Ham

by Dustin Stevens

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  When Shag used the word shop, I imagined something akin to my Quonset hut out in the desert. Or a repurposed tool shed. Or something I’ve heard a lot of people refer to as Man Caves in the last few years.

  Some sort of dingy place with filmy yellow lighting and exposed studs along the walls. Various saws and clamps and vises better used for building a deck than repairing a damaged kidney. The smell of wood chips and tobacco juice in the air.

  Yet another example of how damn dumb I can be sometimes.

  What he called a shop, I would refer to as a sterile laboratory. A mobile medical unit far nicer than most of what he probably worked with in the military.

  While the outside looks to be nothing more than a freestanding garage, the exterior of the structure is little more than a shell. Just walls and a roof that’s only purpose is to serve as camouflage for what is housed inside.

  The building itself is roughly twenty feet across, one-and-a-half times that in length. Passing through the outer door, there is a one-foot buffer zone before stepping through a second entrance. Made of steel and glass, it enters into an environment lifted directly from a hospital operating suite.

  A steel frame filled in with glass walls and doors. An impenetrable air-lock system keeping the temperature in check and making sure no dust or bugs from the outside can enter.

  White tile on the floors. Bright lighting overhead.

  A central wall extends the length of the place, cleaving the space into two equal parts. On the left is an operating suite where Amy is currently sprawled out on a table. Her clothing has been stripped away and replaced with a hospital gown. Her body is positioned to one side, the ragged shard of wood an ugly aberration in an otherwise spotless world.

  Beside her, Shag is dressed for surgery, his bulbous form hidden beneath an operating gown, his head covered in cap and mask.

  Beside him is a series of monitors and stainless-steel trays.

  Ideally, I imagine he would have a team of scrub nurses, anesthesiologists, and techs there to help. Given the circumstances, today he’s going it alone, never so much as asking for my help.

  Just like most of the army docs I’ve known in my time, used to making things work with little more than duct tape and fishing line.

  On the entry side of the glass is a standard examination area, a bed in the center of the room, a trio of rolling carts filled with supplies of all sorts lined against the far wall.

  A wash basin and trash cans sit in the corner. Overhead, a telescoping spotlight extends down, illuminating the smear of blood on the white paper covering the table.

  In the corner is four padded chairs, Amber sitting in the left middle. Her shoulders are rolled forward. Her hair hangs down on either side of her face. Her fingers are twisted into a tangle in her lap, her gaze straight down at them.

  Beside her, I pace the length of the room. One pass after another, I go from the supply carts to the exam table, careful to leave space between us, my mind racing.

  Right now, I know there is nowhere else in the world we can be. Getting Amy all the way north to where we’re going in her condition is impossible. Taking her to an actual medical facility will only bring about a mess of paperwork and questions and things I don’t have the time or energy for.

  Still, I can’t help but be aware of the ticking clock hanging over us. Of remembering what happened at The Sundowner and the fact that every officer in Southern California is probably out looking for us.

  That the getaway vehicle is still sitting outside, different license plates or not.

  A flash of movement pulls my attention to the side as Shag unfurls a sterile drape. Clipping it into position, Amy is completely obscured from view from her rib cage up.

  In a moment, there will be nothing of her visible but the injury site, a small square scrubbed with betadine, the skin yellowed beyond recognition.

  Watching for a moment, I consider the scene before casting my gaze over to Amber. Careful not to look my way, I notice as she flicks her gaze upward, seeing everything that is happening, before turning her attention back to her hands.

  Biting back a curse word, my teeth come together for a moment. My head turns to the side as I exhale the anger I feel, realization settling in.

  This girl is ten years old. She was just manhandled by an overgrown cop, watched another assault her mother, and then saw one get beaten and the other shot.

  She does not need to add viewing invasive surgery to the list.

  “You hungry?” I ask, some dust catching in my throat, making my voice sound harsher than intended. Seeing her flinch at the unexpected sound, I clear my airway and try again.

  “Amber, are you hungry?”

  Her chin dips an inch lower, her head making a ninety-degree angle from her shoulders. Keeping it there, she shakes her head an inch or two to the side.

  Says nothing.

  Not the least bit surprising.

  Taking a couple steps closer, I put my back to the operating suite and lean against the examination table. Pressing my palms into the pad on either side of me, I ask, “Are you sure? Thirsty? It’s awful hot out here in the desert.”

  It’s clear she wants to say no, that her internal programming is wired to refuse whatever I offer. To make the interaction end as quickly as possible.

  But self-preservation wins out, her head bobbing just an inch or two.

  “Yes, please,” she whispers.

  The first words I’ve ever heard her speak, they relay at once both how young and how frightened she is.

  Pushing myself away from the side of the table, I turn toward the corner. Starting with the closest supply cart, I rummage through before finding a sleeve of paper cups and sliding out a short stack.

  Using the foot release on the bottom of the sink, I allow the water to run for a moment before filling three of the cups, setting the first one aside and grasping the other two in either hand. Carrying them over to Amber, I place them on the adjacent chair, her gaze never once lifting my direction.

  “Thank you,” she whispers, barely more than a murmur.

  “You’re welcome,” I reply.

  For a moment, I remain rooted in place, trying to think of something to say. Some words of assurance or encouragement to add. Something to — if nothing else — get this little girl used to the sound of my voice.

  That sort of thing was always Amy’s forte, though, not mine. To me, words have always been nothing more than a way of conveying the essential.

  And that was even before I spent three years alone in the desert.

  Walking slowly back in the opposite direction, I take up the water and drain the cup in one long pull. Feeling the cool liquid travel the length of my throat, I fill it a second time, bringing it to my lips.

  “Are you the helper Mommy said was coming?”

  Not expecting the question, or even the sound, my hand tightens around the cup, pinching it inward. Water spills over my fingers, splashing the toe of my boot.

  Taking down what remains, I toss the cup into the garbage and turn back. “Yes.”

  Dark hair swings slightly as the girl nods. “Mommy said there was a blond lady coming and that she was a friend.”

  I’m not surprised that Amy didn’t give her daughter the full rundown of everything that was going on. Trying to force understanding onto one so young while it was happening had to be an exercise in masochism.

  Better to wait until later, when they were all together, and talk through it. Answer any questions she might have.

  Someplace like a long drive north.

  “Your mommy is my best friend,” I say.

  This time, the girl chances a look my way. “Really?”

  “Really,” I reply. “Has been since we were about your age.”

  To that her eyes bulge slightly. Saying nothing, she lowers them back toward her lap, seeing the cups of water and reaching for the closest one. Pulling it atop her thigh, she holds it in both hands, trying to a
dd what I’ve just told her to everything else she’s already seen today.

  Again, thoughts of things I should say come to mind. Gentle affirmations or questions to keep the conversation going.

  And just like before, my mind comes up blank.

  Shifting my attention back through the glass, I watch as Shag gets the last of the sterile field into place. In a moment, he’ll make an incision to extend the puncture wound, will remove the wood and begin to clean up whatever damage is inside.

  The sound of my phone ringing shatters the relative quiet of the room. I hear Amber inhale sharply at the same time Shag’s head snaps up, his brows together.

  My own heart rate spikes as I hold up a hand in apology to the glass, fishing my phone from my pocket. Seeing the same string of numbers I’d dialed a couple hours earlier on screen, I assume the general rules of most hospitals don’t apply here and press the phone to my face.

  “Yeah?”

  “You in the bunker?” Mikey asks, his voice still all business.

  I figure he’s referring to the structure we’re now standing in, the thought of an actual bunker somewhere out here as well a bit too much to fathom at the moment.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “About to begin surgery.”

  “Step outside when you can.”

  The line goes dead in my hand without another sound. Slowly, I lower it from my face and turn the ringer down to vibrate before stowing it in my back pocket.

  When Mikey said he would put things in order, this was far more than I expected. For sure didn’t think he’d be making a personal visit.

  Even if I can’t decide whether that’s a good thing or not, the man beginning to make quite a habit of showing up unannounced.

  Looking back through the glass dividing wall, I can see Shag has gone back to what he’s doing. There is no indication he needs anything from me, now or probably for the next several hours.

  In the corner, Amber has finished the first glass of water and is moving on to the second.

  “I need to step outside for a second,” I say.

  Nodding, Amber remains silent.

  “You okay in here for a few minutes?”

  Once more, the young girl nods. She sniffs deeply, drawing up a bit of phlegm, before raising her head my direction.

  “What’s your name?”

  Another torrent of self-flagellation passes through me for having missed something so obvious. While I was worried about how to console the poor girl, I had failed to do even the most basic of things in building rapport.

  “Ham,” I reply.

  “Ham?” she asks, confusion twisting her features just slightly. “Like the sandwich?”

  No. Not like that at all. About as far from a ham sandwich as can possibly be.

  “Yeah,” I say, forcing a smile. “Just like the sandwich.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The game is your basic schoolyard football. A group of boys divided into even numbers, with no use for linemen or running backs or really anything except a quarterback. Everybody else becomes a default receiver, running pass routes every play that usually devolves into everybody standing around, hoping to find a spot far enough from anyone that they’ll get the ball thrown to them.

  The same exact game Hector Lima imagines is happening in a thousand other parks and playgrounds across the country. Kids wearing jerseys or T-shirts of their local team, referring to themselves by the name of their favorite player.

  Just the way he and Bocco had grown up playing. The same as Dwayne and Monte in the back seat.

  And Luis, so many years before.

  More than a few times they had even played on this very field, the only difference now being the brown Eldorado parked just off the curb and the pair of men leaning against it.

  “Just like she said,” Bocco says. Sitting behind the wheel, a ball cap is cocked on a slant across his forehead, blocking the low angle of the late-day sun.

  Nodding, Lima watches as one of the men says something. Putting the other into fits of laughter, he falls to the side dramatically, hamming it up for anybody that might walk past.

  Or may happen to look over from the game.

  “That tall boy out there,” Monte says, “the one in the Carr jersey, he’s got an arm.”

  Again, Lima nods.

  The boy’s name is Willie. He’s a very nice young man, lives with his mom and his older sister a few blocks away. Dad died of cancer two years before.

  Kids like him are the reason he’s doing this. Why he bought the abandoned structure and fixed it up.

  Why he first approached Spiers and the walking refrigerator he calls a partner.

  Pulling himself back upright, the second guy leaning against the car raises something to his lips. A moment later, he produces a lighter, sparking the tip.

  Exhaling a long plume of smoke, he passes it across to his friend.

  Whatever it is is too small to be seen from their vantage down the street, though it isn’t hard to figure out.

  Beside him, Bocco reaches out. He wraps one hand around the top of the steering wheel, placing the other on the keys still hanging from the ignition.

  “Yeah?” he asks, glancing over to Lima.

  “Yeah,” Lima replies, not once taking his gaze from the pair down the street.

  Consuela Ramirez was right to bring this to him. Even if the guys weren’t technically doing anything, they weren’t not doing anything either.

  Loitering by an elementary school, playing about all the time, smoking herb, at best they were bad influences, a menace to a neighborhood trying to better itself.

  At worst, they were merely biding time, waiting until they could act out whatever ill intentions had brought them here.

  “Punch it.”

  A charge goes through the interior of the car as Lima reaches up through the window and wraps his fingers over the edge of the roof. Using the grip to pull himself up higher, he can sense Dwayne and Monte both shift behind him.

  The sound of aluminum touching something solid rings out.

  Giving the keys a half turn, Bocco calls the engine to life. Dropping the gear shift, he mashes on the gas, sending the car hurtling forward.

  No more than a quarter mile in distance, they don’t make it in Fast and the Furious time, but they’re not much off. Wind whips through the interior of the car, passing over them, shoving the bottled heat out.

  As fast as he’d brought the vehicle to life, Bocco slams on the brakes, the sound of tires squealing and the smell of charred rubber arriving in tandem.

  Fishtailing slightly, the car finally comes to a stop at an angle, the front end extended out past the driver’s headlight on the Eldorado. Leaving it there, all four men are out of the car before the smoke of the hard braking has cleared the air.

  “Yo, Jesus, what the hell?” the joke teller asks. Blunt still clutched in hand, he turns and looks at the new arrivals, his eyes wide.

  “Who sent you?” Lima snaps, his voice little more than a bark. From the position of the car, he has the longest to walk, making a loop around the back.

  Taking up a post behind him are Dwayne and Monte, each with ball bats in hand, one metal, the other hickory. Coming around the front is Bocco, ensuring that any attempt to run is futile.

  “Who sent us?” the laugher asks, spinning around to see all four spreading out before them. “What the hell you mean who sent us?”

  “Yeah,” his friend asks. “We ain’t doing nothing here. We’re just hanging out.”

  Lima makes the rear corner of the car, turns down the passenger side. In their fear, neither of the men have moved from their post, both watching as he circles out wide, pinning them against the door.

  Filling in around him, Dwayne, Monte, and Bocco close the loop, ensuring that the only hope of escape to is to try to scramble across the roof.

  A move Lima would not recommend.

  “Just hanging out?” Bocco asks. “Right here? At a school?”

  “Yeah, what are
you two? Pedophiles?” Monte adds.

  Taking a step to the side, Dwayne unleashes a vicious swipe with his bat. Connecting solid with the taillight of the Eldorado, red glass explodes outward, dotting the asphalt beneath it.

  Returning the bat to his shoulder, he levels a snarl on them, his intention clear. “Damn, I hate perverts.”

  Based on appearances, it doesn’t look like either of the guys are flashing affiliation. No red or blue bandanas, no visible tattoos claiming loyalty to a certain clique.

  From what he can tell, they are just as Ramirez posited, a couple of young punks looking to cause trouble.

  Not here.

  “What is that in your hand?” Lima snaps, pushing his chin toward the jokester’s right fist.

  Following the movement, the guy’s eyes look down. As if he had completely forgotten he even had an arm, his gaze locks on the joint in his hand, jaw sagging.

  “Naw, I mean, this ain’t nothing. It’s legal now!”

  “Not here, it’s not,” Lima says. He takes a step forward, glancing between the two. “None of this shit is. Not your weed, or your car, or even you two assholes.”

  Bocco joins Lima on his right. “Consider this your warning. We see you again, things get ugly.”

  On the opposite side, Dwayne and Monte lean in as well.

  “And we see you near any of these kids again...” Dwayne says.

  “Nobody ever sees you again,” Monte finishes.

  Neither of the pair says a word. They both press as close as they can against the car, contorting themselves into as small a target as possible.

  “Got that?” Lima hisses.

  Still, they can’t seem to find their voices. Eyes wide, they both nod in earnest, bracing themselves for an attack.

  An attack that dissipates as fast as it arrived, Lima giving the signal for the others to return to the car.

  They have more work to do this evening.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  With the exception of the Chief of Police — a man that spends his days parked in the rarified air of the tenth floor of the headquarters downtown by day and attends PR functions by night — every single person in the LAPD infrastructure has a boss.