The Patrolman - 8


By J. A. Stapleton
- 107 reads
8.
He came to on the concrete floor with a rag pressed to his head and someone yelling. A high-pitched ringing filled his ears as he sat up. His head still hurt.
An ambulance attendant hunched over him, talking. But the words came through muffled, as if cotton batting stuffed his ears.
Lacey must have gone down like a felled steer. The kind of unconsciousness he entered was nothing like the kind you drop into when sleeping. Or even his coma. It was dreamless. No sense of time passing – it started and ended in the same instant. It felt like a dummy run at dying, and if that’s what death was like, then the prospect of it wasn’t so bad.
He looked around. Cops bustled past, frantic. No sign of Carruthers. An angry Latino was being dragged out of the garage, kicking and screaming. What the hell was going on?
It hit him then.
Flores.
Manny Flores lay on the floor, twisted like a broken puppet. His hands, still cuffed behind him, were useless in breaking his fall. Spilled oil from the car left a dark, slick trail on the concrete. That’s what the sandbags had been for. Blood pooled around Flores' head and shoulders. His eyes were half-open and glassy, his face a mask of panic. Lacey focussed on his brown-and-white spats, the soles slicked with grease. They were smart shoes. Expensive. His chest tightened. Bile rose in his throat and Lacey swallowed it.
Carruthers burst through the garage door, looking like he’d gone 10 rounds with a gorilla. ‘That spic’s calling his pals,’ he said. ‘We gotta get the body out of here before this turns into another riot.’
‘We’re the police,’ someone said. ‘My boys ain’t sneaking out the back like a bunch of cowards. They did their lawful duty.’
Carruthers pointed at the body. ‘Look at him, how far was he gonna get while handcuffed? There’s a line of people out there that hate cops and there’s even more on the way.’
‘We have guns.’
‘And not enough bullets. Face it. We’re cornered, “Saps”.’
Lacey looked at the other cop. He stood around 6’4” in shoes. Looked Irish. His eyes were too small for his face, dark and cold. Moreau skulked away, deep in thought like the rest of the men.
He went up to Carruthers. ‘Georgie, what’s going on?’
‘There’s a lynch mob out there is what. If Flores doesn’t walk out of here on his own two feet, then we won’t either.’
A little guy holding a large shotgun appeared at Lacey’s elbow. ‘Can’t we take him out on a gurney?’
‘That won’t fly. His pal already thinks he’s dead, and he’s right. We can’t take him out there with a caved-in head.’
‘So we bandage it up.’
‘You’re not listening. If Flores ain’t walking out the front, then we ain’t getting out.’
‘What about the back?’ Lacey said.
‘There’s a fence. It’s 10 feet tall with barbed wire. Even if we cut through, they might still catch on.’
‘So we make a diversion,’ the little guy said.
‘What are you? The brains of the Alien Squad? They won’t buy it,’ said Carruthers. ‘If they even think for a second that we’re pulling a fast one, we’ll be in for a world of trouble.’
‘Then call for more back-up.’
‘And make the people out there even angrier? If word gets out, every pachuco punk from here to East Los Angeles will come down and kill us.’
Frustration simmered. The men dispersed, finding a corner to sit and think. They were running out of time.
Lacey followed Carruthers and took one of his cigarettes.
‘Come on, Lacey. Think. Use that brain of yours and get us out of here.’
He drank in the smoke. His head was getting worse. His ear throbbed blood.
‘You said Flores has to walk out of here alive, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So what if he does?’
The news vendor saw the ruckus happening outside Flores’ garage.
Some Mexican kid got thrown out on his ear. He tried kicking down the door, but ran to a payphone and made some calls. Later, two hot rods drew up with tough kids getting out of them. The outfit carried two-by-fours with nails hammered through them. One handed the kid a switchblade.
The garage doors opened. Policemen came out with shotguns and made a path through the crowd. A cop in plain clothes came out with someone on a gurney. 'Step back,' he said. 'Wounded police officer. Let us do our jobs.'
The news vendor recognized who was on the gurney - the young cop from earlier. He'd bought a paper from him. He recognised the clothes and his partner escorting him out. A paint-licked dustsheet covered his face, though the blood still showed through it. He looked dead. His partner helped lift his body into the ambulance, he jumped inside, and the ambulance took off.
Next came Gilberto’s son, Manuel. A jacket covered his head. The news vendor caught his spats, slicked with grease, laces removed. He wore handcuffs. The Mexican kid from earlier tried to pull him free. The cops told him to stop but he wouldn't. The boys with the two-by-fours rallied. Manuel patted the kid's hand, must've been his pal. They put Manuel in a police car and the other cop cars followed it.
When the crowd dispersed, the news vendor went back to his stand and looked at the Tribune. There was an article about a murder in Hollywood, that's what the cops had been talking about earlier. He saw a name at the bottom of the article, Veronica Welles. He dealt in the news. Whatever happened in that garage was news too.
He called the news desk with the dime the dead cop gave him.
The ambulance and police cars met at the bottom of Angels Flight. Lacey got out of the black-and-white to cheering and backslaps. His quick thinking had saved the broken limbs of a dozen police officers. He'd swapped clothes with Manny Flores. The ambulance was taking him to Central Receiving Hospital for the autopsy.
Lacey and Carruthers rode the train car back up to Olive Street and collected the Lincoln.
Back at the station, Lacey sat at his desk. Smoking. Feeling terrible about what took place. Carruthers went to the bathroom. If it weren’t for the thugs at Central Station, Flores would be alive and talking. They might've been a step closer to solving Figueroa-Villa’s murder. Now, they were back to square one.
The telephone rang - the watch commander. ‘I got a guy on the horn for you, said it’s important.’
‘Uh, sure. Put him through.’
The line clicked with the new connection.
‘Lacey,’ he said.
‘You came close today.’
‘What?’
‘To catching me. You looked me right in the eye and didn’t see me, detective.’
‘I’m not a detective.'
‘You’re investigating the dead girl up in Hollyweird, right?’
‘Who am I speaking to?'
‘The guy you’re looking for.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Their names don’t matter.’
‘Then have a good evening, sir,’ Lacey said. He went to put the receiver down.
‘I’ll prove it.’
‘How?’
‘You’ll get a package delivered in a minute.’
‘Fine. What do you want to talk about in the meantime?’
‘You. I want to know more about you, Jake.’
'There’s nothing to know.’
‘That’s why I like you, you’re modest. Not like that partner of yours.’
‘He’s a good detective.’
‘He’s a bum, a flatfoot. He made a career beating up the little guy. But you, you’re different.’
‘Am I?’
‘You care about that girl, it means a lot to you. Why?’
‘It’s my job.’
‘No, your job is to find the facts and put me away. You’re on a mission, a crusade. You got some personal stake in this?’
‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.’
‘What flick did you steal that from? Don’t bother with the tough guy act, I know who you are. You're sensitive.’
‘What’s in the package?’
‘My mother taught me patience is a virtue.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Fat chance.’
‘Then what did you want to tell me?’
‘That you’re on the right track, but the boyfriend didn’t do it. You better tell your partner before you blow my tax dollars on happy hour.’
The watch commander appeared at the door with a box.
‘Your package is here,’ Lacey said.
‘I hope you like it.’
The watch commander passed the other desks.
‘What’s in it?’
Carruthers entered.
‘I got a busy night ahead of me, talk soon.’
The line went dead.
The watch commander stopped at his desk. ‘Lacey, right? Someone dropped this off for you.’ He set it down and lingered.
‘Sergeant, would you mind taking a couple of steps back, please?’
‘Why?’
‘Just in case.’ He tore the brown paper off. Inside was a Cartier wristwatch. Small, a woman’s. Lacey turned it over and saw an inscription. “My princess, love papá.”
‘What you got?’
Lacey looked up. Carruthers stood over him craning his neck.
The telephone rang again.
‘Lacey, it’s Frances Cruse. Care to comment on what happened up in Bunker Hill today?’
He hung up.
‘It’s the missing watch,’ he said. ‘Flores didn’t do this.’
Carruthers put his hands on his hips, kicked a desk chair over. He told the watch commander to call Scientific Investigation Division. Pronto.
© J. A. Stapleton 2025 - Image Source: Wikimedia Commons
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