The Vanquished

by David Putnam

  Not “the little mister” routine. She only used that term in severe cases of misconduct by the children.

  I tried to think back to the conversation Marie and I had about Sonja. We only spoke of her once, as far as I could recall, when she’d asked about Olivia’s mother. I winced at the memory. The words I’d used might’ve been a little misleading.

  No, there had been no question about it. I had implied that Sonja was . . . I’d said that Sonja was . . . “Sonja’s dead.” That’s what I’d said. But what I had meant to say, and didn’t finish, was, “Sonja’s dead to me.” I’d cut out two small words, and now I’d pay dearly just for those two little words.

  My thoughts shifted back to the problem at hand. How had Sonja found me? How had she gotten the phone number?

  Marie followed along in bare feet. I couldn’t hear or see her and didn’t want to look back to confirm it. I just knew she’d be close in tow, her jaw set firm, her eyes angry beyond belief. I fought the urge to contract my shoulders in self-defense for the blow that was sure to come. I didn’t know how she’d kept from hitting me with some object close at hand. I deserved every bit of her anger.

  In the entrance hall, I picked up the phone’s receiver and held it against my chest, where my heart beat out of control. I tried to compose myself.

  Sonja, of all people—why would she be calling me now? I hesitated for a couple of those heartbeats to examine my emotions, to see if I still held out some fire for her, no matter how small or how unlikely.

  And I did. I still did.

  And it wasn’t that small.

  Guilt for that feeling swept over me. I loved Marie beyond the other side of forever and would never do anything to hurt her. I didn’t want anything to change in our relationship, not when things hummed along so well. I knew when I had it good, and Sonja could only complicate matters. Could? She already had.

  Marie stood close, staring up at me, her arms folded across her chest, her eyes a beam searing a hole right through me.

  But Sonja had been my first true love. You never forget your first love. She and I had worked a patrol car together, one of the most intimate things a man and woman could do. Yes, I held something in my heart for her. Only now, that affection came out tarnished and old in comparison to what I had with my sweet Marie. Ours was new and fresh, something that would never tarnish or get old no matter what happened, even if an old flame suddenly interjected herself into our lives. I wouldn’t let it.

  With my mouth drier than dry, I swallowed and said, “Hello.” The word came out in a croak.

  “Bruno, is that really you?”

  “Sonja?”

  “Yes, it’s me, Bruno. Sonja.”

  “What’s going on? Why’d you call?”

  “Oh, it’s good to hear from you, too, Bruno, I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

  Same old Sonja.

  Marie went up on tiptoes to listen in.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “No, you’re right. How are you doing? It is good . . . no, great, to hear your voice again.” I looked askance at Marie just as she socked me in the shoulder.

  Marie whispered, “Great? You had to say great?” Then, louder, she said, “I’m pregnant, Bruno.” She held up her fist. “And hormonal.” I nodded that I understood.

  Back in the phone, Sonja said, “Not great, Bruno. I’ve got problems I can’t handle. Believe me or I wouldn’t be bothering you. Not now, not after all these years.”

  “I wish I could help, really I do, but right now I’m into something myself that’s taking all of my . . . ah focus and . . .”

  I didn’t want to brush her off, but I’d never felt more boxed in. Cannons to the left of me, cannons to the right of me, cannons in front of me.

  “Okay,” she said, “I understand.”

  We both let the silence over the line tear at our emotions. The nostalgia, just hearing her voice, threatened to choke me. Then she said, “You think I would have called if this wasn’t of the utmost importance?” Her tone turned angry at the end. Even though I loved Marie dearly, I didn’t want to make Sonja mad at me, either, and that wasn’t fair to Marie.

  Sonja composed herself and took a deep breath. “Listen, about us, now that I’m older and some time has gone by, I’m willing to admit I was the one who had the problem. I was the one who broke us up even though you’d been the one to say the words. And I’m sorry for that, Bruno, really I am. I’ve needed to tell you that for a long time now. It was all my fault.” Her voice caught with tears.

  Marie socked me again, lower this time. She stomped off down the hall. She slammed our bedroom door.

  “Sonja, I’m married now and I have . . . I have ten children who rely on me.”

  I wanted to tell her that I had a child on the way, but couldn’t get the words to materialize. I stopped to think, to figure out why I’d not said those words. Was it because I didn’t want Sonja to know how serious it was with Marie, or was it because I was ashamed at having a child at my age?

  “My wife’s pregnant,” I said.

  Sonja said nothing for a long moment, enough time for several thousand beats from my out-of-control heart. At least it seemed that long.

  Then, “Congratulations, Bruno. I know you’ll be a great father.”

  I didn’t know about that. I was about to leave on a mission that, in all likelihood, wouldn’t allow me to ever return to my family.

  “Thank you,” I said, without much behind it.

  “I’m going to only say one more thing to you, Bruno, and then I’m going to hang up.” She paused. “After that, you do what you think you need to do. All right?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “What I have to tell you needs to be said face-to-face. And, Bruno, hear me when I say you’re really going to want to hear this.” She paused again to let it sink in, then she said. “It’s Tuesday the 13th, and it was a blue Chevy.”

  Click.

  She’d hung up.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I LOOKED AT the phone in my hand. “What the hell could she have to tell me that I’d want to hear?” I said to no one. I stood there a moment, then put the phone down and headed back into the master bedroom.

  The last part about Tuesday the 13th and it was a blue Chevy was a code we’d used together when we worked patrol. The prime place to hunt for felony arrests was in the projects: Nickerson Gardens, Imperial Courts, and even Jordan Downs. But those areas belonged to LAPD, and by strict edict, sheriff’s deputies from Lynwood Station were not allowed to “poach” there. The idea was to let LAPD clean up their own messes. But if it was a slow shift and we hadn’t snagged our felony arrest for the day, then we’d swoop in and cherry-pick an easy one in the projects. If the shit ever went down heavy and you got separated from your partner before you could get your story together, then you needed to know only the day. On odd days, the probable cause was a blue Chevy that we followed in from our area. On even days, a green Ford.

  When she said, “Tuesday the 13th and it was a blue Chevy,” she meant that this was serious and not to talk about it to anyone else until we had a chance to talk first.

  Who the hell would I talk about it to? She didn’t tell me anything to talk about.

  In our bedroom Marie moved back and forth from her bureau to an open suitcase on the bed as she packed her clothes. When I entered, she stopped and pointed a loaded finger at me, her eyes fierce. “I’m going with you, and you better not so much as say boo about it or I’ll be all over you like white on rice. You understand me?”

  I bowed a little, not knowing what else to do, and made my exit. I knew Marie well enough not to even attempt a counterargument. I went back to the entry hall just outside the living room, to the small table with the phone. I dialed another number. It rang once. Someone picked up but didn’t say a thing.

  I said, “We’re coming, and I’m going to need your help in a big way.”

  “Hey, it’s my Negro friend, my only Negro friend. Good hearing from you. Perfect
timing. I need someone of your talents to gimme a hand with something . . . something of a sensitive nature, if you know what I mean? Gimme a call when you get into town. Can’t talk right now, I’m ass-deep in a caper. We’ll catch up when you get here.”

  “Thanks, man, you know I wouldn’t call unless I needed help in a bad way.”

  “Who’s we? You said, ‘we.’”

  “I’m bringin’ Marie.”

  “Excellent. See you soon, bro,” he said with a smile in his voice. He hung up.

  I steeled myself as I walked back to the bedroom. Marie stood on the bed and squatted as she tried to sit on the suitcase to get it closed enough to latch. Before she could point that dangerous finger at me again, I said, “It’s not what you think. I haven’t talked to that woman in twenty-five years.”

  Marie jumped off the suitcase, which sprang open, and hopped off the bed. She came right up to me, her eyes angry and sad at the same time. She stuck her finger into my chest and poked hard again and again. “That right? Then how did she know how to get a hold of you? Huh, cowboy? Tell me that. How in the holy hell did she know where to find you? You’re in Central America, little man. And only three people in the world know—Mack, Barbara, and Noble. And you and I both know they wouldn’t tell a soul. You and I both know those friends of ours don’t even know about Sonja Kowalski. So how could they tell her, huh?”

  Her words struck me like a sword slicing straight through my heart. I’d been too worried about the fallout with Marie to put two and two together. Marie, in her hyper-hormonal state, jumped to the conclusion that I’d gone off the reservation and violated our wedding vows. And then she asked the question I should’ve asked, the how instead of the why. How had Sonja found me? I moved in a daze, straight-legged over to the bed, and plopped down.

  Marie followed along. “What, Bruno? Are you okay? What’s the matter? Tell me. Are you having a heart attack? What?” She sat and held my hand, putting her other hand on my forehead. “What is it, you feeling sick? Tell me.”

  I looked at her. “There is someone else who knows exactly where we live.”

  “What? What are you talking about? Who?”

  “The Sons. They know. The Sons of Satan know.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  TWO HOURS LATER, Marie sat next to me in the first-class section as the plane lifted off. Noble had arrived on time, loaded with presents for all the kids, and instantly hit it off with them. Toby even opened up just a little, a glimmer of his old self when Noble gave him a baseball, glove, and a bat all his own.

  Noble still carried a bad limp from the injuries he’d sustained breaking out of prison, and he relied heavily on a cane. I feared he’d be crippled like that for the rest of his life.

  He and I had feuded for many years. Growing up, he’d taken a different path. He’d gone to the dark side and sold rock cocaine for Papa Dee in South Central Los Angeles. While working patrol out of Lynwood Station, I caught the trail of a murderer, a trail that led right to my brother. I arrested him. I hung the case on him and put him away for life without the possibility of parole.

  A little more than three weeks ago now, Marie and I, with the help of John Mack, broke Noble out of prison. In the process, I found out Noble had a noble reason in his mind for selling the dope. The shooting of the gangsters that sent him to prison had happened out of self-defense. He’d done it all for the love of a woman.

  Marie had not said one word on the drive from the house to the airport. And now she sat in the seat with her arms crossed, her jaw locked tight, and her eyes straight ahead.

  “You going to be like this,” I asked, “for the rest of the trip?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I’m unjustly accused here,” I said. “I swear I have not talked to the woman until just a little while ago with you standing right next to me. That was the first time in more than two decades.”

  Nothing.

  The flight attendant came by and gave us warm towels to wipe our faces and hands. I leaned over and used mine to wipe down Marie’s arms and face and neck. I kissed her gently on the lips.

  I leaned back in my seat. She turned, her eyes wet. “You lied to me.”

  I found it hard to swallow and wanted to look away but didn’t. I nodded.

  “Why, Bruno?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I believe you when you say that you haven’t talked to her until now, but it’s the lie that hurts.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would matter. I didn’t think that this would ever come up again. And to tell you the truth, I honestly don’t know why it has come up, even now.”

  “Well, it did come up, and it hurt me deeply.”

  I took her hand. “I know that now, and I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Babe, I love you and only you.” I reached down and rubbed her “bump.”

  Her eyes softened. She leaned over. I met her halfway and we kissed. She leaned back. “I told you it would be this way.”

  “What way’s that?”

  “That I’d be hormonal.”

  I knew better than to say anything. My dad didn’t raise any fools. She would’ve fired up the same way over what happened, hormones or not.

  I didn’t blame her. I deserved it.

  We held hands for about an hour, ate a nice in-flight meal of steak and baked potato, and after the flight attendant took our trays and again handed us hot towels, Marie turned to me. “Tell me.”

  “Tell you what, my love?”

  “Tell me all about Sonja.”

  “You sure you want to know?”

  “Bruno.”

  “Okay, okay. Let me think . . . ah.” Talking about it with her would come hard. “I’ll start with the night I was going to tell her we were through.”

  “Going to tell her? You never told her?”

  “Hold on. It got a little complicated. The whole thing got so damn complicated. You’ll understand in a minute after I tell you.”

  “We have a six-hour flight, cowboy,” she said, “and I’m not going anywhere, so spill it.”

  My body started to hum with tension. She wanted me to dredge up old memories I didn’t like and hadn’t thought of for many years. The kind of memories that took a chunk out of me that never healed.

  “Okay,” I said. “Remember the story I told you about the old couple on White Street, the one where the old man opened the door to two thugs who clubbed him and went in to rob and maim them?”

  “Yes, but now you’re telling me that Sonja was your trainee when that happened?”

  “Ah, yeah.”

  “When you told me that story, you neglected to tell me that part.”

  “Did I?”

  “You know you did.” Marie raised her voice. A woman with updo hair, red lipstick, red nails, and heavy eyeliner next to Marie looked over.

  I leaned in to Marie. “Keep it down, and I’ll tell you the whole thing.”

  She pinched my arm.

  “Ouch.”

  “You’re going to tell me the whole thing anyway, without any of your conditions.” She smiled.

  Her smile warmed me a little.

  We both scrunched down in our seats, our heads together. I told her again about getting the call on White, about how the old man shot two gangsters in self-defense and the way Sonja reacted to it. I told Marie about what happened when we got back to the station with Good, and how I’d decided to break it off with Sonja.

  Then I told her the rest of it.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  LYNWOOD SHERIFF’S PATROL AREA

  1988

  THE SAME NIGHT the two punks from the Trey-Five-Seven robbed the Abrams’ home on White Street in East Compton and Mr. Abrams shot them both, I worked overtime with Sonja and intended to tell her we were through at the end of shift. I loved her, but the white-on-black issue remained an insurmountable hurdle, one I could not force upon her. Not in clear conscience. I’d convinced myself she didn’t understand and that I
knew more about it than she did.

  An hour before we got off shift, we caught a Four-Fifteen-V—a violent domestic.

  On the way to the call I hung my arm out the patrol unit window, let the air rush in to cool the heat in my face generated from the idea of telling Sonja. When the time came, at the end of shift, I didn’t think I would be able to get the words out. I was sure I wouldn’t. I guessed telling her would be a lot like suicide: the mind says to do it, even has an overwhelming desire to, and the body’s survival instinct won’t let it happen. Intelligence and logic pushed me to break off our relationship, but my love for her, the more powerful of the three, ruled the day. I was being torn in half.

  Sonja said, “Can we swing by White Street on the way back, check on those old folks?”

  I took my eyes off the road and looked over at her. She kept her eyes straight ahead, watching the streets. She didn’t want to talk about the thing between us. She now did her job diligently and paid attention to the street. The crooks in the neighborhoods would take the street signs down in an attempt to thwart law enforcement. The deputies had to know the area by landmark or memorize the streets as they passed and used made-up acronyms. That’s why she watched so intently, her lips moving silently as we passed each street corner, mouthing the names from the acronym. One of the most dangerous aspects of patrol is not knowing where you are in order to call in backup. One of the biggest fears for any deputy was lying in the gutter, gut-shot, and no one knowing where to even start to look for you.

  “Sure,” I said. “No problem. We can go by the Abrams’ house, but I don’t think they’ll be back from the hospital yet.”

  She nodded. “We get off shift at three. Can you call the on-call OSS deputy and give him a heads-up to watch over the house? Maybe try to take the temperature of the Trey-Five-Sevens, see if OSS can do their job and intervene?”

  “No problem, I already said I’d do that. You okay? You got your head in the game, because we’re going Ninety-Seven.”

  She looked at me. “I’m good, Bruno. You don’t have to worry about me. You never have to worry about me.” She picked up the mic and said, “Two-Fifty-Three Adam is going Ninety-Seven tag fifteen, Two-Five-Three.”