The Disposables

by David Putnam

  On the other side of the houses, a car raced, the engine winding out, tires skidding. Mack picked up Fong and was trying to set up a makeshift perimeter, a useless deployment with only one man on the perimeter especially with no bird in the air. Mack couldn’t call for air support, not for an escaped inmate that he’d helped escape.

  I came to the first perpendicular street, walked over to an ancient maple, stood in the shadow back by an overgrown hibiscus that smelled honey sweet and reminded me of my Marie. The thought left a hollow feeling in my chest.

  Mack drove up the street, turned, and squealed around the corner. Nothing moved, not even the ghetto wolves that prowled at night in packs, looking for smaller dogs or inexperienced cats. The denizens somehow smelled danger afoot and crawled under their rocks.

  I gave in to the fact we’d screwed it up and lost Ruben. It happened that way sometimes. Had we deployed an entire Violent Crimes Team around Shawntay’s house, this wouldn’t have happened. You went with what you had. A crackhead wasn’t hard to track down. We’d just missed him.

  Headlights came north again from two streets down. I recognized the sound of the engine and stepped out into the street with my hands up, waving him down. Mack skidded to a stop. He jumped out, his hands balled in tight fists. He didn’t slow as he came on. I stood up straight, closed my eyes waiting for the blow to mash my mouth, shatter my teeth.

  He came right up into my face, “You lost him? What the hell’s the matter with you? You were right on his ass.”

  I opened my eyes, his baby blues inches from mine. My mouth all on its own dropped open.

  “Get your dumbass back in the car, skillet.” He turned and went back to the driver’s side, got in, and slammed the door. I walked stiffly to the passenger side, thinking about the bullet graze and how my knees started to complain about the second-story leap and how Mack was one difficult person to read.

  I got in. He put the car in gear and chirped the tires. Two blocks over, he pulled to the side. Fong came out of the shadows from his position of ambush, got in, and closed the door. He slapped the back of my head. “How’d you lose him?”

  If it wasn’t happening to me, it might’ve been comical. I said, “Hit me again, asshole.” I pointed a finger at him. When he didn’t move, I said, “I heard Mack tell you to take the one-two side, the side Ruben bailed on.”

  Mack answered for him, “There was a cedar plank fence. He was trying to get around. It was my fault. I should’ve waited until he was in position before taking the door.”

  “Right,” I said, “And cappin’ my ass was just for fun?” I stuck my hand under my shirt and gently probed my shoulder. There was a narrow furrow no wider than a pencil, sticky with coagulated blood. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. When you chase a crackhead, you never know what’s going to happen.”

  Mack snickered, “Those were just warning shots to try and get Ruben to hit the dirt so you could grab him.”

  “My achin’ ass, warning shots.”

  “You took us to him once, you can do it again. Where to?”

  I sat back in the seat, let the adrenaline of the chase start to bleed off, and there it was, clear as day. The answer bubbled up like I’d wanted the name Kendrick to. It was hell getting old. The Thin Man’s name was Alan Cole. “Alan Cole.”

  “What?”

  “Go on down here and turn on Willowbrook.”

  “Who’s Alan Cole?”

  “The kid in front of Shawntay’s. The alley I caught him in was behind Huggies off of Willowbrook. It’s closed down now. A bar Ruben and Cole used to frequent. Cole had an old beat-up Bulldog .44. After I got it back to the station and got a good look at it, I didn’t think it would even fire. He took his ass whuppin’ without a peep.”

  Mack turned down Willowbrook. Huggies, two stories on the right, boarded up with weather-warped sheets of plywood painted over and over with gang graffiti stood dark against a brighter skyline.

  “So your thinkin’,” Fong said, “that this Cole might’ve been at the pad visiting Ruben?”

  “Not necessarily. Cole just kick-started my memory. It’s worth a check.”

  Mack spun the car around. “This is close, but I don’t think he’d have time to get here yet. I’m going to set up down the street and code five. You give us the layout of the inside.”

  “You walk in the front there’s a long narrow bar, real long because that’s all there is. The bar goes clear back to the rear door of the place. There’s one row of tables against the wall on the left with very little elbow room in between. The entire place is probably twenty, twenty-five-feet wide. Toward the back there’s like this loft with stairs, but it was private, an office maybe. No one ever went up there.”

  “Windows?” Mack asked.

  “As I remember, only on the front. The back’s got a solid steel door.”

  Fong leaned forward. “The windows in the front are boarded up, so if he’s using the place as a hidey-hole, it has to be from the back. It’ll be real easy to check to see if there’s any access. We could be wasting our time.”

  I closed my eyes and conjured up an image of the alley from all the times I prowled it at night with headlights off. “There’s a steel ladder to the roof.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Willowbrook, a wide boulevard with the metro rail running down the center, hardly twitched, the asphalt void of all but a few vehicles. Trees on both sides, ancient majestic peppers, had stood guard for the last century. A shadow darted from the peppers across the first street. All of us saw it at the same time and tensed. We simultaneously eased our doors open. The inside dome light had been deactivated as in all the Violent Crimes vehicles. Nobody closed their doors all the way. Mack whispered, “Let him get inside. We’ll have him cornered. Fong and I will take the back. Skillet, you take the front.”

  This time they played it smart. The front was boarded up with little chance of any action there. We moved directly across the street to the sidewalk and tried to stay in the shadows. I brought up the rear. Up close, I could see the plywood bolted into the cinder block with heavy lag bolts and fat washers so that the night people could not penetrate without a bulldozer against it. No need for me to stay at the front. Mack and Fong went around the side. I followed. They knew, understood the dynamic, and didn’t say anything. We now moved and acted like a team.

  Moonlight reflected off the white paint on the walls. Chipped, peeling paint surrounding a long faded ad for Jeri Curl lit up the side of the building in an eerie, lunar glow. We moved silently to the area where the shadowy figure disappeared. The shadow could’ve been anyone. We came to an indentation in the wall, a door I didn’t known about. The only door not boarded up. Mack and Fong pulled their guns. Mack held up his and pointed to me and then at the side of the door. I nodded. They moved off. I took up my position hyperaware of my empty-handed vulnerability. Against the white painted wall, I looked like a fly in milk.

  The space between Huggies and the nail salon maybe spanned seven feet, cluttered with trash bags and discarded rotting cardboard boxes that at one time held large appliances. Mack and Fong brought their guns up to point shoulder to cover their approach to the rear of Huggies. They hesitated at the end. Fong, to the rear, nodded and tapped Mack on the shoulder. They both moved at the same time and disappeared around the corner. The night turned empty and quiet. I listened hard. Nothing moved, no sound, no wind. I held my breath.

  Then I smelled it. Gasoline.

  I looked around for the source. Calmed down. I took a long breath and stuck my nose in the air, moving it from one direction to the next. The reek settled all around me.

  Mack, by himself, came back around the corner at the end of the building a hundred feet down. He put his gun back in his holster. I waved at him to stop. He slowed down by a washing machine carton twenty feet away but came on, too intent on his mission. “The back’s secure. He must’ve gone in this side door and locked it from the inside. Mike’s on the roo—”

  The l
ow, squat, washing machine carton shuddered then jerked to one side. Mack flinched. Gas filled the air. It landed on his face and chest. His hands went to his eyes. He screamed, windmilled, and flailed, scared to death that at any second Ruben might light him up.

  Ruben stood up, laughing a psychotic, maniacal laugh. In his hand he held a Bic lighter with a small orange flame. Mack went for his gun.

  Ruben screeched, “Don’t you do it. I’ll torch your ass.”

  I moved toward Ruben who had his back to me, twenty-five or thirty feet away.

  Mack froze. “Don’t. I’m a cop. You burn me, and I guarantee deputies will hunt you down and make you wish you hadn’t.” Mack, strong, fearless, but I heard the crack in his voice.

  The laugh again. Ruben was going to do it. He stalled only to savor the moment. Gasoline fumes burned before the actual liquid. Ruben just had to move the flame close to ignite the fumes, to touch it off. Mack was in a bad way. If Ruben lit him, there was no way to put him out in time. Immolation, the worst, most painful way to die.

  Mack knew I was there, but couldn’t see me moving because Ruben stood between us. Ruben, already too close to Mack, moved closer, inches at a time. His laugh tightened. His hand moved higher.

  Ruben abruptly stopped laughing and said, “Gaily be knight, a gallant knight. In darkness and in shadow. Traveled along singing a song in search of—” His hand moved down in a slow arc.

  Mack yelped. He brought his hands up.

  I moved low and fast, shoulder down. I gave an Apache war cry. It came out all on its own from the bottom of my gut.

  Startled, Ruben hung the flame over his head.

  Mack backed up.

  I hit Ruben waist high, driving my legs, feet digging in. I had to hit him hard enough to get his finger off the little paddle that kept the lighter lit.

  Ruben’s legs came off the ground. He grunted as I knocked the wind out of him. We plowed into Mack who couldn’t move fast enough. Mack saw his death in the shape of two bodies bowling toward him, a small flame held above like the Statue of Liberty. Mack screeched like a little girl.

  We hit the ground in a dog pile. Mack on the bottom. The gasoline reek strongest now. If Ruben flicked the lighter, whether it lit or not, the spark would be enough to barbeque us all. I fumbled. Looking, feeling for Ruben’s hand that held the lighter. Mack yelled, “Get off. Get off.”

  I couldn’t find Ruben’s hand and out of desperation decided to go to knuckles. I slugged Ruben in the head again and again. Bare hands against thick skull. I wanted to ring his bell to daze him, make him forget the day of the week, forget his own name.

  Mack grunted. Mack bench-pressed the both of us off him, tossed us aside. Mack stood, backed away, fear bright on his face. He yelled something unintelligible twice, then came in fast with a heavy boot and punted Ruben in the face. Ruben’s teeth skittered against the wall of Huggies.

  Mack pulled back and booted him again. Ruben had gone still. I held no love for Ruben, the way he killed five other undeserving folks. Four years ago I might’ve been right there with Mack, meting out a little curbside justice, but I’d learned my lesson and changed for the better. Being inside, seeing the end result, changed me. I laid across Ruben and covered him as best I could. Mack didn’t pull back on his last kick. It glanced off my back. “Hey, hey, enough. The man’s down. The man’s down.”

  Fong ran up, not knowing what happened, put his shoulder into Mack and shoved him away. My breath came hard. “Give me your cuffs.” Fong tossed them to me. I climbed off of Ruben, pulled his arms behind him, and cuffed him. I rolled to my feet, stood as I tried to catch my breath.

  Fong finally smelled the gas and guessed what happened. He leaned down and picked up the Bic lighter. “Son of a bitch. Don’t tell me he tried to torch you?”

  Mack turned and walked away, the emotions of the event too much for him. He didn’t want us to witness it. I couldn’t blame him.

  Fong reached into his pocket, tossed me the car keys. “Here, bring the car up to the mouth of this little alley so we can load this piece of shit.”

  I hesitated; I was Ruben’s only advocate. If I left him alone, no telling what these angry BMFs might do.

  Fong scowled. “Get your ass movin’, we ain’t got all night.” I walked backward toward Willowbrook until it became too hazardous with all the debris. I turned and walked slowly, listening for the telltale sounds of an ass beating. At the street, I turned back and looked. Ruben still lay facedown on the ground, unmoving. Fong and Mack had their backs to me. Fong had his hand on Mack’s shoulder, in close, whispering to him. Mack was more shaken than I had thought. I ran for the car to get back as soon as I could.

  I opened the door and started up. I could run for it, be in Mexico in three hours, home free. Then I realized Fong, the guy who’d wanted to store me in the trunk, was the one who’d trusted me, tossed me the keys. I put it in gear and skidded up to the opening between the buildings, held my breath when I looked. Fong and Mack each held a shoulder, hands under Ruben’s arms, dragging him to the car. It was over.

  They opened the back door and tossed him in, an empty sack of useless humanity. Fong opened the driver’s door, “Get out, skillet, I’m driving.”

  Mack walked by me, grabbed the driver’s door before Fong closed it, “Don’t call him skillet.” They both stared a long time at one another. Fong nodded. “Okay. I got it.”

  Mack said, “Get out, I’m driving.”

  “Johnson, you ride up front.”

  Fong didn’t protest. He got in the back, shoved Ruben over.

  Most of the gas had already evaporated off Mack. The sour smell of barf emanated from him. Something else went missing, snuffed out in near flambé experience, something gone from his eyes. I’d seen it often in prison. That little extra spark that kept a man upright, head held high, went missing. Before now Mack had burned too bright, the odds swung in his favor. It would return. If it didn’t, well, I’d ask Mr. Cho if he needed somebody to run his counter.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Fong recovered, slapped Mack on the back, “We got him, bro. We did it. This is the guy. It’s got to be, the way he went after you, used the same MO, the can of gas, the lighter, we got him. Can’t wait to see the look on that asshole Wicks’s face. Let’s call him.” Fong opened his cell phone, scrolled, tapped the number, and put it to his ear. “Damn. Voice mail.”

  In a few short hours the BMFs would gather, and over a case of beer, celebrate the taking of big game.

  “That lets me out, right?” I said, “You can pull over here and put me afoot. That’d be okay by me.”

  Mack took his vacant eyes off the road for a second, turned. I read sadness and contrition, but I also saw his confidence ebbing back.

  “Don’t think so, Johnson. You still have to answer for Bressler.”

  “I told you the truth about torching those people and I’m telling you the truth about Bressler.” I wanted to add that he owed me for the little tussle back there where I kept him from becoming a Fourth of July sparkler.

  Fong fumbled around in back. He shoved Ruben the Cuban from side to side searching his pockets, a prebooking search as it were, pulling out everything in his pockets, a legal search acceptable in court. He handed the items over the seat, three books of matches with Theo’s Bar on the covers, a can of butane refill for cigarette lighters, some empty Ziploc baggies with residue, a moldering wallet chocked full of moldering papers, a fat key ring with old unused antiquated keys, and five cheap cigarette lighters, all blue.

  I opened the wallet, damp, still warm from his body heat, and pulled out the papers. The newest addition to the mess, a yellow copy I recognized as a booking application to Los Angeles County Jail. I unfolded it and saw John Edward Ruben-stein had recently been arrested for under the influence of a controlled substance and had only just been let out on a promise-to-appear citation.

  “You better have a look at this.” I handed it over to Mack as he steered us toward Century She
riff’s Station on Alameda.

  “Can’t you see I’m driving?” His anger bled through. Transference from what happened, anger at displaying fear.

  Ruben the Cuban moaned as he came around.

  I took it back, “When did that last guy get torched, two nights ago? This says our friend here was in custody at the time of the last burning.”

  Mack yanked on the wheel, steered the car over to the curb by a vacant manufacturing building, the street dark, the streetlights all shot out. Fong reached over the seat and snatched the paper from my hand.

  Every second I stayed in custody, I found it harder to breathe. Every second that passed brought us that much closer to being found out, the kids discovered, and put back in a system that let them down the first time and would do worse the second. Only because they now knew the way life was really supposed to be. It made my heart ache at the thought.

  As the car slowed, I again thought about jamming out the door. I knew the area and could lose them, no problem. That left Marie holding the bag, something I could never do. At the same time, I wished for a couple of hours of freedom to pay Jumbo a little visit, make him rue the day he ever heard my name, talk to him old BMF-style.

  Fong said, “What? It can’t be.” He checked the wrinkled booking slip, flipped it over, not believing it genuine. “Okay then, what? What’s it mean?”

  Mack took it from him. “It means we got a copycat, that’s what it means.”

  Mack possessed that innate sense needed to vault the gigantic chasm from mediocre detective to outstanding. He sprung from a family of law enforcement and probably came by it genetically. He handed it back to me, his eyes asking my opinion.