The Road to Nowhere Special - Chapter V (Part I of II)

V

The next two weeks were painful. I drowned my sorrows every night at this solemn piano bar west of Sunset. I showed up late every morning to work and on the thirteenth, without having shaved or washed for a week and stinking of booze, I was sent upstairs to the Chief of Police.

            Horrall looked me up and down with his nose wrinkling. Captain Parker or Bill the Boy Scout, stood adjacent to him with his hands behind his back. Horrall started by saying: “Could you give us a moment Bill?”

            He nodded and left.

“Jake, what’re you doing here?” Horrall smiled.

I shrugged.

“What’s happened to you? Since I put you on the Attwell detail all you’ve done is screw up.”

Dig the irony. Dig it – he also drinks like a fish.

            “Chief?”

“You’ve been on this thing for nearly a fortnight. No leads. No connections. Only a hunch that Siegel’s behind it. Uniform checked Attwell’s address and found a dead prostitute…”

            I flexed my knuckles.

“And that intuition is coming from uniform. I mean it Jake if you keep at this I will have to suspend you from duty, is that clear?”

            “Yes, sir.”

His chubby smile turned to a frown. “Good, I’m removing you off the Attwell case and reassigning you to the Downtown Hopheads. We’re not expecting any miracles but it’s a start. Now do us both a favour and get the fuck out my office pronto.”

            I nodded and turned on my heel. I eased the door open, let it close and marched down the corridor. Bill the Boy Scout was outside fiddling with his whistle. Prick. He shook his head at me and went back in, tongue at the ready to rim Horrall’s ass and steal his title. I rounded the corner and took a swig from my lunch bag. When I got downstairs I busied myself with the basics of policing, sharpening pencils and tossing scrunched case notes in the waste paper basket. Six hours later I found myself tossing bills at the bartender instead and blowing smoke rings in his face.

            The old guy at the piano cracked his knuckles and took break. He flicked the wireless on his way out. I eyeballed two sailors fight over a brunette and laughed hard. She had cadged drinks off them both without giving up that ass, clever girl. Whoever wins gets to take her to the double C club. 

Moonlight Serenade crackled on the wireless.

By five o’clock I was a widower, by seven o’clock I was a drunk and by ten I didn’t even know what the fuck I was. But a sensible cop wasn’t one of them. I tripped out the door, bounced from car bonnet to car bonnet and only once I spewed up the entire contents of my evening did I decide to hail a cab.

 

***

 

I fumbled with the lock and after a few moments opened the door. My apartment was dark and reeked of smoke as per. I pocketed my keys and leant on the light switch. Nothing. The table lamp flickered on instead. There were two guests on my couch and one was a .45. The grey guy wore grey slacks, suit and necktie with a hardened face with matching – you guessed it – cold grey eyes. He removed his hat and told me not to move.

            “I wasn’t going to, pal.” I complied.

He screwed a silencer on. “You see this?” He twiddled it in his hand. “I’m not afraid to use it.”

            “I can see that.”

“Good, now that we’re clear, I’d like you to take a seat.”

            “In my own flat? How kind.”

He trained the pistol on my heart and held it there.

I took a seat opposite him and the table and took a look around the room while I was at it. The place had been turned over.

            “Ever heard of a spring clean?” he said.

That confused me.

“It’s winter. Besides, I thought that was what I was paying you for?” I meant no offence to Mrs Sanchez across the hall.

            Snarling - “Enough with the bullshit. Where’s the dope and money?”

            I laughed hard at that: “It’s the fee for my services. I’m a classy girl you know.” He didn’t return the laugh. He pulled back on the hammer instead. I raised my hands in surrender. I was sobering up and wasn’t in the right frame of mind to die.

            “Just kidding.” I looked at the open bottle of Scotch between us and thought screw it. “May I?”

            He nodded and I went to work. I filled the glass and stole a mouthful from it. I sighed and offered my new pal a drink. No response. I shrugged and took another swig before talking. “To start, I have an idea what Attwell did with your dope. My bet is that it was a bad batch and that those boys downtown bore the grunt of Attwell’s greed.” I went light-headed and rubbed my brow.

            “And the money?” he asked.

“From my findings, he blew it on the Cadillac, a watch and his mother.” I was slurring now.

“Then you’re of no use to me.” He said and flicked the safety up.

 

The colors of the room bled away. I tried to stand and went rubber-legged. I tumbled onto the floor. He stood over me about to take the shot. I drooled. There was a knocking at the door. He looked up and went to answer it. The curtains of my lids closed. The last I heard was a thump and I found myself beyond oblivion.

 

***

 

I awoke a few hours later to the telephone ringing. I grunted and slowly found my feet. I had passed out in a pool of my own sick, blood and piss. Cute. I raised the receiver to my head and answered:    

“Yeah?”

“Nice surprise?” an animated voice said.

“What surprise?”

“The bitch in your bubble bath,” it said.

            I rang off and sat on the couch for a few moments, wondering who the creep-o was and where Mr Grey had gone. I took a leaf out of the other guy’s book and checked the bathroom.

            He was in there alright. His pale hands clenched the sides, battered kneecaps, his shattered balding head tilted upwards with a Glasgow smile imprinted on his face. Christ.

            The phone rang again.

I backed out of the bathroom and emptied my guts. There goes the sheepskin rug I thought. I took a seat and lit a cigarette and shook.

            The phone stopped ringing. Then shrieked back into life.

“What?”

“Like my handiwork?”

“Not Pablo Picasso but it’ll do.” I burped.

“I was thinking more the Man Who Laughs.”

“Well I’m not laughing.”

            He laughed.

“Do you know what you just did?”

            There was a titter.

“Yeah. I saved your life.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to be saved.” I said.

            Snigger: “True. Either way you owe me.”

“Horseshit. What do you want?”

            “I’ve already come half-way: I want your attention. I have a business proposition for you.”

            “Wrong number. The funeral directors on a Pasadena extension.”

The fucker laughed again.

            “No, I think I found the right number and… I think we’re not so different, you and I.”

            “And how’s that?”

“Well, we both know what we both want. And I have the solution as to how we’re going to get it.”

            “You’re introduction vibed a sleazy middle-aged psychotic salesman but now you do have my attention.”

            “Good,” he said. “Benjamin Siegel. Be seeing you Detective.”

 

Then he rang off.