The Big Witness (A Dragnet Fan Fiction Story) -- Chapter Four

 

 The Big Witness

(A Dragnet Fan Fiction Story)

By: Kristi N. Zanker

Disclaimer: All publicly recognized characters, settings, etc. are the property of Mark VII Limited and Universal. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. I, in no way am associated with the owners, creators, or producers of Dragnet. No copyright infringement is intended.

Warning: This chapter contains some strong language and mild sexual situations.

Chapter Four

As Joe ascended the concrete steps, suitcase in hand, he could hear through the screen door, Ma Friday and Dorothy talking from somewhere inside the house. Just as he was about to pull open the door, he heard his mother say, "…but Joe doesn't really talk about the war that much…." to which he yanked open and slammed it shut, albeit a little too hard. The smell of pot roast, although enticing to his growling stomach, was not able to curb his mood. Any happiness he had felt on the way home from work and upon mounting the first few steps up to the house instantly vanished as rage festered inside. After yesterday's collapse with Ben and his increasing overtiredness—Joe wasn't sure if or how he could handle a third person, especially Dorothy, finding out about his inner dilemmas about the war right now.

"Joseph? Is that you?" he heard Ma Friday call from the living room.

"Yeah, Ma, it's me," he said, trying to remain nonchalant, as he set his suitcase on the floor, while his keys clunked as they hit the message pad on the telephone table. Who the hell else would it be? He thought to himself as he roughly set his fedora atop the hat rack. Opening the hall closet door, he put his .38 Special, holster, and handcuffs on the shelf. Next, he swiftly removed his pin-striped jacket and aggressively flung it down the hall near the bathroom door.

While loosening his tie, and unbuttoning two top buttons, Joe wandered into the living room to find his mother in her favorite blue flowered housedress, and Dorothy, still in her policewoman's uniform, seated next to one another on the davenport. The floor console radio played softly the popular tune, 'Now is the Hour'. On the coffee table before them lay open a photo album. Staring right up at Joe, upside-down from his vantage point, was his eight-year-old self, in that hideous Buster Brown look with those God-awful bangs, holding that school lunch pail.

"Hi, Ma…Dorothy. I see we've been looking at the photo album," he said, trying not to scowl at it.

"I was just showing Dorothy the old photos of you," answered Ma Friday. "She thought you were such a cute baby."

"Ma! Don't torture her with that! Did you have to go back that far?"

Now all he could feel was indignation and his face flush. The only baby picture of him—in his birthday suit on a braided rug—was a few pages before the Buster Brown one.

"Oh, it's okay, Joe!" chortled Dorothy. "I thought you were so adorable lying on that rug!"

"I don't want to be a rude host, but Ma, do I have a minute to take a shower before dinner's ready?" he asked, hoping for a quick exit and wondering if Dorothy would still be there after the disconcerting photo album, him with a five o'clock shadow, and rumpled clothing.

"Oh, go right ahead, Joseph! Dinner won't be ready for another half-hour. Come on, Dorothy, we'll set the table."

With that, he dashed into the hallway, retrieved his suitcase and ambled to the bedroom where he set it on the bed and stepped out of his shoes, kicking them over toward the shoeshine kit near the closet. Out in the hall again, Joe picked up his pin-striped jacket as he went into the bathroom and after shutting the door, threw it into the hamper that leaned against the wall. He turned on both the hot and cold water faucets, then the shower handle and let the water run, filling the room with steam while he stripped. After cautiously stepping into the claw-foot bathtub, Joe yanked the shower curtain around until he was closed in. Water cascaded all over as he tried to clear his mind and not think about the awkwardness in the living room just then or what his mother may have told Dorothy about him and the war before he arrived home.

Finding a cake of Ivory soap in the wire dish that hung over the side of the bathtub, and with a washcloth, Joe lathered, then rinsed, all the while chuckling to himself because he'd been in a lather for the past two days—no, make that the entire week. He ferociously squeezed out the washcloth, hoping to rid more anxiety before draping it over the side of the tub, next to the soap dish. For a moment, Joe stood still and let the water run all over him, doing its best to push away all of the anger and trepidation. The tube of Prell shampoo sat where it always did—on the windowsill and he thoroughly washed his hair.

After drying himself off and carefully climbing out of the bathtub, he grabbed his burgundy robe off of the hook on the back of the door and put it on, tying the sash around his waist. At the pedestal sink, Joe went to reach for his shaving soap, brush, and safety razor when he remembered he had left those items in his suitcase. He flung open the bathroom door, ran across the hall to his bedroom and located what he needed in the suitcase. Using his bath towel, Joe wiped off the bathroom mirror that stood above the sink and began the shaving process.

Afterward, he went into his bedroom and rifled through the dresser drawers for undershorts, t-shirt, and a pair of red socks. Joe then dashed to the closet and pulled a black-and-red buttoned-down checked shirt and black slacks off the hangers and began to dress. He could hear laughter coming from the kitchen. Hurriedly Joe cleaned up the bathroom and threw his towel and the rest of his dirty clothing in the hamper. The shower had invigorated him at least for the time being. What he really wanted to do was put on his pajamas and crawl right into bed, but he had to wait just a little longer.

He peeked at himself in the mirror one last time, making sure his hair was combed nice and parted correctly on the left. As Joe exited the bathroom, he could hear soft footsteps on the carpet runner approaching and was startled to find Dorothy in front of him. The hallway was fairly dark except for the glow of the light in the bathroom that tapered into the hall.

"Hi, Joe," she said quietly.

"Hi, Dot," he replied, with an instant grin. "You're still here after the fiasco with the photo album?"

"Of course, silly! I just told your mother I wanted to go freshen up. Dinner will be ready shortly."

"You look fine to me," he murmured, as he put his arms around her waist, hers around his neck and they respectfully kissed hello.

"When did you get here?" Joe asked, keeping his voice low. They now clasped each other's hands, intertwining their fingers.

"Around six-thirty. I took the Yellow car over."

"I'll take you home."

"Joe, you look exhausted."

"I'm not too tired to take you home," he whispered, planting a quick kiss on her forehead.

"How was your trip with Ben?"

"Oooh, it was exhausting," he sighed.

At that moment, Ma Friday called them to dinner.

As they ate, Joe delighted them with his brush with the law. Dorothy couldn't stop laughing and Ma Friday gave him an unsympathetic look.

"Don't look at me like that, Ma," he said. "I got an earful from Captain Steve this morning."

"Serves you right. What kind of example are you setting?"

"I'm going to mail the fine on Monday. But, please, stop looking at me like that. I felt guilty enough as it was. Besides, I'm only human. Ben and I had already worked twenty-four hours and we still had the rest of the day!"

"I told you to tell them they shouldn't make you work like that. You need your rest."

"Ma, I'll be getting plenty of rest tomorrow and Sunday. I have those days off. I'll go to bed as soon as I get back from taking you to the train station."

"Well, at least they gave you the weekend off."

Two hours later, after the dinner and dessert dishes were washed, dried, and put away, Ma Friday went to finish packing, while Joe and Dorothy sat in the living room. Two fresh cups of black coffee on coasters sat on the end table next to him.

"What time does her train leave tomorrow?" she asked, as he lit her cigarette.

"Ten," Joe replied, stifling a yawn as he picked up his cigarette from the slot in the ashtray. "How was your day?"

"Very busy. But I have Sunday off."

He liked that answer, giving her a slight smile, and gently kissed her. He set the cigarette back into the ashtray slot. While nuzzling her neck, and putting his arms around her waist, he murmured, "You had a busy day?"

"I spent most of it at Central Receiving with a 17-year-old girl and her nine month old baby. We were trying to find out why there were bruises on her daughter. She said she spanked her for crying too much and wasn't sure where the bruises came from. But I have my suspicions. She and her husband live with her mother who sounds like a shrew. When I came back to Georgia Street Juvenile, we discovered that a boy and girl were stealing lumber in a neighborhood where a new house was being built."

The next thing Joe heard was a high-pitched female voice singing how D-U-Z does everything and Harlow Wilcox announcing for the game show Truth or Consequences with Ralph Edwards. "Hello! We've been waiting for you!" He blinked his eyes and tried to think. Why is the big radio in my room when I already have the small one next to my bed? How did the window get over on that wall? And how the hell did my bed shrink from a double to a twin? Then, it hit him. He wasn't in his bedroom at all. Joe realized he must've fallen asleep on the sofa in the living room. Another telltale sign was that a blue quilt was draped over him and he was still in his clothes. He could hear someone moving about the house. Probably Ma getting everything ready before we have to leave for Union Station, his mind went on. He wondered when Dorothy left, and frowned, feeling like a heel because he didn't get to take her home, not to mention embarrassed because he had fallen asleep on her. The last thing he remembered was sitting next to her on the couch telling him about her day. Suddenly, he felt frantic, perturbed that his mother may have unintentionally said something about him, not unlike the comment he overheard about his lack of conversation about the war yesterday.

"Wake up, Sleepyhead," said Dorothy, coming toward him with a steaming cup of coffee.

She set it on a coaster on the coffee table in front of him. Joe was sure she wore her uniform before. Now, she was in a cream colored dress with tiny red polka dots. What the hell's going on? His mind was in a daze. When he tried to sit up, he winced in agony, his body protested, aching from sitting ten hours in the car and laying still on a lumpy couch with the springs jabbing him in the back.

"What are you still doing here?" he said, surprised, and wondered where Ma Friday was.

"Joe…you've been out for nearly twenty-four hours."

"What?! Twenty-four hours!"  Joe knew he had gotten up a few times to head to the bathroom but always found himself back in the living room.  He'd lie on the sofa for a bit listening to the radio thinking how much more comfortable his bed was only to fall into another deep sleep. He tossed the quilt aside, ignoring the pains as he stood up with a start.

"Sit down, Joe," said Dorothy, standing in front of him now, putting a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him until he did so. She then handed him the coffee. He took a drink, then another.

"I need to take Ma to Union Station," he said, setting the cup down.

"Her train left this morning," she said, as she went around to the other side of the coffee table, moved the quilt, and sat next to him.

"What?! What time is it?" Joe rubbed his eyes.

"It's Saturday. Almost quarter to nine. You fell asleep on me and I had to untangle you. Your mother came in and saw what had happened and we let you sleep. I put the quilt over you. You were out like a light."

"Oh God, I'm so sorry!" He turned away from her.

"Don't be. You'd been up for over 36 hours. You had to crash sometime. I knew you wouldn't be able to take me home, so I took the streetcar. I went to work, came home, changed and now I'm here."

"I better call Union Station just to make sure her train got off on time," he said, as he stood up and began walking to the telephone, only to stop and turn to her after realizing something.

"How did you get in here if Ma already left? The door would've been locked."

"She told me where the key was."

"Oh."

Joe turned and proceeded to the telephone where he dialed the number. He was relieved to find out that the train had left on time, his mother was safe, and was on her way up north. After he hung up the phone, he called to Dorothy, saying he'd be right back and went into the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, still feeling ashamed about not being there for his mother and falling asleep before Dorothy left. But nothing seemed to bother her. They were in the same line of work, he had to remind himself. Dorothy had seen her share of heartache, turmoil, and neglect working at Georgia Street Juvenile. She knew the ropes, was aware of the irrational schedules when you'd get off duty, only to return a couple of hours later because of a double homicide, the sleeplessness, the many facets of emotion the job could put one through, only you could never show it. Ben was right; she was certainly sensible and he felt fortunate that she had a great sense of humor about his mother's insinuations about marriage, and that they seemed to get along very well. The nervousness began to ease as Joe prepared to shave. After all, he wanted to look his best. Then another thought crossed his mind.

They had the entire house to themselves—for two weeks. His mother rarely, if ever, went on a lengthy vacation like this. If Dorothy wanted to, and he wasn't so sure, she could spend the entire night with him. They were well passed age 21. It had been so long though, since the last—encounter. Ever since he got back, something kept him away from companionship and intimacy with a girl. It has been years… You never forget how… Would I have to make a hasty trip to the drugstore tonight? If we were to... And later on, when we didn't have the house to ourselves anymore, when would we again? Certainly not here, not at the boarding house… We'd have to wait until she got her own apartment and who knows when that would be with the housing shortage…

This momentary idea with Dorothy excited him a little, but then quickly dissipated. He didn't want another outburst like the other day with Ben. If that were the case, he'd have to tell her something about the war, if his mother hadn't inadvertently already done so. But wait…if she had said something, why would Dorothy be here right this minute? Ben didn't think he was crazy—but she might think so. He decided the idea wasn't such a good one after all—even wondered if part of the reason he was shy about marriage was because of the war. His reasoning didn't seem as significant as someone who was mortified by having relations with a girl or even his wife only to find out they were impotent due to the war—but that wasn't his problem. Other veterans got married. Surely their wives knew something. They were okay…or seemed to be.

Twenty minutes later, he went back into the living room and sat next to Dorothy. He put his arm around her and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"I have beef stew heating up for us. I just turned it on. Your mother made so much food. You should see the icebox."

"Ma told me she was going to cook all week. She got on me about eating in restaurants. But let's see the icebox."

They strolled into the kitchen and when Joe opened the door, he was dumbfounded to see stacks of Anchor Hocking's "FireKing" line of refrigerator dishes piled from lid to lid on top of one another. It was enough to last for nearly two weeks. Dorothy handed him sheets of paper, in his mother's flawless penmanship, detailing the contents in each dish. Along with that, were explicit instructions on how to heat the food, whether on the stovetop or in the oven, and for the correct length of time.

"Now I know where you get your meticulousness from," chuckled Dorothy, handing him one of the sheets of paper. "Look at this."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, she even wrote down about opening the oven door when the food was ready or turning off the burner on the stove before bringing it to the table!" Joe said with astonishment as he closed the refrigerator door.

Dorothy continued to snicker. "Remember when we had that Bar-B-Que? It was when I first met your mother."

"How could I forget? She kept bringing up marriage in her sutble way."

"And I told you it was her motherly instincts. I said that someone had to look after you," she purred, softly. "Now, it's my turn."

The two of them stood in the middle of the kitchen kissing with each second becoming more intense with tongues heartily invited. Their hands roamed over each other with his caressing her neck, shoulder, and sliding to her breast, while hers kneaded his sore, tense back. He gave a soft sigh of desire, letting her know what she was doing felt so damn good. This gave him a stirring that he knew she felt too. They were standing close enough. He found her choice of perfume, Tabu, intoxicating as well. It was then the phone rang,

"Joe," she murmured.

"I hear it," he said, cursing to himself under his breath as he let go of her to answer it. "It better not be the office!"

He strode over to the table in the hall and grabbed the receiver. "Hello!" he barked and listened.

It was the telegraph office. They had a wire for him from his mother who wrote to say that she was at Uncle George's in Renton and that there was no need for a reply. "Okay, thank you," he said, this time sounding more professional, before replacing the receiver in the cradle. Back in the kitchen, he told Dorothy about the telegram and she announced that dinner was ready.

Once the dishes were put up for the night, they found themselves back in the living room, sorting through the records that were in the cabinet with the Victrola. Joe sat on the floor, with Dorothy next to him, reading each song title. He'd get up to wind the machine and play one Dorothy wanted to hear. Most were popular numbers from their high school days like 'My Reverie,' 'The Man with the Mandolin,' 'Begin the Beguine,' 'Hawaiian War Chant,' 'Boogie Woogie,' 'Stompin' at the Savoy,' 'Oh! Johnny, Oh!,' while others were nearly twenty years or older like 'Diane,' 'Milenberg Joys,' 'I'm Always Chasing Rainbows,' 'Frenesi,' and even 'Cohen on the Telephone' to which Joe retorted, "Ma still has this?!" as Dorothy giggled. The oldest ones had belonged to Joe's Aunt Mary who passed away some years ago. It was her house they were living in now.

"This one is Ma's favorite," he told her, after hearing, 'I'll See You in My Dreams.'

Joe closed the door to the Victrola cabinet, after putting the last record away, and turned on the radio. When the tubes warmed up, strains of Margaret Whiting's rendition of the love song 'Symphony' filled the room. That was when she put her arms around him, slowly swaying, not really dancing to the dreamy song. The kissing that had begun in the kitchen resumed only more fervent this time.

"I'm so glad you're here," whispered Joe, as he held her tighter, wanting to feel every bit of her.

He could not explain how he felt. He guessed that only those in war would understand how it was, not being with or around women for a lengthy period of time. And to feel them next to you, kiss you, touch you. It was like that with anything though—sleeping in a bed with the sheets pulled up around you after lying in a leaky tent or deep in a muddy foxhole for months on end, taking a shower—even if it was a cold one, but a bonus if it had been hot water to rinse off the filth, blood, and stench of death. You realize you take a lot of mundane things for granted. And now, he knew exactly what he wanted, but he wasn't entirely sure she wanted the same thing.

"I haven't seen you all week," she said quietly. "We're finally alone."

"Yes," he whispered, kissing her mouth and trailing to her neck, but then stopped and stared at her, feeling the nerves begin to wrangle inside him, among other things, about what he'd say next. and how. He didn't want to go too far and reach the point of no return.

"What is it?" she asked, as she rested her head against his chest. His arms wrapped securely around her, his fingers lazily caressing her hair.

"Are you sure you…I mean, do you want…," Oh, hell! Why was this so hard?! It was as bad as talking about the war, for Christ's sake!

"Yes, Joe," she said, her voice sultry and low as she looked at him.

"Well…first…first, I need to make a trip to the drugstore. We can swing by your place and you can pack up some things."

"We don't need to go to the drugstore."

Joe raised an eyebrow, awaiting her reason, only to be rudely interrupted by a loud incessant knocking at the front door. Arousal instantly faded as utter annoyance crept up. He tensed at the continuous noise as he lividly sighed. What now? Who the hell could that be?!

"Take it easy, Joe," said Dorothy, stroking his hair and kissed him gently. "You take care of this and I'll go get ready."

"All right," he muttered.

As he briskly walked out of the living room, he saw Dorothy reach for her purse out of the corner of his eye. He heard her close the bathroom door as he wrenched open the front door to find someone he did not recognize as one of the regular neighbors.

The middle-aged man launched into an irate monologue about how he had just moved into the neighborhood last week, only to find out his car was stolen after leaving it parked on the street in front of his house. The newcomer had quickly learned that a police officer lived in the house caddy-corner from him. When Joe did his best to calmly explain that the guy needed to make out an Auto-Theft report, this caused him to snarl some more which vexed Joe nearly to the limit. The man ranted and raved saying it was his duty to help citizens in trouble. When he tried to explain once again that he worked out of Homicide Bureau and not Auto-Theft, this only angered them still. What little patience he had left for this insolent new neighbor, Joe excused himself and went over to the telephone table, tore off an empty piece of paper from the message pad, and scribbled down the number this bitter person needed to call. The man insisted Joe make the call himself since that was part of his job. Inside, he was seething, as the neighbor continued to rebuke him, saying he was going to report him and have his job. When Joe asked for the reason he thought his car was stolen, the man stopped in mid-sentence and suddenly realized he had left the keys in the ignition. The outside light above the front door, streamed onto his now severely reddened face and Joe tersely told him to make that call. If he wasn't so mad right now, he would've roared with laughter once the door was shut and was sure the damn fool was out of earshot.

"Why can't people leave me alone for five minutes!" he said, as he vigorously went into the kitchen, muttering to himself about how dare "that lousy son-of-a-bitch tell me what to do" and at that moment loathed the neighbors for notifying this arrogant bastard of the resident cop. Joe got out a bottle of beer and slammed the refrigerator door shut. Next, he flung open drawers, trying to locate a bottle opener. And when he couldn't find one, he'd bang it shut, taking his anger out on the kitchen drawers. He went on about how people were allowed to vent out their frustrations to them, but they could never do so.

"It's not my fault he left his goddamned keys in the ignition!" He threw up his hands in disgust.

When he whirled around to double check one of the drawers, he wasn't expecting to see Dorothy there, holding up the bottle-opener in her hand.

"Are you through?" she asked, as he leaned on the countertop, feeling so ashamed for his outburst in front of her just then.

"Oh, Honey…" All he could do at that moment was shake his head, embarrassment rising.

She wordlessly took the bottle from him and opened it. Before he took a drink, he offered her some and she gladly accepted.

"If he'd arrived a little later, we would've been too busy to hear anything," said Dorothy with a smirk on her face and winked at him.

Copyright © 2017 by Kristi N. Zanker