The Patrolman - 10

10.

‘I wish I could’ve been there to see it,’ she told her son. ‘Is your father there? I need a word.’

June Hartsfield carried the telephone over to a table, kicked off her heels, and lit a Du Maurier. The private bar was her favorite spot, where she watched Hollywood Boulevard below. It often doubled as her office. From there, she could see all the comings and goings. She stretched out on the chair and the line clicked.

Her husband said: ‘What do you want now?’

‘I need to see my children, Colm.’

‘That’s rich. Tell me where you are, and I’ll bring them.’

‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘What’s so complicated about it? You’re their mother, or have you forgot?'

'Of course not.'

'What are you now, some kind of whore?’

She told him she wasn't, though she didn't quite believe herself. Everyone's a whore for the right price.

‘You’re the one that walked out on us, June. I don’t owe you anything.’

Hartsfield crushed her cigarette in the ashtray. It smoldered with a final twist. ‘You still cashing the checks I send you every month?’

He didn't answer.

‘Then I want to see them. Or I open accounts for Frank and Deborah and deposit the money there. You won't see a red cent of it. What do you think about that?’

‘Do what you want. I got nothing to say to you. They want their mom back.’ The line died with a sharp click.

‘Colm? Colm?’

She told the operator to reconnect it, but the line was unavailable. The bastard had pulled the plug. Typical.

Hartsfield went to the bar and fixed herself a drink. She went for the bottle of Old Forester. Setting it down on the counter, she picked out a lemon and sliced it. The juice trickled down the blade. The lemon was sharp and cut through the smell of cigarette smoke. Its juice collected at the bottom of the cocktail shaker. Two spoonfuls of sugar. She poured enough bourbon in it to turn a terrible idea into a great one. It would pack more than enough punch.

She worked the shaker and thought about the day she walked out of her home. The house where she raised her children. Where she worked all hours to pay off her mortgage and bills. Only to never set foot in it again.

June Hartsfield made her move the morning after the robbery. Shadows around her eyes, a little shaky from drinking. Mrs. Bird next door had taken the kids in for the night and even packed them off to school. Colm had left for work if he could call it that. Hartsfield got up, poured herself some water, and laid the tattered leather bag on the bed.

It was a weather-beaten relic. The once rich leather scarred from years of roughhousing. Scratches covered the handles, telltale signs of cash grabs and desperate escapes. The stitching strained against the weight of the cash inside, but somehow, it held. She opened the bag, turned it over, and let the money spill across the bed.

She counted it twice to be sure and got the same number.

$63,000.

That left her with two options: turn it over to the cops or take the money and run.

Most folks would’ve turned it in. But she had come from Nowheresville, Indiana. Sure, she owned the house, if they could keep up with the repayments. But Colm treated sick days like a second weekend. Sometimes going weeks without a paycheck. This was more than money. This was freedom. It was the solution to every sleepless night, every argument, every dream she’d put off. The kind of money that comes once in a lifetime and even then, not in yours. So, wearing nothing but the clothes on her back and her mother’s locket, she walked out the front door and didn’t look back.

Now, it was her and the drink. Holed up in a nightclub more like a brothel. Alone. The ice rattled around in the cocktail shaker like a bad omen. She poured the amber liquid into a glass and took a long pull. She let the burn linger and the guilt set in. She'd walked out on more than her family. She’d walked out on herself.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Yeah?’

‘It’s Lenny.’

‘Come in.’

Lenora Childs hung in the doorway like a question mark. ‘You okay?’

‘Peachy.'

‘You spoke to him? What did he say?’

‘Not a damn thing.’ Hartsfield looked around, realizing how pathetic it all was. She couldn’t bring her children into this. ‘Fuck him, what can I do for you?’

‘Telephone call. You’re going to a party.’

‘I’m not in the mood tonight.’

‘Queen Bee’s throwing it.’

That got her attention. 'At Brenda's?'

'Yeah, Koreatown. She said to wear that saucy black number she got for you.’

She downed the rest of her drink. The most infamous madam in Los Angeles wanted to see her. That could spell both trouble and opportunity.