Ashes of Yesterday

Chapter 17

Flix parked the borrowed Mercer Raceabout just south of Hollywood Boulevard. The police station was a rather drab looking building. Gray and devoid of almost all architectural ornamentation. The building was constructed of some kind of stone. Not very attractive, but you couldn't say it wasn't serviceable.

What did it say about the natives of this place that good money was spent to erect such a bland box in such a flamboyant city? Maybe, plain stood out in this new frontier.

Flix walked up the steps and entered the building. Not much going on. There were the usual bench sitters lining a far wall waiting to have some police matter addressed. A few men milled about. Phones rang. The low hum of male voices busily attending to matters that arose that day was like the sound of bees in a half-empty hive.

"May I help you?" the cop behind the desk asked.

"My name is Flix. Florian Flix. I was wondering if I might speak . . ."

The suspect in custody had been waiting for his chance to make a break.

When the man standing at the desk entered the precinct, it seemed to be a now-or-never moment for the guy being led to a cell. He spotted the holster in need of repair slung on the hip of the cop nearby. How to get the gun?

All it took was a small distraction – as small as a stranger walking up to the desk.

The cop took his eyes off Bigsby Granger for a few seconds. Before the police officer knew it, Granger turned swiftly and grabbed the revolver. The officer never knew what was happening. The suspect moved with the speed of a panther. Light and agile and quick. Granger had the gun out of the damaged holster before anyone realized it. Now armed, he was in command.

"It's my turn to give the orders," Granger spat. "Hands in the air! Anybody moves is gonna regret it!"

For a few seconds, time stood still. Faces glanced up from their work to see what was going on. Flix, who stood a few feet from Granger, sprang into action. There was a scuffle and a tangle of arms and hands. The gun went off. It was a deafening noise in the close space.

Like the starting shot of a race, the sound of the discharging weapon woke the others from their trance. The instant of disbelief dissolved. Police officers rushed toward the two tussling men. Granger was tackled to the ground. He was handcuffed and carried away. Flix slowly rose from his place on the police station floor. He shook his head to try and clear it while rubbing his ringing ears.

"My god! You're bleeding," someone said.

"I'm okay," said Flix, as the ringing began to fade in his ears.

His forehead was grazed.

"Get him into my office," the man who seemed to be in charge barked.

Flix was led to the Joe Club's office.

"I'm okay," Flix said. "Really."

Flix pressed a towel someone had offered him against his forehead until the bleeding stopped.

"It's just a flesh wound," the officer said.

"You look damn familiar," he said. "My name's Joe Club."

"I am Florian Flix. From back East. Here on vacation, I guess you'd say."

"The Canary Case! You're that private dick who cracked it! Steppson's making a movie about you! Look," he said, retrieving a newspaper from his desk. "It's all over the front page. Down here. See this line near the end?"

Flix took the worn paper from the cop's hand and glanced at the story.

"I guess last night's mishap has put Steppson's studio in the spotlight," said Flix.