Incident in a Small Town

A James St.James Mystery

​LA was a distant haze on a mid-summer day. In the mirror of the Packard, I saw the fog that had become L.A. disappear in the sky as we drove out of town. 
 
As soon as I passed the main expressways, I turned onto a narrow two-lane blacktop road that led northeast. We had no destination in mind, only a plan to get out of town for several days. As we got deeper into the country, the fields we passed became a mix of tobacco, cotton, wheat, corn, and other crops. The occasional tractor sat in a field, sometimes with a wagon behind it or even a large two-ton truck filled with tobacco leaves ready for processing. 
  
Brenda slid along on the car’s bench seat next to me while we drove in silence. I put my arm on the back of the seat, pulling her closer as we spoke without speaking. 
 
The last several months have been partially difficult for both of us. Several cases came to a head and required me to testify for the prosecution. While they won and got convictions, the stress of testifying in a high-profile case over several days had worn on both of us. Getting my name in the paper again had brought out all the wanna-be badasses from the sewer, and several times, I had to talk a kid down from doing something stupid.  
 
Meanwhile, the hours at the bar had begun to take their toll on both of us. The late hours and early starts were getting to wear on us more than usual. We needed a break to decide what to do, so we closed the bar for a week.  
 
While packing the Packard for a road trip, Brenda gave me a “Do you have to?” look when I put two ammunition boxes in my bag. I nodded yes. While I didn’t plan on needing either of my two guns, the forty-five that lived in my shoulder holster or the thirty-eight that usually rode on my belt. I wasn’t about to leave town without them, but one rarely plans to need such things. 
 
As we traveled further, I began to feel the weight of the city lift from my mind. While I loved L.A. and my work helping to make it safe, I’d been doing it since nineteen forty-five, and after five years, I felt weary of the hours and danger. It was time for a change.  
 
It was noon when we pulled into a small town surrounded by open fields of corn and cotton. The main street ran between two rows of buildings with several side streets off the main street. At the corner of one sat a bank, next to it, what looked to have been a hotel. Across the street was a stucco-walled gas station with a two-bay garage on the right side. Junk piled high filled the corners of the bays, and decrepit cars sat discarded around the lot, leaving barely any room to drive in and get gas from the old pre-war pumps. 
 
I recognized the signs of decay instantly as I drove past it. The whole town looked much the same. Main Street looked dusty and dead, as did most of the buildings lining it. Next to the bank was a general store, and the water tower cast a shadow over a sliver of the street. Except for a few lights and cars parked on the street and in a parking lot, one would think the town had died before the war. The one bright and cheerful building in town was the small diner not far away from the gas station and junkyard. 
 
The only thing that kept it alive was at the far end of the main street. Towering over the buildings were the mill and the cotton warehouse, where cars and trucks parked on the broken asphalt that passed as a parking lot. The train tracks we’d bumped over coming into town ran to the right and eventually came out at a small depot and a couple of siding that ran to either of the buildings.  
I asked Brenda if she was hungry, and she nodded yes, so I parked the car in front of the diner. As we got out, I took my time locking the doors to look around the street. Old habits never die. 
 
I pushed the big glass door of the diner open, stepped aside for Brenda to enter, and followed her inside. The red-checked tablecloths, bright fluorescent lights, and neon signs hanging in the window beside the door made the diner brighter than outside. Time had aged the once-white walls, rubbed bare in places by years of use. Stools with red leather seats cracked and worn sat along the chrome-trimmed counter. A couple of men were at the bar drinking coffee and eating pie. Despite the age and tiredness of the place, it looked cheerful and welcoming, or at least tried to. 
  
We found a table in the corner by the window where I could see the car and the whole room. The lady who came to get our order seemed as old as the diner.  
Short and chubby, her silver hair pulled back in a bun, and her uniform faded on the shoulders. Grease and pen marks stained her apron, and the edges frayed from years of washing. She put a smile on her face and pulled out a notebook from the apron pocket. 
 
“What’ll be?”  
 
 “Something cold?” I suggested. 
 
“We got beer, soda, iced tea, and water.”   
 
“How about root beer?”  She nodded, and Brenda asked for the same and headed to the counter for our drinks. We ordered a couple of ham sandwiches and drank our root beers, chatting about where we might go from here. When we finished, she came to collect them and asked if we wanted dessert. She suggested a banana split, a milkshake, or a bowl of ice cream. Brenda went for the banana split while I got a vanilla milkshake. We had to admit, the food was good and dessert even better. 
 
 
I shut the door behind me, and we stood on the sidewalk in front of the diner. I had parked the car at an angle just down from the front of the restaurant. We could see a figure leaning against the front fender from where we stood. As he heard us approaching him, he looked up from the newspaper he was pretending to read. I crowded him a little, and he moved away from the fender.  
 
“Thirty-seven, isn’t it?”  
 
I nodded yes, moving to my right to get to the door. 
 
He turned to face me. “Wanna sell it?” 
 
“No.” I shifted a little but made no move to unlock the door. 
 
“I think you do.” He tried to sound sure of himself. 
 
“Oh, do I? Why?”  I stood up square to him, looking at two men on the sidewalk behind him. I figured they were from the warehouse or the mill by their work clothes.  
   
He was baiting me, waiting for me to throw a first punch. I didn’t want to pull my gun if I could help it, but three against one aren’t the best odds. I bided my time. Brenda had moved around behind me. I knew her hand wasn’t far from the revolver in her pocketbook, but I wanted to avoid gunplay if I could. 
 
“Tell you what, what’s your offer? I might consider it.” I was trying to keep him talking and hopefully off balance. 
 
 He looked flustered for a second but quickly recovered. “$500. Cash.” 
 
“Nah, I think I’ll pass.”  I waited. His face got redder as he tried to work out what to do next. He was trying to get me into a fight. Why, I didn’t know, but I knew I didn’t want to throw the first punch. That’s how you land in jail.  
 
He swung, and I stepped into him and plowed my right fist into his gut while I blocked his arm with my left. As he bent over, I brought my knee up and smashed his face into it. Blood spread all over my pants and his face. He went down to the pavement, and I put my fist up and waited for his cronies to jump in, but they were too far away. By the time they got to me, I blocked what passed as a punch and smashed a fist into the face, sending one guy reeling back. The second guy tried to circle me, then yelled and ran at me. I stepped aside and landed a punch in the gut at the same time grabbing his overalls and pushing forward into the fender of my car. He went down in a heap.  
 
 I was breathing hard, and my pulse was flying, and both of my hands ached. I hadn’t punched anyone in a while. I forgot how it hurt. I stepped away from the three men on the ground next to my car.  
 
I looked up to see the woman from the diner standing at the open door, wringing her hands in her apron. Her face was white, and she kept glancing down the street. Brenda and I carefully walked around the three men lying in the street and joined the lady on the sidewalk. 
 
“I’m sorry you ha…” I started to apologize. 
 
She interrupted me. “No... No...  It’s not that.  I have seen that before. It’s Raymond. He’ll be terribly angry. Come on, let’s get inside before they wake up.” I gilded her back in the open door and shut it behind us. 
 
“Who were they?”   I leaned my sore hands on the counter as she went behind it. 
“I’m James St. James, and this is my wife, Brenda.”  
 
She smiled and held out her hand. I carefully took it. “I’m Rose, but everyone calls me Mama Rose, and this is my place.” 
   
Rose looked down at my hands, which had swelled at the knuckles. “Let’s get you some ice on those hands.” She disappeared into the back kitchen and returned with two bags of ice. And a couple of mixing bowls. I put a hand in each bowl, and she put a bag of ice over it. 
 
“Thank you, Rose.”  I noticed that she kept glancing out the front window. I could tell I was over my head and needed some backup.  
 
“Say, Rose, you got a phone I could use?” I dried my hands off from the ice water. They were feeling a little better, and I could move my fingers. 
 
“Yeah, sure.” She found the phone at the counter’s far end and dragged the cord over to me. I picked up the receiver and listened for the familiar dial tone. 
 
“It’s long distance, that okay?” 
 
“Hunny, out here, everything is long-distance. Oh, and that operator is a nosy bitch. She listens to all the calls that go through her switchboard. She reports back to Raymond.”  
 
Rose busied herself talking the bowls of ice water back to the kitchen while I dialed Bill’s direct number, hoping he would be in. 
 
He answered on the third ring. I plowed ahead before he could identify himself as a cop. “Hey Bill, I thought I check in, I’m out in a little hick town of Somerset. It’s about four hours northeast of you. Listen, I got a car problem. Seems somebody wanted to buy it, but I didn’t want to sell, so things went south, and I’m going to need a second car as soon as you can get it around.” 
 
“Eh, yeah, Jim, I’ll be along as soon as I can. Which car you want me to bring?” 
 
“You know, the old black and white one you used to drive all the time?” 
 
“Okay, I figured as much. I’ll be along shortly.” 
 
I hung up. Knowing full well that the operator would quickly figure out I’d called the cops. I handed the phone back to Rose and thanked her for the ice and the phone call, telling her I thought we better get out of there before Raymond showed up. 
 
She agreed and said she could handle him when he showed, and she was surprised he hadn’t shown by now. Now I thought about it, so was I. 
  
Outside the car was where we left it, but the door had a long scratch marking the black paint from the front fender across both doors to the back fenders. I noted, ignored, unlocked the car, and got in. 
 
We turned around and headed out of town the way we’d come in, but we didn’t go far. Once out of sight of the town and any outlying buildings, I pulled over under some trees. 
 
“Whew, that was close.” Brenda finally slid her hand from her pocketbook. 
 
“Yes, it was. But it’s not over yet. There’s something going on back there. Rose didn’t say it, but I could tell she was scared of this Raymond character. I suspect he has most of the town scared of him.” 
 
“Why the car?” 
 
“Because I suspect he’s dealing in stolen cars, and he had an order for a ’37 Packard 120, with the suicide doors and straight-eight engines. If he could bully me into selling it to him cheap, it would make it easier to resell or pass on. The idiots in the street were probably surprised to see it and figured I was an easy mark.” 
 
“So what do we do now?” 
 
I’m not sure. I don’t want to tangle with this Raymond character until I know more about what’s going on around here.” 
 
I pulled the map from the pile of stuff on the seat next to us. Finding where we were on the map, I carefully checked for the roads and train tracks around the town. As suspected, the train went around the town and spurred off into a couple of short tracks by the old mill and Tabacco warehouse, and another siding went off to an old freight yard.  A perfect place to hide cars until you could get them out of there. 
 
Starting the car again, I headed for the nearest dirt road shown on the map.  
From the look of the map, it would take us close to the warehouses. I didn’t want to get too close. There was only one reason why Raymond hadn’t shown up immediately after his cronies told him what had happened. He was busy at the warehouse or mill dealing with his stolen cars. If he had a buyer there, he couldn’t just leave. Maybe I’d get lucky and see them too. I wondered as I slowed up behind a stand of trees overlooking the warehouse. 
 
It didn’t take long to get the rest of the way out of town on the dirt road. Several ancient farmhouses and a couple of barns that barely stood dotted the road. After about ten minutes of driving, we were on a small hill overlooking the warehouse mill and train tracks. 
 
I parked behind a clump of trees and what appeared to be the remains of an old shed. Reaching into the back seat, I extracted a pair of binoculars from a leather bag that lived on the floor between the seats. 
   
We got out, quietly closing the doors. We could see most of the train tracks and buildings from here—several fancy cars parked near the main loading dock of the warehouse. I could make out a couple of plate numbers, which I read off and Brenda wrote down, along with descriptions of all the vehicles.  Soon, the old steam train pulled out with several cars behind it. 
 
The breeze carried smells of lavender and the promise of the long afternoon ahead of us. Hopefully, Bob got my message and could get some men and head out soon. It would still take him four or more hours to get here. So I had to buy some time and stay out of trouble. I figured we were relatively safe for now.  
 
A Cadillac drove into the lot and dropped three figures off in the open area near the building. A fourth man exited the building and joined them. Through the binoculars, I recognized three of them as the men I’d beat up. The fourth one had to be Raymond.  
 
Indistinct shouting came up through the valley to us.  We gasped as a gun appeared, and the sounds of three shots echoed over the land as the three men fell where they stood. Raymond was a mean son of a bitch. Without so much as a glance back, he turned toward the Cadillac. His driver hurried to open his door, and he got into the back seat. The car roared to life and backed out, leaving the three men lying where they fell. We watched as a couple of men came from inside the warehouse, picked up the bodies, and carried them out of sight.  
 
Brenda and I looked at each other in shock. I hadn’t seen such a streak of meanness and disregard for life since the war. “Shit” was all I could get out for several minutes. I figured he would beat them, yell at them, or send them looking for me. But not outright shoot them like that. 
 
Raymond was not too messed with. 
Mama Rose. I was worried about Moma Rose. She said she could handle him, but she might not know what a cold-blooded killer he was. When he finds out I made a call, he’s likely to go to the diner.  
We quietly backtracked to the main road and found another way around to the back of the town. From where we were behind the building that lined the main street, I could see Raymond’s car pulled in almost where I had been. 
 
The back door to the diner was open, and a couple of fans were blowing warm air from the kitchen outside. They made enough noise to cover us and make it impossible to hear what was happening up front. So, we had no choice but to try to slip in and get as close as we could. 
 
I slipped my pistol from its home under my left shoulder and slid the slide back slightly to make sure there was a round in the chamber. I knew there was. But I still had to check anyway. Brenda pulled her revolver from her pocketbook. 
 
When we left L.A. early this morning, the last thing we expected was to be preparing for a possible gunfight. But here we were. 
 
The face of the Mexican cook in the kitchen lit up, and he grinned when he recognized us. In broken English, he said the jefe was upfront with Moma Rose. He went out the same door we had entered as quickly as he could. I glanced at my watch just before heading for the dining room door. We still had two hours before help came, if it came at all. 
 
Peeking around the corner into the main dining room, I saw Raymond up close for the first time. His red hair was a curly mass atop his head, and the thin, wiry frame that held it up was tall. His clothes looked brand new and well-made, but it was his black eyes that scared me the most. I had seen eyes like that during the war. There was nothing left in them. He had no passion or remorse for the things he’d done, only anger he directed at the nearest target, and right now, Mama Rose was in his sights. 
 
I could hear him yelling at Mama Rose before I got to the swinging door between the kitchen and the front counter. I peeked out and saw he was alone. 
 
“You what? You let him use the phone for long distance.” She nodded yes. “Did you at least get his name?” Raymond settled down a bit. 
 
“He said his name was James.” 
 
I stepped from behind the door with my pistol aimed directly at them. “It’s James St. James, Raymond.” He turned to look at me, and seeing the gun in my hand, he backed up slightly. I raised my eyebrows. “You could have avoided this if your stooge had kept his mouth shut and hadn’t tried to “buy” my car. I’d been out of here and on my way none the wiser, but he had to start something.” 
 
“He won’t be starting anything anymore.” 
 
“I know. The whole town heard the shots.” 
 
“James St. James, where’d you get such a stupid name? And she’s Jane St. James?” 
 
He taunted me. I Ignored the comment. 
 
“You a cop or something?” 
 
“Private cop. But wasn’t working on anything until today.” 
 
“Who’d you call?” 
 
“A friend of mine. He’ll be along shortly with more friends with badges.” 
 
I studied Raymond. There was a lot of anger under that mop of red hair, and up close, those eyes were even more empty than they looked through the binoculars.  
I worked my way into the room, standing at the corner of the counter while he stood several feet from me.  
 
“I don’t know what has been going on here. But I have a fairly good idea about some of it.” 
 
“You know what you did to those three guys? You broke one’s nose and busted some teeth and broke his jaw. The other one, you gut-punched so hard it bruised a kidney. And the third one, you gave him a concussion.” 
 
“You put them out of their misery?”  
 
Raymond laughed. “Same as I’m going cut you down to size and put you out of your misery.” He looked directly at Brenda. “Her, on the other hand, I’ll keep around.” He leered at Brenda—the implication clear. 
 
“It’s been tried before by better men than you. I’m still here.” I shifted around a little to try to get into a better position. 
 
“I’m going to enjoy taking you apart piece by piece and then dumping what’s left on a train out of here.” 
 
“Try it.” 
 
“James.” Brenda’s voice sounded calm, but I could detect the note of warning. I glanced over my shoulder and saw two men had slipped in from the kitchen.  
 
One of Raymond’s goons grabbed Brenda’s arms and pulled her to the side. The hairs on my neck prickled, but I was ready. I turned toward Raymond.  
 
“What will it be?” 
 
“A good old-fashioned fight to the death.” 
 
“Tell your goon to let her go.” 
 
He nodded and motioned for her release. He slowly pulled a nickel-plated forty-five from under his windbreaker and handed it to the crony nearest him. “If he wins, shoot him.” 
 
I handed my forty-five to Brenda and told her the same thing. She and Mama Rose stood off to the right side near the door to the kitchen, and Raymond’s two cronies moved to the far side of the dining room.  
 
Raymond and I circled each other once while I took off my jacket and tossed it in the general direction of the counter. His windbreaker went in the opposite direction. 
 
Up close, I could see he was stouter than he looked for his apparent thinness.  
As I expected, he lunged at me first. I easily sidestepped him and landed my right fist in his gut. At the same time, I spun and forced him forward onto the tables and chairs behind me. 
  
He crashed into the chairs, landing in a heap with a chair on top. Shaking his head, he pushed the chair off him and got back up. I faced him and waited. The shot to the gut had winded him, and he was breathing hard.  
 
“You son of a bitch.” He picked up the nearest chair and threw it at me.  
 
I deflected the worst of the chair with my arm, but some hit my shoulder, which throbbed from the chair’s impact. We circled again, and this time I pushed him. Stepping up so close I could smell his tobacco breath, as I hammered two punches into him. One in the gut again, and as he bent from that, I pounded his lower back just below his rib cage. I felt my fist hit what I suspected was his kidney and quickly stepped back as he fell to the floor. He lay on the floor for a minute, not moving. I thought he was done, but he managed to get a second wind and get back up much more slowly. The stomach blows had taken some out of him, but he wasn’t ready to quit.  
 
I was breathing hard, and my hands hurt. The air was stagnant, and the overhead fans did little to cool us down. We were both sweating and panting. 
 
A switchblade appeared out of nowhere. I half expected that, but I hoped it wouldn’t get that far. He circled me as he waved the blade around like a flag.  
I watched him carefully, looking for the telltale sign he would lunge.  
After the third circle in the middle of the dining room, I saw his legs tense up. 
 
My army training took over, and I stepped into him, pushing the arm with the knife to one side. At the same time, I clamped it between my arm and side while twisting the arm backward. At the same time, I heard the distinctive snap of a bone breaking. Something I hadn’t heard since the war. His face turned red with pain, and he hollered as the pain from his broken arm shot through his shoulder. Pushing him back, I hit him in the face, sending blood from his nose and mouth.  
  
Raymond stood not far from me, panting, blood running down his face and his right arm dangling loosely at his side.  
 
“Had enough?” I asked quietly between breaths. He shook his head no and circled me again. He wasn’t going to stop until he was out cold or dead. 
 
He tried to lung at me again. I stepped right into him, pounding my fist into his gut and then hitting his face, fist with my left, and as he moved, I caught it again with my right fist. He went down again. This time, I crowded him, kicking his ribs and planting one foot firmly on his broken arm. 
 
“It’s over.”  Brenda quickly handed me my pistol, and I aimed at his cronies.  
 
“Don’t even think about it. First, he gets it, then you do. Put the guns down.  
 
~~~ 
I was soaking my hands with ice when I saw Bob’s old cruiser through the diner’s front window. Raymond’s two cronies were locked in Mama Roses’s storage room, and Raymond was tied to a heat registrar by his good arm. The nickel-plated forty-five was lying on the counter next to me.  
Bob walked in, shook his head, and grinned. “You just can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”  
 
I shook my head no. “It seems to find me even when I’m not looking.” 
 
He motioned to a man who came in with him. “This is Chief of Detectives Rogers of the State Police. When you mentioned Somerset, it rang a bell. I checked, and I found a bulletin that mentioned it.  So, I called my contact at the State Police. They’ve been watching Raymond here for some time but hadn’t had a justified reason to raid him.” He looked over to Raymond, who had started to wake up with all the conversation. 
 
I shook Rogers’ hand. “You have plenty of reason to look around now. There are three dead guys hidden somewhere down at the warehouse. Brenda and I will testify that we saw him shoot them— with this.” I held up the fancy pistol. 
 
While talking, two uniformed officers picked Raymond up none too gently and hauled him out to a squad car. I pointed to the back. “Two more of his goons are locked in her storeroom. Also, somewhere around there, you should find many stolen cars waiting to be shipped out.” 
 
 Chief Rogers nodded, thanked me, and left. 
 
 
Epilogue 
  
It was over a week before we came back to L.A. Meanwhile, the raid and arrest story made the L.A. papers and the national news. Before we left Somerset, we helped Moma Rose get her diner back in shape and get on her feet again. Living under Raymond’s thumb had been bad for business, and most of the town suffered in one way or another.     
   
I spoke quietly with Rose about her Mexican cook, and she made sure the State Police never saw him. At least he wouldn’t be deported back to Mexico. 
 
After that, Brenda and I packed up the Packard and headed north into the mountains. We spent several days fishing, relaxing, and talking a lot there. 
While we didn’t make any plans for when we came back, we knew we needed to take more time and not let the bar or my business run our lives. 
 
The LA sun was setting when we turned off the little dirt road into the main expressway leading to L.A. It was comforting and yet a little disconcerting at the same time. We drove past The Open Door Bar on the way home. Except it had been closed for almost two weeks, it looked the same as the last day we locked it up. A big part of me wasn’t in any hurry to open it again anytime soon. We could decide later. 
 
We pulled into our driveway in a residential section of town and sat quietly for several minutes, absorbing the sights and smells of home. 
 
L.A. was, indeed, The City of Angels, and I had mine right here with me.