The Innocents

by David Putnam

  Chocolate moved around the coffee table and headed for Mo Mo. “Baby, am I glad you’re here. I—”

  Mo Mo held up his hand. “Hold it right there, woman. Don’t you cross in front of this weapon. Sit your ass down. Right there, sit. Is this why you said it was an emergency, ’cause you got two asshole cops all up in your crib?”

  Mo Mo had dark skin that made his crooked teeth look even whiter. He stood about six feet with broad shoulders and weighed about 200. He wore a gray velour warm-up top that matched the bottoms. On his feet he wore British Knight basketball shoes with blue laces. The zipper, half-down on his shirt, displayed his muscled chest and a thick gold chain with a big “M” that dangled down about midway. The “M” was encrusted with small diamonds.

  “I made her call you,” I said. “I needed to talk with you.”

  “Talk? Or take me to jail?”

  “We don’t have a case on you. You’re clean right now, except for that gun you’re holding on two law enforcement officers. Put it down now, and we’ll overlook that felony.”

  “I don’t believe you. You two, go on, toss your gats on the floor. Do it with two fingers. Go on, take those guns out and drop ’em.”

  I looked over at Kohl.

  His expression didn’t change. He looked indifferent to the gun pointed at him.

  Number-one rule they drilled into us at the academy: never, under any circumstances, give up your gun.

  “That’s not going to happen,” I said. “You might as well shoot us and get it over with. We’re not gonna give up our weapons. We came here to talk. That’s all.”

  Mo Mo pulled the hammer back on the Python, the click loud and disturbing in the room, which just grew a lot smaller. “Cops make me nervous, so if you even twitch the wrong way, I’m not gonna hesitate. You understand? Start talkin.’ You got thirty seconds.”

  I again looked at Kohl, who still seemed unfazed by the sudden change of events. I said, “There are two cops out there on the street right now who want to take you out.”

  Mo Mo smiled. “Just two?”

  “I’m not kidding. There’s a contract out on you and two cops—”

  Kohl’s head whipped around, his eyes moved from Mo Mo over to me. “A contract? What are you talking about, Bruno?”

  Mo Mo said, “Man, how come he doesn’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about?”

  “What’s going on, Bruno?”

  “I’m sorry, I was going to tell you, but Mo Mo got here a little sooner than I expected.”

  Kohl said, “What two cops? What’s this about a contract? How do you know this?”

  I sucked in a deep breath. “I’m working undercover in narcotics. I’m still on the violent crimes team and I was put on the Lynwood narco team to ferret out the two cops.”

  There, I’d said it.

  Mo Mo turned the Python onto me exclusively and spoke to Kohl. “That what you wanted to hear? That he’s still a Boy Scout jus’ like you thought? Now give me my money back.”

  My knees went weak and I wavered on my feet.

  Please, God, not Sergeant Kohl.

  Kohl pulled his gun and pointed it at my gut. “What’s the matter, Bruno? You look a little pale. Maybe you better sit down before you fall down.” He reached over and pulled my gun from my holster.

  I stood my ground, unable to move.

  Mo Mo said to Kohl, “Where’s my sixty-two thousand and my two keys of rock you promised? I did what you asked.”

  Chocolate said, “Mo Mo, what’s going on?”

  “Shut up, bitch. Can’t you see the men are talking here?”

  In my mind, all the recent contacts with Kohl flew by: He’d been the one to run the robbery surveillance of the gas station at Mona and Imperial Highway; he’d been the one to bring in the narco team with Blue and Thibodeaux to supplement the surveillance; he’d been the one that didn’t move Blue back to his original position; he’d been the one to investigate Dad’s attempted rape case; he’d been the one who’d contacted me in the parking lot right in front of the narco trailer with Blue watching; and he’d been the one to tell me we could talk man to man, all along wanting me to rat on myself, wanting me to violate the cardinal rule of the undercover.

  All of it a setup.

  I muttered, “You’re the dog heavy.”

  “I don’t know what that is,” Kohl said, “but we thought you might’ve been a plant, and if so, we also needed to find out how much the other side knew about us.”

  I slowly brought my hand up to rub my face. “That meant Blue made sure I saw Ollie pass him the note. Jesus, what a fool I’ve been.”

  From down the hall, Thibodeaux walked up behind Mo Mo, stuck a gun to his head, and said, “Don’t move, nigger.” He reached around and took the Python out of his hands. He shoved Mo Mo deeper into the room, closer to Chocolate, and looked at me. “That’s right, you made it easy for us. Blue started planning the whole thing the moment you walked into our narco trailer. That’s how good he is. That’s how fast Blue thinks on his feet. You people never had a chance against the way he can think.”

  I shook my head in wonder and muttered, “Number-one rule, tell no one you’re undercover. Jesus, why didn’t l listen?”

  Nobody knew where I was or whom I was with. In all my life I never felt so alone and helpless.

  What was Olivia going to do without a father?

  I swallowed hard, took in a long breath. “How does Chelsea figure into all of this?” I had to know, and their answer scared me more than their guns or what they intended to do to me.

  Thibodeaux opened his ugly mouth to reply, but Kohl said, “Shut your trap, Dirt. Don’t say another damn word. You said too much already.”

  I let out a long sigh. “She’s working with you, isn’t she? She’s a part of this whole thing, isn’t she?”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  “MO MO,” CHOCOLATE said, “what’s going on?”

  “Baby, looks like I jus’ got double-crossed by these two asshole cops.”

  “Shut up, the both of you,” Kohl said. He looked over at Thibodeaux. “Is Blue coming out?”

  “No, he said he needed to go for a long run to clear his head. He kinda liked this smoke here. Don’t know why.” He pointed the gun my way. “Blue just didn’t believe he could be a rat. I told him I could handle this. No reason at all Blue should have all the fun.”

  Kohl didn’t look happy. “What’d he say to—”

  Mo Mo roared and lunged at Thibodeaux, his arms outstretched, fingers splayed.

  Thibodeaux let out a chuckle, took a step back, and shot Mo Mo in the face. White smoke billowed in the living room. Chocolate screamed and went for Mo Mo.

  Kohl took his gun off of me and took aim at Chocolate. I dropped my shoulder and drove with my legs, caught him low in the gut, and rammed him right into the wall. The plasterboard caved in. He grunted and dropped his gun.

  Rage roiled up and out of me. I bellowed like a bull and slugged Kohl in the face again and again. I slugged him for Dad. I slugged him for Mrs. Whitaker. I slugged him for all the men he’d been a part of killing.

  Thibodeaux stepped over and pistol-whipped me across the back of the head. I went to my knees. The world wobbled and the lights flickered. I fought to stay conscious. If I went out, I’d never wake again.

  Strange words entered my head. “FBI! Open the door. FBI! Demand entry.”

  Thibodeaux, about to hit me again, said, “What the—?”

  The wobble in the world cleared a little more. Someone pounded on the wrought-iron security door to the condo and couldn’t get in.

  Thibodeaux shuffle-stepped back over to Chocolate, who, with tears streaking down her face, picked up a lamp and threw it at him. He cackled, dodged the lamp, and swung the Python again, catching her on the side of the face. Chocolate dropped straight to the floor the same as if someone turned off all her power.

  I got my feet under me and came in low. Thibodeaux spun, bringing the gun around. The Python s
pit flame again. This time the sound came out muted in my ringing ears. The bullet furrowed down my back like a farmer’s plow that laid open skin and muscle, instantly turning my shirt wet. I no longer felt pain, or heard, or sensed anything at all. With every part of my being I wanted nothing more than to crush Claude Thibodeaux out of his miserable existence. End his ugly, pathetic life.

  We collided and flew back. We slammed into the chrome entertainment center and went to the floor. Glass shattered. The TV tumbled to the floor. The tube exploded and crackled.

  Thibodeaux’s fingers clawed at my eyes while he tried to push me away with his knee, the Python pinned between our bodies. He couldn’t bring it to bear. He gave up, let the gun go, pulled his arm free, and slugged me in the face. I struggled, got up on top of him, and went to work on his face with my fists.

  He kicked me off. I rolled and came up on my feet.

  Thibodeaux came up, too, with that grin of his, his hands empty. His right hand went down to his leg and came up with the switchblade. He flicked it open.

  The entire structure of the condo shook from a loud bomb-like explosion. Dust filled the air. Behind me, the front door and wall bulged in.

  Kohl yelled, “What the hell?”

  Chocolate came to and keened over her dead Mo Mo.

  Thibodeaux didn’t care about the car that was trying to ram into the condo. He lunged at me, the knife held low.

  I came at him hard and tried to block the knife with my right arm. The blade slid down the top of my forearm, cutting the muscle down to bone. I butted his face with the top of my head. The blow shook him. He stumbled backward. I stayed with him, grabbed onto his knife hand, and pummeled his face with my fist, my broken knuckles.

  The condo shook again. Wood and metal shrieked. The front end of a car appeared and shoved deep into the living room, shoving furniture out of the way.

  I spun Thibodeaux around and got him in a choke hold. One I didn’t intend to let up. Ever. I would choke the last bit of his sorry life right out of him.

  Kohl rose up out of the white dust and clutter of overturned furniture, holding his .38. He shouted, “Let him go, Bruno.”

  I shook my head and held onto the choke hold as hard as I could.

  Kohl said, “Dirt, get down. Gimme a shot and I’ll take him out. Drop.”

  “Freeze! FBI!”

  Chelsea stood on the hood of her demolished car, pointing a gun at Kohl.

  Kohl ignored her and fired. His bullet thumped into Thibodeaux, caught him in the center of the chest.

  My arm choked off a grunt in Thibodeaux’s throat. His body went limp.

  Chelsea fired three times.

  Kohl’s body jerked. He flew back against the wall and slid down.

  I let Thibodeaux’s body drop. I rushed over to Chocolate and hugged her. I tried to pull her away from Mo Mo.

  “Bruno?” Chelsea slid off the hood of the car. “Bruno, are you all right?” She coughed and fanned the fine dust that floated in the air. She went right over and kicked the gun from Kohl’s dead hand. She holstered and came over and put her hands on my shoulders. “Bruno?”

  Chocolate struggled to her feet. “You bastard. You dirty son of a bitch. You did this. You killed my Mo Mo.”

  A huge lump rose in my throat. She was right. All this carnage, all the mayhem, was because of me, because of my ignorance.

  “Oh, my God, Bruno. You’re bleeding. Bruno, come over here and sit down.”

  I shrugged Chelsea off as I held onto Chocolate’s arms and hugged her as tight as I could to keep her from hitting me. I didn’t know what else to do.

  Chocolate’s body shook as she wept. Tears burned my eyes.

  All that was happening finally slowed down and started to make sense. I looked at Chelsea. “You’re FBI?”

  She nodded.

  “How did you find me?”

  “I followed Kohl here. We’ve been on to him for a while now.”

  “Son of a bitch,” I muttered. “Maybe this wasn’t all my fault.” I owned the largest piece of it, but this could’ve been handled differently if the feds had cooperated with the sheriff’s department.

  I held onto Chocolate with one arm, let go with the other, and took hold of Chelsea’s wrist. “You mentioned the dog heavy. Was Kohl the dog heavy?”

  “Bruno, what are you talking about? You must be delirious from blood loss and the blow to your head. You have a huge goose egg.”

  “In my truck, out in front of the rock house on Peach, you mentioned the dog heavy.”

  The excitement in her eyes lost some of the sheen as my words sank in. She knew exactly what I was talking about. “I need to find a phone to call an ambulance for you.”

  The sound of far-off sirens outside entered the condo through the large hole Chelsea had put there with the car to save my life.

  “Tell me,” I demanded.

  She nodded. “We made a mistake. We caught wind of the murder-for-hire scheme from an informant in federal prison who wanted to make a deal to reduce his sentence.”

  “And? And?”

  “Take it easy, Bruno.”

  “Tell me what mistake you made.”

  “We—”

  “The FBI.”

  “That’s right, the FBI. When we wanted to infiltrate your department to find out how deep this thing went, we went right to the top . . . almost the top. We didn’t know how many or who was involved, so we went to the chief. We talked only to the chief.”

  “You contacted Deputy Chief Rudyard.”

  She nodded.

  “And he’s the dog heavy?”

  She nodded again. “We just confirmed it last night on a wiretap intercept. But we don’t have anything on him, Bruno. Not enough. That’s why we wanted to let this thing run a little longer. Only you jumped the gun and started this whole mess here today.”

  I eased the calm and weeping Chocolate over to Chelsea. “Here, take her.”

  “What? Why? What are you going to do?” She took hold of Chocolate. “Rudyard jumped a plane to Costa Rica. He’s out of our reach. We don’t have an extradition treaty with Costa Rica.”

  “I didn’t start this mess today. It was orchestrated by Blue.”

  I got to my feet. My whole body ached and threatened to shut down. I cast about in all the debris until I found my gun.

  “Bruno, no. Don’t. Let us handle the rest of this. Bruno?”

  I picked my way out of the breeched wall and into the sunlight of the dying day. I hobbled over to my truck, blood dripping from my hand onto my gun, making it look like something out of a horror movie. I stuck it back in the holster on my hip. My shirt stuck to my back. I got in and started up.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  I DROVE TO Lynwood Station in a hazy funk. Like an old horse, the truck seemed to know the way better than I did. Day shift at the station had already left to go home; few cars littered the back parking lot. I parked almost in the same spot as the first day I worked narco, not all that long ago. Maybe a century ago. I got out and stood by my truck, a bloody hand on the fender for support.

  The narco trailer door was shut, the lights off. Blue wasn’t there. I didn’t have anywhere else to go. Logical thought evaded me. Of course I had places to go. I’d always have places to go.

  I had a daughter.

  Wicks zoomed up in a blue Grand Marquis. He jumped out. “Jesus H., Bruno. What the hell happened?” He took my arm and tried to ease me to the ground. I shrugged him off and almost fell. Johnny Gibbs ran up on the other side of the fence from his car in the neighborhood where he’d been surveilling the narco trailer. Wicks yelled at him, “Call paramedics. Get an ambulance. Get an ambulance, damn it.”

  I looked at him and focused on his eyes. “Chief Rudyard has fled.”

  “What are you talking about? What happened?”

  “I made a big mistake, a huge mistake.”

  “Okay, we all do once in a while.”

  “I told them . . . told the wrong person I was workin
g undercover.”

  “Ah, shit, Bruno. Was it Blue? Did he do this to you? Where is he?”

  “Chelsea’s with the FBI. They came to the chief. They didn’t know he was the dog heavy. He put Chelsea in the mix so he could control it. He couldn’t do anything else, I guess. Not once the FBI came to him. He’s gone now. We’ll never get him.”

  “Come on, Bruno. Sit down.”

  “Thibodeaux’s dead. So’s Mo Mo.”

  Wicks took a step back, his mouth sagged open. “And Blue? Did you take out Blue?”

  That’s all he cared about, his little vendetta.

  “That’s what I came back here to do, but he’s gone. He’s probably gone just like the chief.”

  Two aisles over in the main driveway, Blue came running in from the street, looking over at us as he ran on by.

  Wicks stiffened. “Bruno, you wait right here.” He took off his suit coat and let it drop to the ground. He walked with deliberation toward the trailer, his gun hand now free to draw his Colt .45.

  Blue turned, running backward, slowed, and then stopped. He faced Wicks.

  I followed along behind. “Wait. Wait.” I didn’t want Wicks to gun Blue. I got to within a half a step behind him when he stopped about thirty feet from Blue. I still wasn’t thinking too clearly.

  Wicks said, “Blue, I need to take you in now.”

  “I don’t think so. You okay, Bruno? You look like hell. You’re bleeding. What happened?”

  Wicks said, “Thibodeaux’s dead.”

  The light in Blue’s eyes shifted to that same look I saw that night in the alley behind the gas station on Mona, shifted to pure predator. “That’s too bad. He was a good friend, a good man to have in a pinch. He’ll be missed. You have something to do with that, Wicks?”

  “Of course I did. But if you’re asking if I dropped the hammer, no, I didn’t.”

  “You, Bruno?”

  I shook my head. “Thibodeaux put Mo Mo down.”

  “Like I said, Dirt was a damn good man.” Blue started walking closer.

  “You don’t seem too broke up over it,” Wicks said.

  Blue shrugged. “Such is life in the ghetto.”