue this all day,” I said. “Your organization serves a purpose in this community. I know that. I just choose not to have my children involved in it. We won’t get in your way and we won’t harm you, if you promise the same to us.”

  “In trade for what, old man?” Goatee asked. He was clearly the one in charge.

  “Information,” I said. “One-time information.”

  “One-time don’t do us no good,” said the Stone who brought them here. “We don’t deal for one time.”

  “Fine. Your loss.” I touched Malcolm’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  He looked startled, but to his credit, he didn’t argue. We started for the door. The Stones watched us, until Goatee held out his hand.

  “Hey, old man, we didn’t give you permission to leave.”

  “I don’t need permission,” I said. “I thought you’re going to deal, but you’re not.”

  “Hang on. You tell us what you got,” he said. “We’ll tell you what it’s worth.”

  I smiled. “Nice try.”

  “Old man, we don’t make deals on information we ain’t heard.”

  “I won’t give you any information unless we have a deal. I already told you that it concerns the Gang Intelligence Unit.”

  “Like you’d know about that,” Glasses said.

  I didn’t look at him. Instead, I said to Goatee, “Their van is parked two blocks down, motor running. They’re trying to make it look like they’ve stalled on the street.”

  He looked visibly startled. The others moved closer together, their bodies tensing. So they had seen the van, too, and knew what it was. I’d been gambling on that.

  “That what you want to trade?” Goatee asked, covering for his surprise. “That ain’t worth nothing.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m just trying to show you that I know what I’m talking about. I’m trying to bargain in good faith.”

  “Why’s it so important you keep your kids from us?” Leather Jacket asked.

  Good question, one that put me in an awkward position. If I answered it honestly, I’d insult them, and if I lied, they’d see it.

  “I think you know,” I said. “I don’t have to explain that.”

  Glasses nodded, then looked down at the floor. The Stone that brought us slipped a hand under his jacket, fingering his gun. He looked angry. Goatee seemed amused.

  “Most old men, they got a layer of fat on ’em. Don’t know nothing. Get scared when they see a brother with a gun. Think twice before messing with us.”

  “I’m not most old men,” I said.

  “You a cop?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m a father trying to find a way out of a difficult situation that my family is in.”

  Leather Jacket looked away. Glasses’ mouth thinned. These boys understood family. Most of them lacked a true one and had come to the gang for a sense of belonging. I was trying to appeal to that. It was a delicate balance. If I pushed too hard, I’d make them angry, or worse, envious, and then they would no longer listen to me.

  “You know why I hurt your frie
nd,” I said to the Stone who had brought us here.

  “Because of your boy,” he said.

  I shook my head. “Because your friend took a doll away from a six-year-old girl, making her cry, and scared her sister. That’s not what you guys are about. You’re about protection, protection for the folks down here, not harassment.”

  Malcolm stirred beside me, but didn’t look at me. Which was good. I didn’t need to see the surprise in his gaze.

  “Who did this?” Goatee asked the Stone.

  “Li’l Cog,” he said.

  Goatee nodded once, then turned to me. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Now you know how stuff works down here,” Goatee said. “You understand protection. You know we get paid for it, right?”

  “That’s why I’m offering information,” I said.

  “Just so’s you understand.”

  I nodded.

  “We lay off your boys, them children that Charles here—” he nodded at the Stone who brought us in “—says you pick up ever’day and guard like they was worth more than that watch he give you.”

  So he’d told them about that, too. I didn’t say anything. I could hear Malcolm breathing behind me—short, shallow breaths that spoke of his nervousness.

  “We do that,” Goatee was saying, “and you tell us what you think we need to know.”

  I straightened my shoulders. I was making this up as I went along, but they didn’t have to know that—just so long as I didn’t get caught.

  “You know the Castle Church?” I asked. Castle Church was their term for the First Presbyterian Church in Woodlawn, the church that they occasionally used as a base.

  “Been there a few times,” Goatee said.

  “Gang Intelligence is planning a raid on the church this weekend. They’re going to confiscate your weapons and they’re going to see what they can find that’s incriminating.”

  “They done that already,” Goatee said.

  I nodded. “A couple of years ago. But they’re ready to do it again. They figure no one’ll be worried about protecting the Black P. Stone Nation if they raid over Christmastime.”