The Patrolman - 5

 

 

5.

 

 

 

After the looks he got from the cab driver, Mr. Slate made up his mind - tomorrow, he'd buy a car. A man had to invest in his living. Drivers started to clock your face after a while, and only two cab firms in the whole of Los Angeles would pick him up. There was a used car lot a short walk south and west from his apartment. He'd passed it before and already had one in mind. He shaved, showered, and headed out.

From Yucca and Grace, it was a 15-minute walk. The lot smelled like oil and hot rubber, with rows of Fords, Chevys, and Studebakers catching the morning sun. He walked past the cars toward a squat office building. On his left was a garage with a tall man in overalls bent under the hood of a pickup. He called out, but the guy said nothing like he didn't hear or care. On his right was a portable hub - likely the sales office. Mr. Slate knocked and pushed the door open.

Before he could step inside, someone sidled up to his elbow.

‘Help you?’

A salesman. Average build, strange-looking. Pushing 50, maybe older, with dark hollows under his eyes and a head too big for his shoulders. Wearing a green suit that looked like it came from someone else's closet. Green suit. Like all used car dealers, he had a nose built for sniffing out other people's business.

Mr. Slate didn't have time for small talk. 'I'm here to buy a car,' he said.

The guy looked like a balloon losing air. No chance to lay out his pitch. ‘Guess you’ve come to the right place, then,' he said, recovering fast. 'Name's Dirk Johnson. I run the joint.'

'You the owner?'

'No, that's my father-in-law. I'm the lot manager.'

‘The one I like’s at the far end.’

That stopped him. 'You've seen it before?'

'I've walked past.'

‘Well, let’s head on over there. Follow me.'

The way he walked, you'd have thought he'd taken one on the head with a two-by-four. When they got there, the man was already wearing his patience thin. He slapped the hood. 'She's a real beauty,' he said.

'That she is,' Mr. Slate said.

The car was a brown Pontiac Torpedo, two doors, with custom red lines on the tires. In the driver's window, someone had scrawled $650 in white paint.

'$850,' the car dealer said.

'You mean $650.'

'It's a beautiful car. The price is $850.'

'I don't know 'bout you,' Mr. Slate said, 'but I got good eyes. That's a 6, not an 8.'

He threw up his hands. 'Must've been a mistake.'

'Or a markup 'cause I ain't white?'

For a second, the car dealer looked like he might deny it, but then he shrugged. 'Wartime economy, pal. No harm in trying. Let's call it an even 7.'

'Let's call it 650 like the sign says.'

At the end of the day, a sale was a sale. He would still get his commission if he pulled a fast one or not. 'Fine,' he said. 'How you wanna pay? Trade-in or finance?'

'Cash.'

'What line of work did you say you were in?'

Mr. Slate said nothing. He went into his pocket and counted out seven crisp bills.

The car dealer went to fetch his change, and Mr. Slate took in the moment. No more buses, no more chasing cabs that wouldn't stop. California might've been better than the place he'd left behind, but a car was still a rare thing for folks like him. In a city where people come and go, ownership is everything.

The car dealer came back and handed over the cash.

Mr. Slate counted the money. 'You forgettin' something?'

'What?'

‘A pink slip? Bill of Sale?'

The guy made a face, then fished the papers out of his breast pocket. Mr. Slate knew his kind. The type to call the cops, pocket the $650, and have the car back out on the lot the next morning. He seemed comfortable with the idea of taking folks for a ride. Well, he'd tried. Mr. Slate had half a mind to come back that night and torch the place. But he had other plans.

He climbed into the Pontiac and turned the key. The engine rumbled. The wheel felt good in his hands. He wound down the window, looked at the car dealer, and said: 'Motherfucker.'

 

 

At the little kitchen table in his apartment, Mr. Slate sat down to write a letter. Same as every month, the last week like clockwork. He wrote to his daughter. Asked how she was. Slipped in some cash and added the return address to a P.O. box rented under a false name in Inglewood. He'd been checking that box since he got to California. Every week without fail. She never wrote back. Not once.

His apartment was as bare as a jail cell. Small, stuffy, and cold in the way a place feels when nobody's planning on sticking around. No pictures, no keepsakes. Nothing that spoke of him or anyone else. It could've been a cheap hotel room. He slipped $50 into the envelope. Sat there a moment. Rent, the groceries, the car - he hadn't bought much else that month. After a pause, he headed to the bedroom. 

The bed scraped as he shoved it to one side. He dropped to one knee, pulling a switchblade from his pocket. The first floorboard came up with a groan, the wood scarred from the many times he'd done it. It came away easy enough. The second popped free with his fingers. Beneath the boards, the hidden compartment was level full with stacks of $100 bills. The notes were in packets fastened with tape - $1,000 per bundle. By his guess, at least $25,000 sat in there, sharing space with his armory.

Mr. Slate pulled out another bill and added it to the envelope. He licked it shut, his hands steady but his eyes heavy. He stared at the letter, not moving, not blinking. No amount of money could bring her back to him. Nothing could fix what he broke. But maybe, just maybe, it would ease her load. Make her life a little less hard. He sat until his backside went numb, then he went back to the bedroom and got ready for work.

A few minutes later, he took stock of all the guns. Spread out across his bed. Each one wiped down, each one in its place like soldiers in formation. An Enfield rifle with a scope. A Model 11 shotgun. Twelve handguns, a mix of semi-automatics and revolvers. Most were six-shooters. Reliable, simple, and easy to hide. He stood over the collection, hands on his hips. He needed something small but mean. Not too loud - something to put the fear of God into a man. Something that would make him give up his own mother if it got stuck under his nose. Mr. Slate's eyes landed on the blunt-nosed .22.

 A .22 wasn’t big, wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. Small calibers stayed quiet, the kind of noise that didn’t carry past a single floor. He needed it loud enough to scare people away. No heroes. Soft-nosed bullets made neat pinpricks going in, but tore meat on the way out. Up close, it was deadly. He had filed the serial number off and wrapped the barrel and trigger with friction tape. Untraceable. Yeah, it’d do. He stuck the gun in his waistband, under his shirt, then buttoned it back up. Once his coat was on, no one would notice unless he sat down. But by then, noticing wouldn’t matter.

He pulled out the cards Barclay had given him. One had a telephone number scrawled on it. The other, an address in the Fashion District.

 

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