The Vanquished

by David Putnam

  I held his arm and we did a shuffle-step down the flagstone walk to the clinic. His frail arm brought me back to another time, a graveyard shift at Lynwood, on White Street, and another old man whom I had failed to protect at the time.

  “Somethin’ happened last night,” Dad said without looking at me, his full concentration on his foot placement.

  “I’m sorry, did we make too much noise?”

  “No, I didn’t hear you, but this morning at breakfast you could serve up the tension in the air with a spoon. What’s going on, Son?”

  We stopped at the bench under the shade of a Spanish Feeder tree and sat, the morning fresher than usual after a recent rain.

  I knew better than to lie to him even if I did it to protect his feelings. “I have to go back again.”

  He didn’t reply right off and tried to catch his breath from the exertion of the short walk. “I can’t for the life of me . . . imagine what would be so bad . . . or so demanding that it would draw you back to that ugly world. Not when you have everything right here. This is paradise, Son. You of all people know that.”

  I nodded and fought down the rage that started up again, rage fueled by my inability to live a life like Dad described, rage fueled by ignorant and violent people who couldn’t leave well enough alone, leave me or my family alone to live quiet lives.

  “Yes, I agree this is paradise, Dad, and if I want to keep it that way, I have to go back to keep the ugliness from following me here. Believe me, if there were any other way, I wouldn’t be going.”

  He nodded. “If Marie is letting you go, then I trust her judgement. She wouldn’t unless there wasn’t any other way.”

  My jaw sagged open. “Oh, is that right? You trust that Marie could make a sane and cognizant decision, but me, you think I can’t?”

  He chuckled and patted my leg with a frail hand. “No, Son, I just think . . .”

  He hesitated.

  “What?”

  “I just think that you have something inside you, a kind of hunger that every now and then needs to be fed. A need to right a wrong, no matter whose wrong it is, to better the world even if it means stepping on someone’s neck in the process.” He paused a long moment and swallowed hard. “And I worry that, during one of those feeding times, something will go horribly wrong, and you will not be allowed to come back to us.”

  “Huh. I never thought of it exactly like that. I mean what you said about fulfilling a need . . .” My voice trailed off. His words evoked great emotions. I scrambled to examine those words to see if they held even the smallest bit of truth.

  Unfortunately, they did, and that made me uncomfortable.

  “You know, you’re some kind of wise old man.”

  A tear filled his right eye and threatened to spill over the edge. “This is gonna be a bad one, isn’t it?”

  I tried hard to force out the lie. Tell him how I’d take care of this thing and be back in a couple of days, only I couldn’t. I said nothing, and in that non-response, he’d easily glean the truth.

  I needed to change the subject. “Noble’s coming to stay for a while, until I can get all my business taken care of.”

  “It’ll be good to see your brother again.” He smiled, but it came out crooked; too many of his facial muscles had melted away with the cancer.

  “Come on, Dad, let’s get you inside.”

  “No, no, not just yet. Let’s just sit out here a little longer. You need to tell me what’s bothering you. There’s something else that’s got you all worked up. You don’t need that kind of thing hangin’ over your head when you go back to deal with the likes of what you gotta deal with.”

  He’d again caught me unaware. The man had an innate sense when it came to reading people.

  I looked away from him, back at the street to the passing cars, not unlike Toby at the park, watching for that evil to catch up to him.

  He waited for me to tell it. I wouldn’t get away with a lie or an excuse. He’d know.

  I shook my head, fought tears of my own, and then just let it out. “I wasn’t a good father.”

  I didn’t look at him. He patted my leg again. That simple contact meant the world to me.

  I turned back to him and asked, “How did you do it? How did you know how to be such a good father?”

  Before he could answer, I continued on, “I know I wasn’t so good at it back when I worked the street raising Olivia. I admit I screwed that up. I did. I screwed it up something terrible. And I live with those regrets every day.”

  He still said nothing and let me continue at my own pace.

  “But now, Dad, now I’m really trying. I’m focused and really paying close attention. I am, and somehow I keep screwing this up.” I didn’t want to tell him that some evil I’d been watching for had penetrated our defenses and that poor little Toby became the victim of my ineptitude.

  I waited for him this time.

  “Are you kidding me?” he said. “Those kids wouldn’t have had one chance in hell. Not one chance in hell if you had not interceded and taken them from those dangerous homes. Have you ever thought about that? You are doin’ the best you can and no one can ask more of you. Not without dealing with me first. And you damn well know I’m not someone to trifle with.”

  I thought about that for a moment and let it sink in. What he said made sense. The first part anyway.

  “And as far as Olivia,” he said, “I won’t lie to you, Son. You could’ve done better with her. But you were nothing more than a kid yourself. Keep that in mind. You didn’t have any life experience back then. You were living a violent life making the streets safer for everyone, and doing it for the better good.”

  “Dad, that’s not a good enough excuse for being a bad father. In fact, there’s no such thing, there’s no excuse that works.”

  “I won’t disagree with you there, but think about this. Could you have done what you did, pulled all those children out of those horrible homes, brought them all down here where it’s safe, had you not had all those experiences working on that special team with the sheriff’s department?”

  What he said warmed my soul. It made a lot of sense and helped, to some degree, to assuage the guilt and anguish eating away at my core values. Only it wouldn’t take all of it away. No way it could.

  I needed to feed the beast he’d described, and do it soon. And in doing so, keep my family safe.

  “Son, you’ve made great sacrifices and you’ve done an admirable job in the process. So when you tell me this time that there’s no getting around going back, then I believe you. I say go ahead. You go with my blessing. Just keep your head down and get back here as soon as you can. We need you, Son. We need you here with us.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I MOVED ABOUT the bedroom preparing for the trip, dreading it. I didn’t want to go. Well, a large part of me didn’t want to go. The other part, the one that Dad described—the beast—couldn’t get there fast enough.

  Marie wore sandals with shorts and a pink t-shirt she’d made special just for me that read, “Bruno’s naughty little girl.” She kept her chin up and didn’t talk about my trip, even though the topic smothered the room the same as if a fat elephant sat on the entire house.

  I put an old, banged-up leather grip on the bed, and beside it I laid out the few clothes I intended to take. Each time I went to the closet and came back with another shirt or a pair of pants, the clothes I’d just put down prior had disappeared. I spun around and Marie returned with a different shirt and a different pair of pants, clothes she thought I needed. She set those down and returned to the closet. I picked up what she’d set down and took them back to the closet and again retrieved the first set I wanted originally.

  She stopped mid-step with more clothes in her hands, looked at me, looked at the clothes on the bed, and said, “You know I’m only asking you to do one thing for me, just one. You know that, right?”

  I walked over and took her hand. I guided her to the bed and sat down with her. �
��I know,” I said, “that this is difficult for you, I really do.”

  She gripped my hand hard until her hand blanched. “You didn’t answer my question, Bruno Johnson.”

  I’d been so focused on the task that lurked in both our minds that my thoughts remained jumbled in regard to the simple things like packing, as well as the most important ones, like consoling my wife. I’d forgotten what she’d said and didn’t want to hurt her feelings by admitting it. “I promise to bring you home something special. You name it, whatever your little heart desires. A Mercedes coupe, seven Coach bags, one for each day of the week, Chanel Number 5, or maybe just one red rose.”

  She let go and socked me in the chest. “You never listen to me, do you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “What’d I say, then?”

  I tried to play back our one-sided conversation in my head and nothing popped.

  Nothing except the memory of that raspy voice on the phone, the one that menaced my family.

  I took her hands and pulled her up, brought her around and sat her on my lap. She nuzzled my neck, her breath warm and comforting. She whispered, “You know I can’t go with you, and I want to more than anything in the world. But I can’t. I have a responsibility. Bruno, all you have to do to make me the happiest woman in the world is to come back here.”

  She reached over, took my hand, and placed it on The Bump.

  I nodded, acknowledging her one request. “Kiddo, there’s no way I’d let you go anyway, end of story,” I said. “Not this time, not with what has to be done.”

  “That’s just it—” Her voice caught. “I’ve tried to think of any possible way this could work out. And I can’t, not without a lot of people getting hurt.” A little sob snuck out. “Bruno, this is an international outlaw motorcycle gang who wants you . . . Who wants you . . .”

  “Hush, now. Have you ever known me not to take care of business and come right home afterward?”

  “How then, Bruno? Just tell me how you intend to take care of this monumental problem.”

  I had no clue as to what I’d do once I got to the States. And she wasn’t far off the mark. I, too, could not think of any solution, not yet anyway, and I hoped like hell one would come to me before too long. I wished my old boss Robby Wicks, the leader of the Violent Crimes Team, were still alive. He’d know exactly what to do. He wouldn’t hesitate for one second. He’d simply say, “Saddle up, Bruno, let’s go kick some white-trash ass.”

  I kissed her cheek, tasted the salt in her tears. “Listen, as soon as I land and I get things started over there, that’ll be the distraction we were talking about. I’ll give you a call, give you the code word, and then you pack up our little circus here and get on the road. Find a safe place in Panama. Then I’ll catch up to you there, later on after I finish my business.”

  “You didn’t answer the question, Bruno.”

  Rosie came to the open bedroom door. “Meester, there’s someone here to see you.”

  “Thank you.” I stood, lifting Marie with me and gently sat her down as if she were a delicate porcelain doll.

  “That’ll be Salvador. He’s going to watch over you until you get settled in Panama.”

  “Salvador?” she said. “You don’t worry about us. No one, and I mean no one’s going to come within miles of us without having to reckon with me. And Noble’s coming, too. We don’t need to spend that kind of money with Salvador. We’ll be all right.”

  “Noble is coming, but this is just a little redundant insurance. Humor me, okay, sweetie?”

  I went over to the nightstand, picked up a book, and headed for the front door.

  When Marie and I left to go back to the States to deal with Jonas Mabry, I hired a local private security company to watch over Dad and the kids. Salvador, the owner of the security company, and two of his operatives did a fantastic job. An ex-pat local by the name of Jake Donaldson came for me while I was gone. Salvador did not hesitate and engaged Donaldson in a gunfight that ran Donaldson off.

  The open front door let the bright sunlight outside into our home. Salvador stood in our entrance hall wearing a white linen suit, his black hair slicked back. He could’ve been the actor Andy Garcia’s twin brother. He smiled wide when he saw me. He offered his hand when I got close. I knocked it away and gave him a hug. My arm bumped his automatic in a shoulder holster under his suit coat. “Good to see you, my friend,” I said.

  “Yes, good to see you as well, amigo.”

  I held out my arm toward the kitchen. “Please, have a beer with me.”

  He nodded and followed along. I closed the front door, went through the dining room and into the kitchen. I took out two brown bottle beers, took the caps off, and handed him one. We stood by the center island in the middle of the kitchen. I took a gulp and he took a meager sip, drinking more for the ceremony.

  “I need you to do a job for me,” I said.

  He nodded. “No problem.”

  “No, this is . . . this will . . . please, come with me.”

  I led him out to the back patio off the kitchen and closed the double French doors. Salvador lost his smile and turned professional. “What has happened, my friend?”

  “I have to leave. I have to go back to the States, and there isn’t any way around it.”

  “I understand. You want me to protect your family? I can do that. You can trust me with your family, you know this.”

  “I know, my friend, and of course I trust you, but that’s just a part of it. Something happened. I need your . . . ah, your best people on this, you understand?” I didn’t know how to ask him such a huge favor.

  “What has happened?”

  “Some people came for me, the kind of people who’ll stop at nothing.”

  He smiled. “This is not a problem. You don’t have to worry anymore about it.” At that moment I recognized in him what Dad had described. Salvador had a beast as well, and it needed feeding.

  “I know,” I said, “I do, but here’s the deal. You know my son Toby?”

  “Yes, you have a lot of sons.”

  I nodded. “These people are in town.” I pointed down at the ground. “I mean right here in our town. And somehow they got to my son—”

  Salvador put his beer down on the picnic table, his smile gone. “Is your son Toby okay?”

  I nodded again. “You see, we watch our children very closely because of their past. They can’t have anything more happen to them. And I failed at this. I failed miserably. Someone, somehow, got to Toby. They wrote a message on his back, a challenge and a threat.”

  “Is your son okay?”

  “Physically, yes.”

  Salvador caught my meaning and looked toward the house. “These people, you say they are in our town right now?”

  “Yes. I have strong reason to believe that they are and that my family is in danger because of their presence.”

  “And they hurt your son?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now I understand your meaning. For this I will get Jose Rivera. He and I will handle it personally.”

  I took from my pocket one of the two-karat diamonds my brother, Noble, gave me not three weeks before. “Here, this is appraised at twelve thousand dollars. This one is for the protection of my family. I will give you three more just like it if you take care of the problem in town.”

  He took the diamond and held it up to the sunlight, not really interested in the quality, and used it as a distraction to ponder the contract. “This is more than satisfactory for the protection of your family. And three more for the problem in town is too much, especially since they have already harmed your son. Ticos look out for their own. And you are Tico, my friend. One additional diamond will be satisfactory.”

  “Thank you, Salvador. I will rest easy now with you on the job.” I shook his hand.

  I held up the book. “This is my brother’s book, A Noble Sacrifice.” I turned it over and showed him the photo of Noble and me sitting on the front porch of our house
on Nord in South Central Los Angeles. “He’ll be here in a few hours. Other than Noble, no one is to come within fifty feet of my family.”

  “I understand.”

  “I don’t know who or what the people look like who hurt my son.”

  “That won’t be a problem, I promise you. I know all the people in our village, and they will talk to me. No one can hide.”

  I stuck out my hand and we shook on it. I felt better already.

  The doors leading to the kitchen opened. Marie stood there, angry. “Telephone for you, Bruno.”

  “Who is it?”

  She let go of the doorknob and put her hands on her hips. Anger flared in her eyes, anger unlike other women’s, anger rooted in her hot Puerto Rican blood.

  This was going to be a bad one, real bad.

  “The woman you told me was dead,” she said. “Sonja Kowalski.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sonja Kowalski?

  A wave of nostalgia shook me to the core and almost took me to my knees. I flashed back to my patrol days at Lynwood, the hot summer nights working a black-and-white with Sonja. Her beautiful eyes, the soft touch of her alabaster skin, her red hair, and most of all, her scent. Twenty-five years later I smelled her scent all over again, the same as if she stood inches away, that unique combination of woman and green apple shampoo, with a hint of hibiscus left over from her perfume.

  “Bruno?”

  “What? Oh, yeah.” I snapped out of my funk and turned to Salvador. “Thank you, sir.” I shook his hand again like some kind of absentminded professor.

  He smiled. “I’ll see myself out. It appears you have other more pressing business to attend to.”

  Glad he didn’t shoot me a knowing smile, the one I knew he kept in his pocket.

  I followed along behind him, my mind racing far out ahead. He passed Marie, who stood in the doorway. I bent down to kiss her on the lips, and she turned away. “You need to get the phone. Then, little mister, we’re going to talk.”