The Patrolman - 9

 

 

9.

 

 

 

Marlon Bishop stepped over the unpaid bills. His mailbasket was full. He looked into the dark living room and listened. Satisfied, he closed the apartment door and slid a four-inch bolt across it. He had left a small reading light on. Bishop took a bottle from the liquor cabinet and poured himself a few fingers. Outside was the faint murmur of rioting. Bishop sniffed the drink and the air. He kept on sniffing. 'Is someone there?'

Mr. Slate watched for Bishop’s reaction and switched on the corner lamp. He was sitting in an armchair in a raincoat and dark pants. His legs crossed. Balancing a gun on his lap.

'Sit down.'

Bishop's eyes widened. 'What do you want?'

'I said sit down.’

Bishop came into the living room and grabbed the couch.

'What do you do for work?'

'I'm a photographer,' Bishop said. 'For the Tribune.'

'Show me.'

Marlon Bishop rose from the couch trembling. He led him through a short hallway between the two chairs to the bathroom. He had replaced the lightbulb with a red one, turning it into a makeshift darkroom. Lines of fish wire hung overhead, with photographs developing on clothespins. More photos dangled from the shower curtain rail. Some developing solution sat in the washbasin.

'Where do you keep the rest?'

They backed out of the bathroom and went through a closed door on the left. The bedroom. It reeked of full ashtrays and cartons of Chinese food. A street sign opposite threw up neon light against the far wall, basking the room in a smoky blue haze.

Bishop went over to a chifforobe, opened the drawers, and emptied their contents on the bed. Soon, brown envelopes and monochrome pictures covered it.

Mr. Slate leafed through them. 'Not bad,' he said. 'Now where's Barclay's book?'

Bishop planted his legs wide, sizing him up. 'That's what you're here for?'

Mr. Slate finished looking at some promotional material for a B-movie actress. He recognized her, but couldn't place what he'd seen her in. Maybe in one of those crime flicks he caught at The Orpheum. It didn't matter. He lifted the gun and pulled the hammer back. 'Don't get any ideas. I'm only here for the book. Fork it over.'

He took a moment to make up his mind. It didn't last long. There was no other choice. Bishop lifted the mattress and tossed out some pants he'd been pressing and a couple of envelopes. Hidden in the center at the foot of the bed was the book.

Mr. Slate shook the book a couple of times. Nothing came loose. 'No copies?'

Bishop knocked out the bottom of one of the drawers and gave him an envelope. He slipped it in the insider cover.

'And the negatives?'

Bishop's nostrils flared, but he retrieved them from a worn-out shoe. 'Now what?' he said.

'I got what I came for. Go near Barclay and you’ll regret it.'

Mr. Slate turned on his heel.

'How can you work for that creep?' he said.

 'His name's on the Tribune, Marlon. He's paying for this apartment. Have yourself a nice evenin'.'

 

 

The voice on the end of the telephone couldn't have been clearer.

'Yes, I've got the book,' Mr. Slate said into the receiver. 'Where do you need me to bring it?'

Barclay said nothing.

He looked through the window at Marlon Bishop's apartment block. It was a nice apartment block. Well, when it was first built. Not so much now. If Bishop knew what was good for him, he'd get out of it and the hell out of dodge.

'Mr. Barclay?' he said.

'Somewhere quiet. Somewhere you won't be followed.'

‘Fine, meet me at the 6th Street Bridge in an hour,’ Mr. Slate said. He was on his second cigar, leaning on the phone booth, and starting to yawn. As he glanced up at the glass doors of the building, he saw Marlon Bishop walking through them. Bishop, looking down and rummaging through his pockets, hadn't noticed him.

'Fine, and Bishop?'

He headed up Santee Alley to 8^th Street.

'No longer a problem.'

He hung up the phone and walked to 8^th. Bishop was heading somewhere nearby and turned east toward Maple Avenue. He closed the distance between them, crossed to the other side of the street, and followed behind. Mr. Slate was careful not to get too close, so his image wouldn't reflect off the store windows.

When Bishop reached San Pedro Street, he turned north and closed San Pedro, coming to his side of the street. Mr. Slate ducked into a doorway. After counting 10 Mississippis, he moved back onto the sidewalk and Bishop was gone. He looked both ways and moved up to the corner. He saw Bishop a half block up 9th Street, stopping in front of a lingerie store. Now was his chance.

Bishop seemed to know he was being followed but didn’t expect a confrontation. Mr. Slate kept the gun in his pocket.

'Who were you gonna tell?'

'What's it to you?' Bishop said. 'You work for that monster.'

With his free hand, he grabbed Bishop's wrist. 'Tell me what's in the pictures.'

'Everything rotten about this city.'

He could see a ruckus happening over Bishop's shoulder. At the top of the street, a crew of sailors fell out of a bar. Cursing and smashing glass bottles. One of them missed the sidewalk and staggered into the path of an oncoming delivery truck. The driver tooted the horn and sped onward, heading toward them.

Mr. Slate pushed.

Bishop stepped back into the street. For a moment, he didn't realize. He looked ready to take a swing at the man who'd broken into his house and robbed him of his pension. But he either heard or felt the truck coming. He whipped around to see the speeding truck's front grill two inches from the end of his nose.

Mr. Slate pulled up his collar and disappeared into the night.

The delivery truck stopped a few yards down the street. The sailors started running up to it, but after seeing the heap lying in the middle of the road, the driver tore off.