Росс Томас - The Fools in Town Are on Our Side

I parked the car at the curb with its bumper about a foot from the driveway so that if a hurried departure were called for, there would be nothing to stand in its path. I put the can of film under my arm, plodded up the brick path to the screened-in porch, and knocked on the door, trying in vain for the confident rap of an aluminum-siding salesman.

Boo Robineaux, His Honor’s son, opened the door and took his eyes off a copy of I.F. Stone’s bi-weekly Weekly long enough to say “hello” and “they’re in the dining room.” He didn’t offer to lead the way, but followed instead, still deeply engrossed in the latest machinations of the military-industrial complex. One of these days, I promised myself, I would ask Boo how he’d got those scars on his face.

I opened the sliding doors to the dining room. Lynch was on the right side of the long table; Loambaugh was on the left. At one end of the table rested a 16mm projector. At the other end was a portable screen.

“Howdy, there, Lucifer,” Lynch said, once more the professional country boy and jolly fat man, but spreading it on a little thicker than usual. I decided that he was also nervous, just like me. Loambaugh merely nodded and went back to biting his nails.

I said, “Gentlemen,” and put the can of film on the projector.

Lynch yelled for Boo, who came in and threaded the film through the projector in an offhand, practiced manner and asked only one question, “Is it sound?”

“Parts of it,” I said, and he nodded and adjusted the sound controls.

“When you want it to start, just flip this button,” he said to Lynch and then left, closing the sliding doors behind him.

“You seen it?” Loambaugh said to me.

“What the hell difference does that make?” Lynch said. “You want him to give you a goddamned movie review?”

“I just asked, for Christ’s sake.”

“Well, don’t. This ain’t the only copy, I suppose?”

“You suppose right,” I said.

“Another dumb question,” Lynch said. “Do any good to ask you how you got your hands on it?”

“No.”

He nodded somberly and said, “Well, we might as well look at it. You want to get the lights?”

I switched the room lights off and Lynch turned on the projector. I found a chair next to him and settled down to watch. It was all there in black and white cinema vérité just as Necessary had described it. Even from the rough cut I could see that Soderbell had style. He got a cop picking his nose as he came out of the dry cleaning numbers’ joint, zooming right in on the exploring forefinger. You could count the pores and blackheads on the faces of those he had bribed to tear up his traffic tickets. I listened to the rasping tease in the voices of the two punks who had beat up the old man in the grocery store and then watched them spray shaving cream over the cold cuts in the meat case. I watched as the blows landed and listened to the old man scream and stared as he fell behind the cash register. Lynch said nothing during the films, but Loambaugh grunted and cursed every time he recognized a cop. The last episode featured the fur thieves and because I’d been there, I watched with special interest to learn how Soderbell had seen it through the lens of his camera. There was an establishing shot of the alley, dark, gloomy, and deserted, perhaps even forbidding. The first squad car crept along, shining its spotlight on the steel door of the furrier’s. The camera followed the car, zooming in close on its number and then cutting to the sign over the door that read Bolberg & Son. He got the entire theft: the cops standing guard while the thieves did for the lock; the cop carrying out armloads of furs and dumping them into the trunk of the car, and finally the cop moving over to the squad car, and reaching inside. Then there was a blinding light for a second or two, and the film racketed through its sprockets and guides, signalling that it was ended. Lynch reached over and switched off the projector. I moved to the room lights and turned them on.

“The guy who filmed it, the cameraman,” Lynch said. “He’s the one they shot over on Forrest last night, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“He had a nice style.”

“A keen sense of mood,” I said.

“There were a few more episodes than I’d been led to believe,” Lynch said. “About four more.”

“Five really,” I said. “I found it a gripping portrayal of the Swankerton Police Department in action.”

“Don’t ride me, Dye,” Loambaugh said. “I’ll just tell you once. Don’t ride me.”

“That’s twice already,” Lynch said. He pulled a cellophane-wrapped cigar from a pocket and took his usual three minutes to get it lighted. When it was burning to his satisfaction, he blew some smoke at Loambaugh and said, “As a citizen of Swankerton I was shocked by what I’ve just seen. Shocked. What was your reaction, Chief Loambaugh?”

“Somebody got dumb,” he said, “and I’m gonna have their ass by six o’clock tonight.”

“That what you going to tell the wire services after this thing goes on TV?” Lynch said.

“What do you mean when it goes on TV? That’s why you’re juicing him, isn’t it?” He jerked a thumb at me. “He’s the bright boy. Let him figure out a way to cool it off,”

“What happened to Soderbell’s body?” I said to Loambaugh.

“It’s in the morgue. For autopsy.”

“I want it shipped back to his family.”

Loambaugh bent toward me and the now familiar flush started rising from his neck. He didn’t shout this time. His voice was low and almost toneless. It was far more effective than a shout. “I’m getting goddamned sick of you telling me what to do, buster. I don’t care who you got for friends. Don’t do it again.”

I looked at him for a time and then smiled. “I want his body shipped back to his family. I think they’re in Cleveland. I want it escorted back by one of your cops. A lieutenant, at least.”

Loambaugh jumped up from his chair and headed around the corner of the table. I assumed that I was the goal line. He got all of two feet before Lynch cracked out his order: “Sit down, Cal, and shut up!”

Loambaugh hesitated, stopped completely, turned and went back to his chair. “Don’t ride me,” he whispered, not looking at anyone. “Don’t do it again.”

Lynch’s fat round face was wreathed in smoke and smiles now. “I reckon we can take care of that fella’s remains okay, Lucifer. No big problem that I can figure. What really concerns me is this little old film we’ve just seen. Film can lie just like words can. I mean pictures don’t always tell the full story. Now if you was taking a picture of a barrel of apples and you had a thousand apples in that barrel and you just picked out six or seven rotten ones and took pictures of those and then showed ‘em to somebody and said, ‘Hey, here’s what apples look like,’ why, they wouldn’t really know what a good apple looked like, would they?”

“Jesus, that’s vivid,” I said. “I never thought of it in just that way.”

The wreath of smiles on Lynch’s face disappeared and was replaced by a sour, puckered look. “Okay, pal, you came here with a proposition. A deal. Let’s have it.”

“That was just a rough cut you saw. Wait’ll they edit it, throw in some background music, write the narration, and then get somebody like Cronkite or Brinkley to narrate it. Of course, they’d have to interview the chief here. Or if he didn’t want to go on, then they’d have to talk about that for a while and about his reasons for being unavailable. Then, too, what you’ve seen is only what they have on film. They must have a couple of file cabinets of other evidence lying around. Still pictures, sworn statements, witnesses, even victims. They’d all make nice little vignettes that would round out the film — give it breadth and scope and depth, if you follow me.”