“Try to keep me informed of your location. I do worry when you’re out there. Sometimes I think we’re fighting a losing battle.”
“I’ll try, but that’s not always so easy. Don’t worry, Smith and Wesson have my back.” Trotter then patted his holstered snub-nosed Three Fifty Seven, which he so far in his career, had never been forced to use in the line of duty.
“You probably forgot how to shoot your weapon. When’s the last time you fired that piece?” Palmer cocked his head.
“I qualified just last year,” Trotter said with a smirk on his face.
“I’ll double check that, to see if you actually did qualify. Just never let your guard down and keep me up to date. Okay? Detective?”
Trotter stood up. Palmer was one of the few men Trotter could look in the eye without having to look down. He said to his boss, “Yes sir, Captain!” While giving Palmer a snappy salute.
“I’m being serious here, Jack.” A stern look plastered his face.
“Frank, you just worry about getting your four more years in for retirement. There’s no need to worry about me. Seriously. Now let me get up to Vehicle Registration. Oh, and I’ll call you when I get there.” Their office was located on the second floor.
“Smart ass.” Palmer had to laugh at Trotter’s quick wit.
Trotter went to the Registration Office. The secretary behind the desk looked more like a hooker than a state employee, dressed in her short miniskirt, heels, and a low cut blouse. Brandy Harshberger was a blond bombshell, with curly hair, excessive make up, and perhaps a little too much bright red lipstick.
“Good morning, Detective Muscles. Hey…I’m free tonight if you want to come over and strip search me.” She had been hired five years ago, and hit on Trotter her first day on the job. She hadn’t stopped since.
“Sorry, I’m already taken.”
She looked over the top of her glasses. “How come nobody ever met this mystery girl? I bet she doesn’t even exist. I think you’re afraid of me. It’s either that, or…maybe you prefer boys.”
“No, Brandy.” Trotter chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t prefer boys. My girlfriend is a…uh, superstar, and she shies away from the public.”
Brandy laughed. “A superstar? Have you been smoking confiscated drugs again? You come over tonight and I’ll be your superstar. You can even handcuff me to my big brass bed. I love being pistol whipped.”
“Do you really want to know the truth?” Trotter asked.
“Hell yes, I’m dying to know why my charms don’t work on you,” Brandy cooed while leaning forward on her desk, allowing more tantalizing cleavage to be exposed.
“The truth is…if I was to spend one night with you, no man would ever be able to please you again.” Trotter knew that bullshit lie was as far from the truth as possible.
“I’m willing to take that chance, but remember; once you’ve tasted Brandy…beer will no longer be dandy.”
“You just gave me reason number two; I’m not much of a drinker. Now do you think maybe you could get your mind out of the gutter long enough to run these plates?”
“You’re no fun, Detective Muscles. Give me the God damn numbers.”
He waited until she retrieved the owner’s information on the two vehicles doing business with Leon Sullivan. Trotter thanked her, but as he stood by her desk reading the info, Brandy stated emphatically, “Jack, you really don’t know what you’re missing out on.” She then teasingly ran her tongue around her lips while staring at his bulge.
“My loss,” Trotter said, shrugging his shoulders. He walked away, while thoughts of her beautiful, naked body handcuffed to her bed filled his mind.
He constantly wondered what was wrong with his ability, more precisely-his lack of ability, to perform with a woman he had no feelings for. Trotter could pop an erection when he was by himself or when he was with the only girl that loved him. The Moonlite Drive-In fiasco with Angela Wilson was the first of two times he tried to be intimate with a no strings attached kind of woman. The second attempt was when he was in MP school. He and two other Marines had a few beers at the Enlisted Men’s club; then decided to visit the local brothel in town. Trotter had figured he was older now, and the wee bit of alcohol he had consumed would build his confidence. Maybe he could finally get laid.
Sheila’s Bistro was a classy joint. From the outside, the place looked like a fancy tavern, but the inside was spectacular, with velvet drapes, a thick oriental rug in every room and many mirrors.
After paying for the round of drinks, Private McKinney told the bartender, “My buddies and me are looking for a little action. It gets…hard, being away from home for three months.” The barkeep smiled, nodded, and then pressed a concealed buzzer under the counter three times. A few moments later, three scantily dressed, overly perfumed ladies came from the back. The bartender used his eyes and motioned toward Trotter and his two Marine buddies. The escorts sashayed over and joined the Marines.
“Aren’t you going to buy me a drink, Marine?” A thin blond with big breasts flirted with Trotter, running a finger through his short hair and scraping a long red fingernail up the inside of his leg. Trotter motioned for the barkeep to set up a round for him and his date. She downed her fuzzy navel and Trotter chugged his draft; then she led him by his hand through the beads in the archway and down the hall to room number four. The sexy little call girl did a strip tease while Trotter fumbled out of his uniform.
Later, however…“Sorry you can’t get a hard-on, Soldier; but you still owe me twenty-five dollars for my time!” The rather good-looking prostitute told Trotter after she spent ten minutes trying to get him hard, but to no avail.
“Here.” He paid the whore. “I must’ve had too much to drink.”
He learned to accept the fact he would not enjoy sex. To forget about his erectile dysfunction problem, male impotency, the fear of being intimate, or whatever the Hell was wrong with him that he could not figure out, he immersed himself in being a law enforcement officer; and he learned to avoid any situation that could turn sexual.
* * * *
Twenty-two years ago, back on that Groundhog Day of 1968, when Trotter arrived in California, he had money to blow. A hundred thousand dollars to be precise. The twenty-two year old felt as though he had the world by the balls.
He stayed at the Hilton in Santa Monica the first couple of weeks after his arrival. On the third day, in the hotel gift shop, Trotter bought a newspaper. The newspaper was for two purposes. One, to find a cheaper place to live where he could call home; and two, to look for a job. He knew that his stash of cash would not last forever; especially living in California, and of all places, a Hilton, leading the life style he enjoyed. He vowed he would never eat another piece of venison, or be broke ever again as long as he lived. Conrad Hilton’s lobster may have been supreme and his suite was definitely magnificent, but this life was also ridiculously costly.
After looking at a dozen apartment complexes, the then young ex-marine came across The Ocean Oasis, and liked everything about it. The place was brand new with all the amenities a young person could want. A sauna, a pool, a free laundry room, but what really persuaded Trotter was the exercise room. In addition, he liked the location, only one mile from the famous Muscle Beach of Santa Monica. Trotter visited Muscle Beach several times while stationed at Pendleton. Sure, this new apartment was pricey, but he knew he would eventually get a job, so he moved into The Oasis. His new one bedroom apartment was a very comfortable place to christen, ‘Home Sweet Home.’
The manager at the new Ocean Oasis insisted on Jack paying six months rent up front on a one years lease, seeing as he had no employment. Mr. Swick was in charge of who moved into the brand new complex. The owners gave him strict guidelines on the eligibility requirements for prospective tenants. They wanted to ‘keep the riffraff out.’
Trotter did find work in the law enforcement field. He landed a job as a security watchman, working the graveyard shift. His size and MP experience
made him “the man for the job.” This line of work did not pay much, and he loathed sitting on his ass, in a piece of shit van, in mall parking lots, or on construction sites; waiting for thieves to maybe break into cars or steal tools.
Having that Dishonorable Discharge hanging over his head prevented him from landing the job he really wanted, a police officer. Being an MP and having authority was exciting to Trotter; he missed all that. He racked his brain for an idea to achieve getting employment as a cop. However, it always came back to the fact he did not have an Honorable Discharge; and the state of Iowa made that perfectly clear. It was more than just having a certificate on the wall having ‘Honorable Discharge’ printed on it. That killing word, Dishonorable, was permanently etched into his records. “Our background check revealed…” There was only one thing to try.
Trotter clocked out one morning, took a shower and mustered the courage to put his plan into action. He drove to the San Diego Veterans Affairs building, went inside and took a seat along the wall with the other vets. There must have been fifteen clerks sitting behind desks, each with their own computer. Trotter sat in his chair for half an hour studying the clerks until he found his mark. He even allowed other vets to go before him, making sure the blonde bimbo who took bathroom breaks between veterans would wait on him.
Oddly, she took her purse along. Both times upon exiting the ladies’ room, she had the sniffles, known better as postnasal drip. Trotter also noticed the skinny little blonde had an occasional tell-tale ratchet jaw going on. He realized this state employee did not have a bladder problem and a compulsive tic; she had a cocaine problem. She did not use the rest room to urinate; she was indulging in Peruvian Flake. The Marine MP School taught him how to spot drug users. This was going to be way better and easier than he had rehearsed in his mind.
He timed it perfectly. The hyperactive clerk announced, “Next, please,” and Trotter took the seat next to her desk. As he sat down, he spied her cute little personalized memo pad with “from the desk of Patty Marlowe” embossed on it.
“How may I help you, today?”
“My name is Jack Trotter, and there seems to be a small problem with my records.”
She brought up his electronic file stored in the mainframe. “Let’s see what it says about you, Mr. Trotter.” She read the screen, “Enlisted 1963, graduated basic from Leonard Wood, promoted to Lance Corporal in ‘66, Dishonorable Discharge from Pendleton in ‘67.” Then she asked, “Is there a problem with the dates, Mr. Trotter?” She inhaled through her nose, and swallowed.
“No…The dates are correct, but I received an Honorable Discharge, not a Dishonorable, like the…ahem…mistake…shows in my file.” He then slid an envelope across the desk to her, leaned toward her and whispered, “I won’t name names…but I was told Patty Marlowe was the person to see about correcting that small typo from…Dishonorable…to Honorable.”
Her eyes opened wide, and her jaw fell when she saw all the crisp new one hundred dollar bills stuffed into the envelope. Trotter mouthed the words, “Five thousand.”
“How do I know you’re not from Internal Affairs and are trying to get me fired?” she whispered back.
“If I was from Internal Affairs, Miss Marlowe, you’d have been fired a long time ago, and doing time for possession of cocaine. Mind if I look in your purse, Patty?”
She grabbed her purse from atop the desk and put it by her feet. Trotter sensed her mind raced wildly, and that her heart felt like it was going to explode by her fidgeting, and how rapid the veins pulsated in her neck. In one second, she logically reasoned to herself, “this stud must be who he says he is, and not some suit from upstairs. He also must have talked to somebody about me; he knows my name, and that I do coke. And…Five G’s will buy me one hellaciously gigantic pile of toot!”
“It is…a rather small…typo,” she said quietly while nervously looking around the room, and sliding the envelope into the top desk drawer. Then her fingers flew across her keyboard for a few seconds. “All taken care of. Your records now show you did receive an Honorable Discharge in 1967 from Pendleton. Sorry for any inconvenience this small mistake may have caused you, Corporal Trotter.”
Trotter stood to leave, and thanked her. Patty shoved the envelope in her purse, and went to the ladies’ room.
When she did get back to her desk, she called her boss. “I just got my period and the cramps are killing me. I’m taking off the rest of the day, and I’ll probably miss tomorrow, too.”
* * * *
That October of 1968, a few months after Miss Marlowe had corrected the error on Trotter’s military records; he was a brand new detective with the Santa Monica Police Department. With his MP background, Honorable Discharge, and extensive Marine training he had received in narcotics, Trotter was exceptionally qualified to fill a vacant position in the Vice Squad, Drug Enforcement Division.
His inheritance had eroded to seventy-six thousand. The Marlowe payout, the Mustang and its engine rebuild, six months advance rent, and two weeks of living the life of royalty at the Hilton, took a big bite of the crisp Ben Franklins that were stuffed in his duffle bag. On top of that, Trotter now had to pay a monthly rent of seven hundred dollars. His entry-level detective pay barely covered that cost alone; therefore, he was dipping into his stash quite often for food, utilities, entertainment, and any other niceties he desired.
Another factor Trotter loved about living in Santa Monica was the wealth. Every day he saw expensive and exotic sports cars on the highways. Lamborghinis, Porsches, Maseratis, and Ferraris, the work cars of the rich and famous. At least once a month he spotted a movie star, or a rock legend. He swears he saw Johnny Carson driving a white Corvette on Wilshire Boulevard one afternoon and a few weeks later, Rod Stewart tooling around in a Porsche on Sunset Boulevard.
One of Trotter’s numerous tricks to catch drug dealers was simply to pull into a convenience store parking lot, usually in a far corner, and put the hood up on his Mustang. To the average store customer, it appeared he was experiencing car troubles and waiting for help. Many times, a kind Samaritan offered to look under the hood or proposed a ride. Trotter had to turn down their kindness; he was waiting for a drug deal to transpire.
Spotting the players was easy to his trained eye; they all acted shifty, and nervous. A car pulled in and waited, or someone went into the store for something, usually smokes, came back out and then waited. Most times, another car would arrive and park close enough to make the transaction. Occasionally, the buyer or dealer would go over and lean on the car door; a hand went in while scanning the lot, came back out, and quickly went back into a pocket.
A few of the dumber users then sat in their car and either checked out what they had just scored, counted the cash, or got high on the spot. Trotter could not believe how easy some of the stupid druggies made his job. Not wanting to blow his cover, he simply took their plate number, and had Registration run the information. After getting an address, he set up surveillance on the perpetrator and waited. Sometimes a bigger fish swam to the net. He ran that plate number, set up another surveillance and netted a bigger bust.
Occasionally he used this technique, and his trick worked well for years—Many years.
Chapter Eleven
“I been in the right place, but it must have been the wrong time.”
Dr. John
April 1985
Seventeen years had passed since Trotter made Vice Squad, which is also coincidentally how long it’d been since Patty Marlowe died of an accidental overdose, Trotter was sitting at a red light on a picture perfect afternoon when a pink Ferrari pulled up beside his Mustang.
The Eighties were notorious for girl bands and divas. He felt the bass thumping from the pink Italian sports car, and he could not help but to hear the chorus blaring:
You got me on the edge, no, I’m not scared! One little kiss, please…I’m almost there!
One little kiss, boy, will take me there! You have the key…now free my soul!
&nb
sp; Kiss me baby, I was such a fool! One little kiss…I’m almost there.
Put your lips to mine, and take me there!
When the Ferrari pulled up, Trotter looked over at the driver and swore she was his old friend Toby’s wife, Christine. This girl had long blonde hair and a body to kill for; she wore sunglasses, so he only guessed her eyes would be blue. She was singing along to the song. However, this rich bitch had to be much younger than what Christine would be today. He had not seen Toby or his wife since 1968. Trotter did the math in his head. Christ! That was seventeen years ago. This little beauty could not be a day older than twenty-four. Trotter was so mesmerized with this girl he did not realize the light had turned green. The blonde glanced his way, looked over her sunglasses to eyeball him, waved bye-bye; she then nailed it and laid rubber. The ass end of the pink Ferrari had a personalized vanity plate, which simply read, “FONTAINE.”
Trotter thought about punching it to catch her, but with a three-second head start in a machine like her Ferrari, he knew better. She had already hit sixty mile an hour when he realized, she did have blue eyes.
One evening, two months later, as the sun had all but disappeared behind the Pacific Ocean, Trotter had the Mustang’s hood up at a Quick Fill on West Sunset Boulevard. The pink Ferrari pulled up to the store, and the little blue-eyed blonde went in. From where Trotter had parked, he could read the vanity plate, and see her inside at the counter, probably buying cigarettes. Her skintight faded blue jeans looked as though they were painted on her ass. Disco sucks was air brushed on the back of her plain white T-shirt. She used a credit card and bought a carton of Virginia Slims.
Just as she exited the little market, a bright orange van with sunset murals painted on the sides, flew into the lot and came to a screeching stop beside the Ferrari. Both doors opened and two young punks got out; the short, heavy driver had an expensive camera strapped around his neck. The other loser, as tall and thin as an NBA player, stood between the blonde and her car. His fat friend snapped picture after picture of the girl. She tried, but could not get to her car; Stretch was doing some mighty fancy basketball moves on her. He obviously played guard somewhere. She screamed obscenities at them. “Quit hounding me, you bastards. Just leave me the fuck alone!”
Born of Greed Page 13
