A Week In Hel (2 page)

Just then, the medics
brought the scumbag out, strapped to the gurney. I stood up and
watched them roll him past. He was still dazed, but when he saw me,
he had terror in his eyes.

I sat back down. I was
shakin’, I was so pissed.

After they loaded the
scumbag in an ambulance and drove away, the detective came
over.

“
You’re lucky he’s going to
live,” he cracked.

“
Sounds like he’s lucky,” I
spat back.

The detective cooled it for
a hot minute, while he sized me up. He must have thought better of
pulling my chain, because he tried a different tack.

“
We’ve been lookin’ for this
guy for months.” His sharp nose and close set eyes made him look
like a rat.

“
I found him for you, now
piss off,” I hissed, getting madder by the minute.

“
Dicke!” Spitz finally
spoke. “At ease.”

I glared at him, the little
rat bastard, weighing my desire to kick his ass against my need to
keep my job.

The detective arrived, “No,
Mark, it’s okay, really.”

I cooled for a minute. They
were both watching me.

“
What?” I finally
asked.

“
That guy, we want his ass
for about a dozen jobs just like this. Two of his victims died, one
won’t talk. All of them live within a mile of here. You got
yourself a winner.”

His offhanded praise was
over my head. I was still in the house, facing him down. Mad at
myself because I didn’t get there sooner.

“
Not bad for a rookie,”
Spitz agreed.

“
I need to get a
state...”

“
Tomorrow.” Spitz stood up,
and stepped between us, like I needed his protection.

“
But I...” he started to
insist.

“
Tomorrow. The kid’s had a
long day already.” He turned to me. “Sign off for the rest of the
afternoon. We’ll do your report after roll call tomorrow morning,
right?” He nodded at me slowly and I nodded in return.

Spitz and I watched as the
detective skulked off, half pissed. Better to skulk with an
un-kicked ass, than to carry it in a sling.

I gave Spitz the look.
“That’s it?”

He nodded. “Shouldn’t it be?
You need to cool it this afternoon; we’ll put it on paper tomorrow.
If she testifies, this guy goes away forever.” Spitz moved closer.
“It was a bad call, but you done good. Now go home.”

I got up and walked to my
cruiser. When I got in, I called in to dispatch and signed off for
the rest of the day like I’d been told.

I looked at my watch and it
was almost two o’clock. I glanced in my pad and saw the barmaid’s
handwriting
—Pick me up at 7, 321 S. Center.

I started the car and drove
out Grand to East Street, then right on Selma toward Pleasant
Hill.

I was about four blocks out
of downtown, so I made the right on Center, cruised through the 400
block, and crossed Washington Street. I cruised past 321 and made a
mental note. It was a smallish, faded, white Shotgun house someone
had liked well enough to take care of at some point.

I sped up and headed home
through downtown. After a pause at Champion City P.D. to change
cars, I was on my way home.

I pulled my ride out of the
space I shared with another slick-sleeve on nights, and cruised to
the North Street exit. I turned left onto North and then left again
on Fountain.

I got this car for a song
and a thousand clams when the Sheriff’s office decided that all of
their Lieutenant’s were getting new Chevies. It was a nearly new
’79 Ford Police Package, all black with a deep glazed finish, and
an all-leather interior. The all-band radio was built into the
console, not bolted into a rack. It had holsters built in above
both sun visors, and a shotgun pocket on the front of the seat. In
short, it was the perfect ride for an off duty cop.

My place was in the Shawnee
Hotel. It was an old high rise from the glory days when Champion
City was the biggest blue collar town in the world, and the Big
Four Railroad was still a giant. It housed about a hundred and
fifty one and two bedroom flats, mostly filled, then and now, with
short term laborers, but it ain’t a flop house. Two hundred a month
for more space than a bachelor like me needs. Small, clean,
efficient, and nobody comes in without the doorman knowing about
it.

I pulled into the lot behind
the Shawnee and went to the door. I fiddled with my key for a
minute and let myself in. I let it close. The lock snapped into
place behind me when I was half way up the stairs.

The stairs from the basement
opened onto the lobby, where the doorman was situated to see both
the main doors and the stairs.

“
Thurman,” the old fellow
grinned as I made the head of the stairs.

‘
Mr. Weeks,” I nodded, on my
way to the mailbox.

I indexed my keys, and
selected the first mailbox key. The second one, I’ll get to
later.

I opened the box and pulled
out a fistful of mail. I relocked the box and headed for the
stairs. Today, five flights seemed more like ten.

In my apartment, it was
still hot, but a shave cooler than outside. I sorted the mail over
the vertical file and saved only two items, a letter from Ronemus
& Thoresen Attorney’s at law, and a small yellow envelope from
the Internal Revenue Service.

I suspected Aunt Iris had
sent my tax rebate. I opened the one from the lawyer and read,
“July first. Dear Thurman Edward Dicke, yadda-yadda, disposition of
probate, on and on, and so forth. Taxes, bullshit-bullshit, minus
our cut, kiss my ass. Pick up your check at our office (right
across the street from the police department) between nine and six,
Monday through Friday, but not on a holiday. It’s been a pleasure
putting the screws to your parent’s estate, Paul
Thoresen.”

Mom died last fall, of
causes related to a three deck habit and too much booze. She was
sixty. When dad got the pill and died, she took it damn hard and
moved into a cozy fifth she never crawled out of. She lost her job,
and most of her mind. I did the best I could for her, and had to
leave her alone.

I sat down and started to
write out a statement about the incident on Grand Avenue. I wrote
it out just as it happened. I really couldn’t specify time frames,
because it was all sort of a blur from the moment I kicked that
scumbag in the face. I knew I had a lot of issues if he had an
attorney smart enough to put up any kind of defense. I hoped that
he was appointed the dumbest public defender on the
payroll.

I looked at my watch. It was
just after six. Crappy shits, I had to shake a leg.

I locked the deadbolt and
shucked off my Sam Browne. After I ditched my blue suit in the
hamper, I hit the shower.

For some reason, I always
had the habit of laying my piece on the back of the toilet, just in
case. At that point, I couldn’t imagine a crook with the sand to
break into a cop’s place with the cop inside. But I would—and
soon.

I cranked up the hot water
and sailed away in the steam. My whole lousy day just seemed to
wash away, right along with the stink of stale anger. I hit the
dark places with soap and elbow grease, then wrote an I.O.U. to the
rest of it and turned off the water. I reused the towel on the back
of the door and made a note to do laundry this month.

Shirt, slacks, belt, jacket,
wingtips. I slipped my piece into my off duty rig and clipped it on
my belt. I considered the two bottles of cologne before thumbing my
nose at the Tan Leather, and splashed on Classic Spice.

It was getting close to
time, so I heeled out at quarter of seven.

When I pulled up in front of
321 South Center, a rusty Karman Ghia was parked in the carport. I
started to cool it for a second, and remembered what it’d cost me
last time.

I knocked on the door
loudly, but not giving it the business. I was off duty after all. A
few ticks passed with no answer and I thought,
Oh shit! Not
again.

I gave the door some
business, and this time there was the rattle of a cheap inner door,
and flustered, hurried footsteps.

She came to the door with
one large towel wrapped around her hair, and one medium towel
clutched tightly around everything else.

“
You’re on time,” she
groused, a slow grin washing over her cheeks. Even unmade, she
shined.

“
You said seven, and I aim
to please,” I exhaled slowly, taking inventory of the way that
towel almost did the job.

“
I figured you for fifteen
minutes, easy,” she said and pushed the screen wide for me to come
in.

I walked inside and turned
around. I wasn’t staring; I just couldn’t take my eyes off her. She
closed the door and noticed me looking at her. She was
pleased.

“
I gotta get dressed. You
can take a load off. There’s beer in the fridge. I should only be a
minute.” She turned and walked toward the back of the
house.

I found the kitchen and
rummaged in the fridge for a beer. She had two kinds, Champion City
Pilsner, and something called Boilermaker’s Stout. I grabbed a
bottle of the stout, and stood up to close the fridge.

“
Did you find the beer?” She
called from somewhere at the back of the house.

“
Yeah, thanks,” I yelled
back.

It dawned on me that her
kitchen was done up in apples, nice.

“
Could you bring me one?”
she called back.

My gut knotted. “Err, sure
what kind?” I asked and turned back into the fridge.

“
Never mind, I’m ready,” she
said, right behind me.

I stood up quick, and banged
my cheek. It smarted, and I winced. “Shit!”

She was behind me then, and
her hands were on my shoulders as I stood up.

“
Where’d it get you?” she
said in that soothing butter tone.

I raised my hand to my
cheek. She rubbed it a bit, and reached up and kissed it, “There,
that’s better now,” she soothed.

I was royal flush. I could
feel her breath on my cheek. She smelled good and her hair and
make-up were done up nice. She was smokin’ and I didn’t even know
her name yet.

“
Thanks,” was all I could
muster. My knees were weak, and I was about to boil the beer I was
holding.

She was wearing a little
black number, cut above the knee, gathered in all the best places,
with an open back, and a deep neckline. Me-ow!

She backed off and gave me
some air. “I’m glad you came. I didn’t know if you
would.”

I gave the bottle of
Boilermaker’s Stout one last look and stuck it back in the
fridge.

“
I should have rousted you,
or at least barged in on whoever was in the back room. Something
was going on, and it was odd as hell,” I said in my best cop doing
cop stuff tone.

She left the kitchen, went
to the little couch in the front room, and sat down.

“
Is that the only reason you
came, to roust my ass?” she snapped, in a harder tone than I’d
heard her use.

I followed her into the
front room and stood there, unsure of my next move. I didn’t go
there to roust her at all, but I had to declare my affiliation up
front.

“
I went to break up a brawl
that was over when I got there. I knew something was up, but you
didn’t want to play ball. I almost shot you, so I figured I owed
you, so I came,” I told her.

She looked up at me with her
big brown doe-eyes, “I didn’t realize I’d done anything
wrong.”

That’s it, she had me, and I
think she knew it.

“
There
was
someone in
the back room, and there
was
something going on,” she said
apologetically.

“
I thought so,” I said, a
bit too quick.

She pursed her lips, and her
eyes glassed. Ordinarily I find that simpering turns my stomach,
and I just wanna vomit cherry limeade, but this was different. She
was different. Somehow, it was okay.

“
What is it?” I wanted to go
to her, and be a comforting sap.

“
Nothing, let’s just forget
it. You’re here and all dressed up. I was excited you were coming
and I got dressed up. Either we’re two of the loneliest fools in
this city, or I thought I knew what I was doing when I sent you
away and paid the racket,” she said. She folded her arms around her
legs; sort of hugged herself.

For a minute, I thought we
were getting somewhere, but these pretty girls are always
confusing. I digested what she said, and decided to play my cards.
“You left out a third option,” I said dryly. “Maybe I just got some
kind of hero complex and I think I need to go around rescuing every
pretty girl that needs it, whether they want it or not.” I should
have kept my trap shut.

I saw a thick tear crest
over the floodwall, and run slow down her cheek. “Oh, honey,” she
purred, “Come sit here with me.” She patted the cushion next to
her, as if there were a lot of other choices. I sat next to her and
she unfolded. She took my hand, lifted my arm around her shoulders,
and laid my big mitt on her side. She held it there, right below
her goodie basket. “Do you like me?” She asked in a voice that
would melt butter.