The Patrolman - 3

3.

She took the stairs from the private room, her evening dress bunched up in one hand. Her heels wobbled on the plush rouge carpet. The curved stairwell didn't do her any favors. Brenda could've pulled this look off without batting an eye, but she wasn't Brenda. She still wasn't used to wearing these fancy getups. June Hartsfield stopped at the landing, looking back at the door. Her encounter with the big man in the raincoat was fresh in her mind. He had looked at her like he wanted her. She liked that. Too bad he was punching the clock for someone like Junior.

She sauntered past the second-floor booths to the mezzanine. A neon rooster flickered on the wall ahead. Hartsfield stretched her arms across the railing as she soaked in the scene below.

Her nightclub.

The band's cover of 'Why Don't You Do Right?' drowned out the moaning and spanking behind her. Clubgoers crammed on the dancefloor. Grabbing and groping each other. Full-length necking in open view. She wouldn't have it any other way. Tonight was a Sunday school picnic compared to Valentine's Day. Orson Welles entered the club and made a show of kissing a waitress' hand. Navy brass held down the bar like they'd fought for it, looking as out of place as a convent of nuns in a brothel. But still, most people came here to see her. Curious people looking to get a taste of something they didn't get at home.

Hartsfield was tired and half-gassed, the kind of tired no amount of sleep could fix. She was running on fumes. The dozen or so highballs had taken the edge off. She went to the bar and ordered a gin chaser.

'What's shaking, Junie?' It was her head bartender, Lenora Childs. Beautiful girl, with a lovely smile. Brenda wanted to put her to work, a Negro girl in her harem, but she wouldn't have it.

'I'm beat.'

‘You look it,' she said, flashing that smile. 'No problems tonight, but Tomas pulled another Houdini. His mother's been sick four times this month.'

'Maybe he's working another gig,' Hartsfield said. 'Can you handle closing on your own tonight?'

'When have I not?'

'Thought so. Take Tomas' tips. If he's got a problem with that, tell him to take it up with me.'

Lenora disappeared, long enough for Hartsfield to polish her drink off. She reappeared with her fur coat and helped her into it.

'Get one of the boys to drive you home. No arguments.'

'I'll be fine,' Lenora said.

'I'm your boss and I'm telling you.'

With that, she swept through the dance floor with practiced indifference. Swaying enough to remind them who signed the checks here. The sea of bodies parted for her. She could feel the heat coming off them. It was her place. Hartsfield made a beeline for the exit and tapped on the door with her ring. The doormen opened it. One handed her an umbrella, while the other looked for a cab.

She fumbled with a cigarette and looked left and right.

Across the street, she noticed a DeSoto. The engine was running, headlamps dimmed, like it was trying not to get noticed. She thought it was empty at first - until the ember of a cigarette glowed from the driver's seat. A man. Watching her. The realization sent a chill down her spine. She looked back for the second bouncer, but he was gone. Some help. She tightened her grip on the umbrella. Her gut dropped, like a rock in water. She knew that feeling too well. The kind that reminded her no matter her power in the club, in the city, she was just another woman in a creep's sights.

It reminded her of her brother, waiting for her after dances, slouched in his truck, trying to scare her. But this wasn't him.

This was something else, something dangerous.

She lit her smoke with steady hands and stared back at the car, daring him to make a move. Her heart was pounding but she didn't scare easy. The next she knew, she was in the back of a cab and slamming the door behind her. As it pulled away, she watched the DeSoto through the rain-streaked window. It didn't follow but she felt the creep linger, like a bad taste in her mouth, all the way home.

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