The Vanquished

by David Putnam

  Good’s grim expression slowly turned back to his white-trash smile. “Cole just told me I’m getting her at the end of the month. Don’t worry, Kimosabe, I won’t touch her. I’m not gonna dip into something contaminated by some nig—”

  I snapped. My hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat. I lifted until his feet came off the ground. I moved my face to inches away from his. His face bloated with red, his eyes bulged. I didn’t see it, but I sensed him going for his gun.

  This dumbass thought he could get away with shooting a fellow deputy in the Sheriff’s station. With my free hand, I grabbed at his and found another hand already there. Sonja had moved in close and had slammed her hand on top of Good’s so he couldn’t throw down on me. Her teeth clenched, she whispered, “Go ahead, Bruno, pinch this peckerwood’s head off. Pinch the son of a bitch’s head right off.”

  Good’s eyes went wide with fear as he realized this was for real. He’d pushed too far.

  I looked down at Sonja, her words getting through to my out-of-control violence center.

  Just then Sergeant Cole walked into the briefing room carrying the briefing board. He took in the entire scene in a fraction of a second, and from his expression, he knew exactly what had transpired. “Bruno, quit fucking around and take your seat.”

  I let go of Good. He slid down almost to the floor before he caught his balance. He coughed and sputtered as he tried to get his breath back. “You see that?” He gulped for more air. “You all saw that, didn’t you? I . . . I want him arrested. This . . . this deputy attacked me and I want his black ass back in that jail right fucking now.”

  Cole took his position at the head of the table. “Sit down, Good.”

  With one hand at his throat, Good slapped the table. “No, sir, I won’t. You saw it. You saw how he assaulted me. I want satisfaction.”

  Cole stood up. “I didn’t see a thing.” He looked to the other deputies, who tried to cover their smiles. “Anybody else here see anything?”

  Everyone shook their heads.

  Cole pointed to the back door. “Bruno, outside now.”

  I moved to the back door with Sonja in tow. Cole came around the table to follow. He held up his hand to Sonja and said, “Not you.”

  She opened her mouth to protest. I shook my head at her. She stopped and watched us exit.

  Outside in the stairwell that led up to the parking lot, Cole closed the door and lowered his voice. “Listen, I don’t care if you’re bangin’ Kowalski, I don’t. It’s not the smartest idea, but I truly don’t care. I think the fraternizing policy is illegal, and if someone takes it to task, they’ll win hands down. But you and I both know how dangerous working the street is with a partner that you have a . . . ah . . . special relationship with. Especially at this station.”

  I wanted to deny it but thought too much of Cole to blow smoke. He held up his hand to silence me.

  “The cycle change is in a week. I’m going to change you and Kowalski out then, no arguments.”

  That cut Sonja’s time in my car a week shorter than what Carr had said.

  “Bruno? You listening to me?”

  “Yeah, Sarge,” I said. “I’m sorry about what happened in there. I just sort of snapped.”

  Cole waved his hand. “Jesus, don’t let that sorry sack of shit get the better of you. Now he’s really going to be gunnin’ for you. You know what I mean?”

  I nodded. I didn’t care about Good and what he represented. After I calmed down, I would care even less. Sonja returned to the foremost problem at hand. I didn’t want to lose her.

  Cole put his hand on the door. “Keep your thing with Kowalski on the down-low, you understand?”

  I nodded.

  “I don’t think you do. Don’t let him get any pictures. And you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cole often threw out a saying that, when it came to evidence, “If you don’t have pictures, you don’t have shit.” Meaning that there can be all the rumors and supposition in the world, but without evidence, it never happened.

  “Stay out of Good’s way; he’ll ruin your career.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We went back inside to start briefing.

  I sat across from Good and glared at him until he looked away. He didn’t make eye contact the rest of the briefing. Cole read the briefing board. His words went off to another place and never penetrated the funk that clouded all other thought. And the sad part, the dangerous part, was that I needed to listen to be prepared for what waited out there on the street.

  I looked over at Sonja and my heart skipped several beats.

  I couldn’t work that way, not safely. And worse, much worse, was that she just didn’t understand how bad the white on black would be, the pain she’d go through the rest of her life. We’d caught just a small glimpse of what the future would have in store with the likes of Good Johnson.

  If we had children, the ridicule, the way they would be ostracized, would be heart-wrenching, and we’d only be able to stand by and watch. I thought of myself as a strong man, but I couldn’t handle that. I’d end up hurting someone and going off to prison.

  I’d have to break it off with Sonja. I didn’t have a choice, not if I wanted to continue to be a deputy sheriff for the Los Angles County Sheriff’s Department. Not if I wanted her to have a chance at a normal life.

  I’d tell her tonight after shift.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TAMARINDO PARK—TAMARINDO, A COASTAL VILLAGE IN

  COSTA RICA

  CURRENT DAY

  “OKAY, WHO’S NEXT?”

  The kids screamed and jumped and raised their hands.

  I stood among eight of our kids, breathing hard with a smile so huge it hurt. And at the same time loving life, a love generated from the pure joy on their young, innocent faces.

  Rays of sun penetrated the jungle canopy with its tall Spanish Feeder trees at the top, and mango and banana closer to the ground. The vast park sat in the center of the village of Tamarindo, adjacent to the village’s church.

  My wife, Marie, stayed over by the picnic tables, close enough to watch us. The two oldest of our ten children sat next to Marie, doting on her. They rarely left her side since she announced she was three months pregnant.

  I raised my hand to get the attention of the eight children bouncing all around and tried to quiet them down just a little. “Who wants the chance,” I said, “to beat their Papi in a fair footrace? The prize is some melcochas for the winner.” Melcochas are sugar candies popular in Costa Rica.

  All of them jumped and screamed louder, waving their hands even more. Marie didn’t often allow the kids to eat sugar, but this qualified as a special occasion. Eight-year-old Toby Bixler, for some unknown reason, had turned quiet two days earlier, and the trip to the park doubled as an excuse to exercise the children and to try and pull Toby out of his shell. Marie diagnosed it as post-traumatic stress from his past that had returned, and he just needed a little time to get over it.

  Exercise the children, hell. These kids, with their endless energy, didn’t need exercise, and now they were trying to run my tired old ass into the ground.

  I pointed to Toby. “How ’bout you, Son, you want to take on your Papi? Take a chance at winning some melcochas?” The child didn’t move or even smile. I froze; his eyes reminded me too much of the way he looked when Marie, my dad, and I grabbed all these children from abusive and toxic homes in South Central Los Angeles. We’d made our getaway down to Tamarindo, Costa Rica, where they’d been safe and thriving for the last year now. The ex-cop in me wanted to stop everything, take Toby aside, and quietly question him away from all other outside stimuli, do it by the book, work it out of him slow, build—no, rebuild—his confidence and get him to tell me what had happened to change things. Doubt no longer remained in my mind that something had happened. I no longer believed it to be an emotional relapse, as Marie had offered as a reason. I’d been away from the street
too long and should’ve seen it a lot sooner. I looked up to catch Marie’s eye, as if she, too, could’ve seen, from that far off, what I’d just seen. She was sitting on the picnic bench, weaving bright-colored potholders with the two girls.

  My mind raced back to when and how Toby could’ve been exposed to any sort of danger. I couldn’t come up with even one moment where jeopardy could weasel in and nip at his heels. We’d been that careful.

  I worked full-time at the cabana bar at the El Margarite Hotel, and Marie volunteered at the local clinic as a physician’s assistant. During our absence, Rosa, our live-in help, and my dad oversaw the safety of the children. I trusted them both implicitly. The kids could not be in better hands.

  Alonzo, my grandson, stepped up close. “Pick me, Papi, pick me.” He was five years old, with facial features that resembled my only natural daughter, Olivia. Olivia died of an overdose, leaving the twins, Alonzo and Albert, to live with their morally corrupt father, Derek Sams. Just the thought of that name caused the anger to rise up in my chest, looking for an outlet. Albert died at the hands of my son-in-law. I hunted Sams down and killed him after the justice system tried him and spit him out the other end, a free man. That same justice system tried me for my crime. I lost my job as a Los Angeles County Sheriff’s detective on the Violent Crimes Team and did two years in the slam up in the Q. Marie had waited for me those two long years, caring for Alonzo.

  I pointed to Alonzo and said, “Okay, you.”

  “Fix, the fix is in,” Eddie Crane said. Eddie was one of our newest additions to the family.

  “What do you mean fix?” I didn’t have to ask.

  The other children went quiet to see what would happen next.

  Eddie shrugged, now a little sheepish. “You know exactly what I mean.”

  He didn’t want to say it. Try as I might, I found it difficult not to favor my own grandson. I smiled at Eddie. I could beat him in a fair footrace as long as it was a short one, and he knew it, too. I got closer and whispered, “I think I liked it better when you couldn’t talk.”

  He laughed, knowing I was only joking with him. He couldn’t talk when we’d first rescued him. He’d been abused and then kidnapped by a sadistic and violent man named Jonas Mabry, who took him for no other reason than to get even with me for something that had happened twenty years earlier. Eddie had gradually come out of his shell, just as all the others had, and started talking and interacting like a normal child should as a full-fledged member of our pieced-together family.

  “Okay, then, tough guy.” I pointed at him. “I pick you.”

  He giggled at the description, tough guy.

  “Don’t laugh, my friend. You lose, you have to rake the leaves in the front yard for two weeks.”

  He lost his smile for a brief moment. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “Yeah, but if you don’t have any skin in the game it won’t be as exciting, will it?”

  “Okay, then let’s make it a fair race.”

  “Whatta ya have in mind, tough guy?”

  “Aah . . . aah . . . okay, you have to carry him.” He pointed at Alonzo.

  Alonzo hopped up and down as if he had to pee, and clapped his hands. “Yes, yes, yes. Please carry me, Papi, please carry me, please.”

  The other kids took up his chant. “Carry Alonzo. Carry Alonzo.”

  “Okay, but you have to give me a head start, at least as far as that bird of paradise off to the side there. This kid must weigh half a ton.”

  The kids all laughed. “Alonzo weighs a ton. Alonzo weighs a ton.”

  I held out my hand to Eddie Crane to shake. He didn’t take it right away. “I’ll give you a head start if you run through the playground in the sand and up and over the slides. I run on the outside of the playground, which is twice as far. Fair enough?”

  “You’re going to make a good lawyer one day.” I again extended my hand.

  He still didn’t take it. “And if I win, it’s not just melcochas for me. All the kids get some.” Everyone cheered.

  “Your mami’s not gonna like that, I know that much for sure.” I turned to Toby and said, “What do you think, little man, candy for everyone if Eddie Crane wins?”

  Some of the kids close to him nudged him, saying, “Come on, speak, tell him yes.”

  He remained mum and gave those same eyes that threatened to rip my guts out.

  I shook it off. I pointed to Eddie. “Count to three.”

  The kids cheered and chanted, “Go, Eddie, go. Go, Eddie, go.”

  Eddie said, “One.”

  When he said “two,” I jumped the gun, scooped up Alonzo, and ran. The kids screamed with delight and took off after us. Eddie pulled ahead right away, but he had to go twice as far.

  Out of breath, I said to my grandson, “No more tortillas for you, little man.” He weighed more than I expected, and my breathing came hard right away.

  We made it to the sandbox with the slides before Eddie hit the halfway mark for his leg of the race.

  My feet dug into the sand and gravity grabbed hard at our combined weight. The platform had two ladders on opposite sides and two slides on the other sides of those. I slowed at the slide, not wanting to slip while I was holding Alonzo, took a couple of deep breaths to catch up, and moved up the slick surface. I held Alonzo with one hand, his legs high around my waist, his arms around my neck, and gripped the side rail with the other. I made it to the top and traversed across the platform to the opposite slide to go down. I looked back. The kids all stood close around the perimeter of the sandbox, cheering Eddie. Toby stood back where the race started. He hadn’t moved an inch. He didn’t watch our game. He stared in a different direction, at the parking lot and the street, waiting for an evil that wasn’t there to saunter up and drag him back to a horrible place.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THAT SAME NIGHT after dinner and the kids all had their baths and went down for the night, I lay in bed next to my lovely Marie. The double French doors stood open, allowing in the humid summer night that helped keep our sweaty skin from drying too fast. The fan overhead went round and round, stirring air scented with hibiscus, fighting the humidity to cool down our heated bodies.

  Marie rested her head on my shoulder, her naked thigh draped over mine. She bumped her chin up and down on my chest. A little out of breath herself, she said, “Now, all because of you, I’m going to have to take another shower.”

  “You complaining?”

  “You know better than that.” She rolled off me, sat on the edge of the bed, and slapped my damp thigh. “Come on, cowboy, come wash my back.”

  The kids had worn me to a frazzle at the park, and after the romp with her, I didn’t have much left. Even so, I would never deny Marie anything. I followed her cute, little naked bottom into the bathroom.

  Tile covered the floor, the walls, and even the ceiling. All of the tiles were lime-green with little colorful roosters in the middle. We’d leased the hacienda from an ex-pat who had decided he preferred to go back to the States and risk getting caught. Oddly, the man had missed the hustle and bustle of living amongst so many people, who all tried to get ahead of everyone else, as compared to the calm, quiet life in Costa Rica.

  I turned on the light. “No,” she said, “leave it off.”

  I did as instructed. “I told you,” I said, “you’re beautiful.”

  She stepped into the tiled shower, leaving the curtain open, and turned the water on to lukewarm. “I’m fat and it’s all your fault.” She put both hands down to cup her tummy. She’d only just started to show and now referred to our growing child inside as “The Bump.” No way did she even remotely qualify as fat.

  Her tone held a sharper edge than normal. As a physician’s assistant, she knew what the pregnancy had in store for us more so than most mothers. She’d warned me several times that she’d, in all likelihood, be a victim of hormones, that I’d have to step easy around her when it happened, that it was nothing personal. And most important, not t
o ever forget, no matter what happened, that she still loved me dearly.

  Her mood shifted yet again and she giggled.

  “What?” I asked as I stepped in behind her.

  She held up two fingers six inches apart. “What’s this long, has nuts, and makes women fat?”

  I played along. “I don’t know, what?”

  “A Baby Ruth candy bar.”

  I chuckled. She laughed harder than the joke needed.

  In the shadowy light, she let the water sluice over her face and down between her breasts. I took up the bottled soap, squirted some in my hand, and went right to work washing her breasts.

  “Bruno, those aren’t as dirty as you’re making them out to be.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, you can never clean these—”

  She grabbed my hands. I hesitated at my word choice. She didn’t like me to refer to them as “knockers” —or worse, “fun-bags”—like our friend Drago called them. Not that I would. If nothing else, I was trainable.

  I said, “Juicy, juicy mangoes.”

  She laughed. “Yes, that’s much better, cowboy. Now get them clean.” She reached around and slapped my ass. She arched her back a little. “They’re not going to be juicy, juicy mangos much longer, more like coconuts or—”

  “Casabas maybe?”

  She giggled again. “You’d like that wouldn’t you? Men!”

  I spun her around, her back to me, and continued to soap up her breasts, my one hand wandering lower, past the bump. Lower still.

  She reached back and took hold of my stiffness pressing against her lower back. “Just as I suspected. You said the kids tired you out, and here you go initiating the launch sequence all over again.”

  “It’s not too late to stop this countdown.”

  She spun back around without letting go, went up on tiptoes, and kissed me full on the mouth, hot and wet. We broke, and, breathing hard, she whispered, “Houston, we are clear for liftoff.”

  A high-pitched scream caused us both to freeze.

  Marie yelped, “The children!”