The Patrolman - 12

 

 

12.

 

 

 

Nobody else was on the 6^th Street Bridge that night – that’s why he chose it. Mr. Slate had done a handover there before. He parked the car on the right, against the flow of traffic. The occasional vehicle shot past, rocking his Pontiac. He parked in the center of the bridge, over the Los Angeles River. Four lanes - only two directions on and off. Sidewalks flanked him on both sides. His mirrors would catch anyone creeping up on him.

If Barclay wanted to double-cross him, the .22 with the taped trigger was under the driver’s seat. But Barclay needed his book back. 

Mr. Slate made smoke signals with his cigar. The Big Chief was harsh on his chest. Worked better than coffee or even ephedrine. He had switched off the lights, engine, and radio to see and hear everything.

A nearby streetlight put a glow on the book beside him. Green leather, gold border. Fancy. He knew the type. They had one similar when his daughter was born. Only this was no baby book.

He thought about what Bishop said before the truck hit him. 'You’re just like them.' Them who? Barclay's outfit? The city high rollers? What was so important about this book? Sure, Bishop dabbled in sleaze. He’d seen those shots of that actress. But if this was another French postcard racket, what were the pictures of?

Barclay and who?

Or Barclay doing what?

Whatever was in them, it was big. Big enough for blackmail. Big enough for murder. Nothing was securing it. He only had to turn over the page and look. Then he remembered what Barclay Jr. said. ‘If you open it, I’ll know.’

That phrase.

‘I’ll know’.

Mr. Slate checked his surroundings. A clunker rumbled past, spitting smoke. Keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead, he let his hand drift toward the book. The leather corners brushed against his fingertips.

All he could hear was Barclay’s voice, stuck like a broken record in his head, saying: ‘I’ll know, I’ll know.’

 

 

A big black car pulled to the curb on the other side.

Mr. Slate had seen it coming from East 6^th Street a minute before. It drove past him, crossing the bridge, then turned back around at Whittier.

He pocketed the .32, grabbed the book, and strolled over to the limousine.

A Packard Super Eight, the 180 model. Someone must have spent five grand on it. Whole lotta money for a car. Curtains drawn on the inside. The driver opened the back door. It was dark - though he could make out Barclay’s pants leg.

‘Let’s go for a drive,’ he said.

Mr. Slate looked around. ‘How ‘bout we walk?’

Barclay Jr. thought about it and climbed out. Dressed to the nines in a tux, white scarf, and gloves.

The driver made a face like he’d bit into a lemon drop.

‘Don’t mind Bob. He runs father’s security.’

They headed west toward 6th, toward Downtown. Mr. Slate walked with his hands in his pockets, the scrapbook under his arm. A hobo staggered past them heading the other way. A gentle breeze found them, wafting the hobo’s stink under their noses. Barclay’s nose wrinkled.

The limousine followed behind them.

‘Tell me what happened to Bishop.’

‘Damn shame,’ Mr. Slate said.

‘You leave any witnesses?’

'Some drunks saw it, so did the driver, but he'd committed a hit-and-run. The cops'll find that Bishop got drunker than a Legion convention and fell in the road. That’s all there is to it.’

‘Fine,’ Barclay said. He stopped walking and turned. ‘I’ll ask you this one time – did you look in it?’

The brown eyes bore into him, looking for any trace of weakness. Any sign he was holding back. His left eye hung a little lower than the other. A comma of hair struck to his thick eyebrow. Both eyes glassy, like yesterday. Mr. Slate hadn’t seen it before, but Junior looked a lot like Senior. Some said he wasn't really his father's son. The society columns were wrong. He was his father's son, all right - mad with the power that money brings. They say the eyes are the window into a man's soul. After looking into them, you would know Barclay didn't have one.

‘No,’ Mr. Slate said clearly. ‘I didn’t look, but I got his copies here.’

Barclay took the book and paused. ‘And the negatives?’

‘Already taken care of.’

Whatever Barclay thought, he reached a conclusion. Removed one of his white gloves and shook him by the hand.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

Barclay walked him back to his car. The driver handed Mr. Slate an envelope. Thick. More than the agreed grand. He asked him to forget about their business. Something about a party that night to celebrate. The men shook hands again. He saw Barclay wipe his hands when he got in the back. The limousine took off and disappeared further down 6^th Street.

Mr. Slate got behind the wheel.

So Barclay believed him when he said he hadn’t looked in the scrapbook – or seemed. No cause for concern. Other than what Mr. Slate had seen inside.

He had two options. Take Barclay’s money and walk away, never to see him again. Or get involved. He had decided to walk away until Barclay mentioned his party and his 'new life'. Barclay wasn’t to be trusted. He'd had a man killed, after all. Which made Mr. Slate think that he hadn’t changed. That he had got away with it once again, like the girl in the car smash. He’d fixed that fixed this blackmail mess. What if he hadn't believed him? What if Barclay was buying time to send someone to come and whack him?

Mr. Slate put the key in the ignition and swung the car back around.

 

 

The limousine pulled through the open gate.

Mr. Slate followed them to Holmby Hills. It could have been in a different state. No grime, no billboards, no sidewalks. Even the mailman had to drive in this neighborhood. He set the parking brake and counted 30 Mississippis. Then he left the Pontiac and walked up Loma Vista Drive.

Bushy eucalyptus trees hemmed the street in on both sides. Mr. Slate felt trapped. A Negro on a straight road in a white man’s neighborhood. Nowhere to run. If somebody saw him, they'd call the cops. There were certain areas someone like him could go at night - this wasn't one of them.

He reached the house. House? Hell. Mansion didn't even cover it. It was one of those colonial affairs. Huge, two or three levels, with two swimming pools that he could make out. Glass everywhere, light everywhere, people everywhere. Barclay wasn’t kidding when he talked about throwing a party. Rich men with young white women milled around. Some Al Jolson tribute sang ‘My Mammy’ on a stage by the parking garage, and then he realized it was Al Jolson. The guy from “A Star is Born”. Cars filled the drive. He looked at the valets and waiters - all Negroes.

That was his way in.

He left his raincoat in the trunk of his car. A white shirt and black necktie would have to do. Nobody batted an eye. A waiter handed him a silver tray. Next he knew, he'd collected a half dozen champagne flutes. He slipped inside through a side door. The crowd was dense, wall-to-wall fat men with red faces and wilted collars. A speaker blared, ‘Let's Misbehave’. There had to be 100 people there. The smell. A dancer wearing a headpiece of Lucky Strikes and a G-string sailed through the crowd. The smoke making the smell all the worse. Mr. Slate ducked out to the kitchen. Slipping out the back before someone else put him to work. It was cool outside. He threw the tray over a bush and looked at the vast bowl of the city twinkling below. This was how the other half lived.

A racket came from somewhere down the hill. He moved through a bougainvillea-covered arbor into the garden. From the light, he could make out a smattering of guest houses sloping down the hill.

In the first guest house, he saw a stocky, well-groomed man with a boy. The second, a man with a girl. Mr. Slate felt bile rising in his throat. He didn't check the other two guest houses. From the ruckus coming out of them, the same thing was happening.

He went back up the hill to the house and moved along the ground-floor windows. More people spilled out into the garden. He pressed his back into the wall and waited for them to leave. Something in his periphery caught his attention, something inside the house. He turned to get a better look.

A girl stared back at him - hate and fear painted on her face. Barclay Jr. was on top of her, with other men watching.

There was an older girl on all fours taking care of them.

The look in their eyes made him want to hyperventilate. Barclay was gonna get his tonight, that was for sure.

Why?

Why do these things happen in Hollywood?  

 

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