Free Days of Rage: A Smokey Dalton Novel by Kris Nelscott Page B

table. The hair on the back of his head was still matted. I would have to send him to the bathroom to clean up before he went to school.
    “I have suspicions,” I said. “I’m sure the police do , too.”
    “Those Days-of-Rage people?” Jimmy asked.
    “Probably,” I said. “They promised four days of violence, starting today. Maybe someone got excited and started early.”
    Jimmy splashed too much milk on his cereal. It sloshed against the edge of the bowl. “If Haymarket’s near Greektown, it’s not by Lincoln Park.”
    “I know,” I said.
    “Can I stay home, Smoke?”
    “You’ll be fine at school,” I said. “They’re not coming down here.”
    At least not yet. The Black Panthers had spent the last few days trying to talk the Weatherm e n out of rioting in the park because the Panthers believed, with a great deal of justification, that the police would take out their anger in the ghettos, not against the rich white kids planning the so-called actions.
    “What about you?” Jimmy asked that last quietly, not meeting my gaze.
    “I’m working for Laura today. I’m staying as far away from those crazies as I can.”
    He raised his head. “Promise.”
    “Promise,” I said.
    He nodded, then finished his breakfast in silence. We listened to the disk jockeys on the radio discuss the radicals in town, the Conspiracy Trial, and the history of that statue, which had been erected by the police on the site of the Haymarket Rebellion.
    The rebellion, the disk jockeys “reminded” us (knowing full well that most of us had no idea what it was), happened in 1886. At an outdoor rally to protest police violence against striking workers, someone threw a bomb that killed eight policemen and two bystanders. Several anarchists were arrested , although no evidence ever linked them to the bombing; four of the anarchists were hanged and a fifth committed suicide by placing a blasting cap between his teeth.
    The statue honored the dead policemen. Blowing it up — with dynamite, nearly a century later — was an act of great symbolism. And the Weatherm e n faction of the SDS loved their symbolism.
    I shuddered, bundled Jimmy off to school and hoped that he would think about other things all day, although I had a hunch that was unlikely.
    It wasn’t until I went into the back room that served as my office that I realized I wouldn’t be able to keep my promise to Jimmy.
    I was heading up to the Gold Coast tonight, to Laura’s apartment for that meeting. The Gold Coast was on the near North Side of Chicago, not too far from Lincoln Park, where the Weatherm e n planned to hold their first rally.
    With great frustration, I picked up the phone and called Laura. I wanted her to change the meeting to my apartment, but she wouldn’t. She felt that her place — a penthouse suite of one of the most expensive apartment buildings in Chicago — would be safe enough. She’d hired extra security after an attack last year, and they would be working tonight. So would her favorite doorman , who was more than capable of defending himself.
    However, I did get her to compromise. I asked her to hold the meeting over an early dinner , at five-thirty instead of eight. Knowing this group of radicals, and having watched their self-serving speeches on the television newscasts for the last week, I had a hunch they’d want as much press coverage as possible.
    They’d get that only after the Conspiracy Trial ended for the day, and the national press corps had time to make it from Civic Center Plaza to Lincoln Park. If we met at five-thirty, we would probably avoid the worst of whatever the Weathermen were planning — if, indeed, the police ever allowed them to leave the Park.
    Fortunately, I’d already asked Althea Grimshaw to pick up the kids from the after - school program. Jimmy would be happy when I got home earlier than planned.
    If that happened, I would be happy too.
     

 
    NINE
     
    Laura’s apartment building looked like it was