The Vanquished

by David Putnam

  “What the hell happened to your face?” he asked.

  “I’m not here to talk about my face.”

  Sonja said to Bobby Ray, “Just come right out and ask him. I told you, Bruno’s not one to do the dick-around. I don’t know what happened to Bosco. He’s late, he’s not picking up his cell, so go ahead and get started. I know Bruno, he’s not going to wait around much longer. Bosco can catch up when he gets here.” She got it all out in one long, nervous string. What did she have to be so nervous about?

  Bobby Ray looked back at me. “I heard about what you did with those kids in Los Angeles. Hell, everyone has. That’s why I had Sonja call you. I need you.”

  “She’s right,” I said. “You don’t need to blow smoke up my dress. Let’s get right down to it. Sonja said you might be able to help me with my problem?”

  “It’s gonna be like that?”

  “Yeah, it’s gotta be.”

  He nodded and thought about his next words before he spoke. “My son has a kid; we call him Little Bosco. He’s the love of my life.” He picked up a picture from his desk. I didn’t look at it. Couldn’t, if I wanted to retain at least some objectivity. Kids could bore right into my heart and instantly take over all clear thinking.

  I shrugged, tried hard for indifference, and couldn’t pull it off. Not with a small child involved.

  “All right then,” Bobby Ray said, “here it is in a nutshell. My son’s been arrested and has a case pending against him. He’s out on bail for right now. He’s lookin’ at a lot of hard time in the pen because of that minimum sentencing bullshit. That can’t happen, he’s a good kid. He needs to be home to take care of Little Bosco. Little Bosco needs his father. I need my son. I want you to take care of this problem for me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “My son, Sebastian, got popped by ATF for something he shouldn’t have had anything to do with. It wasn’t his fault. He’s not guilty.” Bobby Ray raised his right hand. “I swear to you on a stack of Bibles, my kid’s innocent.”

  “How do you know for sure?”

  He sat down, tented his fingers, his smile gone now, replaced with a grim expression filled with sorrow and regret. “Because the guns they popped him with belonged to me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “I DON’T KNOW what you think I’m all about or how I can help you with something like this, because I don’t think I can.”

  He looked hopeful, as if I’d said, “Sure thing, whatever I can do.” But I didn’t. I stood there in one shoe, a half-second away from walking out—running out—to the smashed-up car. I needed to get back to Marie, to hold her in my arms, whisper to her about the evil I’d done, ask her if she could forgive me. I needed Marie, of all people, to forgive me.

  But she didn’t have the ability, not to forgive me for the killing of that young man—forgive me for that horrible sin.

  Bobby Ray came around the desk and went to the short dorm-sized refrigerator adjacent the desk. He bent over, took out a couple of ice-cold Corona beer bottles, popped off the caps, and offered me one. I started to refuse but realized my throat and mouth, which were beyond dry, begged for any type of moisture. I swallowed. No, not just dry, but arid to the point of dust. I took it, the glass cold and wet in my hand. He clinked his bottle with mine. I tilted the cold bottle back and glugged the beer. The cold liquid, the best I’d ever tasted, chilled my overheated body on the inside where the air conditioner couldn’t reach.

  He held out his hand and said, “Please, sit.”

  I again fought the anxiety to leave. I sat and drank down the rest of the beer, then set the empty on the desk in front of me. He handed me another that I drank half of as if I’d been stranded on a lifeboat without water. I gasped for breath and then wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I looked up at him, shrugged. “It’s a hot day.”

  He took a drink, watching me over his bottle.

  “Why don’t you go to the ATF,” I asked, “and just tell them the guns are yours?” I knew why, but wanted to see if he did, or if he’d tell me the truth.

  “I would,” he said. “I would, no question. Wouldn’t I, Sonja? Tell him I would.”

  That’s when I saw it, when they looked at each other, the relation between Sonja and Bobby Ray. They’d been trying to conceal it and accidentally let it slip out from where they’d kept it hidden.

  Why hide it?

  Sonja nodded. “He would. Bobby Ray would pay in a heartbeat. He loves Bosco. His name is Sebastian but we call him Bosco.”

  Bobby Ray pointed his beer neck at me and said, “You were a cop a lot of years, so you know how it works. I turn myself in, they don’t let Bosco go, they just take us both. The sons of bitches. But that’s not it, not all of it anyway. This shitty little deal gets a lot worse. And I can’t believe my son’s all wrapped up in it. It’s a nightmare. I love Bosco. You have kids, you gotta know what I’m talking about here.”

  I nodded.

  He nodded, too. “Okay then, here’s the deal. We also got this shitty little ATF agent thrown in the mix. This guy contacted us, said for fifty K, in fifties and hundreds, he’d lose some evidence transmittal forms, or some shit like that, and dump the case on a technicality. Bosco would walk.”

  I said nothing and sipped the beer.

  “It’s not about the money,” he said. “I got that kinda dough, no problem.” This time he pointed the bottle at me like a weapon as the anger rose in him. “My problem is that this ATF asshole will take the money and just ask for more, leave my Bosco sitting in the can holdin’ his dick. Why not? What does he have to lose once he does it the first time, takes my money, huh? Am I right? Am I right here? Fucking cops. They’re supposed to be the good guys. They’re supposed to follow the goddamn rules.”

  “Honey, take it easy,” Sonja said. Now she’d let their relationship out into the open as if proud of it.

  “Why am I here?” I asked, “What is it you think I can do?”

  Bobby Ray sat on the edge of his desk in front of me, too close, our knees inches apart. I put the cold bottle on my injured arm and flexed my fingers. Very soon I’d need the use of my fingers, and the tingling worried me.

  “You’re a cop, you can talk to this guy and find out if this ‘losing the transmittal’ thing is bullshit or if it’s for real. You’d be our middleman, give him the money. Then you tell me if you think that’s it, that he won’t come back for more.”

  I nodded, curious now. What he said didn’t make sense, not all of it anyway. He’d been too smart in what he said up to this point, describing my part in his little play. No way in hell would it work out the way he described, not with me involved.

  “Not to sound too self-absorbed or anything, but let me ask this again. If I do this, how are you gonna help me with my problem?” I wanted to see if they really did know what kind of problem I had, let alone would be able to solve it.

  Bobby Ray smiled, showing all his teeth, teeth big as Chiclets. A perfect smile, except for a gap on the right uppers where two had been knocked out. “’Cause,” he said, “I can take care of your problem with The Sons.”

  They did know.

  How did they know?

  How could they possibly get The Sons to back down?

  “How?”

  He shook his finger at me and went to the reefer. He got out two more beers, opened them, and handed me one. I finished the second, though I knew I shouldn’t have. I needed all my wits about me. I took the third. I just couldn’t quench my thirst. I set the empty on the desk next to the first one.

  He said, “You’re just going to have to trust me on this.” He looked over at Sonja for verification.

  Sonja said, “Bruno, you have my word that he does have the ability to stop The Sons from ever bothering you again.”

  “Nothing personal, Sonja, but I haven’t talked with you for over two decades, and I got a lotta skin in this game.”

  “You fix this,” Bobby Ray said. “I don’t care how you do it,
and I promise to make it right with The Sons. That won’t be no small job either, they really want a piece of you. But I’ll do it, you have my word.”

  “Do it any way I can?” I said.

  “That’s right.” He looked me in the eye when he said it.

  Now I understood. They needed someone they could trust to do a job on a fed. Preferably someone already a fugitive, hiding out in another country, someone who’d leave this country after the job was completed. The trust part being the major factor.

  Over the quiet rumble from the in-the-window air conditioner came the muffled roar of motorcycles echoing down the long driveway we’d walked in on.

  Sonja smiled, the big smile that I used to know. “That’ll be Bosco. Come meet him. Then you’ll see. You’ll see that he didn’t have anything to do with this mess. You’ll be able to tell by just looking into his eyes that he’s innocent.”

  Bobby Ray and Sonja went past me to the door. I got up and followed, clumped along in my one shoe and holding the cold bottle to my face, more relaxed than when I came in thanks to the alcohol.

  Outside, the bright sunlight blinded me. I held my arm up, the sun hotter than before.

  My eyes adjusted. I stumbled back a couple of steps in shock.

  In the driveway, not ten feet in front of us, sat four Harley Davidsons, all chrome, with ape-hanger handlebars. Just like the others on the freeway. The gas tanks were intricately airbrushed, painted with skulls and shotguns, Viking helmets and Vikings and their long beards. The bikes didn’t shake me as much as the men who rode them.

  Four outlaw motorcycle gang members, all wearing denim cuts, flying the colors of their gang. The Visigoths.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  HOW HAD THEY tracked me here? I couldn’t run, not with one shoe, and expect to gain any distance before they brought me down. Not with three of them in the driveway, all young bucks. I backed up to the wall and slipped off the remaining shoe for better balance and traction. The cold, wet beer bottle, my only weapon, almost slipped from my hand.

  I’d fight them.

  Three of the bikers looked sheepish and wouldn’t make eye contact with Bobby Ray. The fourth, the leader who wore the “Sergeant at Arms” rocker and the name patch “Monster,” looked angry enough to chew nails.

  Sonja keyed in on Monster. “What’s the matter? What’s happened? Where’s Bosco?”

  Bobby Ray put a less-than-gentle hand on her shoulder, eased her back, and at the same time stepped in front of her. “What’s goin’ on, Joe?” he said to Monster. “Tell me now.”

  Bosco? Oh, Jesus, one of the three I’d encountered on the freeeway belonged to Bobby Ray. His son? Two out of the three were too old to be his son. It could only be the one.

  How absolutely awful.

  What a horrible mess.

  I didn’t know the man, but I had kids, and couldn’t imagine the pain he was about to experience.

  Monster took his time removing his helmet, made a show of it. He rubbed his bald and sweaty pate with his free hand.

  I didn’t want him to talk anymore, to say the words. But he did.

  “Sons of bitches killed ol’ Hector.”

  Bobby Ray jumped forward and took hold of Monster’s denim vest. “Who? Who killed ol’ Hector?”

  “The cops. On the freeway. Not that far from here, either. Right off Central. And they didn’t do nothin’ either, Bobby Ray. The cops just pulled ’em over for nothin’ and started shooting. Gunned ol’ Hector like a dog.”

  Sonja’s hand flew to her mouth. A little “oh” escaped her lips.

  “Tell me all of it,” Bobby Ray said through clenched teeth.

  I took a deep breath. I tried to relax but couldn’t. These men didn’t have their facts straight, none of them.

  Good thing.

  They hadn’t followed me after all. It wouldn’t take them too long, though, to figure out what really happened, who’d participated, and who did what. Now the three I’d confronted, the two killed, and the one beaten and cuffed to the bumper of the car, didn’t turn out to be some random contact after all. They’d been on their way to this same meeting on Kadota at the motorcycle shop with Bobby Ray, Sonja, and me. But a freak set of circumstances had intervened. Our paths crossed en route. Bad luck for everyone involved.

  Suddenly Sonja moved in, elbowed Bobby Ray outta the way, and took first position on Monster, her hands on his denim vest. “Where’s Bosco? He was forbidden to ride with Ol’ Hector. Tell me he wasn’t riding with Ol’ Hector.”

  Monster couldn’t look Sonja in the eye, couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Not with that big ugly question on the table.

  Bobby Ray figured out the answer, one he didn’t want. He roared. He knocked Sonja out of the way and slugged Monster, hit him right in the mouth. Blood spewed. Monster flew back, his outstretched arms tried to keep Bobby Ray off him. Not today. Today no one person—not even five—could have kept Bobby Ray from exploding. Bobby Ray came in swingin’, roaring like a bull.

  Monster, the sergeant at arms, went down under a barrage of knuckles, not daring to fight back.

  Bobby Ray must’ve been the president of the Visigoths.

  The president, Jesus.

  Under the emotional onslaught, my mind went into a sort of neutral, an almost out-of-body experience. An odd thought bubbled up all on its own. The president of the Visigoths probably could keep The Sons of Satan off my family.

  I snapped back into reality. Bobby Ray spun around, not done yet. The other three young studs looked around, ready to bolt, and couldn’t move, didn’t dare move. Bobby Ray grabbed the closest one. He shook him hard until the biker’s head jerked back and forth and his teeth banged together. “Tell me.”

  The biker closest to Bobby Ray’s new victim held up his hands. “Wait, wait. I’ll tell you.”

  Bobby Ray froze, let go of his victim. Everyone held their breath.

  The young biker said, “The cops, they threw Bosco out inta traffic. He got hit by a car.”

  “Aieeee.” Sonja wilted to the ground, sat right down on her folded-up legs and let out another mournful wail. One that I’d been the cause of, one that ripped my guts out. I rushed to her side with a load of guilt now impossible to carry.

  How the hell could this have happened? I knew. I did. And in that same emotional funk I looked back on a lesson hard-earned for solace, solace in any amount.

  Robby explained it once while we hunted a murderer. We’d come upon a fresh kill, a violent scene in an apartment.

  We got the story from the one guy left alive, barely. The suspect we hunted, Gary Weems, had pulled a gun, then everyone else in the room pulled theirs. The ensuing gunfight resulted in six dead and one wounded, all in a ten-by-twelve apartment. I stood there in shock and awe over what humans could do to one another.

  Robby stood at the edge of the clumped-up mass of bodies and blood. He saw my confusion, put his hand on my shoulder, and said, “Bruno, my man, you can’t have any compassion for these shitheads. They don’t give one shit for their victims when they’re raping, robbing, and murdering ’em. If you live by the shithead code, eventually, more sooner than later, you’re gonna get your ass stomped. By the good guys or like this . . .” He held up his hand. “By their own kind. It’s part of their cycle of life, eat or be eaten. Ain’t this absolutely poetic, though?”

  Back then, in that apartment, in that moment, I caught a glimpse of the real Robby Wicks and realized he, too, lacked compassion of any kind. A true predator, without compassion, who chased other predators, ran them to the ground, and killed them. That’s what he’d meant. That’s what I’d done naturally out on that freeway, did it the way Robby trained me to. I’d played by his cycle-of-life theory.

  Without any compulsion, I tossed a kid out into traffic. I hated Robby Wicks and his simplistic explanation even if it did ring true and fit the circumstances. I had not wanted to be eaten and had acted on one of the most basic rules of the jungle.

  Down on one knee, I
put my arm around Sonja. She leaned into me. Her course gray hair smelled strongly of green apples and shook me with a nostalgia that took me back to a simpler time. Tears wet her face.

  A lump rose in my throat. “Was he your son?” I asked in a quiet tone, in a voice I didn’t recognize.

  She froze. Slowly, she looked up at me, her face turning from sorrow to anger. With her hand, she shoved my face away. She struggled to her feet and ran for the office.

  Bobby Ray anticipated her move. “No. No, Sonja, don’t.” He ran after her. In three long steps, I made it to the door and looked in. Sonja yanked on a file drawer and pulled out a Sig Sauer 9mm.

  Bobby Ray tried to grab the gun. She fought him over it. “I’m gonna shoot those bastards. I’ll gun some cops today, I swear I will. They’ll be out there on the freeway working the crime scene. All bunched up. Easy targets. Come on, Bobby Ray, grow a set of balls, huh? This is Bosco we’re talkin’ about here. Our Bosco. Let’s go do this.”

  Bobby Ray yanked the gun from her hands. Tears streamed down his face as well. He pulled back and slapped her so hard the sound made a crack in the small confines.

  I stepped into the office, tugged his shoulder around, and slugged him full in the face. His arms windmilled. He fell across the desk and slid over, taking all the tabletop contents with him, including my two empty beer bottles.

  Behind me, Monster’s voice whispered, “Say good night, you abba-zaba.”

  He clubbed me with something.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  I WOKE TO semi-darkness, my head throbbing in time with my heartbeat. Some things around me continued to bang and rattle. The scent of oil and gas hung thick and heavy down low at the floor level where I lay on my back, my hands and feet duct-taped. I kept my eyelids closed to mere slits until I figured out what happened, where I’d landed. My head ached something fierce with a pain that bleated bright colors behind my eyes.

  I remembered everything, including the cowardly whack from behind by Monster. More important, though, I remembered the motivation—plenty of it—for the Visigoths to take me out to the desert and bury me in an anthill up to my neck.