Текст книги "The Disposables"

Автор книги: David Putnam

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Chapter Thirty-Two

My nerves on edge, the knock at the motel door startled me. Marie still lay on my chest, and I all but knocked her to the floor reaching for my gun on the nightstand, a gun that wasn’t there. Marie bolted up, the gold crucifix bouncing between her naked breasts, eyes wide, mouth open. I held my hand up, and with the other, I put a finger to my lips, whispered, “Does anyone know you’re here?”

She shook her head no. “Of course not.”

I knew she was too smart to tell anyone our plans, but I had no idea who could be knocking. Perhaps Robby. Had his team tailed me?

“Johnson?” The hard, coarse voice on the other side of the door drove a knife in my gut. Not housekeeping. This guy knew my name.

Marie waved her hands as she walked fast, back and forth along her side of the bed. Slowly, my good sense started to return. Robby wouldn’t knock. He’d bust in the door, guns at the ready, with men charging in a high-risk formation.

“Johnson?” The voice again.

I jumped into my skivvies and moved to the door, listened. “Who’s there?”

“Johnson, come on, man, open up. I can’t be seen out here.”

I glowered back at Marie, who now stood frozen in one place. I pointed to the door to indicate that I’d be opening it. She didn’t move. “Put something on, babe.”

She snapped out of her trance, jumped for her abandoned clothes on the floor, and slipped into her still damp blouse and slacks.

I went to the door and put my hand on the knob. “Who is it?”

“Detective Johnson, for fuck’s sake open the door. Open the damn door before someone sees me.”

I didn’t recognize the voice. I did, but it was way back there in the far corner of my brain and refused to come forward. A voice from long ago. I opened the door a crack and peeked out. The small man had the stature of a jockey, his head a little too big for his body. He had jet-black hair with gray wings at the temples, a neck and face pocked heavily with acne scars. I didn’t recognize him in profile, but when he looked directly at me, I saw his eyes, I did know him. Jessie Vanfleet.

I flung opened the door and yanked him in. Then I eased the door closed and listened, my ear to the warped wood. After a time, I turned to see Vanfleet as he stared at Marie who stood over by the bed. Marie, in her haste, had not put on a bra, leaving her breasts barely covered by the sheer blouse. Vanfleet was an over-sexed street perv who slung rock cocaine on the side, not for the money, but for sexual access to coke whores. There had always been something creepy about him.

I took hold of the back of his collar and shook him. “What the hell are you doing here? How did you know I was here?”

“Take it easy, man. I’m here to save your ass.”

Even though his words were directed at me, he still hadn’t taken his lecherous ogle off Marie’s breasts. I cringed as he licked his lips.

“You better talk and talk fast, little man, or I’m going to pound you into the ground.”

“Okay, okay. Chocolate sent me. The dude downstairs at the desk recognized you and told me. Chocolate put the word out that she needed to talk to you bad, real bad, so here I am. It’s no big mystery.” He batted at my hand. “Take your big dick beaters off me.”

I let him go but shoved him toward the door. I went over to the bed, yanked the top blanket off and wrapped Marie in it. On Vanfleet it had the same effect as flipping off a light switch, the lecherous leer faded simultaneously with the blanket cover. I still had the urge to knock his brown teeth down his little ferret throat.

“Is Chocolate okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, she’s fine. She said there’d be a grand in it for me.”

“That right? And you’re a lying little piece of shit too.” I looked back at Marie. I never used my street jargon around her and felt like a kid who’d just let slip a four-letter word in front of grandmum.

I looked back at Vanfleet. “You and I both know what she promised you, so don’t yank on my dick.” I took a couple of steps toward him.

He held up his hands, “Whoa, there cowboy. You can’t fault a guy for tryin’.”

“What’s wrong with Chocolate? Tell me.” I had an idea but didn’t want to give him any more information than necessary.

“She says you’re a good Joe and that you just did her a solid. Boy, she could never convince me of that. I still got the scar from when you kicked me to the curb.” His hand came up subconsciously and rubbed his nose. I couldn’t see any scar.

The first time I’d met the little weasel, I’d pulled up to a burglary of Radio Shack and he ran. His short legs pumping fast but no match for my long stride. I easily overtook him, ran right behind him, and told him one last time to stop. When he didn’t and kept running, I jumped up and kicked him in the back. He skidded headlong into the curb, broke his nose, and lacerated his eyebrow. He went to jail for consensual sex with a fifteen-year-old, a young girl he’d gotten hooked on coke just for that purpose.

“Chocolate’s fine. She kept babbling something about how you gave her a grand when she thought it was a hundred. That crazy bitch hasn’t been worth a hundred, let alone a grand, since Christ was corporal. What’re you doin’ stickin’ your dick in that when you got yourself a nice slice of Rican pussy right—”

I quick-stepped over too him, reached down, and clamped his throat. I ran him back up against the door and slammed him. The door bulged and rattled.

Marie was on my arm, yelling, “Don’t. Bruno, don’t.”

When I came back to reality, I looked down. I had Van-fleet’s feet dangling above the floor. I let go. He fell to the floor. I put my hand on Marie’s chest and eased her away from the perv who writhed uncontrollably. I went over and put my right shoe on, then clumped back to where Vanfleet lay on the moldering carpet. “You tell me what I want to know right now or so help me I’ll kick a lung out of you.”

He stared up at me, fire in his eyes. He rubbed his throat. “She said to tell you thanks for the money. She said to tell you Five-O is all over the street raisin’ hell looking for your sorry ass. She wanted me to warn you. That’s what she said to tell you but, as far as I’m concerned, I hope they get your sorry ass and cap you good this time right in that fat ugly face of yours.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

I was breathing too hard. I tried to slow down and think. “What else?”

“That’s it, man.”

I pulled my leg back to boot him. Marie said, “Bruno, don’t.”

Vanfleet held up his hands to fend off the size thirteen double E. “Okay, wait, wait. The last part—the last part I could get into a lot of trouble for. Me just passing the information on to you puts my ass on the line. Just tellin’ you, man. You know what I’m sayin’?”

“You think if I had any more money, I’d be in this shitbox of a motel? You made a deal with Chocolate, now tell me.”

“She told me to tell you, and I don’t really understand what it means, but she said to tell you it was Ruben the Cuban. She didn’t tell you before and she feels real bad about it. She said to tell you that it was Ruben the Cuban and that you’d understand and she hopes you forgive her.”

“What?” I said, not understanding the message, my mind too wrapped up in Robby chasing me, and I getting the hell out of the country with Marie and the kids. What he said didn’t register. Ruben the Cuban? Then it hit me. Right. It was the guy who was lighting the people on fire with the gasoline. A name I no longer cared to know. I had no plans to do anything with the information. That last thought lasted about a second. If I knew and didn’t do something about it, someone else could get torched.

“Get your ass up. Get out. Now.”

Vanfleet scrambled to his feet and fumbled with the door. He got it open and lined up to make a quick exit. I gave him some help and kicked him in the butt. As he flew across the hall into the wall, I shut the door.

“Quick, get your things together, we have to leave. He’ll sell us out.”

Marie went into a whirlwind of activity. I could only watch. What was I going to do about Ruben the Cuban? Should I call Robby, give him Ruben’s name as a suspect? To do that would jeopardize the kids.

Ruben had only been a ruse for Robby, nothing more than an excuse for Robby to watch me. Just like the dead kid out in front of the liquor store. More collateral damage. I suspected that Robby wanted Wally Kim most of all. Mr. Kim, the Korean diplomat, was putting heat on the State Department who in turn put the squeeze on the Sheriff’s Department to find Wally. Every cop in Southern California, including the FBI, would be looking hard and heavy for Wally Kim. Robby and the Violent Crime Team must have been assigned to find Wally, and Robby must have then checked other missing kids during the same time period. I know I would have. Robby found the missing report on Alonzo, my grandson. From there it was easy to draw the line to me. That also meant Robby knew about all the kids. They were all now at risk.

How far would Robby go to get what he wanted? I had no doubt that he would, without hesitation, break the law and even shoot whoever got in his way. Robby didn’t like to lose. If he finds Wally, he finds the other kids. Kids who didn’t stand a chance unless I kept them free from the broken county Child Protective Services system. Rick and Toby Bixler, burnt in the failed PCP lab, would go back to that same hazardous environment. Sonny Taylor, the cute hungry little kid who ate his mother’s meth and then after the judge gave him back to his mother, she locked him in a closet. What chance did he have? Marvin Kelso, his mom’s boyfriend the molester. I couldn’t even think about that horrible scenario. And Randy Lugo with five broken bones, how long before it was his neck? No, no matter what, those kids were not going to be plugged back into that broken Child Protective Services system.

Getting Ruben would be a big feather in Robby’s cap. I didn’t owe Robby a thing, that was for sure. I’d only call it in because of what Ruben was doing to the people on the street. It was the right thing to do. I was torn because it would jeopardize the kids.

Marie, fully dressed with her loaded gym bag on the bed, looked at me with pleading eyes. “We’ll get the kids and take off early, that’s all. Right, Bruno? That’s all.”

I just hoped the exit strategy was still in place and viable. How much did Robby know?

She handed me the small black leather fanny pack. I unzipped it, checked the passports, the tickets for the freighter, and the sheaf of cash, ten thousand dollars. Our travel money had just turned into the whole enchilada. Not near enough to start a new life in Costa Rica. I took out a thousand and zipped it closed. “Babe, I got one more thing to do.”

She froze. “No, you heard what that little SOB said. The cops are all over the place looking for you. They know you, Bruno, they know what you look like. It’s too dangerous. We’re going right now. No arguments. We don’t go right now, we won’t ever go.”

I took hold of her shoulders, looked her in the eye. “You trust me, don’t you?” At that moment I realized there were two more stops I had to make. I needed to pick up Tommy Bascombe’s passport.

“Don’t do this, Bruno, please. Come with me right now.”

I kissed her forehead, “It won’t take me but an hour. An hour, that’s all, I promise.”

I told her to wait in the room for five minutes before she headed out. Before she started her countersurveillance on her way over to Dad’s. I went first just in case Robby or his team was on to me so I could lead them away. We’d trained long hours and she was a natural, better than most surveillance cops.

Outside by the curb, Vanfleet, hand on his hip, stood in a cool-cat pose, chatting up an underage hooker. When he saw me, he sneered. I went over to him. He looked from side to side, suddenly afraid, nowhere to run.

“Don’t you run. I’ll kick you to the curb.”

He sighed, “Now what do you want?”

“A ride. And, I have a proposition for you.” I held up two of the hundred dollar bills.

His eyes went predatory. “Sure thing, my man.” He looked back at the girl. “My financial situation just improved. I’ll be right back. Don’t go away.” He subconsciously licked his lips again. He turned and headed down the street waving his hand over his shoulder like he was guiding a Boy Scout troop. I followed him over to a heap, a shot-out purple Monte Carlo. He started to get in.

“Hold it there, little man. I’m driving.”

He opened his mouth to protest. I held up the two bills. He shut his mouth, smiled, went around to the passenger side, and got in.

The seats were upholstered in fake, faded purple fur, clotted together and clumpy. The interior emitted a cloyingly sweet scent, ode de carwash that after a minute could not mask the underlying sour reek of barf, sweat, and sex. I started it up with the screwdriver stuck in the ignition, put it in gear, and made a U-turn in front of a tricked-out SUV that braked hard.

“Hey, hey, man, this ride is worth more than those two Benjamins you’re wavin’ under my nose. Take it easy. Take it easy or the deal’s off, it ain’t worth it.” I said nothing and drove through Huntington Park, down into South Gate, and back into Lynwood, breathing through my mouth to avoid the reek, and trying not to think about what had made the steering wheel sticky. I made two passes of Taco Quickie. Vanfleet caught on the second time around and stared at the fast-food restaurant. “What’s the hap’s, old man? What’s the gig?”

“I need to pick up my car.”

“What the hell, why don’t you just pull over and get out if it’s right there.” He looked again trying to see into the back parking lot.

The root beer-brown Plymouth sat right where I’d left it when I got into Robby’s car. In the trunk was forty-five thousand dollars and two guns. We needed that money in the worst way for our new life. We needed it bad enough to risk trying to get it back. If Robby’s team was set up on it, they were good. I couldn’t make them short of driving into the parking lot and checking out each and every car.

I pulled to the curb two blocks north on Atlantic Avenue. “Listen, all you have to do for the two hundred is go pick up my car, that clean, root beer-brown Plymouth and drive it down to the park at Century and Bullis. You know where that is, right?”

“Bullshit, man. Buuuuuullshit. I ain’t some dumbshit pilgrim. Why you need me to do it? Why cain’t you jus’ drive on into the parking lot if it’s your car?”

“Because that’s the thing,” I said handing him the keys. “You’re too smart for me. It’s not my car. It’s hot. But either I borrow your car for a couple of weeks or you go pick my car up and take it to the park.”

“Kiss my ass. This sounds like a free ride right ta the can.”

I peeled off two more hundreds. “Four hundred just to drive a stolen car, what, ten, twelve blocks?”

“Four hundred ain’t worth a couple days in the can and a Gee-ride case hangin’ over my head. I’d have to work the case off with asshole cops like you. No, no soap. Kiss my ass, Johnson. Keep your four bills. Get the fuck outta my car.”

He had a point. I showed him the entire grand, fanned them in front of his face. “Okay, but this is all I have. Don’t hold out for more because there isn’t any.”

He stared at the money, at what it represented, and knew he could buy a lot of young tail with a thousand.

The light in his eyes started to fade. “Listen,” I said, “I wasn’t going to tell you this, but there’s some money in that car. Five thousand dollars. I’ll split it with you. This thousand plus twenty-five more, that’s thirty-five hundred to drive the car ten blocks. That’s worth the risk. Take it or leave it. Tell me now because I know I can drive a couple of blocks in either direction and find some other mope to take this kind of deal for half the price.”

“I’m in.” He grabbed at the money. I yanked it away. “Half now and half when you meet me at the park.” He was about to protest when I handed him the five hundreds. The feel of the paper shut his mouth. He took the keys and got out. I watched him walk down the sidewalk among all the late-night street people going about their scandalous activity. He blended right in and checked out the area in such a casual manner that if you weren’t watching for it you’d have missed it. When he was almost to Taco Quickie, I made a legal intersection U-turn and headed south.

My Plymouth was a trap.

Chapter Thirty-Four

I passed the parking lot in time to see three BMFs putting the boot to the poor pedophile. Five hundred wasn’t worth a beating like that and a trip to jail to boot. I should’ve felt remorse and told myself Vanfleet was better off being taken out of the lineup. Better for everyone he ran with, influenced, molested, and abused.

They had the 45K I took off Q-Ball and his two guns. I didn’t have too long and Vanfleet would tell them the color and make of my car and there’d be a BOLO. A calculated risk. I’d keep the car a little longer then dump it. I headed over to 117th and Alabama. The conversation with Robby suddenly popped into my head. I pulled to the curb and slugged the steering wheel. He knew about that place, he’d said as much. And if he had Taco Quickie staked out, he’d have my pad staked as well. He had me boxed. Marie was right, take the ten grand, the tickets, the kids, get on the freighter, and get out of Dodge. Bail right now before something irreversible happened. Like getting picked up.

I put the purple Monte Carlo in gear and drove. I had to think. I turned on Bullis Road, headed south. If luck had been with me, I’d have been at the park right now paying off the perv out of the 45K. I continued on south, my subconscious doing the driving. I tried to envision life in a Third World country with eight kids and a lovely wife, the hardships with out any money. When I returned to reality, I was eastbound on Rosecrans Boulevard, entering the city of Downy not but a few miles away from Jumbo’s pad.

Fate.

Only I knew it wasn’t fate. Jumbo owed me a hundred twenty-five for the train heist. Plenty enough to start a new life, plenty enough reason to take the chance, go head-to-head with him and that Crazy Ned Bressler.

The house was just as Chocolate described, larger than all the houses around it. Easy to spot. In a time when most dope dealers were downplaying their wealth so law enforcement wouldn’t tumble to them and seize it, Jumbo washed his money with auto parts stores, donut shops, and two strip joints, each of which had the ability to hide vast quantities of money. So he flaunted it. He paid all his taxes and flaunted it. He’d even, on occasion, asked me my opinion on stock investments. But the most effective method was what he called the shoebox approach.

After the first heist, I met Jumbo at Tits Up, his place on Compton Avenue, for a beer and to pick up my pay. Jumbo had thought it ironic how I’d once chased him and now worked for him. He bragged about how he’d thwarted cops’ efforts. He put the US currency in shoeboxes and mailed them regular air mail to the Middle Eastern country of Jordan. The money was put in a bank and wire transferred back to him as an investment from a shell corporation. He claimed the infusion of cash on his taxes. There was more to it I was sure, but he could justify every overt penny. Hence, the large manse set in the middle of a residential neighborhood.

He knew I’d show sometime and wouldn’t chance a scene at his own pad. Chances were slim that I’d find him at home.

In the long circular brick and concrete driveway, under the portico, sat Jumbo’s Beemer along with a whole mob of other expensive cars: Beemers, Lexuses, Mercedes.

The ten-foot-tall front doors were inset with clear beveled glass that gave an obscured view of the marble entry and the white carpeted spiral staircase to the second floor. The security video camera was partially camouflaged in the old Victorian gas lamp illuminating the exterior. I tried the door.

Unlocked.

Trap or overconfidence?

I went in. On an oak table just inside the door sat some sort of crystal decoration, an orb setting in a nest of icicles. I picked up the orb, the size of a cue ball, hefted it, and put it in my jacket pocket, kept my hand there.

Faint music echoed from somewhere deeper in the house. If he was running scared, he sure had balls for throwing a party.

Three steps down to the immense sunken living room, which was filled with a middle-class yuppie crowd, stood Jumbo trying to fit in, a true poseur. The group ebbed and surged around their host and the open bar, manned by two women in white see-through halter tops. I guessed this to be some sort of celebratory party.

My eyes came back to Jumbo and stayed on him until he felt their glare. When he looked over, his skin went ashen, his hand limp, dumping some of his cosmopolitan, the liquid a diluted red. He wasn’t being bold after all, having the party. He’d thought I’d been taken off the board. He must have inside information. The crowd, in tune with their benevolent host, a few at a time, went quiet until the entire party stood holding their free drinks, with small plates or napkins of canapés, their eyes on me. I took the crystal orb from my pocket, pulled back and threw it with everything I had at the plate glass wall that separated the living room from the perfectly landscaped backyard.

The crystal orb bounced off. The plate glass wall shattered into millions of tiny cubes. The crowd collectively gasped. When their amazement faded, they all looked at me, then back at their host. The glass crackled, the noise growing louder until the entire wall came down in one folding sheet. The crowd surged away in a tidal wave. Their momentum grew until they stampeded to the door, flowed around me, a pylon in a turbulent sea. I held Jumbo’s gaze, wanting to look side to side, knowing at any moment Crazy Ned Bressler was about to sneak up with an ice pick and scramble my brain through an unsuspecting ear. Do it so quick no one would see it.

Finally, the noise subsided, the room empty. The crowd left behind broken martini and highball glasses and clear glass plates with pâté and barbequed meatballs mixed with crumbled crackers. The two scared bartenders held their ground behind the bar. Jumbo regained some composure. “You really know how to ruin a celebration.”

“That right? What’re you celebrating?”

He moved to the bar, turning his back to me. In a lowered voice he asked the bartender, “Glenfiddich neat.” He waited until she poured and he slugged down the amber liquid and set the glass down for a refill.

“One of your overseas companies just post a huge profit?”

He took the bottle of Glenfiddich and moved to the couch. To the ladies he said, “You girls are excused for the evening. Sorry for the short night. You’ll, of course, be compensated.”

He poured another. If he kept it up, he’d be pickled by morning. The girls grabbed their stylish purses from under the counter and picked their way through the debris field to the front door.

“And to answer your question, yes, an overseas corporation just posted an excellent accounting for the last quarter.”

“I can imagine. What, a ten-million-dollar profit? Computer chips?”

He didn’t answer and took another long pull.

I asked, “Where’s Ned?”

“Don’t try and play games with me. I know why you’re here.”

I stepped over to an end table and picked up a bronze sculpture, an abstraction of what looked like an African gazelle melded with an African tribesman, and held it down by my side. I liked the heft of it.

“Detective Johnson, you are a true thug.” Now Jumbo looked really scared. Just the way I wanted him.

“What happened to calling me Bad Boy?”

“They asked me to try and get you to talk about Ned, but obviously you’re too smart for that.”

His words came out and entered my brain, but didn’t immediately sink in. Slow motion analysis because I knew their meaning and didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want it to be true.

Then Jumbo said the words I knew were coming next. The words that meant the end of my world as I knew it.

The end of everything.