Days of Rage: A Smokey Dalton Novel by Kris Nelscott

set up for a war. In addition to the usual doorman, six security guards were stationed around the building’s first floor.
    Laura, who owned the building, wasn’t taking any chances.
    After more than a year of visiting her, I still wasn’t used to the building’s ornateness. My entire apartment building could have fit into the lobby, with its raised ceilings and black marble floors. Leather furniture that cost more than I spent in a year was arranged in casual groupings, although I’d never seen more than one or two residents sit in them.
    Large glass windows on the east side overlooked Lake Shore Drive, and Lake Michigan beyond. This was one of the most spectacular — and expensive — views in Chicago, and the architect that built this place had taken advantage of that.
    The newly hired security guards watched me as I crossed the lobby, but the head of security, who sat behind the desk near the elevators, pointedly greeted me by name. I said hello to him as well and pushed the elevator call button, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.
    I was not a meeting sort of person. I preferred doing things to talking about them. But I recognized the necessity of planning ahead. We were about to do something tricky, and we had to proceed with caution.
    The elevator doors opened, and the attendant, an elderly black man, grinned at me. He knew his presence made me uncomfortable. More than once I’d asked him why he stayed at the job. His answer was always the same: he liked Miss Laura.
    I liked her too, but I wouldn’t spend my days opening and closing elevator doors for rich people even if she asked me to.
    “You think them kids is gonna bomb the Gold Coast?” he asked me as the elevator doors closed.
    “I certainly hope not,” I said.
    “If they do, they’s not coming here.”
    “Because of the extra security?” I asked.
    “Because we’s lucky. Judge Hoffman don’t live here. He got an apartment in the Drake.”
    Judge Hoffman was the judge in charge of the Conspiracy Trial.
    “That’s expensive real estate for a judge, isn’t it?” I asked. The Drake was on Michigan and Oak, with a view of Lincoln Park — and if your apartment was high enough, a view of Lake Michigan as well. The Drake was older than Laura’s high-rise, and considered one of the premiere addresses in the city.
    “His wife got money,” the attendant said. Then he grinned at me. “Sometimes it be good to marry money.”
    The elevator stopped and he opened the door with a flourish. I was glad I didn’t have to respond to his comment. He’d made it clear more than once that he thought I should marry Laura, for my sake, not necessarily for hers. I didn’t want to have that conversation with him again.
    I stepped into the space in front of Laura’s apartment. The space, which I had no name for, wasn’t exactly a hallway and it wasn’t quite a foyer. Yet it was large and grand. It had marble floors, a mirror to make the space look even larger, and a huge vase of fall foliage on an expensive table that added a touch of elegance.
    Laura’s door was partially open, which made my stomach clench. She often did that when she was expecting someone, even though I had asked her not to. She claimed the building was safe enough. It wasn’t. We both knew that any determined person could get past the security, but ever since her apartment had been broken into, she’d been struggling to regain her sense of safety.
    Somehow, leaving that door open on certain occasions, seemed to do that for her.
    I knocked and let myself in. The apartment did have a foyer, with an authentic oriental rug that I’d helped her pick out covering the black marble floor. Black-and-white photographs brushed up against each other on the walls. My favorite shot was a candid one of Jimmy that Laura had taken herself. She had caught him in a moment of laughter and he looked like the carefree boy I had always wanted him to be.
    The place smelled of garlic and spices. Voices