LA Police Homicide Division. Jake Hatcher’s Boss 1947-1950.
Often caught between his boss, the Mayor, who feels campaign donations allow LA’s criminal element free reign and his detective’s one man crusade to clean up the City of Angels, no matter how many body bags are filled.
Below, our trusty World War One veteran gets balled out by His Honor:
TALBOT:
Hello Mr. Mayor. How are you? What can I do you for, sir?
Uh huh…uh huh.
Hatcher did what now?
Uh huh…uh huh.
Yes, you have a point. I’d prefer to see a lower body count before this whole hullabaloo blows over as well.
You don’t say? Uh huh. Shot up a night club in the middle of the day? Why, I’d call that ingenious, sir. If you have to shoot up a joint, the less people around the better.
Uh huh.
Well, listen Mr. Mayor…let’s be honest here, “Mugsy McGillicuddy” and “fine upstanding citizen” aren’t exactly two phrases I’d use in the same sentence….huh?
Right. Yes. Of course. Campaign contributor? All right but does mean he just gets to…I see.
Difference of opinion I suppose, your honor. Yes. Yes.
Uh huh. All right don’t worry, sir. I’ll grab a switch and tan Hatcher’s hide until it’s a size regular leather coat.
OK then. You as well, sir. You as well. My best to Mrs. Mayor.
:::HANGS UP:::
:::DIALS SECRETARY:::
TALBOT:
Gretchen.
GRETCHEN:
Yes Captain?
TALBOT:
Will you tell Hatcher to get his skinny Irish ass in here so I can hand it to him?
GRETCHEN:
Yes sir.
TALBOT:
And get me some seltzer will you?
GRETCHEN:
Stomach acting up again sir?
TALBOT:
Every day since I put that shit heel on the payroll.
Hatcher starts giving Talbot pains in the old labonza in June.






