The Heartless

by David Putnam

  From the shaded darkness inside came a confident voice. “We don’t want nothin’ you’re sellin’, Mr. Poleeseman, so step off.”

  “Open the damn door. Now.”

  “Or what? If you had a warrant, you’d already have broke it down. Go on, get yourself a warrant, Deputy.”

  I grabbed onto the wrought iron out of frustration and tried to pull the steel door off. The young man inside started to laugh until the door bulged a little.

  “What’s wit’ you? What’s you want?”

  “My daughter. My daughter’s in there and if you’ve hurt her—”

  “Your daughter ain’t in here, Deputy.”

  I backed up and looked around for something, a big rock, anything to help force my way into the house. That’s when I noticed the judge had disappeared. He’d gone around back all on his own, a dangerous proposition. No time though. I went back and shook the door and yelled. “Olivia? I’m here, baby. I’ll be in there in just a minute.”

  From inside the voice said, “Olive? Dat’s her daddy out there?”

  Another voice said, “Oh, shit, you know who that is out dere? That’s Bruno Johnson. Man, we’re in deep shit, now. I’m outta here.”

  “I don’t care if it’s the whole damn SWAT team, dey ain’t comin’ through that door. I built it myself.”

  I heard the back door bang open as the gangster fled. Then from inside a familiar voice said, “Open that door and let the deputy in. Do it right now.” Judge Connors had gone in the back when the gangster had opened the door.

  “How’d you get in here?” a gang member asked.

  I went up to the security screen, and in between the wrought iron, I put my hands close to shade my eyes and peered in.

  Connors stood in the living room with his huge .44 Magnum pointed at the leader. “You go for that gun, Sonny Jim, and I’ll—”

  The gun in his hand went off. The retort sounded like a bomb in the enclosed space. The gang leader dropped to the floor as if someone pulled his plug.

  Sirens from all over the city came on. Back at the courthouse Nicky Rivers, on the phone with Olivia, had been listening and called it in.

  The security door ratcheted and pushed open to the smiling face of Judge Connors. “Come on in, we’re having a party.”

  I pulled my gun and rushed in. I jumped over the downed gang member on the floor and ran for the back of the house. “Olivia? Olivia?”

  I rushed down the hallway. The bedroom door opened. Out popped my daughter. I grabbed her up and hugged her. I set her down and ran my hands over her arms and back and head. “Are you all right? Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?”

  “I’m fine, Popi. I’m fine.” Her face was swollen from crying and wet with tears. A small metallic voice helped to peel me down off the ceiling and out of my panic. Olivia handed me the phone. I took it. “Nicky? We’re code four here. We’re okay. Thanks. I mean it, thanks a lot.”

  “Is everything really okay? I heard a gunshot. I called Compton PD. They’re looking for the house. What’s the address? I’ll give it to them.”

  “What?” Then I remembered the judge and that he might’ve shot someone. “I have to go.” I hung up. With my arm around Olivia, I escorted her back out into the living room. Judge Connors stood in the center of the room with his gun pointed at three black gang members now sitting on the couch, including the one from the floor that I’d leaped over, the one that I’d thought had been shot.

  The one sandwiched in the middle on the couch was Derek Sams, the cause of all this heartache. His left eye was welded shut, swollen with purple and his mouth a mess of split lips and broken teeth.

  Olivia yelled, “Derek!” She tried to break away from me. I caught her and held on, pulled her in tight.

  “You okay, Your Honor?” I asked.

  Olivia struggled to get free. “Let me go. Let me go. Derek’s hurt.”

  “I have to tell you, Bruno—” the judge waved his gun like a half-crazed killer—“that was the most fun I’ve had in years.” His eyes were still wild with excitement. I went over to him with Olivia snug under one arm, and put my other hand on his gun to lower it. “It’s all over now, Your Honor. Put that away.”

  “I don’t think so, not until the blue suits get in here.”

  I looked him in the eyes. He looked invigorated, like a twenty-five-year-old, when he had to be in his early-to mid-sixties.

  “Did you hit anyone with your shot?”

  “What? Hell no. That was a warning shot.” He pointed with his gun to the ceiling. “Went clean through, you can see daylight. Isn’t that something?” He lowered his tone and leaned closer. “I think that big bad gang member over there messed himself.”

  Olivia banged on my arm trying to get away. I held on tighter. “Bruno, let me go. Let go of me or I’ll scream.”

  So much for “Popi.” I was back to being Bruno.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TWO HOURS LATER, after Compton PD took the report and finished all the interviews, I drove my Ford Ranger north out of Compton into Lynwood, then headed on through to Southgate and our apartment. Olivia sat twisted on the passenger seat next to me, looking back through the open sliding window at her boyfriend Derek Sams, whom I made ride in the open truck bed. I wanted some alone time to talk to my daughter about what had happened and to make sure she realized the severity of the situation. That’s what I told myself, anyway. In reality, I just couldn’t stand the little shit weasel.

  I never spoke ill of children or young people; they had it hard enough without adults disparaging them. But it took every ounce of self-control to keep from throttling him for putting Olivia in such a dangerous environment. And maybe I still would. To do anything in front of Olivia would only push her further away. But I didn’t know what else to do. I’d tried everything to get through to her.

  Olivia shoved my shoulder and scowled. “Making him ride back there like that, you’re treating him like a piece of garbage. He’s hurt. He’s hurt real bad, Bruno. We should be taking him to the doctor right now and not driving him home.”

  I took my eyes off the road and looked at her. “I don’t think you understand—I cut him a huge break. He should’ve gone to jail. He went to that house on Pearl to cop some dope. Being at a dope house is a misdemeanor. He endangered your life. Don’t you get that?”

  “No, he didn’t. I told you, he went there because he owed them some money. He didn’t have it, and he wanted to reason with them. He’s really great. I mean, the way he can talk to people. You just never took the time to get to know him, that’s all. And that’s not fair. If he’d stayed in school, he’d have been the captain of the debate team, I know he would have. Please, Bruno, just once sit down and talk to him. Really talk to him.”

  She didn’t get it. Derek owed those gangsters on Pearl. They’d fronted him some dope, and he’d spent the money before he could pay it back. That’s why they beat him.

  “He’s no good for you, O. Look what just happened. He should never have—”

  “Bruno, stop. I love him. Can’t you understand that? You need to accept it. Once you do, you’ll see that you’ll never be able to change it. This is the way it’s going to be. Forever. We’re going to be together forever and ever. So get used to it.”

  She talked as if she were older, like a young adult. As if she truly knew how this world worked. When she really had no clue. She didn’t know how one poor choice could lead to another and another until it wrecked your entire life. Where had my little girl gotten off to? It seemed just yesterday we’d sat at the kitchen table making macaroni paintings of houses and dogs and cats on blue construction paper.

  Why couldn’t she see this for the problems Derek Sams had already caused? It was so obvious. The frustration of it made me want to punch something. Like the punk in the back of my truck.

  I said, “He’s seventeen and you’re only fourteen.”

  “Oh, my God.” Her eyes went wide. She turned around, crossed her arms, and looked straight a
head.

  “All right, now what’ve I done?” I should’ve stayed angry and come down on her with severe sanctions for skipping school to hang out with Derek Sams even after I’d told her in no uncertain terms to stay away from him. But I couldn’t. Standing outside the house on Pearl, helpless, unable to get in, I’d experienced a wake-up call. I had just lived through the worst possible scenario where she was only feet away in dire peril, and I couldn’t get to her through the steel door. I could’ve lost her. I couldn’t imagine a world without my darling Olivia, a world colorless, sterile, and devoid of all joy.

  I nudged her with an elbow. “Come on, O, tell me what I did.”

  She turned, scowled again, and with too much vehemence, said, “I was going to wait and see how long it actually took before you figured it out. I can’t believe this. I really can’t.”

  “Tell me.” I nudged her again.

  “I turned fifteen two weeks ago.”

  “What?” My mind spun to catch up. Of course, she was right. I’d screwed up big-time. This murder trial with Louis Borkow had been a huge distraction. “Ah, man, I’m sorry, O, really I am. I’ve just been so—”

  “Busy. I know.”

  I’d left the violent crimes team, a job I dearly loved, and taken the job in court services for a consistent schedule. Olivia needed more supervision. I couldn’t give it to her if I was chasing murder suspects and bank robbers all over Southern California. I needed to pay closer attention. Spend some quality time with my daughter before it was too late. Apparently, that sacrifice hadn’t worked either, not after what happened today. Too little, too late.

  Fifteen years ago, Olivia’s mother knocked on my apartment door and handed Olivia to me. I hadn’t even known Olivia’s mother was pregnant. She’d shoved our daughter into my arms and said, “Here, she’s yours. I can’t take it anymore, not right now.” She turned and walked out of our life never to be seen again.

  Holding Olivia in my arms that day, I’d promised myself I would not be that man who neglected his home life, his family. Yet that’s exactly what had happened. Time was the culprit. With the snap of the fingers, time had snuck up on me and snatched away fifteen years. It seemed as if I had floundered and grabbed at it trying to hold on, digging my heels in trying to slow it down.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I DIDN’T KNOW what to say. How had she turned this whole thing around on me so fast? I knew I should be stern and hold a hard line, but that didn’t seem to be working either. My inability to supervise my own child left me wandering out in the weeds, at a complete loss. Did my dad have it this hard? I’d never paid attention to how he parented. A natural, he’d made it seem so easy. If I ever stepped out of line, all Dad had to do was narrow his eyes and lower his eyebrows. I’d jump back to where I was supposed to be. I’d put my head down and work harder trying to please him.

  “He’s not a piece of garbage, Bruno.”

  I checked the rearview. Derek Sams’ tinted-red Afro caught the sunlight and made it redder as it buffeted in the warm breeze. He had a spray of freckles across his light complexion that gave the illusion of naïveté; a vulnerability that I assumed wasn’t really there. He did have a presence though, a sort of charisma. I’d give him that much. His good eye, the one not swollen over, watched the world go by, his expression neutral. His face had been brutalized from the same gang members he refused to prosecute for the felony assault against his person. They’d really put the boot to him before we got there. I understood his reluctance to file charges: he had to live in the neighborhood, and ratting would make that impossible.

  But I could still see through that innocent veneer. I grew up in the ghetto and had worked patrol at Lynwood station. I’d seen plenty of his kind and could predict his preordained outcome—lying dead in a gutter, his life’s blood having drained out from multiple gunshot wounds. Another life in the ghetto wasted.

  I just needed some way to wrest Olivia from his grasp before it was too late. Unmask the kid and show her the truth. But a little voice in my head kept getting louder, telling me, more often than not, that short of shipping her to a private school out of state, it was probably already too late. I’d missed the window to intervene, and she was already too far gone.

  No, no, no, that just couldn’t be. The thought of it made a lump rise in my throat too large to swallow.

  Another alternative, an option I’d not thought of until that moment, caused bile to rise up from my stomach, acidy, burning a hole in my soul for even thinking about that kind of ugliness. I could easily call in a favor from someone on the street who lived and operated in that world and have Derek Sams permanently erased, have his flame physically snuffed out. That would solve everything. How many fathers in my same situation dreamt of a similar outcome? I shivered and shook it off. Of course, I would never do that.

  I checked the rearview again, eyed Derek. A memory flashed of a time years ago when I rode in a two-man black-and-white patrol car with a white deputy I couldn’t stand, Good Johnson. At the time we had been driving westbound on Imperial Highway in front of The Nickerson Gardens Housing Projects, the sun slowly sinking low on the horizon painting everything orange and yellow. The long shadows threatened a darkness where evil came out to wander the streets while the good folks hid behind locked doors.

  In front of us was a broken-down, rusted-out truck loaded with a pile of green trash bags. A young kid about Derek’s age sat on the pile, contented, the wind on his face, his eyes mere slits as he smiled, enjoying the day. In the cop car, Good Johnson grinned as he elbowed me and said, “Hey, look, someone’s gone and thrown away a perfectly good Negro.” He laughed the laugh of a crazed fool and slapped his leg. I wanted to punch his ugly smug face.

  Back in the truck with Olivia, I pulled over to the curb just before Alameda. “Tell him to get in the front with us.”

  She put her hand on my arm. “Thank you, Popi, really, thank you.”

  She certainly knew how to yank my chain. She bailed out her door. Her voice went a little squeaky telling him that it was okay to come up front. I turned a bit jealous over her elated expression, the excited look in her eyes, and the tone in her voice. I wanted to sock Derek even more.

  Derek got in with a strong whiff of cologne. Olivia’s smile quickly turned to a pouty face as she gently touched his injuries and cooed over him. “Ah, Bruno, we need to get him to a hospital. Please drive us to the hospital. Hurry. Please hurry.”

  “He’s fine. He is. Go on, ask him what he thinks about going to a hospital; he’ll tell ya, he’s fine.”

  “Your dad’s right. This is all about nothin’. I been hurt worse fallin’ off my bike.”

  He was so adept at telling lies, I almost believed it. He wouldn’t let down his machismo in front of his girlfriend no matter how badly he was hurt. The foolish code of the gang member.

  I took my eyes from the road to look at him. He glared back. He didn’t like me either. After a few more minutes, I turned north on Alameda, drove a mile or two, and pulled over to the curb at 101st Street. I wouldn’t risk driving so close to the Jordan Downs Projects where Derek lived, not with Olivia in the truck. They both got out and stood on the sidewalk at the front of the truck hugging and whispering, Olivia saying her goodbyes. I waited for her in agony as the long seconds ticked by.

  How in the world had she turned fifteen? Somehow, in my mind, fourteen still made her my little girl … but fifteen? That changed things in a big way and it really shouldn’t have, but it did.

  Fifteen made her a young woman.

  A young woman who continued to make immature decisions in a dangerous world.

  Outside the truck, Derek talked and Olivia listened. She nodded, her eyes not leaving his, as if what he said came from the mouth of a minor god. I knew it wasn’t fair, but I needed to drive a wedge between them or Olivia would be destined for the kind of short and unhappy life the ghetto meted out on a daily basis.

  CHAPTER SIX

  INMATE LOUIS BORKOW sat in the bar
ber’s chair in the barber’s shop on 3300 of the Men’s Central Jail where he was housed, holding court in front of four other inmates.

  During his trial he had worn an expensive suit and tie, in a feeble attempt to camouflage from the jury what he kept hidden underneath. Now he wore his clean and pressed jail blues with “Inmate” stenciled in white on the back. The caper he’d intricately planned, and that would go off in one hour, required that he shave his head to change his appearance. But his vanity wouldn’t allow it. He loved his hair too much. Always had. Silly really, risking so much for hair.

  Choco, a skinny Mex kid, classified in the jail by the hard-core inmates as a “soft,” stood behind the chair braiding Borkow’s hair into tight, narrow cornrows. Borkow’s three other compadres, Stanky Frank, Little Genie, and Willy Tomkins, all black men currently embroiled in their own murder trials, would blend in just fine once out on the street. They didn’t need to alter their appearance one iota. Not really fair under the circumstances.

  None of the other three would beat their case either. They all knew it. And truth be told, Borkow didn’t care if they did blend in or not. He didn’t care if they got gunned down ten feet out of the cage, as long as they created a large enough distraction for Borkow to slither away unharmed. They’d have fulfilled their purpose. He only needed to pretend friendship and camaraderie for another hour or so. Thank the good Lord for small favors. He didn’t enjoy working with a bunch of ignorant buffoons.

  With all the news coverage of his trial, everyone would know him on sight and be looking for a Louis Borkow with big hair. Not a white guy that looked and acted like a white black man.

  Earlier that same day, he’d needed to get back from court in order to make the plan work. If he missed the afternoon visiting at the jail, all would be lost. He’d end up on death row. So that same afternoon he had plotted and set in motion a diversion in the courtroom. One that made him immensely proud: one all the inmates in all the prisons and jails would be talking about for decades to come.