The Patrolman - 1

 

 

1.

 

 

 

The Super Chief came into the station like it was out of breath. The train braked, hissed to a stop, and the G.I. stepped onto the platform. City Hall cast everything in its monolithic shadow. To his left were the steel bumping posts that marked the end of the track. Past those were three gas holders, each larger than the last, spewing acid-yellow clouds into the sky.

Despite being December, the weather was warm enough for a swim. Los Angeles winters were funny like that. He couldn't help but wonder if this was his last Christmas here.

Jake Lacey set his suitcase down, pushed a Lucky Strike between his lips, and lit it. No hurry. The other passengers brushed past him. Before long, he was among the last ones on the platform. He watched a wife and husband haul enough baggage to outfit a small family. The redcaps decided who got stuck with them in a coin toss. He went down the exit ramp into the tunnel, trying not to drag his leg.

Union Station was so quiet that his shoes echoed on the Spanish-tile floor. He crossed the ticketing hall to the push doors. Warm sun kissed his face. Lacey spotted a G.I. around his own age, wearing the same uniform. Except he was with a beautiful brunette. They kissed and bundled into a yellow cab, excited to spend Christmas together. It wasn't long before a shiny green Plymouth drew up.

The Cahuenga Cab Co. was the newest and cheapest taxi service in town. They hired Colored and Latino drivers, which made them all right in his book. The driver, a 30-something Mexican, looked like he was on the home stretch of a very long shift. ‘Mele Kalikimaka’ played over the radio. The driver blinked hard and asked him where he was going.

‘Dehn Avenue,’ Lacey said.

‘That's near Crenshaw, right?’

He looked past him to a billboard on the other side of the parking lot. Covering it was an image of a stern police officer in full uniform, painted blue and white. The caption read: "Los Angeles Police Department - A GREAT FORCE IN A GREAT CITY - Choose Your Future."

Most officers would've been off fighting the War, like he had. Not that Lacey gave a damn about the Department anymore, not after how they treated him.

‘Señor?’

‘Right, near Crenshaw,’ he said. ‘Can you take the scenic route?’

 

 

That morning felt more like March than December. The sky was a rinsed-out blue like a linen shirt washed out hundreds of times. But even the great weather couldn't lift his spirits.

The bullet hole in his leg granted him a month's leave, $20 a week in pay, and a Christmas away from the Army. He wasn’t sure if he could return to the service. He worked that out on the boat ride. Lacey had designs of skipping town. The way he saw it, he could only dodge so many bullets. He made a friend in the service who could get him a job working at a shipyard in Bath, Maine. His return was to bid his aunt and home adiós.

He told the driver to let him out at Crenshaw and walked the rest of the way. Pepper and sycamore trees lined the street. Sunlight broke through the branches shadows. From Dehn Avenue, he headed south. Trees became mailboxes. He passed rows of egg-yellow, blue, and brown brick bungalows. Scores of Chevys, a couple of Cadillacs here and there, gathered dust on the driveways. They hadn't budged an inch since the men went off to War. On the roofs were Santa sleds with reindeer and neon lights. It was a nice place to live, with three half-decent schools nearby. Kids ran for the bus. Mothers in flower-print aprons waved them off from their porches. When the school bus slipped out of sight, they went back inside. The next decision was to either tune into Don McNeill's Breakfast Club or clear away the dishes.

He stepped off Dehn Avenue into one of the minor streets. The neighborhood was set out in a grid, like a crescent, with each road looping back to Crenshaw Boulevard. Lacey took the second turning, West 117th Place. He stopped at a bungalow with 3339 on the mailbox.

It was a charming little place without Christmas lights. The front hedge was a little overgrown, but the rest of the house looked far from neglected. What made 3339 different from the other houses was that this one was far recessed from the sidewalk. It had no driveway. No single-car garage. He went up the short steps to the porch and let himself in with a key under the welcome mat.

The hallway was full of golden light with air so still it smelled sour. There was a transient feeling about the place, like it was only half-lived in or somewhere used to come and go. On the left were three doors. Closest was the master bedroom, then the bathroom, and what used to be his own room. To his right was the living area that opened into a small kitchen. It had a nice view of the backyard, though it ended a little short. He hung up his Army-issue overcoat and saw the mail on the sideboard. He didn’t have to look long. Every envelope bore a red “Past Due” stamp. Lacey flicked through and returned them to their original place.

A gentle push opened the door to the master bedroom. His eyes fell on the figure sprawled across the bed. It was his aunt, still dressed in last night's clothes. She lay face-down, a shock of red hair concealing her features. He thought about going over and checking her pulse, but she snored. A growl, like a car engine starting up. He left her to sleep and went through to the living room.

She came in a few minutes later. Hurried over toward him with a burst of energy like she was happy to see him. Then she wasn’t. She stopped dead in her tracks and said, ‘Oh.’

Evelyn Morgan Lacey was petite. Five-six or seven, in her 40s. Without the frown lines, she could pass for at least 30. Evelyn didn't look old enough to be his aunt. She carried the scent of day-old French perfume and tobacco. What caught his eye was the unchanged clothes. The blue and white gingham dress had "Mildred's" stitched on the lapel. It'd seen better days, with revealing signs of wear and tear. From the coffee stains, Lacey deduced that it was a waitress' uniform.

He said, ‘Good morning, ma’am.’

She glanced past him, heading over to the coffee table and grabbing up her cigarettes.

‘You certainly brought out the welcome wagon.’

She didn't look at him.

‘Expecting someone else?’

‘No, but I didn’t expect to see you here neither.’

‘How come?’

Evelyn said nothing. She used a table lighter. Gazing out the front bay window blowing smoke as everyone went about their morning. ‘Two men showed up here on Thanksgiving,’ she said. ‘They told me you got shot. Said you were comatose. When I asked what happened, they told me it was on a “need-to-know basis.”’

He went over to her.

‘A “need-to-know basis”,' she said. 'I thought the worst.’ He touched her shoulder and she turned. Looking him up and down, as though seeing him for the first time. ‘Why didn’t you call?’

‘I was in a Moroccan...’

She struck him once, hard. Across the cheek. So hard the slap echoed through the house and circled back. Tears gathered in the corners of her gray-blue eyes. She pulled him close. ‘Don’t ever do that to me a-fucking-gain.’

He held her. The surprise visit hadn’t been a great welcome home. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

 

KHJ radio played 'Sleepy Lagoon'. He had four fried eggs cooked over easy, hot buttered toast, and a strong cup of black coffee. Evelyn settled for tea, one boiled egg, and a Fatima cigarette – her secret to maintaining the figure of a No. 2 pencil.

He washed the dishes while she blew rings at the ceiling. ‘When did you take the job at Mildred’s?’ For as long as he could remember his aunt worked at Herschel’s. A luxury department store downtown, on the corner of 7th & Broadway. Evelyn worked in the accounts department.

That past summer, the more expensive staff got laid off due to declining sales. Walt Disney bought fewer suits. Mae West had to switch from Dior to Mainbocher because of rationing. Management replaced the most experienced staff with young blood. They came cheap and worked like mules with less kick. One of the new girls said as much to her. The 17-year-old took home $28 a week. Having to feed her mother and three brothers on that. After 20 years working at Herschel's, Evelyn only got two weeks' severance pay and some perfume. She hocked it and took the waitressing job to keep a roof over her head.

Evelyn kept shtum about the past due notices. She was a proud woman who had cared for Lacey since he was 11. Her uniform hung loose. She was skipping meals and working herself into an early grave.

'I'll figure something out,' he said, moving to the living room and settling into his father's chair. He tapped out a Lucky.

'You didn't do that before,' she said.

 

Six butts piled up in the ashtray before he realized that Evelyn had left for work. Lacey took a final lungful of smoke and thought, what now?

He looked around the living room and saw nothing but mess. It made it hard to think. He found a dust cloth under the kitchen sink and went around the house. Starting in the hallway, he wiped every surface. The mundane, repetitive movements helped him weigh his options.

Becoming a longshoreman wouldn’t bring in enough money to support them both. Returning to the service posed another problem. On her own, Evelyn would get deeper into debt. Plus, he couldn’t risk getting shot again, or worse, dying. He was earning more now on medical leave than he did during a week of combat. That meant he needed a job right here in Los Angeles. A job that paid enough and got him out of the service. He went through the alternatives again while mopping the bathroom.

Lacey had only one option.

He fetched the morning paper and saw Mrs. Oliver across the street. Teresa Oliver had moved there in '38 with her husband, son, and two infant daughters. They never invited the Laceys over, not even for coffee. Mrs. Oliver didn’t wave back. He suspected she’d read about him in the newspapers. Lacey shrugged and went to his room. Tossing his uniform and suitcase on the bed, he slipped into an old gray suit. When he looked presentable, he stowed the suitcase deep under his bed where Evelyn wouldn’t reach it.

Lacey telephoned the Cahuenga Cab Co. The operator was gruff and told him someone could be there in a half-hour. ‘Where ya goin'?’ he said.

‘200 North Spring Street, City Hall.’

 

 

She was scary, but he liked the look of her.

The secretary couldn’t have been much older than him, 30 at most. Her pitch-black hair was in a Victory roll that accentuated her sculpted jaw. She wore a white blouse, dark pencil skirt, and peep-toe heels. She belonged on the cover of Vogue, but here she was, another working stiff like everyone else. Stacked files were on either side of her desk. To the right of the visitor book was her telephone, and in the center sat an Underwood typewriter. Its hammers struck the ribbon snapping, clicking, and recoiling with the moving platen. Whatever she was working on, all three items required her attention. Her eyes went between them like a tennis ball in a game of doubles. She moved with economy. Every so often, on her way from the typewriter to the visitor book, she met his gaze.

He shifted in his assigned armchair. When Lacey got there he was fifth in line but now the others had left. The waiting room was dull. Nothing to look at but a cigarette-scarred table. Another man took what he thought was a solid wooden chair. If he’d been a cop, he’d have known that it was a Slider. They were notorious in interview rooms. It was heavily-waxed with a quarter-inch of wood shaved off the front two legs. It made it impossible for the occupant to get comfortable. After an hour, the man grew tired and left, leaving him in pole position.

The secretary crossed her long legs. He resisted the urge to look, but their eyes met. She blew smoke over the typewriter at him and forced a smile. She reminded him of a young Gloria Swanson. His father worked on her failed picture, Queen Kelly. Shortly afterward, the secretary killed her cigarette and pulled the visitor book closer. ‘Is your name spelled with or without an “e”?’ she said with a Boston accent.

‘With.’

She struck a line through it and wrote his name out again. ‘You’ve got six minutes.’ She didn’t bother getting up, and he didn’t bother knocking.

 

The inner office was cool and large with windows on two sides, offering an unobstructed view of the city. From the 10th floor, Hollywood seemed to huddle against the Santa Monicas. 13 miles west, through the acid-yellow smog, was the Pacific Ocean. It resembled a blue smudge on the horizon. The room reeked of cigar smoke. Far back was a wooden desk, so you had to cross the expanse of green carpet to get to it. Lacey stepped around golf balls and whiskey glasses. An embossed sign on the desk read: "Clemence B. Horrall, Chief of Police". He looked at the man sitting behind it.

The Chief of the Los Angeles Police Department was a hammered-down heavyweight. He had a hooked nose and a high forehead. His gold tie and collar bar strangled him, turning his round face redder. Since their last encounter, Horrall had piled on a good 50 pounds. He stuck out a pudgy hand. ‘What’s your name, son?’

He shook it. ‘Lacey. Jake Lacey.’

‘Have we met before, Lacey?’

‘I was first responding to the robbery at the Hollywood Bank & Financial Trust.’

The Chief drew a blank.

‘The 211 that took place the same morning as Pearl Harbor, sir.’

His eyes widened. ‘Oh, that. How have you been, my boy?’

‘Very well, sir. I just got back from North Africa. Received a Purple Heart and DSC.’

‘A War hero!' he said. 'I recall you bein' a skinny kid with a big gun, have a seat. Cigarette?’

He declined, moving the morning's L.A. Tribune to the other chair. He caught the headline: "Zoot-Suiters under Fire: L.A.P.D. Cracks Down on 'Sleepy Lagoon' Murder."

‘Drink?’ The Chief pulled out a bottle and two glasses from his desk drawer.

‘Don’t believe in it, sir.’

‘Respectable.' He filled both glasses and put one down his throat. He made a face like it was on fire and held the second one up to the light. ‘Most men who come here chew my arm off for this stuff. It’s imported from the Emerald Isle. Come to think of it, you look a touch Irish. Where do your folks hail from?’

‘I’m half-Kraut. My father was an American.’

‘Interesting mix. My pops told me and my sister that we descended from the Shawnee Nation. He was a senile old bastard, so I don’t know how true that was.’

He gave a perfunctory smile, waiting for him to get down to business.

‘Tell me what I can do for you, son.’

‘I want to come back and work for the Department.’

The Chief leaned back in his chair. ‘You discharged?’

‘Not quite, sir. I’m on a month’s medical leave,’ Lacey said. ‘Got shot in the leg.’

The Chief put down the second whiskey. ‘I know why you’re here. L.A.P.D. ain’t in the market for another scandal.’ He gestured at the chair with the newspaper.

Lacey didn’t flinch. ‘Do you want me to say it, sir?’

‘No. Those bastards left a trail of bodies as long as Santa Monica Pier. They snatched a goddamn fortune from under our noses.’ He cut the shoulder off a cigar. ‘You shouldn't've had to enlist. It was the Commission that wanted you out, not me.’

‘Thank you, sir. That means a lot.’

‘Which Division have you set your designs on?’

‘Hollywood,' he said. 'Working the Homicide table.’

The Chief stood up and went over to the window. He looked down at the city, his city. ‘We need to address your service record. I got a doctor friend in Hollywood who can arrange discharge papers. It seems your injury was worse than the Army first thought. We also need to keep your name out of the papers,’ he said. ‘There’s an opening in Wilshire Division, Traffic. If you work hard and keep your nose clean, we can look at a transfer back to Hollywood. Say, in about six months. How does that sound?’

‘I don’t know what to say, sir.’

‘No need. I’ll have a word with Lieutenant Puddy and see that you start on Monday. We’re all on dog shifts with the blackouts. Expect 16-hour days and plenty of nights.’

‘I don’t sleep much, sir.'

‘Glad to hear it. Enjoy your extra-curricular freedoms while they last. It’ll be a while before you get some rest with this godforsaken War. Leave your home address with Ms. Cruse. She’ll handle your discharge papers.’

He sealed the deal with a firm handshake. Lacey stopped at the door and turned back. ‘I didn’t kill that man, sir.’

The Chief shrugged. 'Son, you don't know the half of it.'

 

© J. A. Stapleton 2024