Smoke-Filled Rooms: A Smokey Dalton Novel

by Kris Nelscott

  “I—”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Only a person who lived here would hunker down in his car for more than five minutes after he got home, hiding from everyone around him.”

  “Look, I’ll give you what I have.” he said. “It’s not worth much, but you can have it.”

  “Even the gun under the seat?”

  His eyes hardened. He looked younger than he was. I pegged him for twenty-five, even thirty, although he still had that thinness that went with youth.

  “You wanted me to see you,” I said. “No one tails people in a white car. Why are you after me?”

  “I live here.”

  I leaned in, grabbed him by his collar and yanked him toward me, hoping he’d pull the gun on me. His right hand still trailed down the side of the seat.

  I kept one hand around his collar, choking him. His fingers gripped my wrist, tugging furiously. With my other hand I reached down, pawed the dirty floor, and found the gun. It was a service revolver.

  “You’re a cop.” I loosened my grip on his collar.

  All the pretense fell away from his face. “I wasn’t tailing you.”

  “Oh really?” I held on to the gun. “You’re after big, bad teenage boys now?”

  “If they run with a gang.”

  “You think that boy is with a gang?”

  “Did you take a close look at his friends?”

  I didn’t answer directly. “You picked the wrong fish. He’s a minnow and he just jumped out of the pond.”

  The man laughed. “What are you, his father, his dealer, or his priest?”

  That was new. No one had accused me of being a priest before. I guess I sort of fit the stereotype of an urban minister, out to save the lost. But no urban minister would take a lost child and bring him to Old Town.

  I pushed the man away from me. I used enough force to send an average man sprawling across the seat. He barely moved. “You’re done for the night.”

  “You don’t give me orders.”

  I stared at him for a minute. Then I opened the chamber and removed the bullets. “Your trouble isn’t coming out of Bronzeville, and you know it.”

  “The mayor thinks it is.”

  “The mayor is a bigot and a fascist, and with these strong-arm tactics, he’s only going to make matters worse.” I handed the gun back to him.

  The cop took it, looking surprised. “You say that as if I can make a difference.”

  “Maybe you can.” I pocketed the bullets and walked away. He didn’t move. He didn’t even close the car door. I didn’t know if he was ignoring what I had just said to him or if he was waiting to see if I’d do anything else.

  I walked back to my car and slipped into the driver’s side. No Malcolm, although I didn’t expect him yet. I settled into the seat and rolled down all the windows, just like my cop friend had. The night was warm—too warm to spend inside a car.

  Down the alley, kids spilled out of a side door. Most of them staggered, laughing, holding each other up. Gray smoke followed them out and wisped into the night. I kept glancing into the rearview mirror. My cop friend didn’t follow me. He hadn’t even gotten out of his car. He just sat there, as if he were waiting.

  Along North Avenue, an occasional patrol car moved slowly. The singing continued, sounding far away. There was laughter and the occasional shout. People walked toward the park, some of them my age. The cops didn’t bother them. In fact, if it weren’t for all the police, it would have seemed like a normal Saturday night.

  It was nearly eleven when Malcolm reappeared. He came from the north end of the alley and he wasn’t alone. He avoided the revelers, stepping over those who had sprawled on the concrete as if they disgusted him.

  His companion was tall and thin. As he came into the light, I recognized Daniel Kirkland, only he didn’t look like his photos. He had a large afro, and he wore a red headband tied around his forehead. His dashiki was rumpled, and strings trailed from his cutoffs. He wore sandals on his feet and a large class ring on the third finger of his left hand.

  I stayed in the car. Getting out at this moment might be perceived as threatening.

  Malcolm came to the window. “He won’t get in.”

  “I figured,” I said. “Bring him on over.”

  Malcolm looked at Daniel and beckoned with his fingers. Daniel glanced over his shoulder, then came toward me. He stood outside the window, hands in the back pockets of his cutoffs. He swayed slightly, but his eyes were clear.

  “Your mother asked me to find your brother,” I said. “It seems I found you instead.”

  “You didn’t tell her I was here, did you?”

  “No,” I said. “One of your roomies at Harvard did that.”

  “Yale.” He bristled. His voice was deep, the most adult thing about him.

  “She’s wondering why you didn’t come see her.”

  “This isn’t about her,” he said.

  “No, it’s about Elijah. He’s been gone for two days. Did you tell him you were coming here?”

  Daniel shook his head.

  “Did you say anything to him about the convention?”

  Daniel let out a small sigh. “Last winter, maybe.”

  “Last winter?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, when Gregory—you know, Dick Gregory?—when he said that thing.”

  “What thing?”

  “He said he was going to lead a protest during the convention. I said that would be worth coming home for.”

  “So you were home for Christmas.”

  “I thought it was going to be the last time.” His voice was cold.

  “You wanted out of Chicago.”

  “I wanted out of Bronzeville, man. You’ve seen it. Is that any way to live?”

  His words echoed my thoughts of that morning too closely. “Your mom made you a home.”

  “Yeah, as best she could. I’m going to do better.”

  “Well, then,” I said, “maybe instead of calling her to yell at her for letting your little brother slip out of her grasp, you should help us look for him.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “But I do,” I said. “You’re not a new activist, are you? Your mom hated what you were doing and forbid you to participate. She was probably afraid you’d get shot. Am I right?”

  Daniel glanced at Malcolm. “What’d you tell him?”

  “Nothing,” Malcolm said.

  “Elijah knew about it, and he knew if you came home one more time, it wouldn’t be for your family, it would be for your cause, am I right?”

  “So?”

  “So I’m willing to place money that he’s waiting for you somewhere, not realizing that you’re up here, making trouble near the park.”

  “I’m not making trouble. This is a legitimate action. The war is wrong, man, and people like you are the problem. You don’t get it—”

  I held up a hand to stop him. “I get it. I just have other concerns at the moment. One of them is your little brother. He’s not involved in the Rangers, is he?”

  “Elijah? Hell, no.” Daniel sounded offended that I even thought it. Malcolm looked down at his shoes. He seemed to melt into the background. Was his friendship with the gang a rebellion against Daniel? Or was he just out to prove he was as worthless as his old friend thought he was?

  “There’ve been a lot of strangers around,” I said. “There’s concern that the entire South Side is going to erupt.”

  Daniel nodded. “It will. We got stuff planned for the Amphitheater.”

  I remembered the barbed wire and the crews working the roads. Daniel’s friends would be lucky if they got near the Amphitheater.

  “What happens next week doesn’t matter,” I said. “It’s right now I’m worried about. With all those unfamiliar faces about, it’s hard to know who is who. If someone wanted to snatch a kid, it wouldn’t be that hard.”

  Finally, I had Daniel’s attention. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that if we don�
�t find Elijah with your friends, he’s in very real trouble and he’s been in that kind of trouble for days.”

  The blood drained from Daniel’s face.

  “So,” I said. “Do you want to help me or not?”

  He glanced at Malcolm. “You swear he’s legit?”

  Malcolm shrugged. “He’s done what he said he’d do so far.”

  “Call your mother if you’re concerned,” I said. “I’ll wait.”

  He hesitated. Then he rubbed his face. “Why don’t you walk with me?”

  I got out of the car. Malcolm watched, rocking back on his heels. “Where are we going?”

  “This way.” Daniel led me toward North Avenue. The singing had stopped and I couldn’t hear the drums anymore. The squad cars had moved as well.

  I felt a prickle at the back of my neck. Something had changed.

  “There’s a white Ford parked half a block up,” I said. “The man inside is an undercover cop. He’s following Malcolm.”

  “Me?” Malcolm’s voice rose.

  “How do you know that?” Now Daniel sounded nervous.

  “It was pretty obvious.”

  “What does he want with me?” Malcolm asked.

  “He thinks some of your friends may cause trouble.”

  Daniel stiffened. He thought the reference was to him.

  “Will it be a problem if he knows where we’re going?” I asked.

  Daniel shook his head. “The cops have every place staked out. It’s pig heaven up here.”

  “All right then.”

  We left the alley.

  “I don’t like this,” Malcolm whispered. “Why’s he after me?”

  “We’ll talk later,” I said.

  “How do you know it’s not you he wants?”

  “I asked him.”

  “What?”

  We passed several brownstones. A middle-aged white man wearing a T-shirt and shorts waited while his small terrier sniffed a light pole. The man cringed as we went by.

  “I asked him,” I said, “while you were looking for Mr. Kirkland here.”

  “Why?”

  I glanced at Malcolm. He seemed terrified. “I figured if he was after me, I’d give him the same treatment you got yesterday.”

  “Fuck,” Malcolm said. “You’re crazy, man.”

  I didn’t answer that. The white Ford was still parked in its spot. The cop had finally closed the driver’s door. He was sitting upright now—no need to hide, I guess—and seemed to be watching us.

  “That him?” Malcolm asked.

  “In the flesh. Want to talk to him?”

  “No. Jesus. What are you thinking?”

  Only that I didn’t like all the undercover work going on around me and the attendant intimidation. “The best way to get someone to stop intimidating you is to take control from him.”

  “I don’t mess with cops,” Malcolm said.

  “That’s good news.”

  As we crossed Wells Street, two men and a woman left a white building with frescos on its side. They were arguing, hands gesticulating wildly.

  We continued past them. I listened for the sound of a car door.

  “You’re not afraid of cops?” Daniel asked.

  “Should I be?”

  He shrugged. We turned left, crossing the street a few blocks from the Ford. I watched out of the corner of my eye. The car door opened, but didn’t close. The cop stood, stretching, as if he were stiff from sitting too long.

  “He’s out of the car,” Malcolm said.

  “Yep.”

  “Aren’t you going to do anything?”

  “There’s nothing to do. He and I already had a little talk.”

  Daniel stopped. “I don’t like this.”

  “You have a choice,” I said. “Give me the addresses where you think I might be able to find Elijah or come with us.”

  “You can’t get into those places.”

  “No, but I’ll wager Malcolm can.”

  Daniel looked at Malcolm. They were sizing each other up. “Something happens, man, this is on your shoulders.”

  “No,” I said. “It’s on mine.”

  We passed an outdoor flower market and a vegetarian restaurant that, even though it was closed, smelled strongly of patchouli. Daniel started down a flight of stairs that led to a door beneath the building.

  The cop was a block back. Not that it mattered. A patrol car was parked directly across the street. We were going somewhere that was already under obvious surveillance.

  The door’s window was covered with a ripped poster which said Yippie in chunky purple letters. Over the poster, someone had taped another poster of a longhair wearing a hard hat and saluting. Across the top, it said, If You’re Going to Chicago, Be Sure to Wear Some Armor in Your Hair.

  I glanced at Daniel, wondering if he had even seen the warning before. But he ignored it and tried the door. It was locked.

  He pounded on the glass, hitting the poster with his fist. It looked like he was punching the hard hat.

  “Leave us the fuck alone,” someone shouted from inside.

  “It’s Dan Kirkland,” he said.

  There was a moment of silence. The upper corner of the Yippie poster was pulled back, ripping it even farther.

  Then the lock clicked and the door swung open.

  Daniel stepped inside. Malcolm and I followed. We were in a narrow room filled with ancient desks, old typewriters, and beanbag furniture. Posters of Che Guevera and old rock concerts covered the wall. Sleeping bags were unfurled on the floor. Empty beer bottles filled a box in the corner, and the remains of a pizza cooled on a metal table.

  Beyond the main room, a hallway trailed into the back. The man who opened the door, white with a full red beard and long red hair, eyed me suspiciously. I ignored him.

  “Nice poster,” Daniel said, and there was sarcasm in his voice. He didn’t approve of the message.

  “It’s going to be a war, Dan. You know it.”

  Daniel shrugged. “I’m looking for Elijah. My mom says he hasn’t been home for days.”

  The redhead was silent. Malcolm walked toward the hallway, peering down it. I waited.

  “Come on, Angus,” Daniel said. “He’s only fourteen.”

  Angus shrugged. “A couple of days ago, he was at Ramparts.”

  Nice, smooth. Not quite a lie. There was a bit of truth to it.

  Malcolm had disappeared down the hall.

  “Where is he now?” I asked.

  The redhead didn’t look at me. “What’s this all about?”

  “He’s missing,” Daniel said, and for the first time I heard both panic and fear in his voice.

  “No, he’s not.” Malcolm came out of the back room, Elijah at his side. Elijah was as tall as his brother, his hair cut short and matted against his head. He was rubbing his eyes with fingers stained with blue mimeograph ink.

  When he saw Daniel, his face lit up.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Daniel asked.

  The joy left Elijah’s face, followed by bewilderment. “Working.”

  “You didn’t call Mom.”

  “You never did either.”

  Daniel walked toward his brother and grabbed his shoulders. For a moment, it looked like he was going to shake the boy, and then he pulled him into a hug.

  Elijah held on as if he had been drowning.

  Malcolm started for the door, but I caught his wrist. None of us were leaving until this was over.

  Finally Daniel let his brother go. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “You said this sounded like a good idea.”

  Daniel rolled his eyes. “In December.”

  “You’re here.”

  “It’s different for me.”

  “Yeah,” Elijah said. “You lied to Mom and took her money.”

  Daniel flinched. Malcolm poked at a loose beer bottle with his toe. A handful of people appeared at the entrance to the hallway. They all looked like they had just woken up.
r />   “Mom’s worried about you,” Daniel said.

  “So?”

  “So she had to hire some guy to find you. You could have called her.”

  “You never did,” he said again.

  Daniel shook his head. He started for the door. I stopped him too.

  “Elijah,” I said, “My name is Bill, and I’m taking you home.”

  “No,” Elijah said and crossed his arms.

  “He’s free to stay here,” Angus said.

  “No, he’s not. I’m taking him and Daniel back to their mother. They seem to have some family issues to sort out.”

  “In this place, people can do what they want.”

  “Really?” I kept my tone dry. “Is this a church?”

  “No.”

  “Then the laws of sanctuary don’t apply.”

  Angus frowned at me. “I won’t let you take him against his will.”

  “Did he find this place on his own or did you kidnap him and bring him here?”

  The group in the hallway just watched. Elijah looked alarmed. Neither Malcolm nor Daniel moved.

  “He came on his own,” Angus said.

  “Then I think he can find his way back if he wants to.” I looked at Elijah. “Your mom has been crying for two days. She thought something had happened to you. You owe her an explanation.”

  He said, “Daniel—”

  “Daniel will face his mother as well. You both owe her an apology.” I looked at Daniel. “You especially.”

  “Shit, I don’t owe her.”

  I stared at him. He met my gaze for only an instant, and then he had to look away. After a moment, he walked toward his brother.

  “Come on, Elijah,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

  * * *

  As we stepped outside, the air was filled with shouting.

  Pigs!

  Peace Now! Peace Now! Peace Now!

  Stop the Democratic Convention!

  Horns honked from just a few blocks away. When we reached North Avenue, kids ran past us, the smells of incense and pot trailing after them. Police cars filled the street, and cops stood at intersections, arms crossed.

  “What the hell?” Malcolm asked.

  “They must’ve cleared the park,” Daniel said.

  A bearded man with dark eyes was leading a group toward us. They were all chanting “Om” and staring at their hands. Another group of kids clutching rocks ran toward Clark Street.