Street Justice: A Smokey Dalton Novel

by Nelscott, Kris

  She snapped open the compact and handed it to me. It felt tiny in my hand. I held it up as I had seen all of the women in my life do, feeling extremely ridiculous.

  But the scar was gone, and the only way I could tell that there was makeup on my face was that pulling feeling of something drying against my skin, and the slight smell of perfume.

  “Do you have any without perfume?” I asked.

  She laughed. “No. Smoke a cigarette, pour some alcohol on yourself. No one will notice.”

  Except me. The sensation of it all made me hold my head awkwardly.

  She said, “I’m going to show you how to do this without me, all right? It’s pretty simple. And I will buy more of the concealer and the foundation so that you won’t have to.”

  I smiled at her. It felt like the makeup cracked, even though, as I looked in the mirror, there was no way to tell the difference.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it,” she said. “You’ll now know how to be a secret master of disguise.”

  “You’re making fun,” I said.

  “I’m not, actually,” she said. “And you’re lucky that our skin tones are similar. This could have taken all afternoon.”

  I didn’t have all afternoon, so I was glad that it hadn’t. “Will you watch for Jimmy?”

  “I’ll wait at your place if you don’t mind,” she said. “About, what? Five?”

  “Yeah, starting then. I might be back by then.”

  “And if you’re not?”

  “Tell him I’m still working on the case he opened for Lacey. He’ll understand.”

  I hoped.

  Marvella looked like she did, too. She eased the compact out of my hand, and closed it with a snap.

  “Don’t get hurt, Bill,” she said. “Makeup can’t hide everything.”

  “I know,” I said. But on this day, it was going to hide more than enough.

  THIRTY-THREE

  I PUT THE MAKEUP in my bedroom and left my parka on the bed, so that its presence in the apartment wouldn’t worry Jimmy. Then I grabbed some cash from my emergency kit in the closet. I left a ten on the table with a note in case Marvella wanted to order pizza again.

  I took an old fedora that Franklin had left behind when he moved and placed it on my head. I wrapped a scarf around my neck, and put on the greatcoat.

  Between the weight of the coat and the makeup on my cheek, I felt like a different person. I didn’t need to worry about the perfume smell; the stench of the coat more than covered it. I grabbed two pairs of gloves, shoving one pair into the coat’s pockets and carrying the other pair.

  Then I hurried out of the apartment.

  Even though the sun wouldn’t set for another hour or more, the sky had turned twilight gray. The wind had died down, which was a good thing, since I doubted this hat would stay on my head in anything stronger. Still, I kept one hand on the hat and used the other to unlock the van.

  I needed to turn on the lights to see more than half a block ahead. A car turned onto the street as I pulled out. The driver startled, the car fish-tailed, and narrowly missed me. If I remembered, I would buy a bag of road salt on the weekend, and salt a few of the icy patches. It was getting dangerous just to drive, and I doubted the city road crews would come down here any time soon.

  I left the heater and the radio off. I didn’t have far to drive, and I didn’t want to warm up too much before I got there. Besides, I needed to concentrate. I had several ideas of what I might do to that hotel, but I had no idea if any of them would work.

  I had to check the place out first.

  I parked a block farther north than I parked the previous morning. The van was now two blocks from the school, and not on the route that Franklin usually took to the after-school program. I had worried just a little that he would drive past me, see the coat and fedora, and wonder who was in my van.

  But I didn’t pass him on the road. After I parked, I leaned over and removed the gun from the glove box, making certain that the gun’s safety was on. Then I shoved it in my pocket. It would be even less visible in this coat than it had been in the parka, which was good.

  I got out, locked the van, checked the back gate, and headed down the sidewalk to the hotel.

  In the short time it had taken me to drive, the sky had gone from twilight gray to near dark. The streetlights hadn’t come on yet, if the streetlights in this part of the neighborhood even worked. I shoved my hands in my pockets, one fist bumping the gun, and kept my head bowed, turned away from the street. I tried to look like a man down on his luck, and after the last few months I’d had, it wasn’t that hard.

  When I reached the hotel, I gave the entrance a long glance, as if I was tempted to go in. Then I walked just a few yards farther, went up the shoveled sidewalk, and let myself into the restaurant.

  It smelled like fifty years of boiled meat and burned toast. A coffee smell tried to override everything, but it couldn’t, anymore than the gray haze of cigarette smoke could change the stench of this place.

  A counter ran the entire length of the back wall. Once upon a time, that counter had been a bar, and still looked like you could belly up to it and order some kind of hard liquor. But behind the counter, where the liquor used to be, the owners had opened up the wall to create a pass-through to the kitchen. Food sizzled back there, and someone laughed.

  A man in a tattered gray coat sat at the counter, nursing a cup of coffee. Several sugar packets sat beside it, along with a handful of ripped cracker wrappers. I wanted to slip him some cash so he could get a real meal, but I didn’t dare.

  Along the windows were booths. They were made of a dark red vinyl which had probably looked classy when they had been put in. Several tables cluttered up the floor space, making it almost impossible to exit the building quickly. The tables were either set up for another meal or had the remains of a meal on top of them.

  Two of the booths had customers, elderly couples who didn’t seem to have anything to say to each other. The only meal I could clearly see was some kind of gravy-covered meat, with mashed potatoes and carrots so orange they looked fake.

  I didn’t want to take a seat at the counter; I would have my back to the room, even though I could see into the kitchen.

  Instead, I took the booth farthest from the door. The booth actually had two windows, one for the row heading off toward the back door, and one for the row I had to walk down to get there. I sat with my back to the school, but noted that even if I turned slightly sideways, I could see what was happening in the school yard.

  A stained menu had been propped between the condiments and napkin holder. The menu offered breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and proudly claimed that the Starlite Restaurant provided twenty-four hour service.

  I bet it did.

  A plump waitress with tight gray curls slipping out of her hairnet came over. She was wearing a black uniform that had probably fit ten years before but now it was too short and too tight. I wasn’t sure how she could breathe.

  “Coffee?” she asked as if my answer really didn’t concern her. I half-expected her to walk away before I replied.

  “Yeah,” I said. “What’s good?”

  To my surprise, she chuckled. “Well, you never been here before, have ya?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said.

  “Nothing’s good, but some things are edible. Stay away from the soup at this time of day, and don’t even think about a salad. I’d have a burger and make sure they cook the hell out of it.”

  I tipped my hat back so I could see her more clearly. She looked as tired as I felt. “They don’t mind that you talk like that.”

  “They don’t give a damn about the restaurant,” she said. “They make their money in the hotel. There’s a bar in there, if you want some alcohol, and that’s what you’ll get. Some alcohol. And a whole lot of water, whether you want it or not.”

  Then she walked away. A man in his mid-thirties let himself in, and reached behind the cash register, pullin
g out a packet of cigarettes. He held it up to her, and she shook her head as if she didn’t like it but couldn’t control it.

  He walked past her to a door that clearly led into the hotel. The door opened, letting in a bit of conversation—or was that music?—and then eased shut.

  She had poured my coffee, and brought a tiny tin pot filled with cream. I opened the pot’s lid, and sniffed. The cream had curdled. I set it aside.

  If I ordered something, I would have to eat it, and I wasn’t sure my stomach was up for that.

  When she walked past a second time, I handed her the pot with the cream. “It’s gone south,” I said. “And I’m dying of hunger. What do you have that you can guarantee won’t kill me.”

  She grinned, and it took years off her face. “The sweets are good. They’re baked fresh every morning. Don’t use the butter, though.”

  I chuckled. “You trust the sweets, but not the rest of the food.”

  She picked up the pot of cream. “We don’t make the sweets. The bakery down the block does. We don’t have a lot left by this time of day, although if you come in later tonight, we’ll get whatever they have leftover.”

  “That’s a lot of sweets,” I said.

  Her smile faded. “We have a lot of sweet tooths in this joint.”

  Then she carried the cream away before she could take my order. Sweet tooths. Heroin addicts in particular binged on sweets; they couldn’t get enough.

  I felt sad. I picked up the spoon and inspected it for grime. When it came out clean, I used it to stir my coffee. Then I took off the fedora and set it on the booth beside me.

  Through the half-moon window in the door leading into the hotel, I could only see shapes. Conversations, banging pots, and laughter continued to come from the kitchen. This place felt like a dingy old restaurant that had once seen better days. The clientele had the look of people who came here because they didn’t know any place better, and the waitress had a good solid feel to her.

  If I had come in here without knowing about the hotel next door, if the hotel hadn’t existed at all in fact, I would have thought this place like a hundred restaurants in the Greater Chicago area. Good enough to withstand the changes to a once-nice neighborhood, but not good enough to attract any new clientele.

  “So? Which sweets?” She was back with her notepad in hand.

  “Donut sounds good. Whatever you have left. And some dry toast.”

  “No dry toast,” she said. “Donut it is.”

  I had no idea how even the toast could be bad, but I wasn’t going to ask. I wished I had a way to see more of the place without walking around. But I didn’t know what that would be.

  So I stood up and went to the counter. She was opening the donut case. Three crullers and two chocolate remained. She saw me, and moved her hand over the top of all of them, in a silent question.

  “The chocolate,” I said. “And where’s your men’s room?”

  “Through that door,” she said, tilting her head toward the door into the hotel. “Make sure you wash your hands when you’re done.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was still joking with me or if that was an actual warning. I suspected it was both.

  “Thanks,” I said, and walked through the door. It was a swinging door, which I hadn’t expected. I expected something that locked. It appeared to have once led into the kitchen. So the redesign had somehow moved the bar into the hotel, or added the wall here, or something. I didn’t have a chance to look closely at the architecture.

  Instead, I pushed the door open, and stepped into a haze of cigarette smoke. The Supremes blared from some overhead speakers.

  The lobby was bigger than I remembered. Of course, when I had been here two days ago, I had been focused on the registration desk, which was all the way across the room, and the stairs off to the side.

  Now I saw that the lobby had three distinct sections, the bar to my left, a general area near the front door, and then the registration section. The bathrooms were behind the bar, illuminated by a red and white sign. I ignored them for a moment, and walked deeper inside.

  Now the stench of sweat, cum, and spilled alcohol reached me, bringing me back to the other morning. The carpet stuck to my shoes, and the wallpaper to my right was peeling off. The tables in the bar all carried glass ashtrays, most of which hadn’t been emptied in a while, and a matching glass bowl filled with peanuts.

  The bar itself was still a little attractive in the dim light. The red upholstered barrel chairs had been built to last. Brass buttons lined the sides, holding the red leather in place. The bar was made of a deep reddish wood, and had been coated with some kind of laminate, making it shine even in the bad light. A mirror behind the bar reflected oddly, which made me think that it wasn’t just a mirror, but a one-way window that someone could watch the entire area without actually entering the lobby.

  A single bartender sliced lemons while keeping an eye on me. He was as big as I was, which had to be deliberate, since the white shirt and red vest that he wore over black trousers fit perfectly.

  I gave him a deliberately nervous grin, and headed toward the men’s room. I would come back in here later if I could.

  The men’s room smelled of piss. The grimy counter had a pile of roach clips in one of those glass bowls used for bar snacks. Matchbooks with the name of the Starlite written in white script on a black background lined up in their own container.

  I used the urinal, because I had a hunch the mirror in here was one-way glass as well and I wanted to look like I needed the room. Then I washed my hands, checking my reflection as I did so. The makeup hadn’t flaked or peeled, and in this light, it looked like I had never been scarred. Good to know. Marvella was right: I had another disguise tool in my arsenal.

  I looked at the cloth roll towel dispenser and wondered if that rotating cloth had ever been cleaned. I shook my hands to air dry them, figure that even if someone was watching me, they would see that action for the critique it was.

  Not that it mattered. Like the waitress had said. No one here cared about the restaurant or the bar or anything except what happened upstairs.

  And that included me.

  I stepped out. The bartender had his back to me. Apparently he figured I was just another customer, and not one who interested him.

  I went back into the restaurant to find my chocolate donut waiting for me, and a new cup of coffee steaming.

  I wiped my hands on a napkin and forced myself to take a bite of the donut. It was good and fresh as promised.

  One of the elderly couples had left. It was now full dark outside, and as I looked sideways toward the school, it seemed abandoned despite the teachers’ cars still in the parking lot.

  The waitress came by with a pot of coffee and topped off my cup even though I didn’t need it.

  “That bar doesn’t look so bad,” I said. “How come it’s not part of the restaurant? You’d think it would be.”

  “They built a wall about five years back. They needed more room in the lobby, and they took it out of the restaurant.” She didn’t sound as if she approved.

  “I take it you’ve worked here a long time?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Fifteen years now. They pay me more than they should, which is good, because the tips suck.”

  “That’s what happens when there are too many regulars and not enough new customers,” I said.

  “You worked restaurants?” She actually seemed interested.

  “I used to own one,” I lied. “A long time ago.”

  She nodded. “Things change, don’t they? Even when they stay the same.”

  “This looks like it was a classy joint fifteen years ago.”

  “Not classy,” she said. “But nice. The right kind of people, if you know what I mean. New owner came in about six, seven years ago now, and it’s been…well. I should get out. I really should.”

  “Why don’t you?” I asked.

  “Not sure I can,” she said, then bit her lower lip. She’d said
too much.

  “I get that. I should’ve shut my restaurant down when it was clear it wasn’t working. I didn’t. Lost my shirt.” I plucked my coat. “Maybe everything but my shirt.”

  She chuckled, clearly relieved that I had misunderstood her. But I hadn’t. She was afraid to leave this place. She held too many secrets.

  I sipped my coffee. “You just starting your shift?”

  “Got about an hour. It’s a ten-hour day today. The lunch girl didn’t show.”

  “Don’t you hate that?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure. I make more this way. But I sure get tired these days.”

  “Yeah,” I said, then leaned back. An hour. I could meet her when she got off, see if she would talk to me some more. It was a risk, and I had no idea how much cleanup she had to do.

  She topped my coffee again. She didn’t want to leave any more than I wanted her to.

  “I take it with a new owner, the restaurant’s not for sale.”

  She frowned just a little. “I heard rumors someone was interested in the hotel. Was that you?”

  “Hell, no,” I said. “Restaurants are hard enough. I couldn’t imagine trying a hotel too.”

  “This kind is easier,” she said, then took the coffee pot back to its station. A different man pushed open the door from the hotel. He looked around, glowered at me, and then walked out the front door.

  I didn’t like that the whole place knew about Laura’s offer. That seemed strange. Or maybe the offer had been strange.

  I finished the donut, then drank the coffee slowly, but the waitress didn’t return. She had disappeared into the back.

  I picked up my hat and slid out of the booth, but no one seemed to notice that I was leaving. So I reached into my wallet and removed a five. I waved it at the kitchen window as I walked by.

  She came out of the back, her face flushed.

  “I figured you got off early,” I said.

  “No such luck,” she said.

  I handed her the five. She took it to the cash register. I waved my upraised hand at her. “No need.”

  “I thought you didn’t have a pot to piss in,” she said.