The Patrolman - 13

13.

The club wasn’t as crowded tonight. The Saturday crowd hadn’t shown up in their normal droves, and June Hartsfield had other places to be.

Queen Bee had made her a better offer.

She caught her reflection in a mirror behind the bar, smoothing out a stray curl. The black dress was a knockout. Expensive. They had gone all out at Madame Bowmaker's the other week. Brenda even had to call Jackson to come pick them up after the shopping spree. The dress would be more than adequate for one of Brenda's parties.

On the corner table closest to the bar, a group of servicemen slurred:

'You see those beaners run? Coleman's lot stripped 'em right there in the street.'

'I'll kill one before the week's out.'

'Cop didn't lift a damn finger. Just stood there and let us have at 'em. We're protecting them too, you know?'

One of them noticed her listening in. He was a young thing. Cocksure of himself. A big nose and red hair. 'You're missing all the fun, sweetheart. Get your ass down to Spring Street if you wanna meet some real men.'

Hartsfield didn't answer.

‘Lenny,’ she said, looking back to the bar. ‘I’m heading out.’

‘Want me to tag along?’

Brenda would pounce on her if she did. She would offer her a small fortune to come work for her. Maybe she was being selfish, but she didn’t want her going anywhere. ‘No, not tonight.'

Lenora tapped the bar with a lacquered nail. Her other hand settled on a hip she’d pushed out. She looked like she was going to say something, decided not to, and turned her back on her.

She pulled on her fur coat and walked out into the cool night, looking like the cat’s pajamas. The band inside struck up a sultry rendition of 'What's the Use of Gettin' Sober'. A breeze found her, carrying the ghost of the June Gloom. The peculiar weather that covers the city in a cool, gray shroud. Who says Los Angeles doesn’t get different seasons?

June Hartsfield stepped off the sidewalk and hailed a taxi down. She slipped into the backseat. ‘Koreatown,’ she said. ‘9th & Fedora Streets’

As the cab pulled away from the curb, she noticed the glint of headlights. A car pulling out behind them. Crawling out of the shadows. It followed them close as far as Melrose. Then the driver kept his distance, but close enough for her to see his glowing cigarette. A cold spike rammed through her gut. Was it the car from last night? The one parked outside the club when that girl disappeared?

Her fingers fumbled with the clasp of her clutch. No gun. Who was she kidding? She hadn’t packed one in months. Just a purse full of lipstick. She needed people. Now. Her fingers gripped the clutch, nails digging into the fabric. Should she call someone? Her heart pounded. She twisted to glance at the street, searching for an alley, a crowd, anything that could offer safety.

‘Step on it, will you?’ she told the driver, trying to keep her voice steady.

The car kept up with them and the cigarette flared from behind the wheel.

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