BLOOD ON THE MOON
65
almost eleven now.” The two policemen shook hands. “We did it again, partner,” Lloyd said.
“Yeah. I’m sorry I barked at you, kid.”
“You’re on Janice’s side. I don’t blame you; she’s better looking than I am.”
Dutch laughed. “Talk to you tomorrow about Wilson’s statement?”
“Right. I’ll call you.”
Lloyd found Sarah Smith with the remnants of the spectators, smoking a cigarette and shuffling her feet nervously on the pavement. “Hi, Sarah. How are you feeling?”
Sarah ground out the cigarette. “All right, I guess. What’s going to happen to what’s-his-name?”
Lloyd smiled at the sadness of the question. “He’s going to prison for a long time. Don’t you even remember his name?”
“I’m bad at names.”
“Do you remember mine?”
“Floyd?”
“Close. Lloyd. Come on, I’ll take you home.”
They walked over to the unmarked Matador and got in. Lloyd scrutinized Sarah openly as she gave her address and fiddled with the contents of her purse. A good girl from a good family gone slightly loose, he decided. Twenty-eight or nine, the light blonde hair legit, the body beneath the black cotton pantsuit both slender and soft. A kind face trying to look tough. Probably a hard worker at her job.
Lloyd headed straight for the nearest westbound on-ramp, alternately savoring his anniversary triumph and picturing confrontations with Janice, who would doubtless give him one of her incredible slow burns—if not an outright battle for being so late. Feeling kindness well up in him for sparing Sarah Smith the harshness of the law, he tapped her shoulder and said, “It’s going to be all right, you know.”
Sarah dug into her purse looking for cigarettes and found only an empty pack. She muttered, “Shit” and threw it out the window, then sighed. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. You really get off on being a cop, don’t you?”
“It’s my life. Where did you meet Wilson?”
“Is that his name? I met him at a country-western bar. Shit-kicker’s paradise, but at least they treat women with respect. What did he do?”
“Held up a bar at gunpoint.”
“Jesus! I figured he was just some kind of dope dealer.”
66
L.A. NOIR
Out of the mouths of babes, Lloyd thought. “I’m not lecturing you or anything like that,” he said, “but you shouldn’t hang out in dives. You could get hurt.”
Sarah snorted. “Then where should I go to meet people?”
“You mean men?”
“Well . . . yeah.”
“Try the continental approach. Drink coffee and read a book at some picturesque sidewalk café. Sooner or later some nice fellow will start a conversation with you about the book you’re reading. You’ll meet higher class people that way.”
Sarah laughed wildly and clapped her hands, then poked Lloyd in the arm. When he took his eyes from the road and gave her a deadpan, her laughter became hysterical. “That’s funny, that’s so funny!” she squealed.
“It’s not that funny.”
“Yes, it is! You should be on TV!” Sarah’s laughter subsided. She looked at Lloyd quizzically. “Is that how you met your wife?”
“I didn’t tell you I was married.”
“I saw your ring.”
“Very observant. But I met my wife in high school.” Sarah Smith laughed until she ached. Lloyd laughed along in a more sedate cadence, then dug in his pocket for a handkerchief and reached over and dabbed at Sarah’s tearmottled face. She leaned into his hand, rubbing her nose along his knuckles.
“You ever wonder why you keep on doing things even when you know they don’t work?” she asked.
Lloyd ran a finger under her chin and tilted her head upward to face him. “It’s because outside of the major dreams everything is always changing, and even though you keep doing the same things, you’re looking for new answers.”
“I believe that,” Sarah said. “Get off at the next exit and turn right.”
Five minutes later he pulled to the curb in front of an apartment building on Barrington. Sarah poked him in the arm and said, “Thanks.”
“Good luck, Sarah. Try the book trick.”
“Maybe I will. Thanks.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
Sarah poked Lloyd’s arm a last time and darted out of the car.
*
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