Save the Child

by Jimmy Craig Porter

“I knew this was going to cost me.” Hopkins seemed to wake up a little. “I’ll get you for this, Simpson.”

  “Oh, hush! You love it and you know it.”

  “Joe, come by the house early and we’ll have a few beers while the ladies spend my money.”

  “Your money? Oh, so you’re buying for me, too?” asked Marjorie.

  “Sure, why not. Joe, you need a suit?” They all had a chuckle.

  “Well, I am looking forward to it,” said Linda.

  “It’s been fun, but I’ve got to go,” Marjorie said, reaching for her purse.

  “Go on. Tonight’s on me. I’ll put it on my expense account,” said Hopkins, waving his hand and shooing her toward the door.

  “As what?”

  “Part of investigating Joe.”

  “For what?”

  “Priors.” Hopkins appeared to be searching. “Following up on the shooting. He could have been an accomplice.”

  Joe looked puzzled. “An accomplice?”

  “Well, whatever. He could have known the alleged thief, even been in on it. The clerk surprises them, shoots one, Joe shoots him and starts to run when the cops show up. Being a quick thinker, Joe yells for help.”

  Hopkins looked for approval. Linda looked curiously at Joe, who sat, frozen.

  Marjorie sobered up and her mind ticked for a few quick moments. “But first, he stuck his gun in the black guy’s hand, called 911, and then tried to escape.”

  Everyone doubled over with laughter. Joe silently sighed with relief. They were closer to the truth than they realized.

  “You’ve missed a few details. We were partners.” Everyone stared at Joe, wondering where he was going. “But…” Joe pointed his finger in the air. “But, I shot the clerk. My partner, not wanting me to go to jail, cleaned my fingerprints from the gun, and then in a moment of remorse, forced me to call 911. He then, in attempt to save me, shot himself with my gun so it would appear to be his gun, thereby setting me free to get drunk with the investigating detective and make a date with the prosecuting attorney.”

  Hopkins hammered his glass down as if it was a gavel. “Case closed!”

  After they all semi-composed themselves, they said their goodnights and pledged to meet at the Hopkins’ home Saturday at five o’clock. Marjorie smiled at Joe and said that she had enjoyed the evening. Joe followed them out and, after a quick visit to the men’s room, returned to the bar. Thanks to Hopkins’ expense account, he still had some money. Although it seemed much later, it was only ten o’clock. Pam didn’t get off until one. He needed some time to think. The evening had been a total surprise, something he had never anticipated. Even though he appeared solid with the prosecutor, he still had to be extremely careful. There would be more questions, not only about what had happened, but also the things Joe knew would happen. His lifestyle just changed and the need for money had certainly increased.

  He returned to the bar, where the blonde bartender greeted him with a drink and a smile before returning to the floor with drinks for other customers. There was still time for a little relaxation.

  Not until Joe’s second drink did the bartender offer any conversation. “Your friends leave?” she asked, as if in passing.

  “Yes, they had to go,” was all he could muster. In a way, he wanted her to think they were his friends. Yet he still preferred her to believe otherwise. He decided to play the passive hero.

  “Couldn’t hang in there, huh?”

  “Well, I don’t really know. Tonight was the first time I’ve met them.”

  “Oh, really?” She was surprised. “I thought you were out on a date.”

  Joe laughed. “What? That’s what it looked like? You just missed the introductions. That guy was carrying a gun.”

  “Is he a cop?”

  “Yeah, a detective and the woman in the suit was the assistant DA. The other woman was the cop’s wife.”

  “You keep some fast company,” she smiled. “Especially if you just met them.”

  “Well, I witnessed a robbery and homicide.” He bowed his head.

  “Really? You must have been scared.”

  “Yeah, but it happened so fast, I didn’t get too shook up.”

  “Where did it happen?”

  “At a liquor store.”

  Her eyes grew large. “Hey, you’re the guy who stopped the robbery and killed the thief.”

  “Yes, but the clerk still got killed.”

  “You’re still a hero. All the reporters are trying to find out where you are.”

  “So I’ve just discovered. That’s the reason I came back in.”

  “And I thought it was because of me,” she flirted.

  “Maybe it was. I just needed an excuse.”

  She blushed. “Well, you’re here all the same. Let me buy the reluctant hero a drink.”

  “Only if l can buy you one.”

  “Perhaps, when I get off.”

  “When is that?”

  She looked around the empty bar. “Now,” she smiled and fixed them a drink. Joe laid out ten dollars, which was half of what he had left.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “We’ll let the Hilton buy us a few drinks. I’ve wanted a drink all evening.”

  She mixed herself a drink as Joe watched.

  “What is that? It looks like milk.”

  “White Russian. Vodka, Kahlua, and milk. Pretty good. Want one?”

  “I don’t know. What does it taste like?”

  “Milkshake. Here, taste mine.” She handed the glass to Joe. “So, what do you think?”

  “Tastes like a milkshake,” he said. He actually liked it and wanted more. “This is great! I’m hooked.”

  She grinned. “I told you. By the way, my name is Cynita.”

  “I’m Joe. Cynita; that’s a pretty name. I’ve never heard it before.”

  “I was named after my grandmothers, Cynthia and Juanita.”

  “That’s a coincidence; I was named after my grandmother, too.”

  “Your grandmother was name Joe?” She looked puzzled.

  “No, silly. Josephine.”

  “Oh, yeah, I never thought of that.”

  Joe gave a subtle little laugh.

  “You’re putting me on, you asshole.” She managed a reddish smile.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t help it.”

  “Sure, I bet.” She finished her drink and quickly made two more. “Now, drink this and tell me about your heroic feats.”

  “There’s not much to tell.”

  “If I’m buying you drinks, the least you can do is to tell me what happened.”

  “I thought the Hilton was buying them,” he cracked.

  “Don’t argue with the bartender. Now, what happened at the liquor store?”

  “OK,” he said and proceeded to give his rendition of the entire scene, omitting certain murderous details.

  During the story, one man entered the bar, then two others. They were all staying at the Hilton on business and were soon caught up in Joe’s story. They were delighted for the conversation, especially something involving a crime, which they could take home with them. Cynita was turned on by the whole ordeal, and in the manner Joe told his story, not like most barroom braggarts, but in such a way that they were sympathetic yet proud for him. He made them laugh at his anxiety and almost cry at seeing the clerk murdered right before his eyes. They were there with him, sharing his fears and his brave actions. It was as if it had happened to them and they, too, were heroes.

  “Hey, guys, this is fun, but I have to close at midnight,” Cynita announced.

  “Come on, just one more round.”

  “OK, while I cash out. We could continue this down the road at The Bitter End. They stay open until two.”

  Everyone spoke in agreement except Joe.

  “Hey, I would really like to, but it’s been a long day and…”

  “You’re going, sweetie. You owe me a drink,” interrupted Cynita. “You’ve got to go, Joe, you’re the topic of convers
ation.”

  “Our way of meeting women,” laughed one of the two men, in his thirties.

  “Hey, you get us there and I’ll spring for the drinks and whatever else you can think of.” The man in his fifties proudly played his trump card.

  After several acknowledgements befitting the situation, all turned and looked at Joe.

  “You make it hard to turn down.”

  “Impossible,” said Cynita in a calm, direct voice, which no one could misinterpret. Everyone looked at Cynita, then back at Joe.

  Joe smiled. “I’m with her.”

  “Let’s go, then,” they all shouted in unison.

  After a few minutes of bookkeeping and persuading the Hilton limo driver, they were off on an adventure.

  Joe was allowed one more night of being a hero.

  The Bitter End was a typical country dance hall, mostly new, progressive country with a little rock to keep the girls happy. Joe hated it immediately, but still had to dance with Cynita. He was an average dancer, as was Cynita, but she thought she was a little better. Joe humored her with compliments. They slow danced and he kissed her. He knew they would sleep together that night. After the dance, they held hands and walked to the table, where the guys were busy drinking and discussing the singer of a particular song. They hadn’t forgotten Joe and Cynita. White Russians were on the table.

  For the next forty-five minutes, Joe’s two new buddies kept Cynita busy dancing. When she finally sat down, she put her hand on Joe’s thigh and listened while he infatuated some young women with his story. Ben, the fiftyish grey-haired man, had convinced the girls to join them. Several people at the surrounding tables were eavesdropping. Joe was having a great time, and did not even think of Pam, whom he was supposed to meet. He turned and gave Cynita a kiss and still had no thought of Pam. Ben was quick to light Cynita’s cigarette. That irritated Joe. He didn’t like men who reacted so quickly about trivial things, then smiled as if they had accomplished such a gallant feat. He put his arm around Cynita and scooted her chair closer to him. Ben ordered more drinks.

  Joe was glad to get free drinks, but it still didn’t impress him. However, what did impress him was the apparent abundance of money Ben seemed to have. Now the problem was how to get a share of it. That might not be easy with Cynita to contend with. He wanted some of what she had to offer, but not as much as he wanted what Ben had to offer. Maybe he could have both. His luck had been improving and, after all, he was a hero. There was nothing he could do at the moment except drink and bide his time with Cynita and Ben.

  The party continued until everybody was past drunk. Ben was passed out in his chair. The other men had faded off into the night. Joe and Cynita were no better. His big ideas had dwindled down to a nice comfortable bed with or without Cynita, Ben’s money or no money.

  “Now what, sweetie?” Cynita asked, still trying to force down one more White Russian.

  “Let’s get Ben and go home.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll call a cab.”

  “Your apartment?”

  Joe searched his mind. “No, too many reporters.”

  “At this hour?”

  “No, but earlier and I don’t think we’d do too well. How about your apartment?”

  “Sure, but I live in Sundown. Who’s gonna drive?”

  Ben interrupted. “Let’s go back to the hotel. I have a room.”

  “But we don’t,” jumped in Cynita.

  “I’ll get you one,” Ben slurred. “Let’s just go.”

  “Great!” Cynita motioned for a waitress. “Honey, could you call us a cab?” She giggled and fell against Joe. “Help!”

  Joe propped her up with his shoulder, almost falling himself.

  “There’s a taxi already outside,” the waitress responded.

  “Must have known we’d be here,” laughed the drunken woman.

  Joe pulled her up and motioned for Ben to follow. The three drunks piled into the back of the taxi and were zoomed back to the Hilton.

  As they exited the taxi, Ben became extra baggage, unable to stand, much less walk. Surprisingly, Cynita came alive and quickly grabbed Ben’s arm. Joe followed suit and took the other arm, not that he cared if Ben fell on his face or not, but Joe still needed him.

  “My room,” stammered Ben.

  “OK, hang on, Ben. Don’t throw up,” Cynita said. Turning to Joe, she instructed him to take Ben to his room while she got a room for them. He obeyed willingly.

  Once inside, Joe let the middle aged, grey-haired businessman fall onto the bed. He was oblivious, out to the world. Joe tried to talk to him, just to be sure. Convinced, he eased the man’s wallet from his brown slacks. There was seventy dollars in cash and several credit cards. He took fifty and replaced the bills with several ones from his own wallet. He looked at a few family pictures, probably Ben’s grandchildren. Joe didn’t care. He found what he wanted: Ben’s automatic teller card. Now, if only he knew the access code. He looked at the driver’s license. Ben’s birthdate was 11/22/52. That was easy for him to remember. He would give odds that those numbers were the code. He took the card and disappeared out the door, where he bumped into Cynita.

  “Come on, sweetie. I got us a great room with a Jacuzzi.” She smiled and winked. “We’ll sleep great tonight when we do go to sleep.” She reassembled a smile and another wink.

  “I’ll be right there. Old Ben wants something for his stomach.”

  “Take care of good old Ben. He’s paying for our Jacuzzi. Room 1201. I’ll be waiting for you, sweetie.” She put her arms around Joe and gave him a kiss.

  Joe watched Cynita get on the elevator and hurriedly rushed to the ATM machine. He was totally alone as he inserted the card and punched in 112252. He was right. He punched in $500 and the ATM spit out the bills. Joe was covered for a few days.

  He returned Ben’s card and the money he had taken previously. Perhaps that would keep Ben from using the machine himself. At least, it would buy some time and distance.

  Joe took the elevator back to Cynita, where he could indulge himself. Although still drunk, he no longer felt like passing out, at least for a while.

  When he opened the door, Joe knew he wouldn’t be disappointed. Cynita was waiting in the Jacuzzi. He began to undress, not thinking of the three men he murdered, or Ben, whom he had robbed, not even Pam, who was waiting for him.

  CHAPTER 6

  At seven o’clock sharp, Detective Dave Edmonds pulled up at his sergeant’s door. He had kept in touch with the night patrol. Everything was fine. Forensics would be dusting the black man’s vehicle at first light. This was a big case, a public case, a chance for him to shine, get a few heads looking in his direction. Promotion! Raise! Bass boat!

  Hopkins slid into the warm Chevy. He was greeted with the coroner’s report and an update from his young upstart. He read. He was pleased, both with the efficiency of Detective Edmonds and with the coroner’s finding.

  “Do you know what this means?” he asked.

  “A good chance our suspected, but quite dead, black American was guilty of both crimes!”

  “Could be. If ballistics confirm, we could wrap up two cases.”

  “That innocent bystander, Cooper, doesn’t know what a service he did us.”

  “And the taxpayers—and we’re taxpayers.”

  “That we are, Dave,” Hopkins laughed. “Let’s put everything in motion, get the witness’ statement, ballistics, any officer’s reports, check on the Worthys, and call it a day.”

  “What about our report?”

  “We’ll have the entire day tomorrow.”

  “And the weekend off?”

  “And the weekend off, mate,” Hopkins said in his “down under” accent.

  Dave looked serious. “I kind of feel guilty.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I’m thinking more about being off for the weekend than the two men who were murdered.”

  “Well, at least the bad guy is dead.”

  “The s
hotgun, found in the black man’s car, was stolen from the Worthys. It was a Christmas gift for their son, Jeff. So apparently, he killed the son, drove to the liquor store and murdered the clerk, then was killed by Joe Cooper. Cooper’s story pretty much checked out.

  Hopkins read over the report. He still wanted to talk to Cooper. He made a call to the Lexington, room 252. No answer. He asked if Cooper had checked out. He hadn’t. Hopkins left a message for Joe to return his call. After all, it was Christmas. He probably had plans, at least something besides staying in a motel room.

  Hopkins looked at his watch. “I’ll go by the Worthys, you check on your men, and then I’ll buy you a beer and we’ll call it a day.”

  “Works for me.” Dave liked the idea. He knew Hopkins and some of the other detectives often stopped for a beer. Until now, he had never been included. Maybe they were starting to accept the rookie detective. Many were resentful of his progress at such a young age. However, if Hopkins liked him, they all would come around. Hopkins was well liked, even though he wasn’t that old himself. It was general consensus that he would make captain in the next few years.

  CHAPTER 7

  Jane Worthy eased out of the bed she shared with her husband, John. He had taken sleeping pills. She was afraid to, fearing that the shock of waking up to reality would be too much. She knew she would awaken to that reality for the rest of her life, but getting through the first few nights, facing the horrible facts, might provide strength for the future.

  She thought about Jeff’s birth, a joyous family celebration, their first baby, the first grandbaby for both sides of the family. The birth had been easy, no delivery complications. His name was never in question: Jonathan Jeffrey Worthy III. He would carry on the family name and eventually the prefix of doctor. A wonderful life was mapped out, but someone unaware of the map had changed everything. A wrath of emotions she had never experienced slowly surfaced, bringing up every ounce of hate and bitterness buried within. She wanted this person, this intruder into her world, to feel as badly as she did at that moment, alone, her son murdered only hours earlier in the very room she now paced. She felt herself turning away from everybody and everything she held dear, feeling only a loathsome denial of what was and a vengeful sense of destiny.