The Heartless

by David Putnam

  For the last month, Genie had had his best girlfriend, Scarlett, come in for visits—an absolutely gorgeous young woman, who didn’t wear bras underneath sleek dresses that hugged every curve like a car on a Grand Prix track. Scarlett was a key component to the entire operation. On every previous visit, she’d sat on the civilian side of the glass, feigning interest in Genie—all the while turning her big brown eyes on Deputy Masterson, a man known for his fervent interest in women. Deputy Masterson was one of the two deputies on the inmate side of the glass. He always watched out for Genie’s visitors and positioned himself behind Genie so he could peep Scarlett. Sometime during each visit, Scarlett would lean in with her arms up for cover on the sides. She’d dip down the front of her dress, letting those lovely breasts out to rest on the stainless-steel shelf in the partially sectioned-off visiting window. The cold stainless steel made them pucker and give sort of a smile.

  Borkow had been present on a number of these occasions and witnessed the mesmerizing effect the lovely ladies had on Deputy Masterson. From the look in Deputy Masterson’s eyes, this part of the plan would go off without a hitch.

  Tonight, instead of Scarlett, Twyla arrived to visit Genie. Deputy Masterson looked disappointed, even angry—Scarlett was conspicuous in her absence.

  Now everything was in place and ready to go.

  In walked Scarlett on top of a sensational pair of Christian Louboutin pumps that made even Borkow’s mouth water. She stood against the wall on the freedom side of the glass right behind Twyla and caught Deputy Masterson’s attention. Borkow watched out of the corner of his eye as Masterson’s expression shifted to a huge smile, the leer heavy in his eyes. Scarlett held up the flat of her hand and pointed with an index finger. She silently mouthed the words, “Come. Meet me out here.”

  Masterson’s tongue shot out and wet his dry lips. His entire being hummed with anxiety, his body wanting to chase his desire, the logical thinking part of his brain holding him back, one foot on the accelerator and one on the brake. He held up his wrist and pointed at his watch. He said, too loud, but not loud enough to penetrate the reinforced glass, “I get off at eleven.”

  Scarlett stuck out her bottom lip in a huge pout. She held up her hands and shrugged. She started to turn to leave when Masterson about jumped out of his skin. “Wait. Wait.” He fled his post without proper relief, going around the rows of visiting aisles, and headed the long way around to get to the lobby through the bowels of the administrative part of the jail. His partner deputy was at lunch.

  Borkow swiveled on his stainless-steel stool. He said into the phone to Lizzette on the other side of the glass, “Okay, do it now.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BORKOW WATCHED LIZZETTE and Twyla go into the big purse and come out with two battery-powered drills outfitted with a socket tip.

  The glass windows of Visiting had been designed five decades ago before the advent of battery-powered drills. Who would’ve believed that no one before that moment had spotted this glaring defect in the jail security and taken advantage of it?

  The girls wore large oven mittens that covered the drill housing to muffle the sound. Everything had been planned down to the smallest detail. In the previous weeks, and at his direction, they had built a similar structure in a broken-down garage in Compton. They practiced again and again until their hands acted all on their own, like the women who riveted the planes in the factories day after day during World War II.

  On the jail side, Frank and Genie walked up and down the row ordering everyone to, “Shut your traps and sit your asses down.” Borkow pointed to the visitors on the freedom side and gave them the same order. No one moved on either side. No one breathed.

  Borkow had questioned his decision to bring Frank along on the escape, the big lumbering oaf with the IQ of an igit. But now Frank had more than earned his position. Everyone on both sides of the glass knew what was happening and still they did nothing to raise the alarm.

  Off to the right at the end of the visiting hall, through the doorway into the lobby, two more scantily clad girls started a fight, a real scrap with screaming and scratching, kicking and biting; a diversion to keep the lobby deputies busy.

  Lizzette and Twyla, on the freedom side of the reinforced glass, put the drill sockets to the first bolt heads and started backing them out. In Borkow’s plan he had allowed for two minutes—that’s all he figured his distractions would last. Two minutes. A hundred and twenty seconds for the girls to do their jobs.

  Sweat ran down the sides of the girls’ faces, the muscles in their arms taut and writhing under the strain as they pressed their weight against the drills.

  One by one, the loosened bolts clinked down on the stainless-steel shelf at the base of the window.

  Borkow had promised himself he’d remain calm; he stayed seated and pretended this was like any other day. As the critical moment approached, he stood, staring at Lizzette as she focused on the job.

  The thick glass sagged open at the top, letting the air on the incarcerated side mix in with the air on the freedom side. When it sagged, the civilians on the other side let out a collective groan. Dangerous men were about to be set free among them.

  Borkow scowled and pointed, moving his finger down the line at all of them. They cringed and shut up.

  Twyla suddenly looked scared. “Oh my God, Louis, this one’s stripping. There’s too much paint around it.”

  He’d been afraid of this, but there hadn’t been time to wire-brush the bolts beforehand, not without leaving a major clue for the deputies. “You dumb broad, lean into it. Put all your weight behind it or so help me I’ll—” He let the threat die; it wasn’t helping matters.

  She did as he asked. She got up higher on the stool, shoved one foot hard against the stainless-steel shelf as a brace, and put her hip against the drill. Her concentration narrowed even further. Her gritted her teeth were visible between narrowed lips.

  Lizzette bumped her a little, weaseled back in, and went at the last bolt assigned to her.

  “Come on. Come on,” he said over the sagging window. He resisted the urge to reach through and slap Twyla upside her head.

  Lizzette stood back and straightened up. “Got mine.”

  “Don’t dawdle, girl,” he half-yelled at Lizzette. “You know what to do now. Get to it.” She went back in the bag and pulled out Borkow’s change of clothes, hat, and sunglasses.

  He turned his attention back to Twyla. “Twyla, you better not screw this up, you hear me?”

  The unfastened part of the glass sagged outward even more onto the freedom side.

  He turned to the big man, Frank. “Get your ass over here, now. Take the pressure off that last bolt and keep it from falling. Get over here and grab hold, you big tub of lard.”

  Frank elbowed Borkow out of the way. “Don’t you call me that. You hear? Don’t do it.” He reached and took hold of the tall, narrow piece of reinforced glass, which must’ve weighed at least a hundred and fifty pounds.

  Smoke rose on the other side under Twyla’s drill socket. “Louis, it’s totally stripped. It’s not going to work. Jesus, it’s not going to work.” She took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from her eyes. “Goddamnit, I’m so sorry, Louis.”

  No more than sixty seconds had elapsed since the operation began, since the start of the drills and the start of the fight out in the lobby. The people in the lobby still cheered to further incite the combatants.

  “Frank,” Borkow said. “It’s special glass that can’t break. It won’t cut you. Push it out. Push it, damn you.”

  Frank pushed. The glass folded and crunched under the force. It bulged and swung out hanging off to one side by the remaining bolt. It barely obstructed the opening, but it did just enough to keep Frank with his hog body from ever getting through.

  “Me first,” Borkow said, giving into his natural animal instinct. He tried without success to push Frank out of the way.

  “Kiss my black ass, white boy.”

 
; “No. No. Don’t.”

  Frank shoved Borkow out of the way and swung his large leg up. He stuck his foot through the now-open Visiting window frame.

  Borkow gasped. “No. No. No.”

  Frank straddled the slot, his leading leg and arm stuck through to the freedom side. He ducked his head and tried to get the rest of his body through.

  But his fat belly caught.

  He clogged the narrow opening. Borkow put his shoulder into Frank’s shoulder and pushed. At the same time, the two women on the other side took hold of his hand and arm and pulled.

  Nothing. No movement at all. A good ten inches of Frank’s gut overlapped the window frame and wouldn’t compress enough to let him pass. Ten inches of gut would condemn them all to a lifetime of living in a 10 x 5 foot concrete cell that smelled of sour body odor and ass.

  “Lizzette,” Borkow said, angry now. “Get the knife and gut this fat fuck.” Desperate times called for desperate measures.

  Frank’s head whipped around. His eyes went wild and bright with fear. Trapped, he couldn’t defend himself against some crazy, skinny girl with a blade.

  Someone came up behind Borkow and put a hand on his shoulder. Genie said, “Don’t, it’ll ruin everything. It’ll start a panic. Everyone out there will run.”

  Genie pointed to the throng of other inmates backed into the corner. “Come on, all of you, all together, push.”

  Borkow said, “All right. All right. Come on. Come on.”

  Frank suddenly realized the physics involved and what it would mean to his body. His eyes went wide, showing white in his pure panic. “No, don’t. Don’t.”

  Too late. Nobody wanted to cross Genie. The group shoved as one. Lots of shoulders, lots of heavy meat behind the added muscle. Frank bellowed. Lizzette, already standing on the shelf, the knife in one hand ready to gut Frank, put her other hand over his mouth, the knife up to his throat. Still a muffled bellow slipped past.

  Frank popped out on the other side, his belly badly scraped and bleeding; some of the skin had avulsed, exposing a thick layer of yellow fat. Borkow jumped through. Willy Tomkins came next. Then Genie, who looked back at all the others on the jail side. “Come on. Let’s go, everyone.”

  Borkow quickly pulled off his jail blues. His two women helped out. He recovered at least some of his sanity and held up his hand. “No, don’t. That wasn’t the plan. A crowd of blues running out the lobby will blow it for all of us.”

  “Now we need the chaos,” Genie said, “as cover.”

  “No we don’t—not that much cover. We need the extra seconds more.”

  Genie stared at Borkow for a moment. Borkow knew Genie no longer needed Borkow’s planning. He could see what Genie was thinking. It wasn’t hard to figure out. Genie was finally out and standing in fresh air for the first time in eighteen months. Eighteen long months, an eternity he never again wanted to experience.

  Genie made his choice. He held up his hand. “No. No one else comes through. You understand? No one.” He pulled his blue jail shirt over his head, exposing his white tee shirt, and casually walked down the aisle. All the visiting civilians moved back against the wall and let him pass. He stopped next to a Hispanic male. “Gimme your shirt, homeboy.” The man complied. He pulled it over his head and handed it to him. Genie slipped it on and walked through into the lobby where the deputies were just now breaking up the two women fighting. They’d tried to suppress smiles and let the scrap go longer than needed for the sport of it. The women’s faces were scratched, clumps of hair were missing, lips and noses bloodied, and the most important part, their blouses were torn. The bras were pulled down, exposing bare breasts.

  Borkow, still in the visiting area, looking out into the lobby, started to follow Genie.

  Frank, lying on the floor groaning, holding his wounded belly with one hand, reached out and grabbed a hold of Borkow’s ankle as he went by. “Help me.”

  Borkow glared at Lizzette. She leaned over and clubbed Frank in the head with the battery-powered drill. Frank grunted and let go. “I’ll remember this, you white piece of trash.” He struggled up onto his hands and knees. Lizzette went to hit him again. Borkow put his hand on the drill. “That’s enough. We have to go.”

  He took in a deep breath, let it out, and strolled into the lobby. He forced himself to be calm, lifted his sunglasses, and winked at one of the girls who’d staged the fight. A newbie jail deputy held her by the arm, his interest focused on her chest. Borkow let his sunglasses down and exited out the front door with Genie and the others right behind him. Then they scattered.

  Fifteen to twenty seconds later, the loud jail claxon sounded the alarm for the escape. A car waited at the curb. Borkow got in and was about to close the door when Frank burst out the two double doors bellowing like a bull. “Waiiit for meeee!”

  The getaway driver turned and looked over his shoulder at Borkow. Borkow closed his car door and quietly said, “Go.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I STOOD IN the dark shadows of the bougainvillea, waiting. Less than an hour after Nicky Rivers drove away, the front door to our apartment eased open with all the lights still off inside. Olivia’s dark figure crept out. My heart sank. In that moment I realized that in the past, I’d been grossly negligent by trusting her too much. Sad as it may have been, I shouldn’t have waited so long to stake out my own apartment. What an ignorant fool and bad father.

  She eased the door closed, pulled the hood to her sweatshirt up over her head, and moved down the street at a quick pace. Alone and on foot in a dangerous world. How many times had she done this?

  I waited and watched. If I crowded her, and her plan was to meet Derek on foot, they might see me. If he met her with a car, I’d lose them for sure. I moved from the shadows of the tall bougainvillea and stepped up on the bumper of my truck to get a better view. I rose from a crouch to peer over the top of the cab.

  Half a block down, she got into a beat-up wreck, a VW Rabbit parked at the curb. The car’s headlights came on and pulled away. I got in my truck, started up, and followed without my lights. I’d done this sort of work many times in the past, following girlfriends of violent criminals. No way would the likes of Derek Sams tumble to the tail.

  My imagination ran wild. Where was he taking her? A motel? That was crazy; he was too young to get a motel. But there were some on Atlantic and Long Beach Boulevard that would overlook his age for the right amount of money. The idea of a motel was ridiculous; after hours, kids their age went to the high school under the bleachers or used the dugouts. Only the schools locked them up now and had school police patrolling them.

  Where the hell was he taking her?

  He drove out to Atlantic Avenue, turned south to Century Boulevard, and then west. He turned into Lucy’s, of all places, a Mexican fast-food restaurant where I often took Olivia. Well, I used to anyway, when things were better between us. How had I let time slip past me like a sneak thief in the night? I should’ve been more vigilant. I thought Lucy’s was a special place between us, and now Derek taking her there fueled my already-heated anger. I pulled over and parked far enough away that they wouldn’t be able to make out the truck.

  Of course, Derek didn’t have any money, so he couldn’t buy any food. Olivia bought them both some taquitos with guacamole and two sodas with her allowance, money that I gave her every week.

  Olivia sat on the outside patio picnic bench like a normal person with her legs under the table. The punk sat on the table with his feet on the bench. They talked animatedly while eating and drinking, using their hands for emphasis, trying to convince the other of their position. What I wouldn’t give to hear that conversation. It seemed that Olivia was trying to explain something to Derek who, for some reason, couldn’t fathom the words lobbed his way. Olivia seemed frustrated over his ignorance. Or maybe that, too, was wishful thinking.

  He slid off the table and sat next to her. He put his arm around her and kissed her on the cheek.

  My fists clenched all
on their own as Nicky’s words about letting her find her own way echoed in my hollowed-out head. The advice didn’t seem logical, not when storming over to Lucy’s, picking the punk up, and beating him near to death felt so normal, so right under the circumstances. Like a predator after his target, I watched and waited for my turn, my opportunity.

  After thirty minutes, they got in the beat-up VW Rabbit and drove back to our apartment. They sat in the dark car with the ambient streetlight making them perfect silhouettes. Their heads came together in a kiss that went on and on.

  And on.

  Sweet Jesus.

  I needed to have that special talk with Olivia, and right away. I’d also take Nicky up on her offer to accompany Olivia to the clinic. I cringed at even the thought of having that conversation.

  The kiss continued, as did my anger, which rose by the second. No, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t allow this. No way could I just stand aside and let her make her own decision as Nicky suggested. Not one so important. Olivia was too young. She didn’t understand anything about the real world, the dangers, how quickly one bad decision could ruin a life. She didn’t realize Derek wasn’t the only boy or that there were hundreds of thousands of other, good, young boys who were easy enough to fall in love with. Why did she have to pick this one? If she’d just let this one go and give some of the others a chance. Please, O, just let this one go.

  My mind played back the multitude of broken young girls I’d run across while working patrol, girls the street ate up and spit out.