The Patrolman - 47

 

 

47.

 

 

 

June Hartsfield was drying her hair. She was still hot from the shower, even though she'd turned it to freezing. She felt better for it, washing out the dirt and dust from the warehouse fire. She wondered if the smoke would ever come out of her hair. Outside, Lacey and Carruthers were talking. Burned coffee and Frank Sinatra's 'I'll Never Smile Again' drifted under the door. The late morning sun streamed in through the blinds.

God, it had been a hell of a night.

After the Chief of Detectives interviewed them, Carruthers had driven to the hospital. They tried Hollywood Receiving, but it was full. He took them to Good Samaritan, where there was room, and a doctor attended to Lacey's leg.

Hartsfield didn’t visit Colm this time. A nurse on the ground floor checked her over and stitched up her chin. She told them Lacey would be some time.

'I'm going for a cigarette,' she said.

Carruthers flicked through Good Housekeeping and shrugged.

She went out front and found Elmer's gun in a bush, exactly where she'd stashed it. She looked around, saw nobody, and pocketed it. She thought about tossing it down a storm drain, but changed her mind. Something told her she might still need it. Then she smoked a cigarette and went back inside.

She dozed in a chair and woke to Carruthers’ voice. The doctor was talking about Lacey’s ankle. The doctor had set it, wrapped it in plaster and padding. He told Carruthers that Lacey should be on crutches for at least a month. Carruthers mentioned he could get the Captain to put him on light duties. The men shook hands. An orderly pushed Lacey out in a wheelchair.

As soon as they got outside, Lacey grabbed his crutches and hobbled to the car. Carruthers' ride was all beaten up. She caught a glimpse of herself in the rear-view - dry blood in her hairline, the faint tremor in her hands. The car’s engine rasped like an old smoker, but it kept moving.

The sun was rising over East Los Angeles when they got back to Inglewood. When Lacey had explained what happened, Evelyn gave her a towel and said she could freshen up.

It had been a long night. The District Attorney would meet with them at 12:30 that afternoon. 

Carruthers told her to start from the beginning. She began on the morning of December 8, 1941. She lied about the money. She left out names, places, and family details. The less they knew, the safer she’d be. Lacey kept quiet, though she said the robbery had changed her life.

She left her husband and children, lived in a cheap motel, and sniffed around dive bars. One night at the Hollywood Roosevelt, she saw a short redhead arguing with a man and a girl. She followed her outside to the pool. The woman gave her a slow smile, a Du Maurier between her fingers, and nodded to the chair beside her. They talked all night - business, money, girls.

'I don’t know what compelled me to it,' Hartsfield said, 'but I told her about the money.'

The redhead said her name was Marie Mitchell. She explained that Hartsfield couldn’t invest without working as one of her girls. They ran a tight operation, only taking vetted clients.

'Quite a system,' Carruthers remarked.

'Sure is,' Hartsfield said.

Then the redhead revealed her real name: Brenda Allen. She wanted to expand her business. Hartsfield pitched a nightclub - a classy place for the johns to meet the girls. Brenda liked it. The next morning, her boyfriend drove Hartsfield to look at potential properties. She agreed.

For a while, it worked. They had the money, the customers, and the police off their backs. Hartsfield told herself she was only managing a club - that what went on in the private room wasn’t her business. But the night Brenda handed her a list of “special guests,” she realized what she’d gotten into.

Carruthers interjected. 'So you opened the club together, then what? So far, it’s just a vice case. Why are people trying to kill you?'

'Ain’t it obvious?' Hartsfield said. 'The L.A.P.D. was in on it—they’re our investors. Moreau and Jackson ran bag for us. But higher-ups were involved too, silent partners Brenda never named. That’s why they want me dead. Brenda’s pulling in nearly five grand a day. Moreau got $50 a week.'

'The club,' Lacey said. 'What were you really doing there?'

'Blackmail,' Hartsfield said. 'The rich and famous. Everything’s in my bag in the next room.'

June Hartsfield had finished drying her hair when there was a knock at the door.

'Come in.'

It swung open, and Lacey perched in the doorway, leaning on the mantel. 'You okay?'

'Better now,' she said. 'Have a seat.'

Lacey had given up on the crutches and hobbled inside. He perched himself on the end of the bed and turned to look at her. 'Look, about what happened at the warehouse.'

'You were right, I shouldn’t’ve been there. Though I’m glad I was.'

'Me too.'

'I don’t understand why he did it, why he broke your ankle. I answered false.'

'It’s not your fault,' he said. 'It’s mine.'

Hartsfield stopped. 'You said it was true?'

'I didn’t know if you’d believe me. Nobody on the force does.'

'Of course I do. I was there.'

'No, you weren’t. Not when he fell out.'

'Did you push him?'

'No, but I might as well have. Once I got you out, I led him closer to the window. There were ten-dollar shooters on the roof opposite. I was hoping they’d get him, but then he told me everything.'

'About me?'

'No, he didn’t know anything about that. He didn’t even really know the guy you slept with. The guy approached them with the job - the robbers were just out-of-work unionists. He told me how the L.A.P.D. killed his brother when they came here during the Dust Bowl.'

'And what?'

'He made me swear I’d look into it.'

'And will you?'

'Sure, when I make Detective.'

'What happened, Jake?'

'He climbed out of the window, trying to jump to the next ledge over. Guess he figured he could climb down to the ground before the other cops broke in.'

'Then what?'

'He slipped, is what. I caught him, but I couldn’t hold him. One of the shooters blew out the window I was holding onto, and I let him go.'

'You mean you dropped him.'

'Whatever. It’s my fault.'

'You didn’t make him commit that robbery.'

'No, but I work for the people who put him there. Once I make third-grade detective, I’ll look into it.'

Hartsfield patted her leg. She wanted to tell him he already was a detective.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The hum of the wireless was the only sound between them. Hartsfield thought about the money, about Brenda, about the list of names in her bag. If she turned it over, she might live. If she didn’t, she might never get another chance.

Lacey left her to get ready. While looking for an eyebrow pencil in Evelyn's room, she left the money under her pillow. She didn’t know why she did it - guilt, gratitude, maybe all those things. Carruthers said they'd stop for breakfast on the way.

They left for Downtown a minute after.

 

 

From here, he could see the parking garage plain as day. Inside, it was dark except for the electric lamps throwing islands of yellow. There were only a few parked cars on the ground floor. Anyone coming in would show up against that light. But at this distance, it would be a duck shoot.

He slid out of the car and took the rifle off the back seat. He carried it across rough gravel to an abandoned mattress. A bedspring was sticking out of it, and there were stains. It wouldn't bother him for too long. He set the butt back a little from the edge and placed a discarded car tire under it.

Good enough.

Mr. Slate learned how to kill with a rifle in France. He thumbed the bolt open, checked the empty chamber, then slid a charger into the top of the magazine. Ten .303s snapped in. The Lee-Enfield’s bolt clicking smooth.

He bent down and set the rifle on the tire, then stepped back behind it. He lined himself up and crouched, knelt, and lay out full length. He snuggled the stock into his shoulder. Eased his neck left and right and looked around. It felt like he was in the middle of nowhere.

There were many abandoned lots like these in Downtown. The city didn’t bother fixing them up. It made sense that the homeless gravitated toward here. But with that, crime went up, and so did the number of Hoovervilles. No wonder there weren't many cars parked in that garage. Who would feel safe leaving it here between the hours of nine and five? But he'd answered his own question. Government employees, of course. It would be cheaper to park here than in the built-up areas closer to their offices.

Mr. Slate ducked his head. Closed his right eye and moved his left eye to the scope. He draped his right hand over the barrel and pressed down and back. Solid. Well, as solid as it could be with an old tire under it. He spread his legs and turned his feet out so they were flat on the mattress. Drawing his right leg up a little, he dug the sole of his shoe into the protruding bedspring.

In his peripheral vision, he saw a flash of red. A maroon car accelerated into the parking garage and pulled into a center spot. It faced away from him. The occupants sat inside for a few minutes before getting out to stretch their legs. He recognized the two detectives who had arrived at Barclay's mansion. And there he was, Jake Lacey.

Lacey got out of the front passenger seat and shut the door behind him. He looked around, sniffed the air. Satisfied, he turned and popped the rear door. June Hartsfield, the woman he was there to kill, slid out the back. He could take her right there, right now. But he waited.

This job was all about sending a message. He never killed women or children. If he had, he would have retired on a small fortune from jealous husbands alone. But his boss had him cornered, and this time, he would have to make an exception. Never again. 'For Nora,' he told himself.

Yes, he would wait. Wait until the District Attorney himself arrives and pop her there. That would have the desired effect.

Another car drove in, blocking his view. This must be him. Three tall men got out of it. He figured the one wearing glasses was the D.A. They joined June Hartsfield and the detectives, keeping their backs to him.

Mr. Slate acquired the target. June Hartsfield looked close enough to touch. The woman. That woman from the club. Madre Jalisco herself, he thought. That felt so long ago now. If he hadn't taken that job, he wouldn't be in this mess. He gazed through the scope at her. She was beautiful. He laid the reticle where the two strokes of the X met. He positioned his crosshairs smack in the middle of her face.

He squeezed the slack out of the trigger and tried to relax. Breathed in. Breathed out. He could feel his heart and the morning's caffeine. Surging through his veins. The X was dancing all over her face. Hopping and jerking. Left and right, up and down. He closed both eyes. Willed his heart to stop pumping. He breathed out and kept his lungs empty, one Mississippi, two Mississippi. Then again, in, out, hold. He pulled all his energy downward, into his gut. Let his shoulders slacken and his muscles relax.

He opened his eye again and saw that the reticle was still. He stared into June Hartsfield’s pretty face, and pulled the trigger.