A Week In Hel Read online

  A WEEK IN HELL

  by J. Walt Layne

  Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords

  This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part or whole of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

  A Week In Hell

  Copyright © 2013 J. Walt Layne

  All rights reserved.

  Tuesday

  Call me Dicke.

  It was hot for Christ’s sake, damned hot. And it smelled like a corpse rotting in the sun. The radio head reported that it was the hottest July on record, but he could have fooled me. It didn’t feel like July at all. It felt more like I went to bed in a furnace and woke up in hell.

  I woke up pissed and hot. The fan spun on the dresser like it was going to take flight, but the air conditioning was out and the stifled air didn’t move. I drug my ass to the can to drain my lizard. I had to hold out a hand to steady myself until my ballast drained and I could stand up straight.

  I contemplated my face and raised the blade. When I was done the wolf was still there, but he was a bit better groomed. I washed my hands and dried them by brushing back my flat top hair.

  I pulled on the uniform and dabbed a little polish on my shoes. While the polish dried, I cleaned my gun—an old school Smith Model 10. It belonged to my Granddad when he was a flatfoot in this very district. He passed it on to Dad, who got killed ‘cause he didn’t pull it fast enough, in a trailer park out on Storm Creek.

  As I rodded the bore and chambers, I thought about her.

  Her name was Candace Alice Pinkerton, and for short I’d called her Candi Apple Pink. She was a whole lot of woman and a whole lot of trouble in a little black dress—a real cross way breezer, I swear. Dispatch called me out to White Walls, this beer joint on Pleasant Hill, to wring out a couple of brawlers. When I showed up the fight was long gone, but she was there working the bar.

  I took out my pad and pen, and planned to take a report.

  “What’ll ya have?” she purred in a seductive feline voice that screamed trouble.

  Cats aren’t really my thing, at least not while I’m chasing the dime, so I said, “Gimme Joe Kennedy.”

  She poured a shot of Bushmill’s best, and turned it into a coffee mug, followed by the oily saint of sanity itself. She sat it in front of me, and leaned over the counter just enough for me to get a peek at the goods.

  “Dispatch sent me over because of a fight,” I laid out.

  She shook her head, and then cautiously sneaked a glance around.

  “Bull McCaffrey was just sittin’ here, pullin’ on a shorty, when a couple of guys come in here to tear up the place.” She purred it, like maybe if she sweetened the sound of it enough it wouldn’t happen again.

  I took a slug of Joe, and made a couple of notes. “You see those guys before today?”

  She shook her head again, and glanced around even less conspicuously than before.

  A chair rattled in the back room of the joint, as somebody got up quick.

  I stood up sharp. “Who’s that?” I whispered.

  She shook her head again. “Nobody.”

  I heard steps on the creaky floor, and snatched off the thumb brake on my holster.

  “Come clean,” I warned as she started to back away.

  She shook her head again. “I can’t talk to no cop.”

  Lightning quick, she reached out across the bar. My hand went to my smoke wagon. As leather shed cold steel, she took my pen and wrote something on my pad.

  She gulped as she stared down the barrel of eternity. I exhaled hard and put old blue back to bed, letting that hammer down slow and easy.

  When I looked at her, I could’a’ swore she was hot, but that wasn’t all.

  She was pissed. “I told you I can’t talk to no cops.” She took my pad, stuck the pen inside it and tossed it at me. “Now get out of here.”

  She glared at me and her eyes darted to the door.

  I shoved my pen in my pocket and walked out.

  In my cruiser, I opened the pad to where she’d wrote, “pick me up at 7,321 S. Center.”

  I was stiff; I almost let the air out of her, and all she wanted to do was come on.

  I made my report as far as I could, having shown up too late to break up the fray, and leaving out the part where I almost sent the barmaid to glory and got a date.

  After I signed back in to service, I cruised around on patrol for the better part of an hour. The cruiser was like a rolling tin can furnace; no air conditioning and the blower had two temperatures. With the windows down it was hot, with them up it was damn hot. Then dispatch called again.

  “One-twenty-one Lincoln,” the radio squelched.

  I took the handset off the dash and keyed in, “This is one-twenty-one Lincoln.”

  I rolled up to a stop sign and waited, then I turned right and headed north. It was another minute and a half before the radio squelched again. I’d been skirting my district. I liked to prowl it from the outside in, making each loop from the opposite direction. When the radio came up, I headed for the center of my beat to make it a short trip to the call.

  “One-twenty-one, proceed to five-ten East Grand. An elderly neighbor reported a suspicious person.”

  “Affirmative,” I growled into the mic and hung it back on the dash.

  I put my foot on it and rolled north on Lime Street, toward Grand Avenue. Braking, I took the corner at thirty, but had to stomp the brakes to avoid turning a game of street ball into a bowling alley with two-ton balls.

  When the crumb snatchers scattered, I kicked my cruiser in the nuts and laid a little rubber.

  Twenty seconds later, I rolled up in front of 510. I looked over the joint and up the alley, waiting long enough for anyone nearby to get the wrong idea. I grabbed my pad and went to the door. I gave it the business rap and waited.

  No answer.

  I gave the door the business again, and then cupped a hand and laid an ear on it.

  I heard a thud, followed by what sounded like a muffled voice. That was followed by another thud, and the sounds of pots and pans clattering.

  I gave the door the business and announced myself. “This is Officer Dicke, Champion City Police.”

  Nothing again.

  I glanced back at my cruiser and thought about calling for backup. I heard another thud and grasped the door handle. Just as I was about to give it the shoulder, I tried the knob and it gave.

  Another thud, followed by glass breaking and a muffled scream.

  I drew my sidearm and moved through the house toward the sound, my pistol at the low ready. I’m not a small man, and I made no effort to be quiet.

  The house was like an antique store, packed full and hard to move around in for a lug like me. I entered the kitchen and saw an overturned chair. There was water and a dishrag on the floor.

  Another thud came from the next room, and I heard a low whimpering voice, begging. I went right for it.

  She was on her back He was on top of her, pants around his ankles. They must’ve wrestled, cause their heads were near me, and his ass was waving hi to the wall.

  I kicked him dead in the kisser with my size 14.

  Lips split, teeth broke, nose exploded, and blood flew.

  He was stunned after my five-toe sandwich, so I grabbed him by the hair. When I pulled the scumbag off her, she rolled onto her side, cradled her head with one arm, and reached into her nether region to protect it with the
other. I could see a cut on her breast and deep purple bite marks on the other. It was just about then that my temper shot into white-out. I got a hold of the sonofabitch and somehow vaguely remember hearing her say something about, “There’s an officer here, but he’s killing the man,” followed by terrified sobs.

  It came to my attention that we were no longer alone, when I heard a familiar voice coming from someplace far off.

  “Officer Dicke,” the voice said calmly.

  I couldn’t place its origin, so I didn’t move.

  “Thurman,” the voice said again, still calm, but at a bit higher temperature. I recognized it as my Patrol Supervisor, Sergeant Mark Spitz.

  I heard it more clearly the third time, coming from behind me.

  It was then I realized that I had been watching this scene as if from above, and suddenly I slammed back into the here and now.

  “Thurman, put your sidearm away,” he said calmly.

  I looked down and realized I had my piece pointed right for the unconscious scumbag’s jewels. I let the hammer down easy, and holstered the pistol.

  I slowly turned toward Spitz, who stood in the kitchen doorway that led to the front room. It was as if my cheese had slipped sideways off my cracker. Fuzzy at the edges, with pissed off still faint on the screen.

  “You okay, man?” Spitz asked.

  I nodded a little, noticing the woman was cowering in the corner between the fridge and the sink.

  Spitz started to step into the room, sliding his nightstick back onto his belt and suddenly I got all adrenal again. I stepped between him and her, and rested my hand on my gun. “Far enough, asshole.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was doing. He couldn’t either—I could tell because he stopped right away. He lifted his hands wide, and shifted his weight a little.

  “Thurman, go easy man, it’s all right. Mrs. Marshall called us to back you up,” he said calmly, but I could tell his shot group was tightening up.

  “Don’t move,” I growled.

  I bent down to her and offered her my hand. She cowered away, trying to shield her nakedness, pressing a hand to her ruined breast and covering her crotch. The pooled blood beneath her was very dark.

  “C’mon, let’s get you some help,” I croaked.

  She shuddered, looked at me and then at Spitz, like one of us was gonna bust her chops.

  “C’mon,” I held out my hand.

  She finally took my hand and I helped her to her feet. She took two steps and collapsed into the arms of two waiting medics.

  All of a sudden I felt like Atlas, as the world shifted into an uncomfortable spot.

  Something moved in my periphery, and I spun on my heel.

  In the back room, two more medics were loading the scumbag piece of shit onto a gurney. He wasn’t wearing a rubber sleeping bag, so I guess the optimists won this one.

  I turned to Spitz who was still watching me closely. “I gotta get some air,” I growled, and brushed past him on my way to the door.

  I sat down on the edge of the porch, and watched one of the detectives slip up on the woman from the house. The medic with her gave him the shoulder, and he turned around and walked right into the rape counselor. I thought I was having a shit day.

  A minute later, Spitz joined me on the porch. He handed me my notepad.

  “Here, you might want this,” he said, in that same calm voice. Then he asked, “You okay?”

  “Hell no I ain’t okay. How the hell am I gonna be okay?” I growled like some kind of animal.

  “Look out, here comes the detective,” Spitz gave me the heads up.

  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.