The Patrolman - 24


By J. A. Stapleton
- 150 reads
24.
Mr. Slate dropped to the floor for his evening workout. It helped him think straight. Ten of everything - press-ups, sit-ups, squats, squat-thrusts, burpees, and star jumps. He used a chair for step-ups, ten on each leg. He'd learned that routine after spending a week in jail. Watching men carve muscle from nothing in six-by-eight cells. The repetition cleared his mind and kept him sharp.
The brown envelope sat on the Formica-topped kitchen table. He wasn't ready to deal with it yet. The girl could decide when she woke up. He'd never met anyone who could sleep so long. To pass the time, he shaved, ironed his clothes, and played a few hands of solitaire. The apartment hummed with the kind of silence that sticks to a man who'd lived alone for too long. He put his feet up on the other chair and rested his eyes.
'Hey.'
He opened them. The girl stood near the table, her round cheeks softening her features. A narrow bridge led to a small, button nose. Thick lashes framed deep brown eyes, holding something close to concern. Her olive skin bore the tan you get from years in the sun. He caught himself before he startled. 'Christ, how long've I been out?'
'A while,' she said.
He ran a hand over his face. Dreams clung to him - his wife, his daughter. Their faces blurred at the edges, slipping further away each time. A train rattled. A map in Grand Central station. A man in the desert, smiling, climbing onto a flatbed truck.
'Who's Phil?' she asked. She wandered over to the cupboards, opening one, then another. His bathrobe trailed on the floor.
'What?'
'You said Phil in your sleep. Is he your son?'
'Phil was my partner.'
'Where is he now?'
'I don't know.'
That conversation ended there. She fixed scrambled eggs and coffee for dinner. More pepper than he would’ve used, but he didn’t mind.
When they finished, she cleared the table and thanked him for getting her things. The envelope with the photos was gone. Mr. Slate didn’t ask where. Instead, he smiled. 'No problem.'
She washed the dishes. 'Anyone else live here?'
'Naw.'
'Guess that's good. No awkward questions.’
'You got any folks?' he asked.
'Everybody does, I guess. At least one.'
'Where are they now?'
'Where they've always been. Albuquerque.'
A lie. He'd found a letter in her purse before he ditched it. Her mother had written from Hobson. She was staying with her sister, working in a munitions factory. He let it slide.
'What were you doing in Hollywood?'
'Acting, I guess. Had a walk-on in The Magnificent Ambersons. You ever see it?'
'Can't say I have.'
'It's a swell movie. Orson Welles wrote, starred, and directed it.'
Mr. Slate knew the rest. A girl off the bus from nowhere, chasing a dream. Somebody promising her an audition. It might've been Barclay. It might've been her roommate. It might've been someone worse. That Hollywood dream never shakes out the way they expected. He could see the needle marks on her ankles.
She saw him looking.
He went to the bedroom and came back with two bundles of cash. She was sitting at the table now. He set them down in front of her. 'This ought to be enough.'
Her eyes lit up, but the corners of her mouth faltered as if caught between a smile and a frown. Her fingers brushed over the table's edge, but she didn't take the bills. She looked back at him, searching his face: 'What?'
'To get you back to your folks,' he said. 'I've got something to do in the morning. You can have the bed. I'll take the chair.'
Her lips pressed tight. 'Why are you helping me? You don't even know my name. I can't take this.'
'I want you to.'
She went to the door and hesitated. 'Nora,' she said. 'What do I call you?'
'Sam's fine.'
She turned to leave.
'Your friend,' he said. 'I'm sorry for what happened.'
© J. A. Stapleton 2025 - Image Source: Wikimedia Commons
- Log in to post comments