The Patrolman - 32

32.

Mr. Slate hung up the payphone and headed back to his apartment building. The meeting was set for an hour. If there was traffic, the drive might take forty-five minutes. He had plenty of time. They had used Santa Monica Pier a couple of times before. With all the tourists around, nobody would notice them.

Through one of the apartment windows, he smelled a buttery crust with cumin and smoke. Seared meat, sweet onions, someone's breakfast. Empanadas. His stomach growled but he had to get on the road.

He waited for a limousine to pass and crossed Yucca Street to his apartment. It looked drab in the morning light. The five-story brick building was painted green at the front and back. An “ABSOLUTELY FIREPROOF” sign stuck on the side in twelve-foot-high letters. Mr. Slate went up the half dozen concrete steps and entered the lobby. The fossil at the desk chewed an extinguished cigar, staring at him. Saying nothing.

Upstairs, he opened his bedroom door and found Nora fast asleep. She looked peaceful now. It wouldn’t last. He knew a little about heroin withdrawal. She still had to go through the shakes and sickness. He told himself he'd get the meeting over with and be back to check on her. Pronto. He didn't want to leave her here again, but he had no choice. He told himself he'd make it up to her later. Might treat them both to a trip to Bob's Big Boy in Burbank. Nora stirred, rolling onto her side, and dragging the comforter with her.

He thought of his daughter and smiled. He never could understand how girls could sleep that long. Mr. Slate closed the door and took a thick envelope from the kitchen.

It took him a little more than thirty minutes to get down to the coast. There had been zero traffic. The sun had risen over the City and the Pacific Ocean was a magnificent turquoise. The air tasted of salt and motor oil. Latin music blared from cafes and young people wandered up and down the boardwalk. He parked his car under the pier and climbed the stairs onto the boardwalk. Like a back porch, the floorboards creaked under his feet. You'd never guess it was a Monday morning with a War in full swing. It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for.

An ice cream truck.

There was still a line even though it was morning. The driver was selling bottles of soda. A few ice cream cones, here and there. He joined the line and waited his turn.

The driver was crammed into the truck, his shoulders bunched under the window. He looked like he was about to burst out of it.

Mr. Slate checked both shoulders for cops and didn't see any. The driver did the same and straightened up. Well, as much as he could in the confined space.

He took the fat envelope out of his pocket and slid it across the counter.

‘You've been busy,’ the ice cream guy said.

‘I have,’ he said. ‘That there's the rest of what I owe the old man. His debt's settled.’

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Now you can start making real money, less the old man's commission.’

‘I'm out,’ he said.

‘What?’

As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew that's what he wanted. If the last couple of days had taught him anything, he was getting far too old for this kind of work. It was made for the gun-for-hires, the mob hitters, and the button men. No longer for old bastards like him. Getting grouchier with age and starting to get sloppy with their work. He'd worked for years without being seen. He'd used his skin color to his advantage. Nobody had looked at him twice.

Except for those cops. Except for the girl.

He could no longer be Mr. Slate - the myth. The guy who was worse than the Grim Reaper. The guy you never saw and, if you did, you were dead. He was approaching his mid-forties and fifty would be somewhere on the way. After that, there'd be no market for old bastards like him. No, he'd decided. It would be safer for everyone involved if he walked away now. He had some money stashed. About $20,000 - not amazing money. But it would last in the Caribbean or south of the border.

‘You heard me right,’ he said.

‘What'll you do?’

‘Retire,’ he said. ‘Like anyone else.’

The ice cream guy tried to push the envelope to him but he shook his head.

‘Don't. That's his money. Not mine. Consider that the debt settled. Phil's debts cleared.’

Phil - his former partner. He was thinking of him more and more these days.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘We'll miss you. I have to say, though, the old man won't be happy. He ain't best pleased with you as it stands.’

‘And why's that?’

‘You ain't read the Herald this morning then, huh?’

He got back to his apartment soon after. He gunned it back with Cab Calloway on the car radio. The horns and trumpets built something up in him. Again, Mr. Slate took the stairs. This time he saw the usual Mexican cleaner on the stairs. She cleaned the downstairs lobby and vacuumed the hallway on his floor. He'd offered her coffee a few times, but she'd declined. Management would go berserk if they found her taking a break on the company dime. He doffed his hat and ran up the stairs.

When he entered his apartment, he didn't need to put his key in the lock. The door hung ajar. He came in and called out for Nora. Nothing. No reply. He checked the apartment over. She had taken a shower and one of the dresses he had hung up in his dresser had gone.

He found a copy of the Herald lying open on the bed. What the ice cream guy had warned him about. It was open on the page about William Barclay Jr. Agnes Underwood had indeed run it. She hadn't used the pictures but had mentioned them coming from a reliable source. He rechecked the apartment and his sock drawer. He kept his petty cash in his sock drawer. There was some money missing. Not that $50 was petty cash.

He headed back down to the lobby and asked the cleaner if she'd seen where the girl had gone.

The old woman looked him up and down like she was suspicious of him. Wondering what a man of his age was doing with a girl like that.

Mr. Slate pressed her. ‘Please,’ he said.

She rolled her eyes and set her mop and bucket to one side. ‘I saw her,’ she said. ‘She got on a bus around twenty minutes ago.’ She took a cloth from her apron and polished a brass doorknob. She shook her head. ‘She ain’t comin’ back.’

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