Stone Cribs: A Smokey Dalton Novel

by Kris Nelscott

  “I know,” I said. “Although looking at how they behave, I’m not sure they mean it. I heard Fred Hampton speak—”

  “I don’t care what you heard. I’m tellin’ you what I heard, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “I’m hearin’ talk about declarin’ a real war. Now that Nixon’s in office and the country’s leanin’ toward law and order, the city thinks maybe it’s got a shot at takin’ harsher measures. You can’t deny there’s a problem down here.”

  “True,” I said, feeling cold.

  “And it’s gettin' worse. Now, I ain’t sayin’ this to anyone but you, but I think it’s gettin' worse on purpose. The gangs ain’t doin’ nothin’ but respondin’, protectin’ their turf.”

  I turned toward him in surprise. Sinkovich had come along way since August. He would never have noticed this sort of thing then.

  “The Red Squad had twenty-one guys six months ago. It’s been recruitin’. It’s got nearly two hundred now, hired from all over the place, and I gotta tell you, most of these guys ain’t thinkers. They’re troublemakers, bein’ moved to the part of town most likely to let them earn their trigger-happy reputations.”

  “Truman wasn’t one of them,” I said. “He was Homicide.”

  “He was a cop, and he was down here.”

  “I still don’t get it,” I said. “If this is the case, wouldn’t it be better to find the shooters, make an example of them, and take advantage of all the press?”

  “And take away their excuses?” Sinkovich asked. “Right now, a cop down here can shoot at any two kids on a bike with one on the handlebars, thinking they might be preventin’ a hit. They can shoot at any teenager wearin’ red, claimin’ he was a Stone. They can shoot the driver of any van, sayin’ he was the getaway driver in a bunch of shootings—and who the hell is gonna contradict them? The gangs? Even if they do, who cares? No one’ll pay attention.”

  I leaned back against the cracked car seat. What had I been thinking when I brought Jimmy to this town for his safety? He wasn’t safe. Even doing a simple kid thing like riding a bicycle made him a target.

  “They want to use Truman as an excuse?” I asked, still trying to comprehend this.

  “They can’t solve it. If they solve it, they’re sayin’ it’s normal life down here, not a war zone. See what I mean?” Sinkovich said.

  I did understand what he meant, and I didn’t like it. “Do you even believe Yancy’s story, then?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Sinkovich said. “I seen the corpse up close and personal. That was done with a shotgun. Johnson was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “That’s what you think, then? This was random?”

  “That’s what I think,” Sinkovich said.

  “Even with the third guy,” I said.

  “Maybe the kids were gunning for him,” Sinkovich said, “the guy Johnson was meeting. Did you think about that?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Don’t get us involved in this, Grimshaw. You’re steppin’ between the city and the gangs, and that ain’t no place to be. We won’t live through it.”

  “Who’d kill us?” I asked.

  “Who wouldn’t? We’d be convenient victims,” Sinkovich said. “I don’t know about you, but I wanna die in my chair in front of the TV, my hearin’ aid turned off and my teeth out, at the age of ninety.”

  I shook my head. “Truman asked me to help him with something.”

  “So?” Sinkovich said.

  “He wouldn’t’ve gone back to work.”

  “That don’t mean work didn’t come to him. You don’t know what he was doin’ before. This coulda been related to an old case, or somethin’ he got called on just today.”

  “It could have,” I said.

  “Or it could’ve been wrong place, wrong time,” Sinkovich said. “What I’m tryin’ to tell you here is that we can’t be involved. We don’t dare.”

  “I heard you,” I said.

  “Your kid won’t like it if you get killed outta misguided loyalty.”

  “Misguided?” I looked at Sinkovich. “What’s misguided about this? A man was murdered today, and you’re telling me to ignore it.”

  “I’m tellin’ you to let the authorities handle it,” he said.

  “You’re telling me they’re going to use it as one more excuse to escalate the gang war.”

  “Let ’em,” Sinkovich said. “A man’s gotta look after his own.”

  “Whatever happened to ‘a man has to do what he can live with’?” I asked.

  Sinkovich winced. “Don’t do this to me again, Grimshaw.”

  “You think something stinks here, too, don’t you? That’s why you brought me along. You wanted me to see this, you said so yourself.”

  “I was being a friend,” Sinkovich said.

  “To me or to Johnson?”

  “Shit,” Sinkovich said. “Shit.”

  He put the car into drive and pulled onto the street. Another car zoomed by, honking. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’m takin’ you home,” he said. “I’ll put the goddamn bags in the wrong case file, and then I’m done. You’re on your own, you got that?”

  “So if I call and ask you to check Johnson’s logs to see what he was working on, you won’t do that?”

  “I’m not involved,” Sinkovich said. “Whatever you choose to do, you choose to do it without me. I got a kid, too, and a divorce that I’m losin’ and a job that I’m barely hangin’ on to. I’m not takin’ on my department, and I’m not goin’ back to the Gaza Strip. You got that? You’re on your own.”

  “I got that,” I said, leaning back in my seat. “I got that loud and clear.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  SINKOVICH LET ME off in front of my apartment building and drove off without another word.

  Hail covered the ground like snow, making the sidewalk slippery. I made my way across it, the hail crunching beneath my feet.

  I was drenched and miserable, soaked through even though I hadn’t stood in the rain that long. I was also shaken. Johnson hadn’t deserved to die, and he didn’t deserve to become a faceless statistic in a made-up war.

  The apartment building’s front door was closed and locked. I fished in my pocket for my keys, found them, and let myself in.

  The interior still had the afternoon’s mugginess. Wet footprints went down the hall and up the stairs, left by various residents coming home from their day’s work.

  I climbed the stairs slowly, my shoes making an unpleasant squishing sound. I left footprints, too, bigger than the others, and as I looked at them, I thought again about Yancy’s and Jump’s clean clothing.

  A shotgun blast at close range would have sent pellets and blood and guts flying in every direction. If it had been a dry, sunny day, they might have picked gore off the sidewalk across the street.

  Those men should have been covered with it, and despite the rain, some of it should have stuck to them, the way it stuck to the sidewalk.

  No matter how much Sinkovich wanted me to, I couldn’t let this go.

  I reached my floor. The stairs turned and went up, and so did the footprints I was following. I had hoped they were Marvella’s. I looked at her door. There was no indication that she was home.

  Then again, there was no indication that she wasn’t.

  I crossed the hall and knocked. I didn’t want to be the one to break the news to her, but I would if I had to. I wanted to find out what she knew about Johnson’s plans these last few days.

  The knock sounded hollow. It echoed through the empty hallway. I listened, but didn’t hear anyone come to the door. I knocked again, for good measure, even though I knew now that Marvella wasn’t home.

  I crossed the hall, unlocked my three deadbolts, and went inside. The clean apartment startled me. I had forgotten that I had planned to spend the evening with Jimmy.

  I couldn’t do that now. The first few hours after a murder were the easiest time to solve it. The longer I waited, the
less chance Johnson had for justice.

  Then I snorted. Justice. Justice would’ve been Johnson alive, not facedown on the Gaza Strip, a victim of a shooting who was about to become a victim of the city’s propaganda.

  Was I doing this because he was a friend? Hell, no, Officer DeVault. I was doing it because I felt guilty. Because, in the words of Jack Sinkovich, I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.

  But I was going to keep that clearly in mind, not fool myself that I was seeking justice.

  I was trying to clear my conscience for failing to help a man who had helped me. Nothing more.

  I pulled off my wet coat and hat and hung them on my own coat rack, staring at it for a moment. I had mentally accused Sinkovich of being unfocused at the crime scene, but I had been, too. I hadn’t asked about the denim jackets that hung on the rack, and I had forgotten to ask for a description of the third man.

  I would probably have to go back there, alone, and that was the last thing I wanted.

  But first, I had to figure out what got Johnson there in the first place, and all I had to start with was the bartender’s story, a withdrawal slip, half an address, and Johnson’s plan to find the abortionist who had nearly killed Valentina.

  Had Johnson given up on that? Or had he followed up? I had been near that neighborhood just the day before, searching for someone on Marvella’s list. Maybe Johnson had found him.

  Or maybe he had realized how difficult the task would be, just like I had. Maybe he had gone back to work just to keep his mind off Valentina. And if that was what he had been doing, how was I going to find out?

  My socks were so wet that I could see my feet through them. I walked across the ratty carpet to my bedroom.

  I was chilled, even though the apartment was warm. I peeled off my clothes, dumping them on the floor like Jimmy would, and found new clothes. I had them half on when I realized that I was putting on all black, like a cat burglar.

  Like Yancy.

  I slid boots over my cold feet, scooped up my wet clothes, and hung them in the bathroom to dry. I transferred my wallet to the new pants, then went to my wet coat, getting the withdrawal slip and the torn piece of paper out. I stuck the withdrawal slip and the paper in my wallet and walked to the phone.

  I had dialed the Grimshaws almost before I realized what I was doing. I had initially planned to go over there and talk to Jimmy myself, explain to him why—yet again—I was foisting him on someone else.

  But I couldn’t. Jimmy had met Truman Johnson, and while he may not have liked him, he knew that I had worked with him. He also knew that Johnson was a cop. It had been my way of showing Jimmy that not all people in authority were bad.

  I wasn’t sure how I would tell him about this, especially after his good-man speech last night.

  And worse, I wasn’t sure I could justify my plan to solve this case on my own to Jimmy. So I wasn’t going to try.

  The phone rang five times before someone answered. It was Franklin, who boomed away from the receiver,

  “…my phone, Lacey. I’ll answer it if I want to.” And then he said, “Hello?”

  “Franklin,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “Don’t tell me. All night.”

  “It’s just—”

  “You can’t keep doing this, Smokey. It’s not right.” Franklin’s voice was low, probably because he didn’t want anyone else to overhear. “He’s already unhappy that you’re missing dinner.”

  “I may miss more than dinner,” I said.

  “No, Smokey. It’s—”

  “Truman Johnson’s dead.”

  “What?” Franklin forgot to keep his voice low. “The cop?”

  “Yes, and don’t let Jimmy overhear because he knew him.”

  “Overhear what?”

  “Truman was gunned down in Woodlawn this afternoon.”

  “Jesus,” Franklin whispered. “They know who did it?”

  “They think they do.”

  “Smokey, if the police think they know—”

  “They’re not investigating it, Franklin. They’re assuming it was a gang hit.”

  “Maybe it was a gang hit.”

  “There’s too much wrong.”

  Franklin sighed. “This isn’t any of your business. Jimmy is your business and he needs you.”

  “It is my business,” I said. “Truman made it my business a few days ago. He asked for my help and I said no.”

  “And so what?” Franklin asked. “You’re going into gang turf to see if you can find the lost soul who wielded the gun?”

  “It was a hit, Franklin,” I said. “Someone set him up.”

  “Tell the police.” Franklin sounded muffled. I heard a door close. He must have moved into his office and closed the door on the phone cord. “Let them handle it.”

  “I tried,” I said. “They’re not going to. They didn’t even interview the witnesses. It’s complicated, Franklin.”

  “And dangerous. Have you forgotten why you’re here in Chicago, Smokey? You can’t go against the Chicago Police.”

  “Truman helped me out,” I said. “I owe him.”

  “And he’s dead,” Franklin said. “Pay attention to the living, Smokey. They’re the ones who need you. Jimmy needs you.”

  I closed my eyes and leaned against the couch. I knew that.

  “Give me twenty-four hours,” I said to Franklin. “If it looks like I can’t resolve this or if it looks too risky, I’ll quit.”

  “Twenty-four hours? Smokey—”

  “Franklin,” I said, opening my eyes. The apartment looked empty. I could hear Johnson’s voice behind me when he first walked in here, months ago.

  What will you do? I had asked him about that first case, the one we’d met on.

  Whatever I can, he had said.

  “You want me to call Laura?” I asked Franklin.

  “No, no,” he said. “Jimmy’s always welcome here. You know that.”

  “Twenty-four hours, Franklin,” I said. “That’s all I’m asking.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said.

  “I hope so too,” I replied.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I STARTED at the hospital. It was just past dinnertime, and the entire place reeked of boiled cabbage. It was enough to turn my stomach; I had no idea how anyone truly ill could have tolerated the smell.

  Valentina was still in the ward for the critically ill, which was on the fifth floor. I took the elevator up, leaning against the pressboard walls. The doors closed, and I saw myself reflected in the shiny steel.

  Dressed all in black, I looked large and dangerous, the scar along the left side of my face even more noticeable than usual. The expression in my eyes didn’t help, either—they seemed flat and cold, almost empty.

  If I had seen someone with that expression, I would have thought him lethal—which, I supposed, I was.

  The elevator stopped on five, and the doors opened slowly, distorting my image before it vanished altogether. The cabbage smell was worse here, mixed with the odors of urine and sickness.

  I stepped off and started down the hall. Valentina’s room was down the corridor to my right, past the nurse’s station. No one manned the station, although a phone line blinked repeatedly, and a call button ponged every few seconds.

  All the room doors were open, and the sounds of television came from several of them. In one, a man moaned in pain, and another person coughed so hard I thought his lungs might come out.

  Valentina’s room was at the far end of the hall. I wouldn’t have been able to tell that as I walked, except for the fact that Marvella stood outside it, her arms crossed.

  She wore blue jeans and a different sweater than she had worn the night before. The sweater was too big, and the sleeves were rolled up to her elbows.

  The curtains were drawn over the room’s small window and the door was closed tight. Marvella effectively blocked it with her long, lean body.

  Her face was drawn and haggard, her hair stic
king out in clumps. Her eyes were swollen, and she clutched Kleenex in her right hand.

  “You heard,” I said. It wasn’t a question.

  She nodded. “One of the guys from the station came down shortly after it happened.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “He was a stupid son of a bitch. Gangs. What was he thinking?” She wiped at her eyes with the tissue, and looked up at me. “I’ll tell you what he was thinking. He was thinking he couldn’t do anything here, so he might as well go back to work. That was his solution to everything. Work.”

  Marvella’s voice broke, and the next thing I knew, I was holding her. She sobbed silently, her entire body shaking.

  I patted her back, feeling nothing.

  After several minutes, she pulled away. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” I said.

  She blew her nose and tucked the tissue into her sleeve. “And I was going to call him. Val’s getting better.”

  “Is she awake?”

  “Not really. She’s restless, talking, but not really tracking. Not yet. Still, the doctor doesn’t want anyone upsetting her. So I’ve been out here. I’m afraid she’ll overhear, and it’ll set her back….”

  “Well,” I said. “Her getting better, that’s some good news then, right?”

  Marvella nodded. Then she blinked and looked up at the fluorescent lights, trying to control her tears. “I sent him home,” she said.

  She had returned to Johnson’s death. I was probably the first person she could talk with about it.

  “I tried to get him to go home the night before,” I said. “It was the right thing to do.”

  She shook her head. “If he stayed here, I could have kept an eye on him.”

  “Even you were smart enough to go home, Marvella. You can’t be here all the time.”

  “I didn’t tell him to go back to work,” she said.

  “No,” I said. “He might have gotten that idea from me.”

  Suddenly I had her full attention.

  “He wanted me to help him find the…” I stopped, remembering where I was. “The person who, you know.”