The Road to Nowhere Special - Chapters III and IV

IV

 

Remember when I said that I’m the kind of guy who goes out for a quiet drink and wakes up the next morning behind the wheel… tied hood in the trunk… bullet in arm and all that. Yeah? Well… Yeah,  I suppose it topped the start of my ‘47.

            I rubbed my eyes; I was hung-over. The acrid smell of old Scotch overwhelmed me. I checked and there was a half empty bottle of liquor in the passenger seat, my gun with a bullet short of a full cylinder on the dash and a throbbing in my arm. We were parked somewhere up Hollywoodland hill. And to top it off there was a constant banging from the trunk. Taste that promotion Lacy.

            I stumbled out and ate the dirt and after a few moments found my feet. I popped open the trunk to another mouthful of filth. “You piece of shit! Who the fuck do you think you are?!”

“Detective Lacy of the Administrative Vice Squad and you’re under arrest.”

I slurred on the admin part.

            “Collared? You must be fucking kidding me. You’ve cost thirteen bucks worth of damage to my apartment, assaulted me, kidnapped me, stalked me and from the look you’re giving me, about to pistol whip me. So like fuck you can!”

 

I bowed my head and spat.

 

“I’m pressing charges,” he screeched. His chins clapped together like a seal as he bellowed.

            I helped him out, seizing him by the hair and dropping him in the dirt, then helped myself to one of his cigarettes. I un-cuffed him and promised myself I’d make it into work to-day. I checked the time. Six thirty. Just enough time to sober up.

            He stumbled out over the gravel and admired the view of the drowning city below; knowing full well he himself had contributed to the sewage problem. He took a deep breath and asked: “Now what?”

            “We’ll go for a bite to eat. Clean you up then take you to the precinct. If my guys find nothing at your place you will then be allowed to file a complaint.”

            He nodded. He was much calmer now. “OK. But about the…”

I forced my face to wrinkle into a smile and realised how damp my arm was. I shielded it and contemplated turning Attwell in: either to the law or Siegel’s guys, so those who really enforced the law. But once again, there was next to little or no evidence for the DA. If I was lucky I could have that apartment, which I vaguely remembered, turned over by some patrol dicks and “discover” a few needles, or pray the girl testified to what the Chief deemed feasible. Neither of the two choices seemed substantial so I unconsciously picked the third.

 

Attwell sighed. Reached for something. I heard the report of a gun. He stopped and turned back to me with a wet smile. He tilted and landed flat on his ass. I looked down my right arm and saw the smoking .38 bathed in the dawn. What had I fucking done. He was bleeding out, like a stuck pig, from his belly. I found myself hovering over him like some impending angel of doom to which he said:

 

 “You don’t need to do this.”

            “I do.” I snorted.

I let off another one and blew his face away. The red kiss stamped on his left cheek. I found myself back, four hours later with homicide, staring at the same corpse and trying to accumulate who had done this and why. After piecing together his background and past, the case was turned over to Vice ironically.

 

***

 

I rapped my knuckles on the pink door, heard a slight scuffle behind so waited for it to open. It tore open. Steam flared from the brunette’s nostrils.

“Ready for that drink?” I asked.

The next I knew I had been soccer punched and was in the process of taking a beating. Me and my phrasing I remember thinking. Anyhow, I raised my hands to my head, seized a moment and shoved her in through the door and up against her wall. It took a few moments. The fire in her eyes extinguished, she lowered them and turned away gesturing with her hand to let go. I did.

            “There’s the kitchen.” She said.

I helped myself and poured her one. I was feeling generous.

            “I need to ask you a few questions.”

She took a full mouthful. Swallowed it and said: “go for it.”

            “Name?”

            “Rose --”

And from the look of her, I could tell she’d been pricked. I paused the internal dialogue and continued.

            “I’m investigating the murder of a Mr. Vernon Attwell, we’ve been led to believe he was your roommate.”

“I suppose you could call it that.”

“And what could I not?”

“Well, we weren’t sleeping together.”

“There’s a relief.”

“Oh yeah? I thought I weren’t your type?”

I followed the long line of her legs, stopped licking my lips and tilted my head to the side.

“I’m practical,” I smiled.

            She returned it and held the stare. I offered her one of Attwell’s cigarettes. She accepted and blew a love heart in my face. I came to think of old Vern as cupid.

            “Any more questions detective?”

“Just two.”

“Oh yeah? Well, go on and fire away.”

“One – why did the Jew’s guys kill Attwell and not you?”

            That made her squirm.

“I suppose they didn’t like need me gone as well.”

Mistake.

“I doubt it. You see, during the last seven or eight minutes I’ve realised that Attwell slept on the couch, which makes me think you were more than roommates. But there was no sexual relationship right, so that causes me to beg the question that you were associates. Correct?”

            She took a drag off and nodded.

“So that would mean that you also had a hand in blackmailing the reckless Jew? Si?”

            She nodded again. Bingo.

“I’m gonna raise the stakes here and assume that the three colored boys in downtown last week didn’t OD on your cheap perfume?”

            No comprende.

“OK. Attwell pushed it – that’s Vice’s problem, and you were his guardian angel, you got dirt on the Jew.”

“What Jew?” She asked.

“Einstein. Now enough with the foreplay. Did you bed him?”

            I earned a slap for my subtlety.

She sat back in the chair, bit her thumb and put Attwell’s cigarette out: “and that last question before you leave?”

            “Want to fuck?” I said.

 

***

 

After a solid eight minutes of tear-jerking perfection I rolled over and plugged a cigarette between my teeth. I offered her one and cradled her cheek in my palm. She had these wild, maniacal but beautiful blue eyes that made me feel like a man. Her lips were thin and her mouth small, but she could give me a run for my money in any argument – should’ve introduced her to the ex-wife. She rolled onto her back and gazed at the ceiling.

            “I want the truth now. I want to make you safe.”

She swallowed and said nothing.

            “Rose?”

I think she stifled a tear, pulled up the sheets and let out a forced but gentle laugh.

            “But I know nothing about you,”

“I’m a local boy, born and bred in LA. My pop, a German, used to beat my Ma if she looked him the wrong way. I joined the local boxing club and put him down. I earned the Medal of Valor in the Zoot Suit riots when every other guy in the academy were scalping Nazis and raping Frau Brown’s. I like bourbon, acting reckless, beating crooks to a pulp and a gorgeous little brunette called Rose --. Your turn.”

            She sipped at her drink and sniggered: “My hair’s dyed.”

“I knew that,” I lied. She put her glass on the side and started.

“I met Vern at sixteen when I moved here from Mooresville, Indiana. I wanted to be an actress. He found me and pimped me out to his friends in return for a movie deal in the naughties. They made me up into Dona Drake, they got what they wanted and I got twenty bucks for my stand-in.”

She dabbed her eyes with the bed sheet, slid herself out the side and put her back to me. Belt scars winked in my direction so I busied myself by trying to twist off my wedding ring. I mumbled: “And then what?”

            She wiped her nose and straightened her neck.

“I met a guy and tried to leave Vern. He wasn’t happy with it. He beat me. Three days later he pimped me to the great David O Selznick and was sent to San Quentin for another beating. I realised the guy behind it and went to thank him. He put me in this apartment and assured me  I’d never work again. He had a wife and two daughters in New York but he was a decent man. He threw tantrums: I threw tantrums – it didn’t work out. He came back to LA a month later and took me on a little road trip to the desert. I didn’t think I’d come back alive…”

            She stopped. I didn’t blame her. She fetched her dressing gown and took a seat at the faux ivory dressing table. Then she continued. And despite what I expected, it got worse and worse.

 

After she finished her tale I wanted to fetch my Medal of Valor. She was much tougher than me or the Police Force.

            “So you witnessed the murder of Harry Greenberg and helped Atwell steal Sigel’s dope?”

“Uh-huh,”

“Well, you fucked up then.”

 

 

I buttoned my shirt, knelt down and slipped on my shoes. I found myself grimacing. I had just slept with the biggest gangster in LA’s second mistress. I was terrified so I did what any other terrified guy in my position would do – fuck her brains out again.

 

***

 

I peeled a corner of the curtain open ten minutes later and my eyes widened. There was a dark Cadillac, cream wheels and tinted glass outside. Two tough guys slithered out and walked toward us. I smelled trouble. She nodded at me to wait in the restroom and then the buzzer sounded. I heard the door open.

 

V

 

Rose said something that I didn’t catch. Three shots rang through the block. She tilted forwards and shut the door to. She slid down the pink painted wood. I leapt across the room, or cordite mist and caught her. She didn’t move. Her left arm thudded against the floor.

I looked up from her, cradling her tight in my arms and realised I needed to pay Bugsy Siegel a visit. I charged out after them and closed the door behind me.

I fired her up. The engine spurted into life. I checked my mirrors and then stalled her. She jolted forward. Tweedle Dee and Dumber shot away and was lost in the distance and darkness of the early hours. But all I could muster was a snigger. A snigger that turned into a fit of laughter. A fit of laughter that became maniacal and crazy. So crazy I was slapping my knees for what seemed like hours. I snorted and gazed up at the roof, still laughing like a mad march hare.