Free War at Home: A Smokey Dalton Novel by Kris Nelscott

WAIT !!!!!
     
    I pushed the button. A paint chip fell off into my hand. From inside, I heard a loud buzzer, obviously designed to wake someone from a sound sleep.
    Then I took a step back from the door, just in case I startled the hotel manager. I had no idea what the ethnic makeup of New Haven was, nor did I know what this neighborhood was like, even though it looked transitional at best.
    I turned slightly, so that my right profile faced the door. No sense in letting the manager find a large black man with a scarred face at his door. Better to let him assemble the parts of me slowly.
    Across the street, there were several long buildings and even more parking lots. Behind them, a football stadium rose against the night sky, dark and forbidding.
    That had to be the Yale Bowl, and the buildings around it all those support facilities that big sports arenas usually had.
    Down the road directly in front of me seemed to be some kind of dead end. Or maybe it was just darkness, no streetlights at all.
    A lock turned. The wooden door swung open, and it was my turn to be surprised. A black face peered out at me.
    The man was as tall as I was, but older, with red pockmarks from a skin condition. His hair was silver and straight, which was a surprise given how dark his skin was.
    “Yeah?” he asked.
    “Do you have a vacancy?” I kept my voice soft. “I’m looking for a double for me and my sons.”
    I had decided along this trip that most people would think of Malcolm as my child. It would be easier to explain than the real rationale behind what we were doing.
    The man pushed open the screen door. He wasn’t wearing a robe, like I expected. He wore dark blue pants and a short-sleeved shirt. The only thing that gave away the late night was the tan slippers on his feet.
    He padded across a vinyl runner that led to the front desk. The interior smelled like cigarettes, ammonia, and pine deodorizer. The desk was long and blond, one end covered with brochures.
    “How long you staying?” he asked as he went around the desk.
    “That depends.” I glanced over his shoulder, saw the door to the back was closed. “I plan to be here for several days, but level with me. Should we stay in this neighborhood or is there someplace a little friendlier?”
    He opened a register. Several spidery signatures already filled the page.
    “Checking out Yale?” he asked.
    “How’d you guess?” I said.
    He shrugged. Obviously that’s what most people did with their kids when they came to New Haven.
    “A room here’s nineteen dollars a night for a double. That’s the cheapest you’ll find within fifteen minutes of downtown. You might be a bit cheaper heading out Whalley, but honestly, depending on the place, you might run into some trouble there.”
    I nodded, not knowing where Whalley was, but figuring I could find it on a map.
    “Otherwise, you’re gonna want to be either in the Hill or along Dixwell. I don’t think there’s much on the Hill any more, but I know of a few places on Dixwell. You can give ’em a look if you want.”
    “But?”
    This time it was his turn to glance over his shoulder. And he looked behind me, as if he were checking for other paying customers.
    “Ain’t none of those places black-owned, even if they’re in our neighborhood. So you got smaller rooms, no real upkeep, and higher prices for less. At least here, you got nice rooms because we do good business.”
    “And we’re not going to have a problem if we stay here a week with, say, the day manager?” I asked.
    The man smiled. His teeth gleamed in the fl u orescent light . “That day manager got canned. You’ll be okay.”
    It was my turn to smile. “You said nineteen dollars for a double?”
    Nineteen was expensive. I had hoped for less.
    “If you stay the week, I can bring it down to fifteen a night.”
    He was doing me a favor, and I knew it. Still, I wasn’t sure where my investigation would take me.
    “I’d like to say I’m going to, but it