The Road to Nowhere Special - Chapter II

II

I turned back to the bar and ordered myself another drink, but thought the better of it, so I paid and left. There was a pleasant hubbub to the place now, smoky swirls in the air and all. A couple of guys were standing out the front, I think one was called Herschel, I asked them where the girl had gone and he said she had caught a taxi to the scene. Bit of a dumb question though, seeing as it was New Year’s Eve, I checked the time and realised it was quarter past twelve, I wished myself a happy new year instead then ran to the parking lot.

            The next I knew, I was in my car, had struck a match, lit a cigarette and was cruising in the direction of Hollywood Boulevard. You see, the guy that came up with the façade of the City of Angels, obviously hadn’t visited since the Bronze Age. If you stop for a moment and take a good hard look at what is going on around you – you will be bed ridden for a week. Girls as young as fourteen, leap from the buses, you’d check the next alley a fortnight later, and see the same girl blowing a visual effects supervisor with no pecker for a cameo role. Talk about tripping the light fantastique.

            A half hour later I drew alongside a curb and parked illegally. Checking my wallet for cash, I ducked into the Chicago Confetti Club, something Benny Siegel had recently erected in memory of a certain Alphonse Capone. Here in this place of  phosphorous splendour do gangsters and politicians, directors and paedophiles, movie stars and cops buy each other a drink while Mimi Dubose lulls us with her melodies of love and war. So a dive.

            You see they call us cops for a reason, we cop free butts, we cop drinks and hell – depending on how little your girlfriend loves you, a feel too. That evening I only copped two, but somebody else didn’t. And that’s when I saw her.

She was occupied, her arm interlinked with some other spineless piece of shit. Vernon Attwell. I put him away for assault beef three years back. He was completely innocent but that’s not the point – I couldn’t catch him for pushing on the street. It seems that Siegel’s guys hadn’t got to him in the can as I had originally predicted.       

I remember thinking that would have to change.

I found my usual stool, parked myself on it, and ordered myself another bourbon. The usual lady poured my drink. A colored girl with this fantastical smile, bright cheeks and eyes and a cracking set of… well – yeah. Serve her up to me over Rita Hayworth any day of the week. She smiled, raised a cigarette to her lips and permitted me to light it for her.

            “All right doll?”

            “Detective.” She teased. “Please, I’m on-duty.”

            “Then just the one for you and another two for me.” I peeled off a fist of singles and laid them out on the bar.

            “Jake. What am I gonna do with you?”

            “Not now, you can tell me later over dinner.” I said.

She winked. “I’ll think about it.” And attended to another drunk, leaving the notes as they were.

            I turned my back on the bar and undressed the brunette. Who was she? Why had she caught my attention more than any other girl tonight? Christ, there’s some juicy blonde in the corner and I’m eyeing up a C-note hooker. Why Lacy? Why?

            “Having a good evening sir?”

The voice jumped me. I swivelled in my seat to meet a young and handsome bartender.

            “Yeah.” I said.

            “Good, compliments of the house.” He replied.

Then he pushed over his pack of cigarettes, Lucky Strike, snap. I declined and rummaged through my pockets, I had left mine in the car. So I cadged a butt. 

            “You new here?”

            “Yup. Temp staff.”

            “Ah, not bad here.”

            “I suppose so,” he said. Then grimaced, his eyes narrowing as he gazed through the cigar smoke and mild disappointment of the evening and over to a table.

            I picked up on his trail and found Benny Sigel on the way. I smiled and thanked him for the cigarette. Without gesture he peeled his eyes from his boss and busied himself with polishing the glasses. I spun on my chair. I felt my holster for reassurance. I wanted to shoot Vernon Attwell.Her hand was on Attwell’s shoulder now, those glassy blueish grey eyes fluttered at me as she leant into him, supposedly dancing –just teasing. I looked her and then at him. Something didn’t add. It was s to do with how she was looking at me. She seemed content, but underneath, scared.

            I took a trip to the restroom, stumbled past Sigel’s table and think I found my soul on the way. Whether it was stalking her or protecting her, I don’t know – but what I did know was that we were going to talk properly. Ten minutes later I was in my car parked across the street and fumbling with my .38. There was a crack. A gunshot. I ducked down and waited for the glass to smash. It didn’t. It was a misfire from a car; oh. Attwell had bundled her into a maroon four door Chevy and gunned it. I put her into gear and stalked. I couldn’t find my Luckies so I needed to hit the drug store too.

A half hour later, standing under the streetlamp, I saw them – they were going at it. She opened the conversation and spat at him then swore at him and then slashed at him with her nails. He replied with a head-butt; the piece of shit. He tore the drapes shut and I tossed my cigarette in the gutter, checked both shoulders, and crossed over.