BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY ARLETTE LEES

      Angel Doll: A Crime Novel

      Cold Bullets and Hot Babes: Dark Crime Stories

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 2013 by Arlette Lees

      Published by Wildside Press LLC

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      DEDICATION

      For my daughter, Wendy Marie Macias, who saw the potential for a full-length book in my short story.

      CHAPTER ONE

      THE DIME-A-DANCE GIRL

      I step off of the Greyhound Bus into the pouring rain. I’m wearing my one good pair of shoes, a decent suit beneath my trench coat and a brown fedora pulled low on my forehead. My leather suitcase carries the sum of my worldly possessions and tucked into my wallet is the paltry remainder of the fifty bucks Aunt Pearl bestowed upon me, provided I seek my fortune elsewhere.

      Well, Santa Paulina is about as elsewhere as one can get from the stiff front parlors of Boston. I set my suitcase on the sidewalk and pull up my collar but the rain is already drizzling down my back. If this is an example of sunny California, I wonder what it’s like on a bad day.

      I head down Cork Street toward the Rexford Hotel where my old war buddy, Hank Featherstone, is holding a job for me. It won’t pay what my cop salary had, but I can drink on the job provided I don’t get as soused as I was the day I was allowed to resign from The Force. When I asked Hank what my duties entailed, he simply said, “keeping the lid on things.” I’m better at that than I am at keeping the cork in the bottle, so I accept the offer.

      I’m halfway to my destination when an icy headwind gets the best of me and I duck through the first unlocked door I come to. I find myself standing in The Blue Rose Dance Hall...a classy euphemism for Dime-A-Dance Joint.

      Couples are slow dancing under a revolving mirror ball that throws dizzying arrows of light around the room. In the dark corners, pocket flasks catch the light. Prohibition has lost favor, even among the tight-lipped Bible thumpers that crammed it down our throats, so nobody’s all that worried about getting busted. You’d think the building was on fire for all the cigarette smoke. I inhale deeply and cough. Just my kind of place.

      I check my things at the counter and spring for ten dance tickets—like I can afford to blow a buck. I sit on a bench along the wall to dry off and size up the place. Soldiers, laborers, thugs, grifters, and farm boys from the Dust Bowl circle the floor with ladies wearing too much make-up and too many artificial flowers in their hair. Beneath the testosterone and cheap after-shave is the undercurrent of lonely desperation. But Hell, it’s The Depression. Everybody’s on the skids except Al Capone.

      I can’t take my eyes off the pretty girl in the blue dress. She has a heart-shaped face and a mouth like the pink lipstick kiss on a love letter. The problem is, the jug-eared loser she’s dancing with is holding her so tight she can’t breathe. She struggles and panics. He laughs and tightens his grip.

      I forget about firing up my Lucky and walk over. The guy’s drunk. He’s not the kind you can reason with so I knock him cold right out of the chute. I’m not the young gladiator I was when I joined The Force, but my fist is still a cinder block. A couple of cheerful young soldiers scrape him off the floor and toss him into the rain.

      Now the girl is with me. She looks too young to be out after dark. She’s even forgotten the heavy make-up and fake flowers. I ask her if she’s okay. She wipes away a frightened tear and nods.

      “I’m Jack Dunning,” I say.

      “Angel Dahl,” she says, but I take it for Doll, like if she uses her real name some maniac might look her up in the phone book on a dark stormy night like tonight. I hand her a dance ticket and she settles in my arms like a soft little kitten. She tenses and I feel resistance along her spine.

      “It’s not what you think,” I say. “It’s just my gun.”

      She blushes. Her complexion is delicate and pale like a hothouse flower.

      “Your gun?” she says.

      “I was fifteen years on The Force. You might say it’s part of my anatomy.”

      “I saw the suitcase. Are you coming or going?”

      “I just blew in from Boston. I’ll be working security at The Rexford.”

      “I rent a room at The Rexford. Could we walk together when I get off?”

      “Sure,” I say.

      The top of her head fits beneath my chin. Her hair smells like roses. We dance slow and sensuous to Stormy Weather and a jazz rendition of the Shadow Waltz. I drown in the scent of her and the knots at my center unravel.

      The lights flicker and it’s closing time.

      We walk toward The Rexford in the pouring rain. I carry my suitcase in one hand, my other arm around Angel. The rain sounds like buckshot on the canopy of her umbrella. Only railroad bums and stray dogs are out on a night like this. Lightning flashes and thunder crackles and snaps like a frayed electrical cable.

      We start across the alley between Sal’s Pawn Shop and the Rescue Mission when the goddamn Blarney Stone lands in the center of my back. I cave to my knees, nearly paralyzed by the blow. My suitcase skids across the sidewalk. I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings. I was thinking about the girl, how pretty she is, how good she smells, how natural she feels in my arms.

      Angel gasps. Her umbrella sails off in the wind. I struggle to my feet, pain radiating from my back into my left leg. Jug-Ears grins, swings a sock filled with billiard balls, a goofy smile on his face. His breath is eighty proof. Light a match and the whole block goes up in flames.

      I use my suitcase as a shield. He wields the balls like a medieval mace and leaves big dents in the leather. I could go for my gun, but blowing away a local on my first night in Santa Paulina might make a bad first impression.

      Angel sees the patrol car before I do and flags it down. The officer bolts from the car, handcuffs at the ready, rain filling the brim of his cap. He’s big, red Irish, with the kind of pale skin you don’t parade in the summer sun.

      “Drop the weapon like a good fellow, Elmer,” he says. “I’ll give you a nice dry place to sleep it off.”

      The cop wears heavy gloves and drops the cuffs. He bends to pick them up and Elmer winds up for a head shot. I step in and snatch away the weapon before it picks up momentum. Red straightens up.

      “That wasn’t very nice,” he says and lands a good one to Elmer’s solar plexus.

      Elmer’s wind abandons his chest with a noisy honk. His eyes roll into his head and he drops like a stone.

      Red gives me a nod.

      “Come on, mate,” he says. “Grab an arm and we’ll tuck him in for the night.”

      We dump him beneath a striped awning against the pawn shop wall. Red reaches out to shake my hand but my back seizes. I stumble into him and he feels the gun. We size each other up and sense a primal bond, like wolves when they recognize a member of their own pack.

      “You okay?” he asks.

      “He got me a good one with those damn balls,” I say, tossing the weapon on the pawn shop roof. “I’ll be okay after a hot bath and a good night’s sleep.”

      I extend my hand.

      “I’m Jim Tunney, S.P.P.D.,” he says.

      “Jack Dunning, B.P.D., retired.”

      “Bakersfield?”

      “Boston.”

      Angel’s beside me again, her hand in the crook of my arm.

      “I thought you talked funny,” he says good-naturedly. “You could have plugged that guy