The Patrolman - 27

27.

The killer drove Downtown to watch the riots.

Total chaos. It was beautiful. Like something from one of his dreams. Burning cars and neon lights. Smoke filled the air and trash spilled from the sidewalks. Taxis and trolley cars delivered companies of U.S. Navy servicemen. Hundreds of them. Running Search & Destroy missions on any Mexican teenagers they could find.

He parked across from the Los Angeles Theater on Broadway. It was showing Shadow of a Doubt. Movies didn't interest him all that much, but this was exciting. The city was tearing itself apart.

The killer watched a detachment of men march six or seven Pachuco punks out of the theater. Striking them behind the knees. They went down. Then the sailors went to work on them with billy clubs, 2x4s, baseball bats, and chains. Flashbulbs popped. An eyebrow spun through the air. They tore the kids' long coats off. Limbs flailing. The kids tried to resist, but the servicemen stripped them. Stripped them down to their drawers. A little guy bundled the clothes into a pile, then doused it with gasoline. So much for rationing. Someone tossed a cigarette on the pile and the whole lot went up. Blue flames danced, curled, and twisted. A gentle breeze fanned them even more.

He rolled his window up and set off for Hollywood. The damage was nothing compared to Downtown. He crawled past Madre Jalisco's - closed. He prowled all the Mexican bars and restaurants. Some had smashed windows. But he struck oil with El Coyote over on Beverly.

A Latina screaming at her fella.

The guy tried to calm her down. It only made things worse. He opened his car door, but she stormed across the parking lot. He saw her turn left down the alley that ran behind the restaurant.

He headed her off at the other end.

'Need a ride?'

She was pretty in a rough kind of way. Bouffant hair, pale skin, blood-red lips turned down in a frown. Full lips. The killer wanted to bite them. She flinched, but didn't want to offend him. They never do. 'I'm fine, mister,' she said. 'I don't live that far.'

'I'm not asking for money. A pretty girl like you shouldn't be out, not with all this violence. The Navy's headed this way.'

She made the face they all made. Realizing she was on her own for the first time. She hadn't been rude. She was working out if he was a genuine do-gooder or running some angle. She looked back up the alley. Her guy hadn't chased after her. He didn't care. She took a moment to weigh it up. 'OK,' she said. 'But I don't have any money.'

'Ain't a problem.'

She gave one last look down the alley and got inside.

'Where to?'

'East Hollywood,' she said. 'Make a left, then left again at Western --’

He cut her off: ‘Cómo te llamas, Senorita?’ 

'Ana.'

'What a lovely name. You know, my grandmother was called Ana too,' he said in Spanish. 'East Hollywood it is.' He put the gear shift in drive. Saw her smile all awkward in the rear-view.

Past her head, her fella headed into the alley looking for her. He saw the car but by then it was already too late.

The killer drove off. 

© J. A. Stapleton 2025 - Image Source: Wikimedia Commons