The Patrolman - 41

 

 

41.

 

 

 

The kid lay half-naked outside his door. Face down. Might've been dead. Might've got hit, dumped here. It didn't matter. She was still breathing when Mr. Slate got to her.

Her stuff lay scattered by her head. Crumpled bills, worn. A length of fraying plastic cord. A brass door key. A small velvet jewelry pouch. A yellow scuttle fly crawled across her brow, its legs clicking. He swatted it away.

He slipped two fingers under her jaw. The pulse was weak, fluttering, all over the place. He picked up the key and let himself in. He grabbed her up off the floor and laid her on the bed.

'Nora,' he said, shaking her shoulders, feeling the tremor in her limbs.

Nothing.

He lifted an arm. It dropped over the side. Limp. Fresh red track marks shone in the dim light, raised and angry against her pale, clammy skin. Her lips were purple. Her eyelids slack, the pupils tiny black dots. Christ, he was losing her.

He’d never used the payphone in the hallway, not once. That night, he broke his own professional rule. He dialed his former employer in Westwood.

'Hullo?'

'It’s me,' he said.

A pause. 'Wrong number.'

'Fine,' he said. 'Got a crack in my tooth. Mother missed the bus to Malibu. George Washington lost Bunker Hill. Whatever the hell the password is this week.'

The man held the line. 'What you want?'

'The Doctor.'

His former employer said the Doctor'd call him back and asked for the number he was calling from. Mr. Slate gave it and hung up.

His chest felt tight, a knot twisting low in his gut. His stomach churned. He thought about her face, pale and slack, the tiny dots for pupils, the faint rasp of her breathing. He couldn't shake it. What if she didn’t make it? What if he was too late? Every second stretched, heavy and slow.

A minute later, the phone rang. He snatched it up.

'How can I help?'

'A girl, she dyin’. Looks like a heroin OD.'

'Who is she?'

'Don’t matter, ain’t got time.'

'Where are you?'

'My apartment, it's off Yucca Street…'

'I know it. You got a tub?'

'Sure.'

'Take off her clothes and put her in it. Fill the thing with ice water. That'll shock her. Enough to kickstart the breathing.'

'Okay, then what?'

'Is there a pharmacy nearby?'

'I think so.'

'Find one, get me Coramine. It won't be behind the counter - somewhere out back. Bath first, then get me as much as you can lay your hands on. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Leave your apartment unlocked.'

Mr. Slate left the phone dangling. He tore Nora’s dress off, leaving her covered only by her undergarments. He carried her to the bathroom and laid her in the tub. He cushioned her head with a soft pillow.

Next, he ran to the icebox. The block of ice was huge, the cold sticking to his fingers as he pried it loose. He put it in the tub and smashed it with a shotgun butt. Water splashed over the sides. He dropped the gun. She convulsed when he ran the cold faucet.

Breathing. Faint. But breathing.

Nora curled up, teeth chattering, arms over her chest. That’d have to do.

The street outside was wild with panic. Curtains pulled back, faces peering. Convoys of taxis rolling east - five, ten, twenty. The engines rattled, horns blared. Navy sailors. Semper Fortis. Prowl cars and plainclothes cops packed twelve-gauge pumps. Two cabs of sailors got out and swarmed his apartment building.

Who tipped ‘em off?

Mr. Slate needed firepower. He'd left his shotgun in the bathroom.

Glass exploded. Shards sprayed across the floor. A bluesuit shot through a window. The blowback knocked him flat. The curtain blew out in rags and flames. There were men screaming.

He couldn’t hear himself breathe. He was breathing the way a dead man does.

The navy poured through the hole in the window. The cops held back. No sirens.

A tall cop with a beer gut called the shots.

The entrance flung wide. White suits marched three Mexicans out onto the sidewalk. Mr. Slate had seen the kids around. They were construction hands for one of the movie studios. The cops pulled saps. The sailors went to work on them with boots, chains, and billy clubs. One cop punched a kid, using handcuffs for brass knuckles.

A sailor suckered one in the balls. In return, the Mexican knocked him out. They stripped him down to his underpants. Another sailor got revenge. He lifted a steel trashcan lid, swinging it like a hammer, pounding the man half to death.

When they were done, they brought the other sailor around. They kicked the Mexicans into the street and headed east along Yucca Street.

No way he was getting in his car. The pharmacy he needed was where they were going. He needed a plan, and fast. He headed in the opposite direction.

Mr. Slate patted his back and forgot that he'd already ditched the gun from earlier.

He had to get going, and he had better tread carefully.