South Central Noir

He could hear the music spilling out the door of the Downbeat. The club was owned by that Jew in Hollywood, the well-dressed one, Cohen. Above Earl, above the Lucca brothers, he was Vince’s real boss. The band sounded crazy. Hopheads most likely. The bass rattled the windows. What was their name? Some of Vince’s friends were nuts over them, said they were the future. He sure as shit hoped not. Stars of Swing, that was it. Some guy named Charlie was the dope fiend on the bass. The girls were crazy over him. No explaining that.

The cop turned him just enough to run the light over Vince’s face, collar, and the front of his shirt. He took a step back and put his hand on his holster. “What’s this? Looks like blood.”

Shit, fucking George again. Vince should have checked himself over after pounding on him. “Cut myself shaving. Guess I was in a hurry to get out and didn’t notice to change shirts.”

The cop just nodded and told his partner to check out the car. The other cop opened the passenger door and got in, ran his flashlight around the bottom of the seats, then opened the glove box. He pulled out the pink slip and looked it over. “This your car? When’d you buy it?”

The slip was typed out to George but signed over to Vince. He didn’t know what George was going to do, maybe go to the cops, maybe his wife’d make him do it, maybe someone would find him. Better not to put himself and George in the same place tonight. “A few days ago. It’s a piece of shit but it runs. Sorry I didn’t notice the taillight.”

The cop shined his light back into the box and came out with a folded piece of paper. He carefully unfolded it, shined his light on it, and held it up so that the cop next to Vince could see. “What’ve we got here?”

The cop shoved Vince hard up against the car and pushed into the back of one of his knees with his knee. “Put your hands behind your back.”

Vince did and was cuffed, quick and tight. “What the fuck? What’d I do? Told you I’d get the light fixed.”

The cop moved him to the open driver’s window, pushed his head down to it so he could look inside and see what the other cop was holding. Shit, George, fucking George, what the hell? Vince hated that shit. It was for losers.

The other cop started tossing the car, looking it all over as the cop with Vince steered him toward the prowl car. “You know reefer’s illegal, pal, even just a little, a felony rap, even on the Avenue.”

Vince snorted. Mary Jane? Two reefers. That was all. There wouldn’t be more. George didn’t have the money or the connections. And it was all over the Avenue, all the time, and for the most part no one gave a shit, not so long as it was a white guy caught holding.

“Okay, fellas, you got me. It ain’t much of nothin’. You let trouble like this slide all the time. You know who I work for, right? I’ll get the light fixed, you can take the reefer, I don’t smoke that shit anyhow. And I’ll make sure you get taken care of soon as I get a little ahead.”

He was looking into the eyes of the cop when he said it and missed seeing the knee coming up toward his groin. He could still hear the cop, though, once he was on the ground breathing hard to try to get through it.

“That’s resisting arrest and attempted bribery, shitbag.”

The reek of vomit and piss in the tank wasn’t helping Vince’s pains. His crotch had settled into a slow dull throb, but his hips, stomach, and shoulders ached hard where he had “fallen” onto the booking cop’s billy while he was being processed. The whites and coffee still working their way through his veins weren’t helping either. Where was a real drink when he needed one?

And what was it with so many guys in the holding tank? He saw someone he knew a little across the cell and slowly picked his way over. “Hey, Tom, what’d they nab you for?”

“Hey, Vince. A bullshit B&E. The ex’s place, trying to get my radio back. Used to be my place. Cops knew it too. You?”

“A little reefer, on the back of a busted taillight. What’s going on? Why the crowd?”

“I hear it’s come down from on high. Clean up the Avenue. Some radio preacher’s got his hooks into the deputy mayor’s wife and now we’re paying for it. And it’s not like the locals mind. They’re just going to hop on board figuring they can use it to raise the going rates on leaving things be.”

Another guy had moved into Vince’s seat on the bench and he wasn’t up to the rumble it would take to clear him out. He found a spot on the concrete to try to mull over the possibilities.

They weren’t good. Normally Earl would have him out in no time. And he’d stay out. The whole ruckus would disappear. But it would cost him. Palms would be greased, strings pulled, favors called in, and Vince’d be in deeper hock to Earl and the Luccas than the schmos he regularly had to brace on their behalf. Though it wouldn’t be anything he couldn’t work off in a few good months.