Текст книги "The Disposables"

Автор книги: David Putnam

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Chapter Eighteen

Marie walked up Wilmington Avenue to the bus stop and waited. The urge to see her, to hold her, was all but impossible to suppress. I told myself I wasn’t some kind of obsessing creep and was only checking for surveillance that might be on her tail, trying to get at me through her. I loved her so. I was scared to death something might happen to her.

I sat up against a wall across the street in a wool, full-length green army surplus dress coat with red corporal stripes and a black beanie next to a rogue Mexican palm tree, a volunteer that grew without irrigation in a barren parkway the county chose not to maintain. Off to the right, on a dark-brown telephone pole spotted with acne of a hundred tacks and nails from garage sale and lost dogs and cats signs, I recognized another poster, one of thousands of Wally Kim distributed widely throughout South Central Los Angeles. The image of the missing child was faded, but the fifty-thousand-dollar reward stood out in sharp contrast, a reward that added a lot of pressure to keep our kids out of sight. Folks in the ghetto sold out for a lot less, tens of thousands less. Below the reward was a police sketch artist version of the man who’d walked into the crack house in fruit town and snatched Wally up. The rendering of the suspect didn’t much resemble me. Even so, a Korean kid with a black man for a kidnapper stood out the same as a salt-and-pepper bank robber team.

If you read in between the lines of the numerous L.A. Times stories, Mr. Kim, a South Korean businessman—diplomat of sorts—had hooked up with an escort while visiting the US. Nine months later, said escort contacted him in Korea to extort child support. Mr. Kim, smart in business and the ways of the world, demanded a paternity test. The test was completed and proved positive. The woman had not lied. In between time, during the wait for the test, the mother of his child discovered the evils of rock cocaine. When Mr. Kim went to find her, she’d fled. Mr. Kim used a great deal of money and influence to track her down and find her in the same rock coke crash pad that I took Wally out of a week prior. Who would have known? Bad luck for us. To hand him over now would jeopardize our plan. When we got to where we were going, Marie and I had agreed we would contact Mr. Kim and arrange for Wally to reunite with his father. Of course, we would decline the reward.

In the short time we knew Wally, we fell in love with him. He was a great little kid and it would be very difficult to give him up, but we would.

At the bus stop, Marie wore her raven hair down around her shoulders. I didn’t like it that way. I liked it up, pulled back tight, like the first time I saw her the night the cops brought me in to have the bullet they put in me removed. In all the years as a cop, the nurses and doctors always treated the crooks brought to them with strict professionalism but never meted out the compassion, the TLC reserved for the victims of the same crooks. That night Marie was different. She was gentle and genuinely cared, even though I was a murderer. She saw something in me, Lord only knows what. She followed the court case, wrote to me in the joint. At first I felt like slime, that to correspond with her might in some way corrupt her. She stayed with it until one day she came to visit. I took the visit to tell her to leave me alone and half expected her to be weepy and sad that I hadn’t responded to her long, awe-inspiring letters. Instead, when I came into the visiting area with the thick glass between us, she stood with her arms across her chest, her eyes fierce, angry. She wore a classy red dress and black high heels. I sat down and pointed to the phone. Instead of picking it up, she started to jump around, yelling and screaming, shaking her fists. The guard came in and told her to calm down. She gave him a piece of her mind as well. The guard left and came back with another. They took hold of her arms. She kicked and screamed, her rants muffled by the barrier as they dragged her out.

I stood there a long time, stunned. Then, after I thought about it, I started to chuckle, then laugh out loud. The first time I’d laughed in forever.

Now she stood at the bus stop moving her feet back and forth to stay warm. It was cold but not that cold. She always had to have the heater on, an extra blanket, or a hot drink. She frequently talked about moving to warmer climes with palm trees and a balmy breeze. What she really liked best was when I climbed into bed, and I took my warm socks off. She wanted me to put them on her feet. I had to do it for her or it wasn’t the same. For some strange reason it acted as an aphrodisiac. The memory made me ache for her.

I got up and crossed the street without staring at her so I didn’t draw her attention. I wanted to keep her in sight as long as I could. Tomorrow, no matter what, I’d go see her. By tomorrow, if nothing changed, I felt sure it would be okay. I only had an hour and a half before I had to be back out in front of Chantal’s apartment where Robby was supposed to pick me up.

The bus slowed, stopped, the doors opened. My Marie was first to get on but had to back out to let the passengers getting off pass first. I saw her expression change to surprise, and it scared me. I took a quick step, looked to see what had caused her reaction, to identify any threat.

Sometimes there was a God who looked after the little children. Dora Bascombe was exiting the bus with little Tommy Bascombe in tow. His tear-streaked face, dirty denim pants worn with holes in the knees hung from his too-skinny body. And, of course, he was barefooted. His broken arm with the cast should’ve been in a sling but swung back and forth banging against his chest as she jerked his other arm. Dora got off the bus to take him to Killer King for his follow-up. According to Marie, Dora had missed two appointments, and if she missed another, Child Protective Services told her they would take Tommy and put him in a foster home. The threat of a foster home wasn’t what motivated Dora. If she didn’t have Tommy, the state money would dry up. She was forced to take heed to CPS and protect her little golden goose.

The mother and child moved down the street toward the hospital as Marie stood on the first step of doorway of the bus. Her head whipped around wildly, not knowing what to do, helpless to do anything. She wanted to act, to run and “sock the livin’ shit out of the bitch” but thought better of it. As I watched, I loved her even more. If that were possible.

Finally, she got on the bus. The doors closed and the bus moved off down Wilmington. She stood in the window and watched as the bus zipped past mother and child and then faded off into traffic. I walked along behind Dora and Tommy, seething at her abusive language to the boy who wouldn’t walk fast enough, his dirty bare feet a blur, getting air every time she jerked his arm. I looked around for a rock or even a bottle to bash her head, but, like Marie, knew that would solve nothing. I’d have to bide my time, play it smart.

Dora didn’t know me, never saw me before, and if she did recognize me from court, it would mean nothing. She would have merely thought I was someone else in the audience watching court cases like she’d been doing, waiting for an unfair justice system to screw over a loved one. I followed her close behind into the out-patient wing of Killer King. She waited in line a long time. I stood off to the side, back against the wall, and couldn’t quite catch all her vulgar language as she chastised the receptionist in a lengthy tirade for the long wait. She took it out on Tommy, yanked his arm so hard he screamed. I clenched my fists. Not yet. Not yet.

She went over to the U-shaped waiting area filled with chairs all occupied with indigents seeking medical attention. She looked around shaking her head in wonder, then said, “Fuck all this.” She towed Tommy out the door. I recognized her thought process, had heard it before. When the welfare caseworker asked her how come she didn’t take her injured child in for a follow-up, she would say that she checked in and waited for hours and hours, something that could now be verified, the check-in part. They never called her name, so she left. She’d be given another chance. Too bad for Tommy.

Up close, I got a good look at Tommy’s feet. They were blue from the cold. They had not been inside long enough for him to thaw out, not on the cold floor, not before they were on the move again. Dora lived immersed in the tweaker life and only cared about one thing, rock cocaine. Tweakers thought of nothing else but their glass maiden, the pipe.

She walked south on Wilmington, her head spinning on her shoulders. She searched for someone to give them a ride. If that happened, I’d be out of luck. I easily stayed with them, past 121st Street, 122nd and at 124th where she turned west. After one block on 124th I figured out her destination, it made my blood boil. I again wished I’d snatched the pear’s automatic from his sock drawer, because if I was right, I was going to need it.

We passed a lookout, a preteen black kid who sat on a broken-down cinder block wall in his designer kicks and his Raiders jacket, who watched, ready at any moment to give the alert, a long whistle. I knew their routine, nothing had changed since I’d left. I pulled the knit beanie down further until it covered my eyebrows. As I walked, I reached into my pocket for the Band-Aids. I peeled them open, put one across the bridge of my nose and one on the cheek under my left eye, an old armed robber’s trick. The victims key in on the Band-Aids and never peep the person beneath. When interviewed, they promptly say it was some big black dude with Band-Aids on his face. The problem was I knew the area, had worked it before, and if I knew the area, the area knew me. Band-Aids or no Band-Aids, if someone said, “Hey, that’s Bruno Johnson,” the jig would be up.

Chapter Nineteen

We crossed another street that bisected 124th and headed into a cul-de-sac filled with apartment buildings. Thugs sat in groups on the hoods of their highly polished hoopties, with red bandanas folded and tied around their foreheads. They wanted all who came onto the block to know the block belonged to the Bloods, the Playboys, Pimps, and Gangsters clique. They had their gats—guns—stashed close at hand ready to go to guns at a moment’s notice.

They whistled at the white woman with her child and made lewd gestures with their hands, some grabbing their crotch. I kept my head down, watching the sidewalk and the gangsters out of my peripheral vision. I increased speed, caught up with Dora, to let them think we were together, then backed off a little before she turned and said, “Hey, what the—?”

I was in, past their main defenses. Getting out would be another problem.

She knew exactly where to go. She followed the walkway between two apartments, made a left, went around a derelict pool filled with dirt and weeds and surrounded by rusted chain-link that sagged in places. She stopped at an open apartment door and peered in. She bounced from foot to foot as if her bladder were about to burst. “Q? Q, are you in there?”

She looked back over her shoulder, sensing my presence. Our eyes locked for a long second before her need for meth again took control.

Q? Maybe the kid’s luck was holding out. Q was Quentin Bridges, Q-Ball, a nickel-and-dime street dealer I’d known personally and had gotten up close and personal with on two occasions, laced his head with the barrel of my .357 for dealing crack to the neighborhood junior high school kids.

The first time it happened when my team was executing a search warrant. We rolled up Trojan horse-style—the entire team in a van jumped out and deployed on an apartment complex on El Segundo Boulevard. I carried the door ram. When we rounded the corner, Q-Ball stood at his apartment door with a line of poor folks who hardly had enough money to eat, waiting to buy his rock cocaine.

He saw me and slammed the door. The line scattered. Some screamed when they recognized the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s green raid jackets. “Grab yo babies. Grab yo babies.”

I threw the ram through the door just as it latched closed. It sprung open so hard the knob imbedded in the wall. Inside, Q-Ball ran up the stairs. I chased him, clubbing him over the head with my gun.

The second time, out on bail, he was back at it in the same apartment. I wrote another warrant and we hit it again. This time he’d changed his MO and thought he was safe. With the front door locked and barred, the line of customers ran out from under the second-story window. Q-Ball hung precariously out his second-story window, his heels locked under his bed to keep from falling. He dropped a fistful of money when he saw the team deploy on his apartment. He yelped, struggled to pull back in as I rammed the door barricaded on the other side. It took ten or fifteen strikes, putting everything I had into it. The door came down. I ran up the same stairs and found him lying on his bed, feigning sleep, his head bandaged from our first encounter. What else could he do? On the floor, piled two feet high were the wadded-up greenbacks he’d been throwing back into the bedroom from his perch dangling precariously out the window. I said, “Peekaboo, asshole,” a saying that became immortalized in the BMFs, and fell on him with both knees, the barrel of my gun again educating his noggin in how it was not a good thing to sell dope to kids.

Dora Bascombe didn’t venture in without permission. She’d been on the street long enough to know better. Q-Ball came to the open door, a big smile on his ferret face. He knew what stood before him. Bascombe didn’t have any money. There was only one thing he’d take in trade. I only hoped she wouldn’t do it in front of Tommy.

Out front on the street, gunfire erupted, sounding like popcorn in a microwave, a common occurrence this side of Central Avenue.

Q-Ball paid it no mind, put his arm around Dora’s shoulders, and with his other arm outstretched, ushered her in. He hesitated, looked over at me, trying to remember where he’d seen me before, the Band-Aids doing their job. I didn’t look away and held his glare for several long seconds before he took out a cell phone, dialed, and spoke. They went inside, all of them.

Even Tommy.

I knew I didn’t have much time to do what had to be done. He’d just called in his ghetto dogs.

Chapter Twenty

Q was bold and left the door wide open. He’d moved up in the world he’d chosen. He was now a VP, head of a district, probably five square blocks.

Just before I got to the doorway, he reappeared, gun in hand, his eyes locked on mine. I continued to move toward him as he brought the gun up, pointed right at my belly, a pistol barrel, large and round, one I knew from experience could wink fire and pain. His smile dropped. His expression transformed to fear as recognition set in and stole his common sense and false bravado.

Because he recognized me, the caper wasn’t going to be a clandestine snatch. The loss of the element of surprise turned into a real problem that in the end would jeopardize everything we’d worked for. Nothing I could do about it. I couldn’t leave Tommy to the life he’d been dealt. No way.

Pale and quaking, with his free hand, Q reached over, took hold of the door, and slammed it shut. Before he had time to throw the deadbolt, I rose up on the ball of my left foot, at the same time bringing my knee up to my chest, and kicked as hard as I could. The door banged open a second after it closed. The edge caught Q in the face. It mashed his nose flat. His raggedy ass flew back against the wall where he slid down with a sappy expression on his blood-smeared face.

Inside, Dora held Tommy up in front of her as she backed up. Using him as a shield.

“Put the boy down.”

“Get away from me.”

Tommy caught his mother’s terror and began to cry, a long, slow wail.

“Now you’ve gone and scared the kid. Just put him down and go in the other room.”

“What? You going to take my boy? Is that it? You some kind of baby raper?”

“Put him down, now,” I said through clenched teeth, the thought of her accusation, the nerve.

She set him down on the floor, but held on to his shoulders. “Okay, okay, gimme five hundred dollars, and you can have him.”

She read my mind, saw the sharp edge of hate in my eyes. “Okay, okay, three hundred.”

I squatted. “Tommy, I’m your friend. You don’t have to worry about me. I won’t hurt you. I won’t ever hurt you.” I reached out a hand. “I promise. I only want to be your friend.”

Unafraid, he stopped crying, toned it down to a whimper, and stared me right in the eye. He had a lot of grit. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw mama back up, her hand going behind her, searching for a weapon. I couldn’t break the contact too soon, not and have him on my side. His small hand came out slowly reaching for my big mitt. “That’s a boy. You’re a brave little man.”

Outside the apartment I heard footsteps. The ghetto dogs trailed in to protect their master.

Tommy’s hand was ice cold. I noticed his lips were tinged blue. He shivered from fear and cold.

Dora found her weapon. Her hand wrapped around a heavy, green glass ashtray. I stood in one long fluid motion so it wouldn’t spook Tommy and stepped around him as his mother pulled back with everything she had and swung. I ducked my head and took the blow on the shoulder. The frightful pain rippled up and down my spine. With my left hand, I tucked little Tommy inside my great coat, covered him up. At the same time, I swung a right fist backward at his mother’s face. My fist connected solid to her forehead. Her body let out an involuntary sigh as she wilted to the floor, unconscious. Tommy, on the other side of me, never saw it. His body an ice cube, burrowed into the heat of my body, his little arms going around my chest, as I squatted, the arm with the cast a little awkward.

There wasn’t time. Q’s crew would be coming to back him up. I stepped over to the moaning Q, his eyes now wide with fright, leaned down, and took the Colt .45 from his limp hand. Too much gun for a punk like him to accurately control.

The doorway shadowed with a throng of Blood gang members. In an after-action, beer drinking tailgate party, the BMFs would have called it a “blood clot.” I automatically turned my shoulder away from them, putting my body in between the threat and Tommy.

“Step out of the way, boys. I got no beef with you.”

Four of them, just outside the door, backed up almost to the chain-link fence that surrounded the defunct pool. Only one held a gun, a sawed-off double-barrel twelve-gauge. Enough fire power to cut me right in half. The largest by far of the thugs had on a red tank top. His thickly muscled right bicep wept blood from a fresh bullet wound, the result of the earlier gunshots, a drive-by. Fearless, loyal, and brave, he said, “Where’s Q-Ball?”

I kept the gun down by my side, half looking at them over my shoulder. “You don’t want any part of this. Back on out and—”

“I said, where’s Q?”

Behind me on the floor, Q said, “Man, are you crazy? Doan you know who dat is? Dat’s Bruno Johnson, the poooleeese. Let him go ’fore he kills all’ve us.” Q’s voice rose as he spoke until it was almost a screech. He crab-crawled deeper into the apartment. On the top of his head, ropy strips of scalp laid bare where the hair never grew back from when I had tried to educate him in the ills of drug dealing. I guess I’d been a poor teacher.

The four thugs looked at one another. The big, mean one with the fresh bullet hole in his arm remained undeterred. “Fuck this punk, man, dere are fo’ of us and only one a ‘m.”

Q screeched from deep in the dim apartment. “Dint you hear what I said? Dat’s Bruno, The Bad Boy Johnson, and I swear to gawd, he’ll kill us all. Let him go, let him go, let him get his sorry ass outta here.”

Maybe he had learned a little something from our prior lessons after all.

Q’s hysteria turned contagious. The big thug broke eye contact, looked at his friends who continued to back up. They all shifted and moved off around the dirt pool, slowly at first, then in a big hurry, cowardly curs with their tails between their legs.

I put the Colt in the pocket of the army coat and picked Tommy up, his rib bones hard against my hands, he was so damn skinny. He wrapped his legs around my waist. I buttoned the coat around him. He’d stopped shivering.

I went back into the foul-smelling apartment only dim enough to show the outline of furniture, found Q huddled in the kitchen, next to the wall and fridge, his arms over his head. “Whatta ya want? Whatever it is take it. Take it and go.”

His plea stopped me short and gave me an idea. I nudged him with my foot. “You know damn well why I’m here, asshole.”

“No, I don’t, swear to gawd I don’t.”

“I want my money.”

“What gawd damn money’s dat?” His head came up, indignant. Money was his life and easily superseded his fear.

I kicked him, but not hard. “Don’t you play dumb with me, you candy-ass punk, I’ll shoot you right here. You know me. You know I’ll do it and not think twice about it.”

“Aw’ite, aw’ite, doan shoot. All the green I gots is in a bag behind the vent, behind the vent under the water heater.”

I kicked him again. “Get it and hurry up.”

I followed as he crab-crawled quickly through the living room area, down a short hall to a closet. Tommy’s legs had relaxed, his whole body limp. The comfortable heat after the constant cold put him right to sleep.

At the end of the hall, Q started to open the door. I kicked it closed. “You come out with a gun it’ll be your last conscious act. You understand me?”

“I ain’t no fool.”

“Get it then and make it snappy.”

He opened the closet. Inside sat a fat water heater just like he said. He fumbled in his pocket and came out with a slot screwdriver, the key to his riches. His hands shook. Blood dripped from his broken nose onto his wrist as he fumbled with the four nearly stripped screws. When the vent came off, I grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him away with my free hand. I reached inside and felt a Mac-10 submachine gun on top of a nylon gym bag. I pulled the bag out.

“How much is in there?”

“Dere’s forty-five.”

“Forty-five, that means you can tell Jumbo he still owes me another—no, you tell Jumbo this is interest only. You tell him he still owes me the entire one-twenty-five. You got it?”

“Jumbo? I doan know no—”

I shoved him with my foot, then put it on his chest pinning him. “Don’t even try to tell me you don’t know Jumbo.”

“Awite, awite, I knows him. But all dat money ain’t his. Some’ve it’s mine.”

“You can work it out with him. This is your boy, isn’t it?” I said, indicating Tommy Bascombe under my jacket.

“Hell, no, that ain’t my boy.”

I put more weight on his chest.

“Awite, awite, he’s my lil rugrat, whatever you say, awite.”

“I’m taking him, holding him ransom until I get the rest of my money. You understand? You want your kid back, you better tell Jumbo to pay up. And I don’t have to tell you what will happen if you go to the cops. You or your woman out there.”

The idea came to me all of a sudden, some smoke to cover for the taking of Tommy.

“We won’t rat to no cops, dat’s for damn sure.”

“Now get up. You’re going to walk me out of here just in case some of your homies think they can take me on.”

“Aw, man.”

Outside on the sidewalk, night had slammed down without fair warning. Tommy still slept against my chest and grew heavier with each step. I tried to hold him up with one arm the other in my pocket holding the Colt against Q’s spine. He carried the bag of money.

“Where’s your hooptie?”

“I ain’t got no ride.”

“I’m not going to steal your car. You’re going to drive us out of here.”

“Right dere.” He pointed to a Cadillac Escalade, Kelly green with twenties on the wheels. He’d moved up the food chain, an aberration for such a weak-kneed, pencil-neck geek.

“Get in.”