War at Home: A Smokey Dalton Novel Page 12

  Of course, Malcolm had gotten another story from the SDS. They claimed they had contacted the women’s group to get extra bodies at the induction center because there weren’t a lot of students on campus in the summer. The vigil had gone off “without a hitch,” they said, even though it seemed to me that they had accomplished nothing.

  Neither group had seen Daniel at the vigil. The housewives hadn’t met him, and Malcolm got no direct information about Daniel from the SDS. A few knew him, and didn’t much like him. Apparently his fascination with the organization waned after the Democratic National Convention. The SDS, Malcolm told me when he came back to the van, didn’t seem as interested in civil rights issues as Daniel was.

  Malcolm did get some information: a couple of addresses where students could stay for a week or so if they needed to get back on their feet. Apparently, this happened from time to time, not because Yale expelled them, but because Mommy and Daddy cut them off. A few of the scholarship students ran out of funds between terms and used these places as well if they couldn’t stay in their college rooms.

  The first safe house was in the Hill area, not too far from the Teen-Inn that I had discovered on Monday. Malcolm went there, knocking on the door and asking for Daniel.

  He was told that Daniel had never stayed there; Daniel had rented his own apartment on Dixwell. No one had an address to give Malcolm, although a few people thought it had been near the Winchester Rifle Company.

  The next few steps would require the kind of legwork I often did in Chicago — checking records, talking to landlords, knocking on doors. I saw no reason to bring the boys with me on this part of the trip, so we went back to the motel to drop them off.

  When we arrived, our room door was open. A squad car was parked outside. Jimmy clutched my arm, his fingers digging into my skin. My own heart was pounding hard.

  “What the hell?” Malcolm asked, opening his door before I even stopped the van.

  “Let me handle this,” I said, blocking him with my arm. “You’ve never dealt with the police in a strange town before.”

  I got out of the van and walked to the room, breathing steadily to keep myself calm. I didn’t want to seem too calm — I was supposed to be a middle-class father of two boys, presumably the kind of guy who didn’t have a lot of contact with the police. But I also didn’t want to let the police run over me. I had Jimmy to protect.

  I got to the motel room door and leaned in. Two policemen — both white — were in the middle of the room. They had scattered our clothes all over the floor, upended the suitcases, and pulled open the bureau drawers. One of the policemen had just shoved a mattress off the box spring, and was looking underneath.

  “Excuse me,” I said, letting a bit of tremble into my voice. “You mind telling me what’s going on?”

  Both policemen looked up as if I had caught them doing something wrong.

  “You Bill Grimshaw?” the one closest to the door asked. He was red headed, balding, and as tall as I was. The nameplate above his right breast pocket identified him as Officer Sanford.

  “Yes,” I said deliberately staying near the door. I wanted to be able to escape quickly if I had to.

  “You’re here on—?”

  “My eldest son wanted to see Yale. He’s thinking of coming next year. The only time I could get off was the two weeks around the Fourth. Why?” I was using my white-guy phone voice. I needed to sound middle-class and educated, without any trace of the South in my tones.

  “Where were you today?” The other officer came forward. He was holding a battered white envelope and slapping it against one of his palms.

  “We were driving around the city,” I said, “trying to get a sense of the place.”

  “Driving around?” Officer Sanford made that sound like a crime.

  I took a deep breath, as if I were trying to quell nervousness. Instead, I was trying to push down anger.

  “I’ll be honest,” I said. “We’re from Chicago, and I’ve learned that there are some places that just aren’t amenable to blacks, no matter what the people who live there say. So I was being careful. I was making sure my son would have a community if he came here.”

  Officer Sanford blinked at me as if I had spoken a foreign language. The other officer came close enough that I could see his nameplate. Prauss. He was older, heavier, and obviously the one in charge. His pale blue eyes were small and bloodshot.

  “You in Wallingford today?”

  “Is that one of the neighborhoods?” I asked. I honestly didn’t know.

  “It’s a town a little bit north of here,” Sanford said.

  “Then no,” I said. “We didn’t leave New Haven.”

  “Anyone verify that?” Prauss asked.

  “Why would anyone have to verify that?” I let some of that anger into my voice.

  The cops were crowding me, but I continued to hold my position just outside the door.

  “How’d you get that scar?” Prauss asked, touching his left cheek.

  “I got mugged,” I said, telling something close to the truth.

  “Where are your sons?” Sanford asked.

  “In the van. You want to tell me what this is about?”

  Sanford peered past me, looked at the van. If these cops headed toward the van, I’d do everything I could to stop them.

  “You take them everywhere?” Sanford asked.

  “No,” I said. “Yesterday I went to a nearby grocery store without them. Why?”

  “Mind if we take a look in the van?” Prauss asked.

  “Yes,” I snapped. “I do. I have no idea what this is about and I’m beginning to think I have to call my attorney.”

  “You have an attorney?” Sanford asked, as if I had told him I had been to the moon.

  “His name is Andrew McMillan.” Drew’s firm had offices all over the country, and was particularly well known on the East Coast.

  “You’re not rich enough to have a lawyer,” said Sanford.

  “What are you basing this opinion on?” I asked.

  “The fact you’re staying here, and driving that crummy van.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the van. Malcolm was leaning forward, looking alarmed. He had his arm around Jimmy, who was so frightened that I could see him shaking from here.

  “The van has camping gear in it. I promised them that we’d stay somewhere fun over the Fourth. And as for staying here, I’ve learned that ritzy hotels don’t really like my skin color, so I don’t push it much.”

  The cops were staring at me as if I were a new breed of black. Maybe I was to them. From the standards I’d seen so far in New Haven, I was being pushy and outspoken.

  “Are you going to tell me why you’re here?” I asked. “Or do I call Drew?”

  “There was a bank robbery in Wallingford this morning,” Prauss said. “Crooks got away with twenty-seven grand that don’t belong to them.”

  “And the guys who robbed the place were black?”

  “Probably,” Sanford said.

  “Probably.” I had to struggle to keep my voice even.

  “They were wearing ski masks.”

  I made myself breathe evenly. “And you’re what — canvassing every motel room, seeing who has ski masks and a lot of cash?”

  Prauss just stared at me. I felt a flush rise in my cheeks. It wasn’t embarrassment that made the color rise. It was fury.

  “Oh,” I said after a moment. “You made a few calls, didn’t you? Asked about suspicious characters, strangers who didn’t seem to belong? Asked about skin color?”

  “It’s well known that Negroes are responsible for ninety percent of the crime in this country,” Sanford said.

  “Well known,” I said. “Among law enforcement?”

  “We’re checking all our leads,” Prauss said.

  “Find anything here?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact.” Prauss moved even closer. I could feel his breath on my skin. He started slapping that envelope again. “Who’s Malc
olm Reyner?”

  “My son,” I said.

  “But his last name is Reyner and yours is Grimshaw.”

  “He’s my stepson,” I said. “My wife’s from her first marriage. I raised him from a baby.”

  I hoped I wouldn’t have to keep these lies straight for too long. I also hoped that Malcolm had kept the windows down in the van so that he could overhear what I was saying.

  “How come you let him leave Chicago at a time like this?” Prauss asked.

  “A time like what?” I was confused about this. Had something happened in Chicago that I didn’t know about?

  He handed me the envelope. It was addressed to Malcolm in care of the Grimshaws. The return address belonged to the Cook County draft board.

  My hands shook as I pulled out the letter. I scanned it. It was dated last week, and it told Malcolm that he was to report for service as soon as he received the letter.

  “I’ve never seen this before,” I said truthfully.

  “You ain’t helping your kid run?” Prauss said.

  “If I was, I wouldn’t have brought him to Yale,” I snapped. “Canada’s a lot closer if you drive straight north from Chicago than if you go all the way to the Atlantic seaboard first and then go north.”

  “Your attitude isn’t helping, Mr. Grimshaw,” Prauss said. “Seems to me that it would be a good idea to get some funds to help your kid along if he was going to spend some time out of the country. Maybe rob a bank.”

  “And if we did that,” I said, “what did we do with my other son? Put a ski mask on him too and give him a loaded water pistol?”

  This was ridiculous. We hadn’t done anything, not that that mattered. The cops would believe what they wanted to.

  “He could’ve waited in the car,” Sanford said.

  “Car?” I asked. “We only have the van. You can call the Illinois DMV. That’s the only vehicle I own.”

  They both peered at the van again, then looked at its Illinois plates.

  “Mind if we inspect the vehicle?” Sanford asked.

  I did, but I figured it might be the only way to get them out of here.

  “And I’d like to look at your wallet as well,” Prauss said.

  “You think I have twenty thousand dollars in my wallet?” I asked.

  “Twenty-seven,” Sanford said.

  Because the request was so outrageous, I handed him the wallet, mentally thankful that I had the travelers checks and only a little cash. The rest of the cash was spread out between the two boys.

  Sanford thumbed through the wallet, frowned, and handed it to Prauss. He looked through it, too, pulled out one of the checks and studied it.

  Then he slipped it back inside. “The van,” he said again.

  “Fine,” I said. “Do what you need to.”

  They went to the van. Jimmy cringed against Malcolm.

  I opened the driver’s door. “Come out this way, boys.”

  Jimmy slid toward me, then slammed against me, clinging to me. He was covered with sweat and shaking. I held him close. Malcolm stood next to me, his gaze fixed on the envelope still in my hand.

  The cops examined the entire van. They found no ski masks or sacks of money, but they did manage to trash our camping equipment and supplies as thoroughly as they trashed the motel room.

  After a while, Prauss came over to me. “You’re clean so far.”

  “I’m clean period,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Hope so.”

  Then he nodded toward Malcolm. “You’re the one going to Yale?”

  “Just checking it out.” Malcolm kept his voice calm.

  “Like it?” Prauss asked.

  “I met a few people I like,” Malcolm said. “Dean Sidbury’s been really nice.”

  Great touch. I wouldn’t have thought of that. I only hoped that the cops didn’t check with Sidbury to see if he’d met Malcolm.

  “Next week,” Malcolm was saying, “I have an appointment to talk to Professor Whickam.”

  Prauss’s tough guy grimace faded. He obviously recognized at least one of those names and was beginning to realize he had made a big mistake.

  Then he looked at me. “You see anything suspicious, you let me know.”

  I almost retorted What’s suspicious? More black people in motel rooms? but I bit back the response. Jimmy’s tight grip on me reminded me exactly what was at stake.

  Then the two men got into their squad car, and without an apology, drove away.

  SIXTEEN

  I shoved Malcolm’s letter into my back pocket, determined to discuss the contents with him after this current crisis passed. First, I had to deal with Jimmy.

  He was so terrified he didn’t want to move. He clung to me like a young child, his face buried in my waist. Malcolm was staring at him as if he’d never seen Jimmy before.

  I kept a hand on Jimmy’s back, rubbing it, trying to soothe him. He had dealt with police all right in Chicago — even challenging a white detective, Sinkovich, who had stayed with us a few nights. But that apparently wasn’t the same as coming in on two officers searching our hotel room — our private place.

  “It’s all right,” I whispered.

  He shook his head.

  “They’re gone,” Malcolm said.

  Jim just held on tighter. I pulled him close, let him take his own time to disengage. I didn’t dare hurry him.

  “He gonna be okay?” Malcolm asked quietly.

  I don’t know, I mouthed, not wanting Jimmy to hear my pessimism. I hadn’t anticipated this at all. Usually I prepared him for the things that could go wrong, but this hadn’t even occurred to me.

  I thought we had stayed under the radar. I thought we hadn’t done anything to be noticed.

  Then I wondered if someone from Yale had sicced the cops on us, and immediately dismissed the thought. There I was known as Darrel Kirkland, not Bill Grimshaw.

  There were only two ways the cops could have known we were here. They could have followed our van, which didn’t seem likely, since it looked like they’d been tearing up the room for some time, or someone in the motel told them.

  “I guess I should start cleaning this up, huh?” Malcolm said.

  “Leave it for a minute. We have a few things to take care of first.”

  Jimmy leaned back, wiped his eyes with a fist, and looked up at me. His face was blotchy, his eyelashes stuck together by tears that my shirt had probably absorbed.

  “Let’s just go.” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been shouting.

  “Go where?” I asked.

  “Home,” he said.

  Leaving sounded like a good idea, but I wasn’t completely ready to head back to Chicago. “What about Daniel? We promised Grace we’d try to find him.”

  Jimmy shrugged. “We gots to be careful ourselves, Smoke.”

  He was talking about the reason we had left Memphis in the first place, the reason we had changed our names. He was referring to the fact that we were both still wanted by the FBI for “questioning” in connection with Martin Luther King’s death.

  “Yes, we do,” I said, “and I’m not sure running is the right thing right now.”

  “I sure as hell don’t want to stay here,” Malcolm said.

  “If we run, we look guilty,” I said.

  “Even though they didn’t find any money or ski masks?” Malcolm asked.

  I gave him a sideways look. “You know how fair white cops can be.”

  He sighed. “What do you want to do?”

  “Get a few answers,” I said.

  “To what?”

  “How they found us,” I said.

  “What if they come back?” Jimmy asked, his voice trembling. “What if they arrest us? What if they put us in jail?”

  “We’ll be fine,” I said. “We have the resources to protect ourselves. It won’t come to that.”

  “I don’t know how you can be so sure.” For all Malcolm’s posturing, he was scared, too, just not as deep-down terrified as Jimmy. Malcolm
had no reason for that kind of fear.

  “If they were going to arrest us, they would have done so tonight,” I said. “This was just a normal shakedown.”

  “Shakedown?” Malcolm asked.

  “Normal?” Jimmy asked at the same time.

  “Get my wallet, Jim,” I said, nodding toward the dresser where Prauss had thrown it. “I’ll show you what I mean.”

  Jim wiped at his face, and walked into the motel room, his back straight, his entire body on alert, as if he expected more cops to jump out of the shadows at him.

  He climbed over a pile of clothes, grabbed the wallet, and ran back outside, tossing it to me as if it burned his hands.

  I caught it with my right hand. The fake leather was slippery. Prauss’s skin had been sweaty, and had left a film on my wallet. The thought disgusted me.

  I opened the wallet, pulled out the traveler’s checks, and then pulled the wallet wider. I bent slightly, holding the wallet open so that Jimmy could see inside the long flap.

  “What do you see?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Exactly,” I said. “I had fifty dollars in cash in this wallet when we drove up. Where’d the money go?”

  “They stole it?” Malcolm breathed.

  “What are we going to do after that little encounter? Run to the police station and accuse two of their officers of theft?”

  Jimmy took the wallet from me and felt inside of it. Then he held his hand out for the traveler’s checks. I handed them to him, and let him look through them as well.

  “I have a hunch they were disappointed that we didn’t have more cash,” I said.

  “How would they know you had any money at all?” Malcolm asked.

  I sighed. “How many black people go to hotels expecting to write an out-of-town check?”

  “You think the cops do this a lot?” Malcolm asked.

  “I think these two do it every opportunity they get. If there’s a robbery nearby, they ‘investigate.’ A murder, a kidnapping — any excuse they have to tear up a black motel room and find whatever cash is lying around.”