The Patrolman - 46

 

 

46.

 

 

 

Elmer V. Jackson caught it on the car radio.

'-last night at approx. 11:30, U.S. Army and Navy brass declared the City of Los Angeles off-limits to military personnel. This comes after widespread clashes with Mexican gangs. The total cost of the damage is still unknown. First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt issued this statement:

"It is a racial protest. I have been worried for a long time about the Mexican racial situation. It is a problem with roots going a long way back, and we do not always face these problems as we should."

'The public is urged to notify police of any further disturbances. KHJ has contacted Mayor Bowron for comment.'

Jackson killed the radio. Nobody said it, but everyone knew it: we had the beaners running for the border.

The drive ran smooth. No traffic. The boulevards empty. He rolled down the window. Cold air juked the Benzedrine. Thirty-two hours without sleep makes you slow and soft. Jackson gulped air and tossed his cigarette.

He parked. He got out and stretched. Madre Jalisco's doors swung open for him.

The joint looked ready for a refurb. The Negro on the door told him to head upstairs. When he knocked on the door marked "Private", he took off his hat.

'In here,' a woman said.

The room and bar were empty.

'No, in here.'

He opened two small doors to his left and crouched under. An attic. A crawlspace with wood beams. He headed over to a woman in a chair with her back to him.

'Ms. Allen?'

'Come around.'

He climbed around and clocked the two-way class cut into the floor. There was a man with a tripod and a movie camera on it.

His first thought was her legs. They were the legs of a twenty-year-old stripper, a hundred feet long, every inch a promise. L.A.'s top madam. Christ, Moreau had got it all wrong.

Allen was a sultry-looking redhead. He'd had one before, but not her. She might've been a couple of years older. But from the moment he clapped eyes on her, he had to have her.

'What's shaking?'

Allen uncrossed her legs and crossed them again. 'We're adding another swinging dick to my collection.'

Jackson looked down. They were observing a four-poster bed with no cover. A couple was going at it. The girl was on top - facing away - bored stiff. The John was on his way to heaven.

'Is that-'

Brenda Allen smiled. 'That's him.'

'Jesus, you'd never guess-'

'Where's Liam?'

The name slipped him. Liam? He forgot his partner's real name. He stalled. 'We had a problem.'

'Lay it on me.'

'The June situation escalated. We went to grab her, but she had a gun and-'

'Where's Liam?'

Jackson lowered his voice. 'I'm sorry, he didn't make it.'

Allen's mask didn't crack, though she removed her sunglasses and uncrossed her legs. 'Nixon, I need to make a phone call. Get what you need and pack everything up.' She rose, and Jackson followed her out.

On the walk, he thought about Moreau.

'Call it in. I need an ambulance.'

'Sorry, partner,' Jackson had said, folding a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. He reached down with the handkerchief in his hand and took hold of Moreau's neck.

Moreau's last word had been - 'Why?'

'Just business.' He had squeezed and wrenched, watching the light go out of his partner's eyes. When the black-and-whites rolled up, Jackson had said, 'He didn't make it.'

Now there was a warrant out for June Hartsfield.

Brenda Allen needed to hear it from him, not the papers. She led him over to the bar. Jackson helped himself to a weak highball. The Benzedrine edge dulled.

'I'll take over his routes,' he said. 'Anything I can do to help.'

She lit a Du Maurier and sighed. 'I'll pay you $50 a week. If you handle a little trouble on the side, I'll goose it. Do we have a deal?'

They shook.

He apologized again, and she waved him off.

Before he closed the door, he heard her on the horn: 'It's me. I've got a problem. I want your best guy. I want Mr. Slate.’

 

 

 

The hills beyond Hollywood sat pale and hard at first light. On his side of town, there were no trees and no shade - a long strip of asphalt and gutter. Water pooled on the roof from last night's rain, little mirrors that'd steam off once the sun found them. Down on the boulevard, it was quiet. Quiet enough to hear the first Pacific Electrics cars rattle past, bound east for the Valley.

Mr. Slate finished the stub of his cigar and the dregs of his coffee. He went down the stairs.

Nora was in the kitchen when he walked in. Looked like somebody had fished her out of the ocean. Her hair still damp from last night. She bent over the stove, fixing them some coffee.

'Get dressed,' he said. 'We going out for breakfast.'

They drove downtown to The Pantry. It was a small restaurant with some tables and a row of chromium stools at the counter. A short-order cook in white and a black bowtie fired up the grill. A sleepy waitress told them they could have their pick of the place and fetched their coffee.

Mr. Slate chose a window table out of habit. The waitress poured coffee and said she'd give them a minute to decide. They didn't talk at first, squinting at the board behind the counter. Nora ordered eggs, potatoes, and toast. Mr. Slate went with biscuits and gravy with sausage, eggs, and potatoes. He hadn't eaten since the day before. The experienced waitress didn't need to write it down and headed to the kitchen.

Cars and delivery trucks drove by, heading to work. It was like every other Monday.

Nora broke the silence. 'I want to apologize for all the trouble I've caused. I didn't mean to-'

'Forget it,' he said. 'You're an adult. Part of that is being able to live with your decisions.'

A mother passed with her stroller.

'You didn't have to help me,' she said. 'You could've left me there.'

'Don't matter. What matters is you safe now. Nobody's gonna come looking for you. You're free. You can go anywhere, you can be anyone. You can start all over again.'

His coffee was bitter - he added some sugar to take the edge off.

'What are you gonna do?'

'Nothin' much. I need to skip town. Somewhere quiet where no one asks any questions.' He'd done it before, and he could do it again.

'But you'll be alone.'

'I've always been by myself,' he said. 'I'll be fine.'

'I don't like the thought of that,' she said.

'Some folks like their own company.'

The waitress returned with their plates piping hot. She topped up Mr. Slate's coffee. The girl hadn't touched hers.

'What about your daughter?' Nora asked.

'She don't mind. Live with her mother anyhow.'

'Well, I do.'

Mr. Slate tucked into his breakfast. The girl started on her coffee.

'I got you a little something,' she said. 'It's not much. But I wanted to thank you for everything you've done.'

Mr. Slate set down his knife and fork. 'I was happy to help.'

'It was a lot more than that,' she said. She reached into her purse and took out something wrapped in a scrap of paper. It was small. When she set it down on the table, Mr. Slate saw it was an old War medal. The bronze was dull, and the ribbon frayed.

'The guy I bought it from said they didn't award many of these to your kind. I figured you deserved a hundred of them.'

He turned it in his fingers. 'You didn't need to,' he said, but his voice sounded tired. Down in the pit of his stomach, something stirred. He wrinkled his nose to stop it.

'I did,' she said, reaching over the table and taking his hand.

They ate slow. Nora started picking at potatoes. Her color returned a little with the food. Mr. Slate finished his plate and pushed it away. He thought about the weeks ahead. About how easy it would be for her to walk away at any time. How hard would it be for him to let her?

'Where you going?'

'Anywhere,' he said. 'Maybe Mexico, somewhere I can lay low.'

'I've got a proposition,' she said. 'I'm not saying it's permanent, but, if you'll have me. I'd like to come with you. If things change or you get bored with me, that's fine. I'll go. No hard feelings.'

He studied her. What was he doing, with a girl like her? Why did she want to come with a lonely old bastard like him. It'd been years since he had company. 'You mean that?'

'Why wouldn't I?'

She ate the rest of her breakfast in silence, finishing half of it.

'All right. Just for the time being. If you wanna go back home to your folks, I'll take you. Deal?'

'Deal.' Her smile was small, but bright. It was the first time he'd seen her smile like that.

He asked for the check. The waitress blushed at his tip. He finished his coffee. 'We can stop at your apartment if there's anything you need.'

She shook her head. 'I've got everything I need.'

They walked to the car, and Mr. Slate held open the door for her. There, three parked cars behind, the ice cream truck. He told Nora he'd be a minute.

The big guy sat hunched behind the wheel, watching him. When he tapped on the glass, the big guy pointed a thumb to the back. Mr. Slate walked around, slow. The window was open, but there was nobody else there.

'Hullo?'

'It’s me,' a voice said from down below, hidden.

'What you want? We're through.'

'No, we ain't. You owe me for the girl. One more job and we're square.'

'And what if I don't?'

'Nothing now. Might not be tomorrow or the week after. But one day, when she's least expecting it. That young girl'll be walking down an alley and be dead before she hits the floor.'

His gut filled with something black and cold. 'How much? I've got money in my apartment. Meet me there and we'll settle up.'

'Your money's no good, Sam. I need you. One last job and we're done.'

Mr. Slate looked up the street. Nora waved to him from the passenger seat. He thought about her lying in the street with two bullets in the back of her head. 

'You swear?'

'On the souls of my grandchildren.'

Mr. Slate looked back and waved to her.

Nora swung her legs around and shut the car door.

'Fine,' he said.

The voice told him Bobby would fill him in. Mr. Slate walked around to the driver's side. The big guy gave him an envelope. Inside was a piece of paper with the address of a parking garage and a photograph.

He looked at the picture and saw the face of a woman. A beautiful middle-aged white woman. He felt like he'd seen her before.

'Take a rifle with you,' the big guy said. 'Our guy told us the cops are handing her over to the District Attorney.'

Mr. Slate looked between the picture and his car.

'You'll do it?'

He committed the picture and address to memory and handed the envelope back. He felt the metal in his pocket.

'I ain't got a choice,' he said.