The Patrolman - 14

 

 

14.

 

 

 

Brenda's third house was a sleek white ship of a thing considered 'in' for Wilshire. The second floor jutted over the garage, now a studio, a set of steps running down to the sidewalk. Brenda had bought it outright. No mortgage. The studio sat empty because she couldn't rent it out to anyone who wasn't deaf. For a woman who never touched liquor, she threw parties like the Great Gatsby.

The cab, on two wheels, took the corner at 9th and screeched to a standstill. June Hartsfield was out before it stopped, running toward the steps. Jackson stood at the bottom smoking with another man.

'Elmer, get your gun.'

The driver took off, tires screeching, leaving his fare behind.

She watched in horror as the strange car skidded up next to her. She would go kicking and screaming. The driver got out and lunged, grabbing her wrists. She froze. He backhanded her, forcing her eyes shut. She prayed it would be quick and painless. But the driver fumbled like a drunk.

She opened her eyes, pulling him under a streetlight.

Colm. Her husband.

He reeked of gin and sweat.

'What the hell are you doing here?'

His lips parted, face slack. He looked like he was deciding whether to strike her again or kiss her. There were tears in his eyes. A sound behind them, the scrape of a shoe. And then -

The gun came down. Hard. Jackson's arm, swinging. Colm staggered, blood spattering.

Again. And again. And again.

He brought the gun down until Colm's nose was a mess of cartilage.

'Elmer, stop,' she cried.

Jackson didn't. He turned the gun on her instead. He looked terrible. His hands shook. His nose glowed red, his skin pocked full of Benzedrine pits.

She held up her hands and fell against Colm’s car.

He shoved her inside and slammed the door shut. The noise outside became muffled. He pistol-whipped Colm between strangled sentences. He jammed the gun in his mouth to shut him up.

She wound the window down. 'Elmer, I made a mistake,' she cried. 'That's my husband.'

Jackson didn't move. Colm's legs gave out. He hit the sidewalk with a thud.

'This piece of work? I've known guys like him. They don't know when to stop.'

He grabbed a fistful of hair, yanking his head up. Blood bubbled in his nose, dribbling down his lips and chin. He drove his heel into Colm's ribs. Another. The crunch echoed in the street. Colm choked on his own breath.

'You're killing him. You've taken too much of that stuff.'

Jackson was panting, slick with sweat. His pupils were tiny black holes. He looked ready to throw a coronary. He swayed, unsteady. It took him a moment to come to his senses. 

Colm curled into a ball, whimpering.

Jackson stumbled over to the car. He opened the door, pulling her out onto the street. 'Get to the party, June,' he said. 'I need his car. I'm taking him to Good Samaritan.'

'And Brenda?'

'Make something up. I'll be back when he's okay.'

He thrust the bloodied gun into her hands. She stuffed it in her clutch and ran up the steps.

The man Jackson had been smoking with had scarpered.

 

 

An hour later, Brenda was still a no-show. It wasn’t so bad. Jack had kept her company. She studied the label like it might reveal something new.

"JACK DANIEL'S. Old No. 7 Brand. TENNESSEE SOUR MASH WHISKEY."

Not the best, not the worst. It did the job. She swirled it in her glass, watching the legs of the whiskey settle on the side. Steady. She hadn't eaten, and smoking didn't exactly count as dinner. Lighting another, she pushed through the crowd of Hollywood royalty to the bar.

A brunette leaned against the counter. One golden heel jutted forward, the buckle biting into her ankle. The slit in her red dress rode high. Designer, no doubt. She wasn't even out of her 20s and she could tell the girl was trouble. But her face - her face was something else. Not a blemish on it. Her eyes didn't ask for attention, they demanded it.

Hartsfield reached into the ice bucket.

'Hey, I know you?' the girl asked.

'Don't think so,' she said. 'I would've remembered.'

'Yeah, I do. You work with Brenda, right? That club up past Musso's?'

She could see it. The vulnerability. She had that poor girl recently discovered wealth look about her.

'Madre Jalisco's,' she said.

'I liked it.' The girl stuck out a hand. 'Helen Harwood.'

'June Hartsfield. Stop by sometime.'

Harwood smirked. 'I just might.'

She winked as she slipped away, linking arms with Errol Flynn. The wink said it all, she was one of Brenda's. Hartsfield squirted some branch water in her drink, taking a pull, and smacking her lips. That was better. But all the drinking didn't keep her mind off what had happened. Safe to say, her marriage was over.

That old Lutheran dream, Manifest Destiny - they said if you went far enough, you could leave it all behind. Had she gone far enough? Or was her new life starting to run its course?

The party swelled. Someone at the piano belted out a filthy Harry Roy tune about a cat. She remembered the studio and slipped downstairs, looking for a quiet place to drink. Passing the downstairs bathroom, she heard rocking porcelain.

'Who puts a clock on a toilet?' a man said.

The girl in there giggled.

The studio had a small bar with a chaise lounge in it. Dark, except for the streetlight slanting through the blinds. Still, there wasn't much coming through, so she hit the lights.

'Get your own goddamn room to f-'

The voice cut off.

Legs.

Long, endless legs. Ferragamo heels at the end of them. At the top, cat eye sunglasses.

Brenda Allen.

'June, where've you been?'

'Upstairs. What were you doing in the dark?'

‘Thinking,' she said. 'Agnes Moorehead fell through my new coffee table.'

Of course, Brenda wasn't worried about the coffee table. She made no less than $4,500 a day, and even more on Sundays. She took things like the coffee table to heart. Not in her own house. Hartsfield kept shtum about the couple in the bathroom next to where they were standing.

Brenda mixed a drink, something fruity. 'Lenora told me the cops stopped by the club.'

She tensed. 'Yeah. Some girl disappeared.'

‘She should come work for me.'

Brenda always did that. Dropped things in conversation. Waiting to see what you'd do.

Hartsfield played dumb. 'Where's Elmer?'

'You haven't seen him?' Brenda studied her through those sunglasses. That way she had to peel you open, layer by layer. She had a nose for sniffing out weakness.

'He said something about Darktown earlier,' she said.

Brenda snorted. 'No one's in Central Avenue tonight. Were the cops looking at us?'

'Not that I could tell, they were from homicide. Not Vice. You got anyone working Hollywood Vice?'

'What do you think?'

'Stands to reason.'

'If they show up again, call me.'

Hartsfield wanted to tell her about what happened with Colm, but the door swung open.

Barbara Stanwyck.

'Hope I'm not interrupting,' she said. 'Agnes is blotto again.'

Brenda smiled. 'Come in, Barb.'

Stanwyck's heels clicked across the floor. They had a fluffy white ball on the toe box that must have cost her a bomb.

'Madame Bowmaker's?' Hartsfield said.

Stanwyck grinned. 'You know your shoes.'

Brenda made for the door. 'Be gentle with her, Barb. It's her first time.'

Stanwyck laughed. 'Oh, I don't know about that.'

The door shut.

She moved past her. Sat on the chaise lounge. Patted the space beside her. Hartsfield sat. They talked - about the war, about husbands, about the picture she was shooting with Fred MacMurray in September. And then - Stanwyck kissed her.

Hartsfield kissed her back, trembling.

The next she knew, Stanwyck was playing with the button on her dress.

June Hartsfield gasped.

Stanwyck's fingers slid up her thigh, slow, deliberate. Then grabbed her in a claw.

She moaned.

'Nobody has to know, baby.'

 

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