Hi, this is an edited version of when I first posted this, thanks. Historical Fiction noir.
Chapter 1
August 7th 1948: The sun climbed slowly up the sidewalk of Los Angeles; a deranged, mid-fifties man stood on 1st and Spring Streets up against a slim pine tree, wearing a brown tweed single breasted suit. The trees branches shrouded him. Hiding there, gave his red pupils from booze a chance to adjust and, also an option to stop moving as that proved a struggle because of the constant digging his revolver did on his ribs.
Everyday life around him went on as normal; boys and girls hurried to school- full lives ahead of them, “war heroes” staggered home from late-night jazz clubs, red eyed and wobbling, and enthusiastic shop keepers glued their stalls to the pavement.
Watching the typical lives play out made the man wish he was about to embark on something “normal”, but what he had been involved in moments earlier would stain his life forever; something had to be done.
Fixed on the glass doors of the L.A Times building, which had a solid tomb structure, and musty windows. He closely watched reporters and journalists disappear from the searing heat and into their cushioned jobs. Journalists, he thought, with your Kodak Monitors and your three piece suit, it makes me fume just looking at use. You all think you’re bigger than God, I’ve seen you dish dirt, and he certainly had; Reporters in L.A were in their own bubble of arrogance and smugness. He had seen journalists far from “L.A Finest”-in bars late at night poking Zoot suits for various grimy - seedy information they could post in the papers the next day, about the latest celebrity who had been in the awards, or praised recently; they did it just to destroy people’s images and that exact thing was about to occur to the man.
Loud recurring police sirens irrupted in the blue sky, knowing precisely who they would be searching for; he covered his half blood splattered shirt with the rest of his jacket, and spotted a cluster of reporters hurrying to get inside. Seeing that as a chance to blend in, he crossed the road- forcing a Chevy to raise its horn; he snuck in to the crowd, they did not even bat an eye lid at his clear sweating and rush full manner.
Without a moment to stop and think every reporter had disappeared into separate office blocks, their jobs awaited. Accept for the lonely man, he began to form sharp looks from broad security guards standing by the wide concrete staircases, but before he could move away the cold marble floor turned from grey to oozing blood dribbling by his toes. Feeling woozy, the man backed off, however another image revealed itself. A girl’s murky blue dress lay on the floor in front of him- wearing three bullet holes which were ringed in dried blood. Shocked and stumbling even further back, he thought: concentrate, think, you’re losing it, turn back now, and pretend you got lost. His inner voice fought back: but what would Charlie feel about me doing this? At that point, of all places, in the middle of the entrance he realised he never considered Charlie before in his thoughts; what a shit father he had been, all he taught him was a quick upper cut and which booze tasted the best. Once I’m gone he won’t be able to cope, he thought. Why was I so dismissive of him? With the rage lifting in his body, he focused and thought: if you’re going to go out now... do it for him, put in actions what you couldn’t put in words.
Across the hall, having to squint he could just make out an elevator which had a golden plated sign above it saying, “L.A Finest and Brightest” the statement only backed up his point. Deluded. Before he could get to the elevator; a large concrete reception area became an obstacle. Out of the corner of his eyes a couple of security guards whispered in each other’s ears- Billy clubs out and cradled in their hands. Devoid of time to imagine what they could be saying he headed forward trying to remain calm and act like someone who might work there by walking confidently and with a purpose. Closing in on reception, two blonde’s chewed clown pink gum and discussed last night “goings on”. With the women keeping their noses in their own business, he slid passed, not looking back at the guards because he was worried if he did the chills in his back might transform into panicking nausea. Keeping his head down and the scotch concealed in the flap of his jacket he arrived at the elevator, hurriedly tapping the button, hoping no-one would call him out. Just a few painful seconds later and loud footsteps approached from behind; making him think his luck had finally run out and the guards had spotted him. He swivelled around with dropped, defeated shoulders only to see a blonde haired lady eyeballing an issue of The Times. Relieved a woman had approached he took a look back at the elevator, to check the floor but it was still too far away. The women huffed and said “Everywhere else, the elevators work just fine, but us? No we get elevators which take damn nearly forever”
The man grinded out a smile and kept his eyes securely on the lift doors- refusing to gain eye contact with anybody else. Couple of agonising moments later the doors pinged and opened jaggedly. The women folded the paper under her flowered tea dress and said “What floor?”
The man held up his scotch accidently and replied,
“The top one, if that’s not too much trouble”, she looked at him strangely and walked closer so he could take a whiff of her Lentheric Confetti,
“Do you actually work here sir?”
“Well not exactly, I’m visiting a... friend”
The lady frowned with hand on hips “But this building is for employees only”
“Listen, I’m not causing you any harm, so please, I’ll be out of here and gone within fifteen minutes; promise”
“No I’m not buying it. I’m mean look at yourself you’ve got drink down your front; you’re barely standing up straight and... is that blood?”
The man looked down and saw his jacket flap wide open; the wet blood had spread even more since he stood on the side walk.
The lady, looking pale and clammy said “You better be quick because security is on the next floor and I’m not afraid of calling it”
The clunking lift came to an abrupt stop; the women sped off, muttering and looking back at the man. He knew he did not have much time, he kept reminding himself: This will all be over soon.
The lift continued on its course; the man’s senses beginning to come back to him- no scotch, meant clear-cut thinking, so he chucked the bottle in the corner.
After a pause the elevator jolted to a stop one final time; it revealed scattered voices nattering outside; praying it wasn’t security, the man braced himself. The doors slid open to a couple Dolly’s pushing a tray full of what looked to be brown files. He walked out with his legs creating the tingling of nerves he felt when thinking of what he was about to carry out.
The small lobby only carried the muffles of rat tap tapping, and hosted neat, glazed wooden pillars; quiet enough for the man, as no guards in sight. He took advantage and sped quickly into a long-stretched office block filled with gallons of reporters tapping away in their cubicles like ants on a hill. With the room spinning like a top in his head he stopped and sucked in the view of the gaping long, tall cream walls and gigantic windows which delivered such overbearing rays of sunlight, his aged eyes had to squint. Strong gurgling erupted in his stomach- figuring it for a sense of anxiety he tried to gather his thoughts around the chaos of people smoking, talking and typing. It all became too overbearing, he knew who he needed to find, but it felt like he was driving at night on an unlit piece of road, not being able to see past his headlights. The drink intake did not help either; his breathing became shallower and harder to suck in air as most of it was filled with strong tobacco.
He continued on and scanned the doorways for the “Big Wolf” he was so intensely involved in getting to. He noticed singular offices with black-out blinds shutting away any peepers to the side of the room- guessing his target would be in one of them, he eyeballed the names on the glass doors; Sam Ricketts- no, Miller Farnham- fuck no, Jim Gadolfi- no, but the next one along held the prize he’d been looking for, Jack Carlson- a young cocky reporter, who knew all the big-wigs of Hollywoodland, and was the young sprightly face of The Times newspaper.
The man reached for the door knob, but was haltered by a commotion arising from behind. Looking around, the woman from the lift was pointing directly at him with two thick shouldered security guards from downstairs jogging towards him knocking papers and a few mugs of tea on the way.
Making a conscious effort to remain calm by controlling the shakes in his hands, he busted into Jack’s office, grabbed a chair, and rammed it underneath the door knob- creating a barrier for almost any force.
Behind a desk in the sun stroked room Jack Carlson sat leaning back on his chair, with a light purple silk shirt, golden braces and an unlit Cuban cigar- camped in front of a fountain of papers. Voices mounted up from outside, “open up”, the door knob twisting and pulling. Ignoring the people, Jack leant forward with a look of pure arrogance and said “How, in god’s name did you get in here?”
Not wanting to give Jack the pleasure of beginning, the man tried to get his breath back. He hadn’t moved so fast in years, and drink wasn’t helping matters. Walking to the window and sucking in the view, he started the altercation off in his own way,
“You know, for a city run by the media, you’d think the employees of these kinds of places would be role models... It’s bad enough having someone like you, thinking he is mister big shot, and doing whatever he pleases” Jack lit his cigar with a calm assured hand,
“I’ve worked damn hard to get where I want to be old boy”
“Why does that matter? Everyone in L.A knows you ain’t no angel, you’re a bend as anyone- so don’t pretend you weren’t in that alley-way, I saw you, It’s you who caused this”
Jack raised his finger and waggled “No, no, no don’t blame me. Your typical drinking habit got you in to this mess; I carry no wait on my shoulders old boy.”
“No you don’t understand, I literally cannot afford to be blamed for his; I’m deep in debt, I got a son who can’t operate as a fully functional cop, but you... you have money”
“Hang on; let’s not get to stupid here. I have an image too... look around you; this didn’t land on my front door one morning old boy. Let’s think... If say, actually no I say you are held responsible for it I’ll support you, give you a lawyer, a new home, we’ll rig a jury and put on an act about how you were under the influence, you know a bit of a booze hound- bit of a depressed goose- perfect, they won’t charge a cop will they?”
“Used to be, I retire today”
Jack laughed “What a day to go out on, those three girls never saw you coming”
The man drew an angry face on and slammed his hands on the table- forcing Jack’s papers to flutter away. “Don’t push it you snake. As for your story, it won’t sink, they’ll see it as a ‘mad cop, pumps a triple homicide in front of despairing mom”
“Fair point, ok, I’ll admit you’re a bit behind the eight ball, as am I if you do not walk out this office right now”
“No”
Jack folded his fingers together and put on a snarl “You have no idea, what this could lead to. If you take me to court over this- it’s both our lives that’ll be in danger, so do what I suggest and fade old boy”
Noticing a sharp silver pen being held captive by a jar with capital blue letters saying “L.A’s Finest” the man flinched with anger and grabbed the pen (Having had enough of Jack’s “Old Boy” antics and wanting to stake his claim on someone who was about to destroy his life) he crunched it through Jack’s right hand- sticking it to the desk like a hand stamp. Carlson cried out in pain which only created more noise outside.
The Cuban cigar, dribbled with blood, Jack squeezed his hand to stop the profuse bleeding,
“You fucking sap, just because you can’t live with what you’ve done”
The man did not answer, Jack’s rough words had clearly knocked him back, and he only heard the words
“Can’t live with what you’ve done” again and again, it took over from the sound of the office door being battered. The man slowly with a shaking hand reached into his jacket and pulled out a snub nose 45. Carlson’s eyes widened with despair, he shouted “someone, help, please” It was too late; the man took time to aim, and pulled the trigger; the bullet hole expanded across Jack’s shirt, his face turned from sour to lifeless.
The cracking of the gun rippled through the walls, making all of the anxious reporters outside the door scream.
He placed the gun on the table in front of Jack’s body, and opened the musty, large window- stepping out on to the ledge, wind flapping under his arms, a single tear broke out and thoughts of his son played in his mind like a fast film. I’m sorry I’ve let you down, he thought. The door finally broke open; splinters flying to all four corners of the room. One of the guards shouted,
“Sir, please step back off the ledge; now”- not listening, the man outstretched his arms, and whispered to himself,
“Angeles, sweep me up from this lost city”
His body dropped, ladies screamed, the guards kicked the floor. A life lost- another life ruined.