The Patrolman - 2

2.

The cabbie kept glancing at him in the rear-view mirror. His passenger was used to it. He was a Negro, a touch over six feet tall, and built like a linebacker. Broad shoulders, a neck like a tree trunk, and 185 pounds of trouble. When their eyes met, Mr. Slate stared back, steady. After two full Mississippis, the cabbie decided it was safer to keep his eyes on the road. Smart move.

Mr. Slate looked out of the window. A freak storm had blown in off the Pacific and rocked Los Angeles proper. Thundershowers hit Hollywood Boulevard around nine o’clock and wouldn’t let up. Ain't much that could make the city quiet, but five inches of rain in three hours managed it. Empty sidewalks and shuttered storefronts. The honking of horns replaced by a steady beat of rain on asphalt. They passed a string of glowing billboards. Bambi. Casablanca. Stormy Weather. He smiled at that last one. Maybe I'll catch it when it opens, he thought. He dug Fats Waller.  

They hit traffic near Musso & Frank's. A two-car fender bender totaled a fire hydrant. Water jettisoned from its remains, baptizing the street with a rainbow. One ambulance, two tow trucks, and three L.A.P.D. prowlers were at the scene. A Hollywood patrolman who didn't look like much of a swimmer waved them through. Past the crash site and a few hundred yards on the right was Madre Jalisco's. The cabbie pulled in behind a parked DeSoto. ‘That'll be $1.15.’

Mr. Slate paid him his fare with a little extra and stepped out in the rain. 

Madre Jalisco's occupied the three-story corner building at Hollywood & Schrader. Minding the pink-tinted windows and the two gorillas in tuxes, you'd never know it was there. The gorillas were doormen. Big men, but no more than six feet four inches tall a piece and not wider than a couple of beer trucks. Not big enough to give him pause. 'Members only,' one of them managed. 

'Barclay sent for me. He's a member.'

'He is?'

'Don’t get cute with me, just open the door.' They didn't like his tone, but a couple of bucks convinced them they could all get along. Mr. Slate stepped inside and found himself in downtown Tijuana.

Madre Jalisco's was somewhere between a clip joint and a cathouse. Lingerie-clad waitresses served highballs. Dancers swung from the rafters. Famous faces perched around a stage with a blonde belting ‘Say “Si, Si”’ on it. He followed a cigarette girl in a skirt so tight it looked painted on across the room. She led him to the bar where a Negro dame was slinging drinks. When she finished up with the cocktail shaker, he asked where Barclay was at.

'Junior’s upstairs,' the bartender said. 'Back the way you came, hang a right, past the booths on the first floor. Stairs lead to a door marked “private”. Only room up there.'

He brushed past the ruckus on the first floor. Slapping and groaning leaked out from behind velvet curtains. He didn't look. He didn't want to know. He climbed another set of stairs and found the door. There were voices behind it. Low and talking about a party tomorrow night. Before he could knock, the door swung open, and a 40-something woman came out. She stopped him in his tracks. Brunette, diamonds dripping from her neck, a dress clinging to her like it was afraid of falling off. She looked him over like he was on sale. 'Don't take too long,' she said, then she disappeared down the stairs.

Barclay Jr. was in the back at a small table. He wore a fine Italian suit made of gray wool that enveloped his long and narrow body. His claw-like hands were busy with a glass and a decanter. Mr. Slate joined him, asking who the dame was. The man snorted, dragging his voice up from the bottom of a well, and said: 'That’s June. She runs the place. You know, you’re not at all what I expected.' He was half in the bag and talked slow. The way all spoiled rich kids do, with every syllable pronounced. Sneering. He took out a gold case and lit a monogrammed marihuana cigarette. ‘You don't talk much.’

‘You ain't paying me to talk,’ he said. ‘You're paying me $500 to hear you out.'

Barclay Jr. scoffed and dumped an envelope in his lap. 'You’ll get another five when it’s done. What do you know about me?'

He told him. Barclay Jr., son of the Tribune's owner. Daddy's money had saved his hide more times than he could count. Fifth Columnist, Katie Hepburn's ex, reformed playboy. 'You were in a drug-fueled car smash. The girl dead in your car weren't the one you was marrying.' 

Nothing changed in his expression. He sniffed. 'No, she wasn't,' he said. ‘We fixed that. Now, I have another problem.’ He stubbed out the joint and wiped the ash off the table. ‘I’m being blackmailed.’

‘Over what?’

‘That's not your concern. The man was a friend. You see, he insulted me and my father. His home address is in the envelope.'

Mr. Slate said nothing.

‘I want the bastard out of the picture.’

‘How?’

‘I want him dead. Shot, torched, whatever.’

He found that his clients needed more of a nudge to come out and say it. Most were in denial they even needed a gun-for-hire. It took plenty of searching to find his agency. A peek in the phonebook wouldn't cut it. Their morality took a backseat a long time ago, long before they picked up the phone. ‘Does your father know we’re having this talk?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Who's the guy?’

‘Some dilettante,' he said. 'A wannabe conman looking to make a quick grand.'

‘Keep your conscience clear and pay him.’

Barclay Jr. didn’t like that. Not one bit. ‘What’s to say he won’t demand more?' He sniffed again. 'No, this is about principle. I want him gone off the face of the earth.’

‘Sure. Your call,’ Mr. Slate said. 'Ain't my conscience.'

He got ready to leave when Barclay Jr. put a hand on him.

‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘He has a book of mine, get it back. Whatever you do, don’t look inside. That’s my condition. If you do, I’ll know.’

© J. A. Stapleton 2025 - Image Source: Wikimedia Commons