South Central Noir

George’s hand shook like he had the palsy when he signed the pink slip. Vince angled the paper toward a dim streetlight to make sure the signature was legible. The idiot had signed the car over to him. He’d have to go down to Motor Vehicles, register it, then sign it over to the Luccas or whoever they wanted him to. They weren’t going to be happy about the delay. They weren’t going to be happy about any of this. He might even have to take a beating of his own. He folded the papers and put them in his jacket pocket. George was walking away toward the street.

“Hold up a minute, George. We’re not done.”

George turned left into the first punch. His nose popped, exploding blood off to the right. A follow-up left in the ear turned George’s head the other way, putting his jaw right where Vince wanted it for an uppercut. On his way down Vince gave him a quick couple of shots to the ribs. He thought he could hear one crack.

George fell whimpering and gasping next to the right rear tire of a new Caddy. Vince sank a shoe deep into his belly. This time he did have trouble getting it out, the lump doubled up on it. It took another kick to straighten him out and get his foot back.

George’s head made an inviting target, but Vince didn’t want to kill him. He was nearly mad enough to, but not so mad that he didn’t know it was a bad idea. He levered the guy over on his back and gave him a hard stomp on his stomach. Air rushed out of his mouth and he went slack; not dead slack, just unconscious.

There wasn’t any sense beating on a guy who didn’t know it, so Vince paused to catch his breath. George’s head lolled just behind the Caddy’s tire. Almost gently, Vince moved it out of the way. He stepped back to look at the limp man on the ground. He bent down again and pulled on an arm, laid one of his hands where it’d get run over if he didn’t come to in time and the Caddy’s driver didn’t notice him. That was George’s tough luck.

Vince eased behind the wheel of George’s piece-of-shit Ford. He’d take it somewhere and stash it. Then he’d have to come back for his car. It was becoming a lousy night. Vince turned the key and pulled out of the alley onto the Avenue. At least George hadn’t been lying, the car seemed to run pretty good.

If only there hadn’t been a bad taillight. He’d made it about twenty blocks up the Avenue and was looking for a spot to park so he could find the next guy on his list: a two-bit movie producer with a sideline making nudies and a bad slots habit who usually held down a stool at the bar in the Alabam. A car started to pull away from the curb, just across the street and a little up in front of the Downbeat, and he stopped to wait and take its place. That’s when the red light and the short squeak of a siren got his attention.

Vince wasn’t sure if it was meant for him or not, so he pulled into the spot as he’d meant to, turned off the car but waited to see what the cops would do. What they did was move up next to the back of his car, leave their red light flashing, and get out. One moved to the sidewalk, slowly walked up to the rear passenger-side window, and stood there. The other came up to Vince’s side and motioned him to roll down the window. He blinded Vince with a flashlight, then moved the beam down and around, over Vince, onto the seats of the car, before bringing it back up into his eyes.

“You got a taillight out.”

That was a relief. It was a bother, but what cop’s gonna give him too much grief over that? Still, fucking George. Vince hoped he didn’t move his hand in time.

“Yeah? Okay. Sure, I’ll get it fixed. Can you get that light out of my eyes? It’s working too well.”

The cop didn’t like that. “You got a mouth. And you look a little familiar. I seen you somewhere before? Somewhere I shouldn’t?”

Vince wasn’t unknown to the local station house. They knew who he worked for. He’d had his share of scrapes, nothing too serious but enough that when something ugly was going down they’d pick him up sometimes to see if they could sweat something, anything out of him. He knew he was small potatoes, but rousting guys like him was one way the cops could squeeze his bosses for more money, favors, or just to let them know who was really in charge without having to get tripped up in the mess of tangling with the big guys head-on.

“Get out of the car. Hands on the roof, back to the street.” The other cop moved up to the front window, his hand resting on his holster.

A whole lot of things Vince wanted to say ran through his head, but even with the whites and coffee still percolating his blood, he knew better than to say any of them. Keeping his hands in sight he slowly opened the door, got out of the car, and did as he was told.