The Patrolman - 48

 

 

48.

 

 

 

'Well, I ain't paying you twenty cents for twenty minutes,' Carruthers said.

To June Hartsfield, the man in the toll booth looked like he’d led a tough life. His bald head shining under the lamp, eyes sunk deep in a weathered face, jaw set like concrete. Heavy around the middle, slow on the draw, patience worn to the nub.

'Sir, that’s the rate. No thirty-minute stays. It’s twenty cents for the first hour, fifteen cents each hour after that. Whole day, until closing, tops out at sixty-five.'

'I'm a cop.'

'And I'm the parking attendant. You're free to park anywhere else, sir. But if you choose to park here, and you want to drive away, it's twenty cents.'

She stifled a laugh. Even from the back seat, she could see how red Carruthers was getting.

'What if I were with the District Attorney's office?'

'What if you were?'

'Do they pay to park here?'

'No, sir. They don't. Their parking's validated.'

'But we're here to meet with them. Surely that covers us?'

'Sir, you’re free to walk to their office and get a stamp for every hour you park here.'

'We're not going to their office,' Carruthers said. 'We're meeting them here.'

'Then that’s out of my hands. But it’ll cost you twenty cents for the privilege.'

'You're kidding?'

'No, sir. I am not. Now, if that's all, I'd like to get back to my book.'

Carruthers swore and jammed the car into first.

‘You have a nice day now.’

The guy drew out the word “nice” like he meant the opposite.

Carruthers gunned it into the garage, cursing all the way. He jolted and swerved and braked sharp. Lacey leaned in, trying to calm him down.

June Hartsfield thought about what was going to happen. She had no problem talking. She would tell it all - Brenda Allen, the cops on the take, the whole chain of payoffs and lies. She had to make this deal. Maybe it would buy her old life back.

But she would miss her things. Her house by the sea. White walls, red roof tiles, a turret full of books. A narrow path cut across the wet lawn. The morning sun that made it shine. Her shelves of books. Her money tucked away there. Not much, but enough. She didn’t know when she would get it back. The rest she had left under Evelyn Lacey's pillow, her little thank you.

'I need a cigarette,' Carruthers said, getting out of the car and stretching his legs.

Lacey went for his door, but Hartsfield caught his shoulder.

'Jake.'

He turned.

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. 'Thank you,' she said. 'For everything.'

He flushed and waved it off. Like a gentleman, he got out and held open her door.

The parking garage stank of oil and wet concrete. Cold air blew down her neck. She'd have preferred the roof, a little sun on her bones before they boxed her in some office and wrung her out on tape.

If this deal held, William and Deborah could visit. She’d have to work, sure, but she could swing a small and clean place to live. Someplace warm. She’d never last in somewhere like Alaska. Hartsfield could say she had a medical condition. She’d keep her money quiet, though. Best not to let them take the little she had left.

'That's them,' Carruthers said.

A navy Mercury blew into the garage and parked opposite. Three tall men got out. The one with spectacles spread his hands.

'John,' Carruthers said. 'Where's the D.A.? You told me he was coming down.’

'He sends his apologies. The City Council called an urgent meeting.'

'Couldn't his lunch wait? We haven't slept. My guy's got a busted ankle, and he made it here.'

Hartsfield shoved the leather bag down hard on the concrete so they’d see her. The thud made Specs turn his head.

'Is this her?'

'Yeah, I'm her,' Hartsfield said, flat.

Specs smiled thin. 'Pleased to meet you. On behalf of the District Attorney's office, I'd like to thank you for your cooperation.'

'You're welcome,' she said. She didn't dig him. Not one bit.

'Are these the books?' He nodded at the bag. 'May I?'

Carruthers chimed in. 'Names, dates, numbers, takings. It's all there. Your whole case in black and white.'

Hartsfield bent to lift the bag. Something hot spattered her hair. Soup-hot, not sticky. She looked up to see Specs clutching his chest. Her deal. Her kids’ faces flashed through her mind.

'June, get down!'

A flurry of gunshots rang out.

 

 

Lacey dropped over June Hartsfield, making himself a shield. He covered what he could.

Gunfire tore through the parking garage. The two men from the D.A.’s office dived behind their Plymouth. The Deputy D.A. clutched his chest, eyes already glassing.

He looked down at Lacey.

The round had punched through his back and blown out the front. His lungs were filling. He was drowning in his own blood.

A second shot cracked. Bone and brain matter sprayed across the concrete. Hartsfield wouldn't be able to make a deal now. The deal died with him.

'Stay there,' Carruthers cried.

Lacey couldn't see him. But he could hear the bark of Carruthers’ .45 coming from behind the Lincoln. He was aiming low, across the empty lot. That meant the shooter was prone. Hartsfield's wasn't going to last out here. He had to move her. He flexed his foot and ankle, the muscles screaming, the joint hot and tight. He shoved it to the back of his mind. She had to move.

One of the D.A.'s men panicked. He leaned over the Plymouth's hood and cut loose, emptying all six shots in the same direction. Useless. A beat later, a bullet caught him in the shoulder. The impact spun him sideways, dumping him on the asphalt. Alive, but wounded. His partner stayed down. He knew better.

'When I start shooting,' Carruthers said. 'Take her and run. I'll keep him busy.'

Lacey rolled off Hartsfield. Her mascara streaked his shirt in black smudges. She looked up and nodded. Her jaw was set, but her eyes said she might break.

'Now!'

Carruthers laid down fire. Lacey waited until the second shot. He yanked Hartsfield to her feet and pulled her toward the entrance ramp.

'The bag,' she said, digging in her heels.

'Forget it,' he said. 'It ain't worth your life.'

'It is my life,' she said.

He didn't answer. He dragged her on. Each step on the concrete sent the ankle screaming in protest, a hot, jagged throb that made him want to collapse. The pain flared like fire along the cast. He forced himself to ignore it, dragging her past the line of fire.

Halfway to the toll booth, Lacey spotted the old codger crouching behind the counter. The man’s eyes were wide, shining with fear. He looked like he'd already accepted what was coming.

Carruthers's gun went dry. The pause to reload was all it took. The sniper's round punched through the toll booth, and the old man's face went with it. Glass spiderwebbed from where it entered, and the whole booth collapsed. Leaving nothing to hide behind.

'We have to go back!' Hartsfield screamed, yanking him back toward the Lincoln.

Carruthers had reloaded and was up again, his gun arm straight. Trained on the shooter. He didn't last. A wild shot blew off the Lincoln's side mirror. Carruthers dropped back down, unhurt except from his pride.

They hit another stop. To the left, a stairwell door stood open. He yelled at her to make a run for it. Lacey shoved Hartsfield through, keeping his back turned to the shooter. His scalp prickled, every step waiting for the round that would finish him. The ankle shrieked with every move, the pain burning hot in the cast. Limping, staggering, cursing under his breath. But he forced himself forward, sheer will holding him upright.

Then a revolver echoed through the garage. Lacey ducked around the doorframe and into the dark.

 

 

Mr. Slate cursed himself. He should've dropped her when he had the shot. He counted in his head and realized he only had five rounds left.

The crosshair jittered like a jackrabbit. He couldn't waste a single bullet now. There were five people left out of a possible seven. He had to end this quick before more came running.

A head bobbed up. Mr. Slate breathed slow, and held it in his chest. He lined the reticle - one Mississippi, two Mississippi. The man hunkered down. Then the cop he didn't like popped up behind the red car and sent two rounds into a mound of dirt a yard to his left. Their shots were getting closer.

Time to move.

The nearest man sprang from cover. Too late. Mr. Slate felt the Enfield kick and the man folded like a cheap suit. There was a puff of pink mist. Four bullets, four to go. 

He grabbed up his rifle and bounded across the lot, gravel spitting. The man in the toll booth didn't move. Mr. Slate took cover and swung around a column. Shards exploded in his face, he fired blind. Three bullets left. He needed another gun. He made a break for the nearest car and took cover.

A blood trail marked the D.A.’s man. He sat low against the bumper, low enough to see Mr. Slate. He took a breath, hurling himself around the trunk and firing at him. The first round clanged off the gas tank. Mr. Slate landed on his side and fired again. The second shot found his chest, steer answered, and the man slumped with his chest blown inward.

That left the cop.

He could only rush him. He ran for the red car, the cop pushing up with his piece low. Mr. Slate planted his feet, heaved the Enfield like a tomahawk. It struck the cop clean in the face. A cheap move, but it worked. Blood ran down his nose.

The cop lunged, trying to fight through it. Mr. Slate dove across the hood, drove a fist into his gut, and smashed his head into the metal. He scrambled for his gun.

Mr. Slate kicked it away and drove a boot under the man's chin. He lifted into the air and went limp, crumpled on his side. Out cold.

He scooped the gun up breathing hard. It was a Colt 1911, the same he'd used in the War. There were three shots in the magazine with one round chambered. Enough for two in the head a piece.

Mr. Slate eased toward the stairwell, gun leveled, feet soundless on the concrete. Pressing his back to the wall, he listened. Nothing. As he moved toward the stairs, three cracks filled the air. Then four more. The gun clicked - empty.

‘It’s locked,' he heard Lacey yell above.

Right where he wanted them.

Mr. Slate started up, but a steel fire extinguisher came crashing down. Its cylinder clanging, then spewing a thick, white froth into the stairwell. He tried to kick the thing away, but the chemical mist rolled heavy and bitter, stinging his eyes. He hit the wall and lost his balance, coughing. He looked back and couldn't see where he came in.

But he knew where up was, and he took the stairs, one slow step at a time. The gun went first. He listened for feet, for breath, for the slightest mistake.

 

The smoke rose up the stairs. They were on the landing between the fifth and sixth flights. Someone had locked the door to the roof. There was no way out. Every step on that concrete made his ankle throb.

Lacey reached into his pocket for another clip. Both magazines were gone. Last night had cost him. Every shot, every mistake.    The shooter would be coming up the stairs. He pulled June Hartsfield in close, bracing against the pulse of agony in his foot, and waited for death to come.

Something solid pressed against his palm. A .38 revolver, taped around the grip, hammer, and trigger. He turned to look at her.

June Hartsfield still looked alive, still sharp, even though she was a mess. 'It's okay,' she said.

He opened the cylinder and saw a single bullet in the chamber. He snapped it shut and pulled the hammer. 'Stay there,' he said.

The smoke thinned. A figure crested the stairs. He knew who it was - the waiter from Barclay's house. Black. Tall. Broad-shouldered. About 185 pounds. Every step measured. Every move deliberate. A wall of muscle and menace.

The stairwell was a stage. Smoke curled around them. Only a few steps separated them. The man’s back was straight, his aim deliberate. Nothing could obstruct his shot.

'You,' Lacey said.

'Officer Lacey.'

'You were very collected in front of Barclay's house.'   

'I was gonna say the same thing.'

'Did you pretend to be me? On the phone at Sabella's apartment?'

Lacey could smell Hartsfield's perfume.

'Yeah,' the man said. 'I did.'

'What happened to the other girl, Valdez?'

'You'll never know.'

Hartsfield cut in. 'You were at the club. You met with Barclay. I saw you.'

The shooter nodded.

'You killed him,' Lacey said. 'Why?'

'You don't wanna know. But I'm here to do a job.'

When he raised his gun, Lacey was ready. He pushed Hartsfield back and dove into the wall with her. The move sent his ankle screaming. The black flash of the revolver and the snap of their triggers collided in the smoke.

Blood spattered on the wall. The man crumpled backward, a final flash of red, it was over. The shot had found its mark. He was done.

Lacey spun to Hartsfield, checking her over.

'Are you hurt?'

'Fine,' she said. Eyes darting down the stairwell. 'Jake, watch out.'

 

 

June Hartsfield took a step and stopped.

Something hit her in the chest, like a fist. The landing seemed to tilt beneath her. She knew it was flat, but now it leaned. The walls leaned. The stairs leaned. The air itself seemed to drain of color.

Black and white swallowed everything, leaving only a few splashes. The yellow of a lamp. The blue of a floor sign. And the red of her own blood, blooming across her dress, spreading over her chest where the bullet had struck before it could reach Jake. She had stepped in front of him.

It felt like she was looking at the world from very far away. Jake Lacey had stopped. Turned. He was screaming. But no sound came.

The stairwell tilted again, as if upside down. Why was Lacey screaming? Why couldn’t she move? She tried to speak, but nothing came out.

Fear crept in. No pain, just certainty that she had been hurt. A red circle spread across the floor, widening. She tried to call Jake. Her mouth opened, and a voice came - distant, hollow.

And then she saw Lacey kneeling over her, and she knew that everything had gone wrong. Sad, understanding, as if he had always known this day would come. She had to tell him - she had to tell him about her brother. But two figures appeared over his shoulder.

The man was very handsome, dressed in filthy overalls and with a soft, sunburnt face. He looked like her brother, although he seemed to be in his sixties.

The woman, standing next to Lacey, seemed much more vulnerable. She had long, dark hair that had faded to gray. She wore a cooking apron. She knew that she was looking at her mother.

Hartsfield tried to move, but she couldn't. She wanted to hold the woman's hand, but her arms would no longer obey her. She wasn't breathing anymore, but she hadn't noticed. The woman reached out and touched her, her finger finding the small hole in her dress.

June Hartsfield closed her eyes.

And stopped breathing.

 

 

The shot was fatal. Lacey pressed down on the wound with everything he had, but there was nothing he could do. Her body sagged against his arms.

‘My b—, my br—,’ she gasped.

And then nothing. The words died on her lips. The secret died with her.

He looked down the stairwell. No sign of the shooter. Only blood smeared across the concrete and the wall. Her killer had vanished into the smoke. Wounded. Alive, definitely. He was still out there, breathing, moving.

Lacey’s chest heaved. He tasted metal and dust. Every step they’d taken together, every scrape, flashed in his mind. She had been steady, sharp, relentless, alive when he felt like nothing could be. And now she was gone.

He closed his eyes, pressed her closer, and tried to stop the shaking. Time stretched. Sirens cut through the stairwell, but they were already too late. The world had narrowed down to her body in his arms.

It was over.