by David Putnam
“No. No. Wait. Okay, okay. I’ll beg. If that’s what you want. I’ll beg. I promise … I promise I’ll never see her again. Just don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.”
“How am I supposed to know you’re telling the truth this time?”
“You don’t. But I give you my word as a man. I swear. I never did that before. When we talked before.”
“You mean each time I warned you to stay away?”
He nodded.
I held him close for another beat, then shoved him off. He wasn’t a man, not even close, so how could he give his word? He was just another misguided wannabe gang member trying to find his way in a complicated world. That was the other side of my brain talking, the side that said Derek Sams was broken and could never be fixed, that the world would be a better place without him. “Where are you from?”
“What? Like what hood?”
“No, dummy. Where were you born? Do you live with your folks? Tell me the truth.”
“No, I live with my auntie.”
“Where are your folks?”
“My mama was a crack whore. She died in San Bernardino when I was just a kid. We buried her there. My daddy doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
Saying that about his mama had to be difficult. I grew up without a mother and when asked about her, I never wanted to talk about it. “Where’s your dad right now?”
“Barstow. He works for the railroad.”
I started up the truck.
“Where we going?”
I didn’t answer him, just drove. What the hell was I going to tell Olivia?
The morning rush-hour traffic hadn’t started yet. I made it downtown in less than an hour. I parked, came around to his side, opened the door, and took the cuffs off.
“What are we doing here?”
“You really want a second chance?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then prove it to me. This is the last time we’re going to talk about this. The next time you won’t even see me coming. Your world will just all of a sudden go black. You understand what I’m saying?”
He rubbed his wrists that had red indentations from the cuffs. He nodded, the fear plain in his eyes. “Why are we at the bus station?”
“You’re no longer welcome in Los Angeles. You need to go back to your daddy in Barstow. There’s nothing for you here. Nothing that you’re going to like if you stay.” I grabbed him by his shirt and yanked him along. I escorted him to the ticket window and bought him a one-way ticket to Barstow. Then I escorted him over to a bench where we’d wait the hour and a half until his departure time.
Neither of us spoke. He relaxed and lay down on the bench but didn’t close his eyes all the way, still too wary.
Guilt over what I’d done started to creep in and smother me. I kidnapped a seventeen-year-old off the street and threatened him with an ugly death. I’d worked hard all my life to protect children, and with the first difficult situation that I didn’t know how to handle, I defaulted right to what I knew, what I’d lived with for most of my career with the sheriff’s department. I defaulted to violence in its ugliest and purest form.
“Hey,” I said. “You hungry?”
“I could eat.”
“Stay here. I mean it.” I got up and went over to the vending machines watching him out of the corner of my eye. I bought him an egg salad sandwich, some chips, and a soda. My bad self hoped he’d get food poisoning from the vending machine sandwich on his long bus ride to Barstow.
He sat up and ate ravenously. He misunderstood my magnanimity and talked and talked the entire hour and a half. The more he talked, the more he turned into a real person, a vulnerable kid. In the end, when I put him on the bus and watched it drive away, I was content with my choice not to do him harm. Though, some of the passengers looked at the injuries he’d received at the hands of the gang members and then looked back at me with contempt. I could live with that—at least he was still breathing.
I walked back to my truck alone as night handed off to the predawn, painting the horizon in bruised purples and dark blues. This was going to be a new day, a good day.
Yet, that bad-self of mine whispered again: You’re a fool. You should’ve driven him yourself to Barstow and handed him off to his dad. Made his dad accountable.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AS SOON AS I got in the truck and started home, the adrenaline bled off; along with it came bone-racking fatigue. I knew all the shortcuts and drove like a fiend, canted forward in the seat, my face right up in the windshield, to keep from falling asleep. Each time I dozed, my chin banged the top of the steering wheel and woke me. I was getting too old for all-nighters. In a few hours, I’d pay for it working the court. I didn’t know how I’d stay awake for another day of Borkow’s trial. I’d have to stand through the whole sordid affair.
I eased the front door open, stepped lightly into the apartment. I quietly closed it, the click too loud in the perfect silence. I stood there, listened, comforted, finally sequestered away from the street and the hyperawareness needed to stay alive.
I didn’t have to check. I sensed that Olivia was in her room. Over time, cops develop certain survival instincts lacking in Joe Citizen. One is that as soon as they cross over the threshold, they can sense whether a house is empty.
I took a deep breath. That’s when the fatigue really hit hard. Unseen weights pulled at my body, making me want to ease down to the floor, curl up, and go to sleep. Forget everything for a few short hours.
I needed to stay awake. I needed to have that talk with Olivia. Nothing else mattered. I walked around in circles in the apartment living room, trying to stay awake while deciding what to do. What to say, how to even start a conversation that dealt with such sensitive topics?
She’d be awake soon. In what? I checked the clock on the wall. Two and a half hours. That meant I could sleep for a glorious hundred and fifty minutes. That sounded even better.
But what if I didn’t wake in time? That would be a total disaster. I could set the alarm, but on a few occasions, I’d slept through the annoying buzzer. And Olivia, she’d do whatever it took to get out of the house to avoid the father-daughter talk I’d promised her the night before. The promise I’d elicited from her just before she violated my wishes and snuck out to see Derek. No, I definitely had to be awake to talk to her.
I stopped circling and did the only logical thing my cotton-laden mind could conjure up. I eased down to the floor, put my back to the front door, and waited.
The last remnants of recent memory played back on the big screen behind my droopy eyes, the words Derek Sams spoke as we sat together on the bus bench, the story describing his tumultuous childhood. No child should ever have to live through something like that.
I didn’t want his words to haunt me, but no matter how hard I tried, they did.
And as it turned out, they would forevermore.
I woke with a start and didn’t recognize what had happened, where I’d been, or where I’d ended up. What the hell?
I was still sitting on the floor by the front door. The natural morning light made the apartment appear different, somehow safer, neutral ground. My mouth was beyond dry. I should’ve drunk a full glass of water before sitting down to sleep. It would have also served as a wake-up call.
Suddenly, I had the overwhelming desire to pee and realized my hand had fallen off my knee and now rested in a bowl of warm oatmeal on the floor. That’s what had awakened me. Along with the bowl there was a small plate with two pieces of toast, lightly browned, just the way I preferred it, with melted butter. My errant hand had overturned and spilled the oatmeal. I smiled. Olivia must’ve made me breakfast before she hurried off to school.
Before she went off to school?
I tried to jump up, but my body wouldn’t comply, not at first. My back ached and my knees hurt.
I noticed a stick in my other hand with a sign at the top. I turned it around. I chuckled. Olivia had written Save a Dolphin, Don’
t eat Tuna. She had been kind enough to make me breakfast then tag me with a sign as if I were on some kind of sit-in to save the planet. I didn’t know where she got her sense of humor, but I dearly loved it.
Then I noticed a string around my neck that hung a small sign chest high. It read: Hi. I’m Bruno the Clown. Don’t Clown me.
Olivia didn’t like it when I dressed in my street garb to chase violent criminals: the truck driver shirts with the name “Karl,” and the John Deere ball caps. She said I looked more like a rodeo clown dodging the sharp horns of the bulls instead of a streetwise plain-clothes detective who chased violent criminals. She must’ve wondered why I was dressed that way. I hoped she didn’t think that I’d transferred out of the court and back to the street. I would never do that to her. Especially now when she needed me the most.
I wiped the lukewarm milk and oatmeal off my hand onto my jeans. “O? Are you still here?”
Please, baby, still be here. We really needed to talk.
I’d driven home from the bus depot fighting a pitched battle over whether to tell her about what I’d done to her … boyfriend. I had a difficult time thinking of him that way, as The Boyfriend. He was more of a reprehensible sneak thief who’d, over time, crept into our lives undetected and stolen my daughter, the most precious thing in my life.
This morning, how could she have gotten out of the apartment with me in front of the door? I struggled to my feet, bones creaking.
A hitch in my back kept me hunched over until I could slowly straighten up. I lifted the string and sign over my head. I leaned back over, hand on one knee, and recovered one piece of toast. I took a big bite, hungrier than I thought. It was still warm so she’d just left. For tactical reasons, I kept the back door barred and double dead-bolted. She had to have gone out her bedroom window again. I hated when she did that, and she knew it.
I ate while walking down the hall to the bathroom, discouraged at my failure. It was scary that she could put a sign in my hand and one around my neck and make breakfast without waking me.
The phone rang and I realized the time. I was going to be late. I let it ring. It never stopped ringing. I jumped in the shower, shaved, dressed, and hurried off to work.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I DIDN’T GET far on my way to Compton Court before the guilt returned over what I’d done the night before—a few hours before. The look in Derek’s eyes when he thought I was about to feed him to the fish in Long Beach Harbor, coupled with his rambling words about his childhood while he ate the vending machine egg salad sandwich—the guilt from it caused my stomach to cramp.
I did a quick detour and headed to Dad’s house on Nord in The Corner Pocket of Los Angeles. The house I’d grown up in. I parked in front as Dad came out the front door wearing his blue-gray postal pants and shoulder-strap tee shirt. He was also on his way to work. Only he was on time. He’d been a postman as far back as I could remember. He never missed a day sick and rarely used all his annual vacation time. He considered his job a service to the public and treated it as such with unmatched loyalty and dedication. He still carried a lot of lean muscle and looked good for his age. He stood a little shorter than me and kept his hair shaved close to his scalp.
I got out of the truck and stood by the passenger door. His smile faded when he read my expression.
“What’s going on, Son? Is something wrong with Olivia?”
The words hung up in my throat. I didn’t know how to tell him what I’d done. I nodded.
He came close, put his warm hand on my shoulder, and gave it a comforting squeeze.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, “What’s wrong with Olivia?”
“It’s nothing new. We’ve talked about it.”
“Derek, again?”
I nodded.
He shook his head. “I’m afraid to ask. What have those two done now?”
“Yesterday, while I was in court, O called me. Said she was in a rock house in Compton with Derek. She said the gangbangers had guns. She was scared to death.”
“Oh, dear Lord. What happened?” His fright subsided quickly. His eyes narrowed in anger.
“I figured out where she was and went and got her. She’s okay.”
“Thank goodness. I can understand why you’re upset. I’m glad you came to me, to talk it through before you did something stupid to Derek.”
I broke eye contact and looked away.
“Oh, no, Bruno, what did you do? Is the boy okay?”
“I’m sick over this, Dad. I didn’t know what to do. I acted before I thought about it. Now I think I might’ve done the wrong thing, in the way I handled that boy. I shouldn’t have done it. Once O finds out about it, she’s never going to talk to me again.”
“Bruno, what did you do?”
“Last night Olivia wouldn’t talk to me. I told her we’d talk about it in the morning.
“She was real upset over Derek getting socked-up in the rock house. I knew she was going to try and see him. I waited on the street and followed them. They went over to Lucy’s off Century, talked for a while, and then he brought her home.”
“Okay, and …”
“Then I followed Derek.”
“Ah, Bruno.”
I again looked away from his eyes and down at the dirt in my old front yard, ashamed as I stood before him. “I grabbed Derek out in front of Mr. G’s Pager Store over off Central.”
Dad muttered, “Hmm, that’s not a good place for that boy to be hanging out.”
“I know, but it’s worse than that. The place in Compton where he took O was Piru. Bloods. Big G’s place on Central is run by the Crips. Derek’s playing both ends.”
I didn’t have to say more. Derek wouldn’t be long for this world if either side found out. Olivia would be caught in the crossfire.
“I wanted to hurt him, Dad. I mean, I thought I was going to permanently solve the problem, with a little blood and bone.” It was a term we used while working the violent crimes team. Dad had heard it before and knew its meaning.
“I’m glad you didn’t. You didn’t, did you, Son?”
“When I grabbed him, he had a Saturday Night Special, in his pants. He had it there when he was out at Lucy’s with O.”
“That little son of a—”
He caught himself. He rarely used profanity, said it only served to “let the fool out of a person.” Derek’s antics had almost succeeded in making my father a fool.
“What happened? What’d you do with him?”
“I put him on a bus to Barstow. He said his dad lives out there.”
Dad shook his head. “That’s not going to solve your problem.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t say something like that.”
“Taking him off the street like that was wrong. But I can’t say that I blame you.”
He thought about it for a long moment, choosing his words. “You didn’t come here because of the guilt that’s eatin’ at you.”
“What?”
“You came here because of what you almost did. That’s what scared the hell out of you. This isn’t something new. We’ve talked about your temper before. You know right from wrong. You did the right thing here, Bruno. So ease up on yourself. You don’t have it in you to hurt a child.”
I nodded, still looking at the ground.
“Look at me.”
I looked up at him.
“You didn’t hurt the boy, that’s what counts. Your moral standards stopped you from doing something you would’ve regretted the rest of your life.”
A lump rose in my throat. More shame.
I had not always done the right thing. Once I had strayed from the path. It was something I’d never told him, never told anyone.
Not all that long ago, I’d crossed the line when I captured Leroy Gadd and turned him over to a street gang to administer the proper dose of justice our legal system would have hemmed and hawed over. Leroy Gadd was never seen or heard from again. I lost many nights’ sleep over what I’d done. But at
the time it was the only option. Leroy Gadd had killed my best friend, Ned, along with two other friends, Ollie Bell and our team sergeant, Sergeant Coffman.
I nodded, unable to talk. I swallowed hard. “What am I going to do about O?”
He shook his head. “There’s nothing you can do. You’re dealing with an immovable force of nature.”
“I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
“Love. It’s like an invisible wall that can’t be breached or overcome no matter how hard you try. Wars have been fought over it. Olivia will have to work her way through it on her own. She has to open her eyes and see what’s going on for herself. All you can do is give her your best counsel and wait. But don’t push too hard. She has to be the one to make the choice.”
It was exactly the same thing Nicky had said the night before.
“How come everyone can see the answer as plain as day and I can’t?”
Was I that ignorant when it came to love? To being a good father?
Dad smiled. “The answer to that is simple. You’re afflicted by that very same force. The love of your daughter. It’s blinding you to what’s really at play here. Now, I have to get to work or I’m going to be late.” He patted my shoulder again and started toward his car.
“There has to be something I can do. There has to be.”
He turned back, dead serious. “There is one thing.”
“What? Tell me. I’ll try anything.”
“Get her a cute little puppy.”
“A puppy? Are you kidding?”
He winked, went to his car, got in, started up, and drove away.
A puppy? How could … And then I realized that it wasn’t a perfect fix but it was something. If Olivia had something else to love, to direct her affections to, a distraction of sorts, it might be enough of a diversion that she could finally open her eyes and see the danger right in front of her.
I took a deep breath. Some of the weight lifted off. It was going to be a great day. I whispered to no one, “Thanks, Dad.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
