Angel Doll. Arlette Lees
and get back to me.
Angel and I have pancakes and coffee at The Memory Lights Café on the corner of Shannon and Cork. She wears a blue plastic raincoat and matching boots, her sunny hair long and flowing and dotted with raindrops. I pay the check and we hurry back up the street to catch the new Jean Harlow movie.
We laugh, eat popcorn, and drink Coke. Today I’m happy. I don’t feel like a broken-down cop with a soon-to-be ex-wife who hates him. With Angel at my side I have a second chance to do things right, maybe even kick the booze. Then again, maybe not.
The curtain comes down on the double feature. It’s after dark and we’re back on the sidewalk. The neon lights from the marquee turn the raindrops pink and silver. Across the street in a recessed entryway down from the hotel, a ruby eye glows from the shadows. It could be some Joe ducking out of the rain for a smoke. It could also be Teague watching us. I’d walk over and check it out if I were alone, but Angel is chattering about the movie, asking if she should bleach and bob her hair like a Hollywood movie star. Why ruin the moment by starting a ruckus? Teague’s not going anywhere. Neither am I.
Our evening comes to an end. Angel puts on a pink taffeta dress, matching shoes and a string of dime store pearls. She stands in front of the mirror, puts on earrings and a dab of perfume. She catches me watching her and smiles.
“Don’t go,” I say. “I’ll take care of you.”
“I’m just going to say good-bye to the girls.”
“Be careful. Come to my room when you get back.” She turns from the mirror.
“Oh Jack,” she says, her head resting on my chest, “they say you can’t fall in love this fast, but....”
I hold her at arm’s length. Her eyes are bluer than rain.
“What do they know?”
We stand inside the doors of the lobby waiting for the taxi. I give her money for fare and kiss her on the curve of her neck. She laughs and says it tickles. She’s beautiful when she laughs, when the sadness goes into hiding. The taxi pulls to the curb and she skips out the door. When I walk back through the lobby I can still smell her perfume.
Back in my room the phone rings. Hank patches Jim Tunney through. He says to go through the back entrance of the building next door. It was called The Zebra Room before Prohibition. Now it’s the speakeasy where cops and attorneys get tanked. I leave a ten in my wallet and put the rest of the bills in the top dresser drawer with my gun. Who needs a gun? I’m having drinks with a cop.
The doorman points to a red leather booth in the corner of the room. A bucket of beer and two chilled mugs sit on the table. I can tell from the look on Jim’s face that he’s got something for me.
“You dug up some shit on Teague,” I say, sliding into the booth.
“And the deeper I dig, the darker it gets.”
“So, what’s his resume?” I say, filling my mug. I shift my weight on the bench. That’s all it takes to ratchet up the pain in my back. This isn’t an injury that’s going to resolve itself overnight.
“He was in Kansas City until four years ago,” he says. “Big-time pimp. Seems that every hooker who wanted out of his stable ended up in the river with their hands tied behind their back. Same thing if they had the audacity to get pregnant or pick up some unfortunate disease. Believe me, you don’t want to know the gruesome details.”
“So, how come he’s not behind bars?”
“He skipped town and drove west before homicide had a solid case. Dead girls don’t talk and the live ones are afraid to.”
“Where does that leave us? Are you saying he’s untouchable?”
“He’s wanted for questioning in the homicides, but there’s no law says you have to talk with the police. He was, however, a no-show on a court date for pandering, so they put out a bench warrant.”
I light a cigarette and pour another mug of beer.
“Maybe you could have him extradited.”
“I can call Kansas City. I bet we can rattle his cage.”
“Angel wants out. He’s not going to take it well.”
“I’ll get on it first thing Monday morning?”
We smoke up the room and finish another bucket of beer. I pay the tab and cross the alley to The Rexford. I’m buzzed and my throat’s raw. A day in Santa Paulina and I have a job, a girl, two friends and an enemy. What more can a guy ask for? I walk into the lobby. Hank is in the middle of the room headed toward the door.
“Jesus, Jack. I was just coming to get you. All hell broke loose about a minute ago. It’s Angel. Teague worked her over real bad. Her clothes are ripped. She has a terrible bite on her arm. I tried to steer her next door but she’s already gone up the elevator.”
I hobble up stairs I’d normally have taken two at a time, three on a good day. I reach the second story landing, calling her name.
The door to my room is open. Pearls from her necklace are scattered across the floor. The dresser drawer is upside down on the bed. My money is gone. My gun is gone. Angel Doll is gone.
The floor vibrates beneath my feet as the elevator returns to the lobby. I scramble down the stairs and stumble into the wall. The nerve in my back is on fire.
Hank is waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
“She jumped in a taxi going west on Cork.”
“Where the hell to?”
“Probably the midnight train to L.A. You’ve got maybe fifteen minutes before it pulls out.” Hank hurries over and reaches behind the counter. “Jack,” he calls and tosses me a set of car keys. “It’s the black Ford Coupe out back. Go west on Cork. A mile after you cross the bridge, turn right on Depot Street.”
CHAPTER THREE
SHOWDOWN AT MIDNIGHT
I gun down Cork in the midnight rain, the windshield wipers working overtime, the tires hissing over the asphalt. I fly past the Rescue Mission, Sal’s Pawn Shop, and The Blue Rose Dance Hall. I clatter over the Santa Paulina Bridge, the water black and raging one hundred feet below. When I get to Depot Street I snap a sharp right and slide up to the platform.
Passengers fold their umbrellas as they file into the train. A few turn their heads to watch the stone-faced man in black dragging the lady away from the tracks. The women avert their eyes. The men are afraid to get involved.
Teague drags Angel across the platform toward a black Caddy whose driver’s side door is open, like this is going to be an easy grab. I guess it’s up to me to screw up his plan. I get out of the Ford. Angel sees me.
“Jack!” she cries, “Jack!”
The blue raincoat is missing a few buttons. The sleeve is torn, exposing an angry bite mark. She’s lost a pink shoe and one of her pearl earrings.
At the sound of my name, Teague turns toward me with a sneer. With my gimpy leg I look about as threatening as road kill.
“Don’t waste your time,” he says. “You’ve had your free roll in the hay. I’ve got legal custody of this little tramp.” He holds her tightly by the wrist. She struggles, her hair a golden tangle in the light above the station door.
The stationmaster pokes his head out of the ticket window.
“We got trouble here, mister?”
“Call the precinct,” I say. “This man is wanted for murder.”
“I’m not wanted for shit,” says Teague.
The stationmaster pulls his head back inside and slams the window closed.
I’m not in fighting form. No one knows that better than I do. If Hank has connected with Tunney, he