The Last Innocent Man

“Say something. It’s your fault I’m here. Do you want to bury me now?”

His voice rose in pitch and cut through her. She started to cry.

Larry grabbed her roughly by both arms. His fingers dug into her flesh, hurting her.

“Answer me, Jenny. Do you want me to die? Because that’s what’s happening to me here. I couldn’t stand prison, locked away. I can’t stand it now. The noise, the smells. This filth.”

He raised his arm like an accusing angel and pointed at the room.

“Do you hate me so much that you want me to live the rest of my life like some animal?”

She started to cry, turning her head from him, not wanting him to hold her or comfort her. He was right. She did not hate him. She was only tired of him. Disillusioned by the destruction of the love that she had once felt for him. She couldn’t let him end up in a place like this. Not even if he had…She could not complete the thought, because if Larry had killed that woman, then she was partly to blame.

“All right,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. “All right.”

Stafford let her go. He was afraid and alone, and he could see the strands of his slender lifeline unraveling before his eyes.

ORTIZ SLOUCHED DOWNin the passenger seat of the unmarked police car. He had on a heavy jacket and a sweater, and he was still cold. Beside him Jack Hennings blew into his cupped hands, then tucked them under his armpits for warmth.

“I can’t believe it’s this fucking cold,” he complained.

“Tell me about it,” Ortiz mumbled. He leaned forward and wiped a space on the windshield clean where it had fogged over.

“I don’t see why we can’t just bust in and arrest him,” Hennings said.

“I told you why. My snitch said T.V.’d have it on him. I’m not going to risk missing it in a search and have that asshole laughing at me up and down the avenue.”

“I’d rather have every nigger in the city laughing at me than have to sit out here for another hour.”

“Besides, Kermit is probably in there with him, and I want to be sure where he is when we move.”

“Monroe’s a pussy,” Hennings said. Hennings was big and talked tough, but Ortiz doubted he’d be able to take Kermit Monroe one on one.

“If you think it’s so easy, Lone Ranger, why don’t you go over there all by yourself and call me when it’s over?”

Hennings grinned. “Don’t get so nervous, Bert. I know karate.”

“Oh, Jesus, that’s all I need.”

“Besides,” Hennings said, holding up the Magnum he had placed on the seat of the car, “the man won’t be doin’ much wrasslin’ with his balls in China. Now, if-”

Ortiz sat up. The door to Johnson’s house opened, and two men were illuminated by the porch light. From where they were sitting, it was easy to make out Johnson in his ankle-length fur coat.

“Let’s go,” he said, and the two policemen left the car. Johnson and Monroe talked as they walked to the curb. Ortiz and Hennings moved quickly, trying to attract as little attention as possible as they approached. Monroe turned his back to them and opened the passenger door for his boss. The howling wind muffled the sound of footsteps. Monroe turned and made a move for his gun. He stopped when he saw Hennings poised in a shooting stance.

“Freeze!” Hennings shouted.

Johnson stood with his hands half-raised and a stunned expression on his face. Then he bent his head and squinted into the dark and cold.

“Is that you, Ortiz?”

“Shut up and spread against the car.”

“What the fuck you doin’, man? I’m clean.”

“I said, against the car. Both of you.”

“I ain’t humiliatin’ myself in no-”

Ortiz hit Johnson in the solar plexus as hard as he could, then kicked him in the crotch. The pimp looked as if he were going to be sick. He slipped to his knees. A quick look of surprise crossed Hennings’s face. Monroe started to lower his hands.

“Just try it, fuck face. I’d love to waste you,” Ortiz said, swinging his weapon in Monroe’s direction. The big man looked uncertain for a moment, then slowly leaned against the car as he had been told.

“Now, spread,” Ortiz commanded, pulling Johnson to his feet and shoving him against the car. Hennings kept a few paces back and Ortiz frisked Monroe. He handed a gun and a switchblade to his partner. Hennings placed them in his pocket. While Hennings’s attention was distracted, Ortiz slipped the plastic baggie from his pocket and palmed it. Johnson was still doubled over and in pain, but he was doing his best to spread-eagle in order to avoid another beating. There were no wisecracks now, Ortiz thought with satisfaction. No bad-mouth.

Ortiz reached around in front of the pimp and pretended to search inside his coat for a weapon. Suddenly, he pulled his hand out of T.V.’s pocket and waved the baggie toward Hennings.

“Bingo,” Ortiz said.

T.V. turned his head. His eyes opened wide when he saw what Ortiz was holding.

“What’s that?” he asked, surprise distracting him from his pain.

“Your passport to the penitentiary, T.V. Now, move over to that police car so we can escort you downtown.”

“You planted that!” T.V. said incredulously.

“Shut up,” Ortiz said softly.