I inspected the room. We’d gotten the splatter and the droplets and the spray. I’d cleaned off the phone. There was no blood that I could see. I moved some furniture, double-checked beneath rugs. Nothing.
Now I had to find the bullet.
I sat down, eyed the area behind Withers. The bullet would have gone straight through him and it wouldn’t stop until it hit something hard.
That something was the concrete wall beside the china cabinet. A hole the size of my fist marred the surface. The bullet was embedded in the back, flattened by impact. I was able to get it out with my fingers and I put it in my pocket.
I didn’t have time to fix the hole, not if I wanted Withers out of the place and safely gone. So I grabbed the cabinet and moved it sideways. The damn thing was heavier than I expected. The dishes rattled, but nothing broke—at least nothing that I saw. I got the hole covered, just barely. I would come back and fix it in the next day or so, and then I would repaint.
I found paper sacks under the sink, plus the day’s kitchen garbage which hadn’t been taken out. I had just put the ropes under the wet coffee grounds when I heard Laura say, “Now what?”
I turned. She was wearing a blue shirt and navy shorts. Her hair was wet and dripping on her shoulders.
“You got a robe?” I asked.
She frowned.
“I’m going to shower and wash my clothes. While they’re drying, I want to see Jimmy.” I sounded like an automaton, but I knew our time was very limited. I had to keep us moving, and I couldn’t let us think about what had just happened.
“I’ve got a robe,” she said. “You might look a little silly in it, but…”
Her voice trailed off. That was the least of our worries and she knew it.
I headed toward the bathroom. Like the rest of the apartment, it was large and spacious and extremely clean. It still smelled of soap from Laura’s shower, and the air was full of steam.
I took the bullet and the notebook out of my pocket and put them on the sink. Then I took off my name tag, and placed it beside the bullet. I stripped, set my clothes outside the door for Laura, and climbed into the shower.
I leaned against the tile, letting the hot water run over me. I scrubbed, feeling as if I could never get clean.
I had known that this could happen. From the day Jimmy and I left Memphis, I had known. Hell, I’d known from the beginning of my career. Loyce Kirby had warned me.
We don’t live in the white world, he said on the very first day of my training. We got our own rules, and sometimes the rules clash. Sometimes you gotta do things your way, even if it ain’t the lawful way. If you can’t do that, then you don’t belong here, doing this work. You got that?
I thought I had. But I hadn’t realized exactly what he meant until now.
When I got out of the shower, I found a robe crumpled just inside the door. Laura had left it for me. It was white terrycloth with a hotel’s logo stamped on the breast pocket. All that mattered was that it fit.
I stepped out into the hallway. Laura was hovering near the door, waiting for me. “Let’s go,” I said.
She led me down the hall. The black marble floor glistened, and individual lights lit the artwork hanging on the walls from beneath. Big, elegant, and beautifully apportioned. Violence shouldn’t have touched this place. Nothing should have.
As we got to the end of the hall, I heard the tinny sounds of the television. Laura opened the door. Through it, I saw the lights of the city, and a large television. David Brinkley was sitting high above the convention floor, looking serious.
Jimmy was sprawled on a king-sized bed. He jumped off it when he saw me and ran toward me. I grabbed him, lifted him, and he hugged me tighter than I’d ever been hugged in my life.
“I thought you was dead,” he said.
I put my hand on his back, attempting to comfort him. “I’m all right.”
“That was a gun. I knowed it was a gun. I know guns.”
Yes, he did. “It was a gun.”
“What happened?”
For a moment, I debated telling him. On the screen, Brinkley’s image cut away to the police, pouring out of squadrols, billy clubs raised, hitting protestors. I was stunned to see it; the riot felt as if it had happened years ago.
“We had a scare,” I said. “But everything’s all right now. In fact, I think we solved our problem. When I come back tomorrow, we can go home.”
“We can?” He raised his head, then saw Laura. His entire expression changed. “Who hit you?”
She brought a hand to the side of her mouth. Then she looked at me, clearly not sure what to say.
“There was a man here tonight,” I said. “We got rid of him, Laura and I.”
That was as much truth as I would give him.
“Is he coming back?” Jimmy asked.
“No,” I said.
“You sure?”
I nodded.
He buried his head back in my neck. “Can’t you stay?”
“Not tonight. Tomorrow. I promise. We’re going home.”
“I was so scared, Smokey,” he said, his voice muffled.
“I know, kiddo,” I said. “Believe me. I know.”
SEVENTEEN
I MADE LAURA STAY in the bedroom with Jimmy. The hardest part was ahead of me, and I needed to do it alone.
I went to the laundry room, took my uniform out of the dryer, and put it on, even though it was still damp. Then I went to the bathroom, got my name tag, the notebook, and the bullet, and put them back in my pocket. I wrapped the gun in wax paper and put it in the paper garbage bag, along with a well-used garden trowel I found in the utility room.
I did a final check of the main room, saw no blood and nothing that looked out of place. Then I put on my shoes, got the garbage bag, and went into the hallway, where the rolled rug was waiting for me.
No blood marred its outside, and no blood would drip from it. The inside nap would absorb any blood that was on Withers’s clothing or body. I set the garbage bag on a table near the door, and pulled the door open.
No one was in the hallway. Not that there should have been anyone up there without Laura’s permission. The main elevator was on the third floor. I pulled her door mostly closed and pressed for the service elevator. It arrived, empty, a moment later. I pushed the red stop button that held the door open and went back for my load.
My heart was pounding. The next few moments would be the most difficult ones. I slipped inside the apartment, bent down, picking up the rug in a fireman’s carry.
I staggered under the weight. Withers was heavy enough, but the rug added extra pounds. I managed to get it balanced, then grabbed the stained paper bag, and walked to the service elevator. Then I hit the red button with the heel of my hand, and the elevator started down.
It moved damn slow, and I stared at the numbers, waiting for another one to light up, afraid some building employees would get in. If they did, I would continue to watch the numbers, and hope that they would think my uniform was for some delivery or pickup service.
But no one got on. The service elevator stopped on the ground floor and the doors eased open, revealing no one. I crossed to the back door, and let myself out.
The night was hot. Moths played around the building’s exterior light. The street was eerily silent, no cars, no people, although I saw lights streaming through closed windows across the street.
I was in the back parking lot. The building’s large metal trash cans were only a few feet from me. I made my way toward them, sweat pouring down my back and stinging the burn on the back of my neck. I set the rug and the paper bag down beside the cans, and made myself walk to my car.
The last thing I wanted to do was look suspicious. I wanted someone to think I had just gotten off work, I was carrying garbage out of the building, and then I was going home. A dog barked a few blocks away. In the distance, I heard sirens, but they were heading away from me, toward downtown where, I assumed, the riot was continuing.
&
nbsp; I made it to the car, got in, and started it. The car rumbled to life, a sound as loud as the gunshot in Laura’s apartment. A man’s voice came through the radio, saying, “Mr. Chairmen, most delegates to this convention do not know that thousands of young people are being beaten in the streets of Chicago. And for that reason, I request the suspension of the rules to relocate the convention in another city—”
I flicked the radio off. I scanned the street for signs of life, but no one walked outside. The curtains remained drawn over the windows, and doors remained closed.
I was all alone.
I drove to the parking lot, backed up near the trash, and shut off the car. Then I opened the trunk, using it as protection against the watchful eyes of the neighborhood. The only way anyone could see what I was doing would be if they came out of Laura’s building. And that door remained closed.
I picked up the rug, grunting under its weight, and tossed it into the car. The Impala’s ancient suspension bounced. I made sure everything was tucked in, then I grabbed the paper bag and set it beside the rug.
I resisted the urge to glance over my shoulder, as I reached inside the bag and unrolled the .38 from the wax paper. I stuffed the gun into the waistband of my pants. Then I unwrapped the trowel, set it beside the rug, leaving the wax paper with the garbage. I tossed the paper sack into the nearest trashcan, wiped my hands on my pants, and closed the trunk.
I got back into the car, put the gun in the glove box and drove away.
So far, so good.
* * *
I couldn’t go south. South was Grant Park, the riots, and the Amphitheater. I turned north and west, going out of my way to avoid Old Town and Lincoln Park. I didn’t want to get caught in another riot, and I had no idea what was happening in that part of town.
I had no real destination in mind. I had never been north of Chicago, but I knew that I had to do a few things.
First, I had to take the body away from Chicago. I had to hide it near a black community so that the body wouldn’t seem that unusual if it were found. I also wanted to divert any suspicion Withers’s superiors might have. If his body was found, and they did, somehow, know he was on my trail, I wanted them to think it had taken him away from Chicago. I could plant false clues as well as he could.
Second, I had to work in darkness and I had to work quickly. The longer I waited, the more chance there was of being discovered.
I finally settled on Milwaukee. I pointed the car in that direction, and just drove.
It was nearly one o’clock when I found a wooded area off the highway. I parked the car under the protection of some trees, then got out, and wandered toward the drainage ditch like a man who needed to pee. I didn’t turn on the flashlight until I was well into the trees. It was dark and loamy back there. The earth smelled damp from the summer’s humidity, even though the ground was dry.
I found a suitable spot and left the flashlight there, turned on. Then I went back to the highway and looked for my light. I couldn’t see it.
I had found the perfect place.
I got the trowel, and went back into the leaves. And as I started to dig, I realized I had come full circle from the night I had met Withers.
An image rose in my mind, a memory mixed with a dream. The scrape-scrape-scrape of my trowel mixed with the scrape-scrape-scrape of Chinese shovels on frozen earth. I’d learned to dig in Korea, fast, in all conditions, with a shovel not much larger than the trowel I held now.
I could almost feel the chill, how I had stood in that narrow trench, my feet blocks of ice in my boots, and saw a dark figure climb the rise between the enemy trenches and our own.
I’d braced my rifle on the side of the trench, finding the figure in my scope, aiming at his chest. I had thought he was a crazy enemy soldier, coming toward us.
Withers, as I had first seen him, so long ago.
The sarge had stopped me from shooting. He had waited until Withers was on the dark side of our hill, then sent me after him.
I brought Withers back to our territory and I had told him he was safe. He had looked at me oddly then and I had the sense that he didn’t believe in safety for anyone, especially for himself.
* * *
It took me hours on my hands and knees to dig a hole deep enough. The eastern horizon was turning pink when I opened the trunk and hefted the rug-wrapped body for the last time. There were still no cars on the road. I closed the trunk with my free hand and headed into the woods.
There I unrolled the body into the hole, and carried the rug back to the trunk. I grabbed my change of clothes and brought them into the woods, then went to work, covering the body with dirt.
I’d saved the grass-covered sod as best I could and replaced it, stamping it in place. Then I used the trowel one last time to distribute the extra dirt over the ground so that the grave wasn’t obvious.
I changed into my street clothes from the day before, hoped there wasn’t too much dirt on my hands and face, and returned to my car, tossing the uniform in the backseat.
The hard part was over. But I didn’t dare get complacent. I had a few chores left.
* * *
I dumped the bullet, the notebook, and the rug off a narrow bridge going over a winding river. The river water would get most of the blood off that rug or at least make it unrecognizable at first glance. No one would know where the rug had come from and if the body was found, no one would find a telltale expensive oriental rug beneath it.
I tossed the uniform in a garbage can behind a Howard Johnson in Kenosha. I kept my name badge, tossing it under the front seat of the car.
In Waukegan, I used a pay phone to call Franklin. He yelled at me. He’d been frightened by the riots, by my tone, by the strange incident with Laura’s phone.
I told him I was fine and that I would be bringing Jimmy home later in the day. Franklin started to ask a question, but my change ran out and the operator cut him off.
By the time I made it to Laura’s, I was swaying with exhaustion. I hardly remembered the drive from Waukegan into the city. I parked in the building’s lot, half expecting a cop to stop me, but there was none to be seen.
The door to the service entrance was shut. I didn’t want to go in that way anyway. I didn’t want to call attention to my knowledge of it in the daylight. I went back to the front door, and this time, the doorman let me in.
The elderly elevator operator nodded at me as if I were an old friend. I nodded back, thankful for the silence. He opened the elevator door on the twentieth floor and I peered at the hallway as if I had never seen it before.
It looked just as clean and normal as it had been every other time I’d visited. There were no bloodstains, no bullet holes, no dents in her door, nothing to show the violence from the night before.
I knocked, and I heard her rustle behind the door, then the deadbolt turn and the door open.
“Oh, God, Smokey,” she said, letting me in. She had a bandage over the left side of her face, and there were shadows under her eyes. “I was so worried.”
I nodded. I had been worried too. But I wasn’t any longer. The notebook, the fact that Withers had found me, was somehow reassuring. I had a hunch the secret wasn’t out.
No matter what, I was done running. From now on, I would stand my ground. I wasn’t ever going to run again.
EIGHTEEN
SINKOVICH WAS PARKED on the street when Jimmy and I pulled up in front of our apartment building. He got out of the car as we drove past, and was waiting on the curb when I stopped.
He looked tired, and he had bruises all over his arms. His knuckles were scraped.
It was clear where he had been the night before. He hadn’t been on harassment detail. He’d been in uniform, beating demonstrators.
“Got news for you,” he said.
I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to talk with him. But I didn’t want to cut him off entirely.
I was about to say something when Jimmy got out of the passenger side, and walke
d toward us. I didn’t stop him from joining us. His presence might keep the conversation civil.
“Jack,” I said, “you ever meet my son Jimmy?”
“Nope, don’t think so.” He crouched. “How’re you, sport?”
Jimmy raised his eyebrows at me. I didn’t think he’d ever been called “sport” in his life.
“Can I go in?” he asked me, ignoring Sinkovich.
“No,” I said. “Wait for me just in case Franklin’s not there.”
Jimmy leaned against the car. Sinkovich stood, his smile gone. “What the hell was that?” he asked under his breath.
“What’s your news?” I asked.
He put a hand on my shoulder, led me a little way down the sidewalk. “That boy you was looking for, he definitely ain’t one of ours.”
“Oh?” I asked. I had forgotten I had asked for Sinkovich’s help. Everything seemed so long ago.
“Yeah. I checked. We didn’t send no…black…cops down here. Just white guys, to put on the pressure, you know.”
“Thanks,” I said, moving away from his grasp.
“There’s been some FBI down here. I could get their names, maybe. They tell me there’s, you know, guys like him on the force. Maybe—”
“That’s all right,” I said.
“I mean, anything to catch this guy who done that to that kid, right?”
I looked at him. As far as he was concerned, the Richardson case was still open. “Right,” I said. “But you’d better work quick. The convention ends today. They’ll be going home.”
“If I find him, I’ll ask him a few questions, okay?”
“Sure.” I looked around him to Jimmy. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“You don’t seem too enthused.” Sinkovich sounded belligerent. “I mean, I went out on a limb for you.”
I looked pointedly at his bruises, his scraped hands, and realized that I couldn’t keep quiet any longer.
“Did you really go out on a limb?” I asked. “Or did you just ask a few of your friends in the squadrol as you drove down to Michigan Avenue last night?”
Smoke-Filled Rooms: A Smokey Dalton Novel Page 27
