The Disposables (11 page)

“Right dere.” He pointed to a Cadillac Escalade, Kelly green with twenties on the wheels. He'd moved up the food chain, an aberration for such a weak-kneed, pencil-neck geek.

“Get in.”

He drove us east on 124th Street with the heater on full, then over to Alameda northbound to Imperial Highway. I started to sweat. “Pull in right here.”

I pointed to a no-name tire shop. Mexicans inside hard at work, long after dark, finishing up their twelve-hour day, with four cars up on lifts, a couple still in queue waiting. He didn't question, but pulled right over, anxious to get rid of me. I opened the door and hesitated. “Don't you want to say goodbye to your son?”

“Ya, ya, bye, kid, doan you worry none. I'll git yo sorry ass back.”

I found it difficult to stifle a smile. “Don't forget, tell Jumbo, no cops. And keep that woman in enough dope she doesn't cause a problem. You hear?”

I got out. He gunned it before the door closed, pulled right out in traffic without looking. A Bimbo bread truck slammed into the side of his perfectly kept Caddy with enough force to slew it sideways over the curb and into a power pole. The crash startled Tommy who jumped. He rose up like a prairie dog over the vee at the top of the jacket. “Wow.”

I walked down along the side of the tire shop, Tommy in one arm, the bag slung over my shoulder.

“You hungry?”

He looked up at me his eyes large and wet. “Where's my
mama? I want my mama.” He put his head back against my chest. It never ceased to amaze me how a parent could abuse a child, starve him, torture him, and the child continued a rabid loyalty.

“She'll be along soon. She told me to get you something to eat, said that you haven't eaten in a good long while. What do you like best to eat? Hot dogs, hamburgers, French fries, vanilla malts?”

“I want my mama.”

We continued through a field onto the next street. “Okay, how about an ice cream? My boy always likes ice cream after we have dinner.”

“You gotta boy?”

“Yep, just about your age. He loves ice cream.”

He hesitated. “Chocolate ice cream with hot fudge?”

I thought about it, not wanting to lie. Where would I get chocolate ice cream and hot fudge? “Yep, we could do that. First, your mama said to get some good food in your belly before the sweets. You know the rules. So what'll it be?”

He brought his head up, looked around. “Go left here over to Lucy's, they have great taquitos with real guacamole. Whenever Mama gets a little extra money, she takes us out for a treat, Lucy's for the real guacamole.”

The word guacamole didn't fit with someone so young, and it would've been cute the way he'd said it had he not been too anxious to defend the witch of a woman who had mistreated him, the woman who so readily agreed to sell him off like so much chattel.

I knew Lucy's and they knew me. I'd have to chance it. Three blocks later we walked into the sit-down part of the walk-up restaurant. People lined up outside and on the inside waiting their turn for dinner. I went right to the door off to the side like in the old days and looked over the tops of the
folks' heads at the girls behind the window taking orders and serving the food. I didn't see who recognized me, but the door's solenoid automatic lock buzzed. I pulled. We were in. The door closed automatically behind us. The warm, sweet aroma inside smelled of fresh cooked tortilla, carnitas, and cilantro. My stomach growled. Not so many years ago, years that now felt like decades, I stood in the back by the same stainless steel table and ate all the free food Lucy's owners put down in front of us, patrol cops who kept the restaurant safe for the inexpensive price of a little food.

I let Tommy down on the floor. He didn't flinch at the cold. He was a tough kid. A fat woman I didn't recognize came over with a tray of tacos, beans, and rice, and chips with salsa. She looked us over, my battered face, dirty bandaged hands, and Tommy's naked feet. She shook her head and started to leave.

“Excuse me,” I said, “Can we please have some guacamole?”

She nodded and headed for the large walk-in refrigerator. Tommy didn't wait, he went up on tiptoes, grabbed a taco and took a bite too large for his mouth. The office door opened. Out waddled Ramon Gutierrez, the son of the owner. “Bruno, my man, long time no see.” He held out his hand. I shook it. “Good to see you, too. I didn't expect this kind of service.”

He smiled with his eyes, his grin wide enough it looked like it hurt.

It made me uncomfortable. “I'm not with the cops anymore.”

He waved a hand in dismissal. “I know that. I saw you come in on the surveillance cameras and popped the door for you.”

“I pay my own way, Ramon.” I put a hundred down on the stainless steel table, the smallest bill I had.

He pointed a finger. “Your money's no good here. And that's disrespectful. Put it away.”

When I looked back the hundred was gone. Tommy busied himself eating another taco as if nothing out of the ordinary happened. His mom had turned him into a sneak thief, a thief of opportunity.

Ramon chuckled, “That kid's got a real appetite and fast hands.” The fat Mexican lady came out of the walk-in with a plastic tub of fresh guacamole big enough for four people. She set it down in front of Tommy who groaned in satisfaction and immediately dipped his taco.

Ramon nodded his head toward the office. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

I looked at Tommy, not knowing what to do about him. Ramon read the play. “Rosy,” referring to the fat Mexican lady, “will watch the boy.” He gave her some rapid-fire Spanish. She nodded and took a position right beside Tommy. Ramon led the way into the office cluttered with stacks of invoices on the desk and boxes of overflow paper stock stacked clear to the ceiling. I stood in the open doorway watching the aisle in case Tommy decided to take it on the lam and juke the rotund Rosy.

“Come in, sit down.”

“No, thanks, I think I'll stand.”

Ramon hesitated, uncomfortable in what he was about to say.

Years ago, 18th Street Hispanic gang members came around and threatened him and his family with great bodily injury if they didn't pay a neighborhood tax for protection. They paid it for a while until the amount kept going up and up, an amount that threatened to take the business to its knees. Like most all cops in the area, I ate on the cuff, unaware of the tyranny right under our noses. One busy night on patrol, I didn't have time to stop to eat, the in-progress calls came too thick. I got to Lucy's so late they'd already closed. But not too late to find two gang members, shaved headed, tat
tooed soldiers for the Mexican Mafia who had Ramon up against the wall around back of the restaurant. They had already stabbed him once and were about to gut him. I'd seen his car out front and walked around to see if he'd answer the back door. The two soldiers let him slide to the ground and immediately squared off with me. I could've legally shot them both, pulled my .357, and without checking for witnesses, gunned them right where they stood. Only I was angry and wanted a little get-even time. Back alley, no witnesses, no lights, classic curbside justice BMF style. I drew my mahogany straight stick baton and for two months, while in intensive care, they wished I had used my .357.

Even severely stabbed, in fear for his family, Ramon remained reluctant to tell the story about the protection he paid. All the deputies and cops from the surrounding area loved Ramon and his family. They put enough heat on the 18th Street gang members that a truce was called. Mad Dog MacDonald from the Lynwood Sheriff Station gang unit brought the news to the family that Lucy's was off limits to all clicks associated with the Mexican Mafia.

Now in his office, Ramon looked torn.

“It's okay,” I said. “I understand. I won't come back anymore.”

“No, no, that's not it at all.” He broke eye contact.

I took a step toward him. “What then?”

“Robby Wicks is a friend of yours, right? I know he is. You used to be thick as thieves, coming here to eat all the time when you were a detective.”

I felt a little weak in the knees, backed up, and grabbed hold of the doorway. “What? Tell me?”

“It might be nothing. But, well, he came in two weeks ago, like old times, like he had never missed a week in all the time he'd been gone, at least two years now. Came right in, asked
for me. I wasn't here, so my guys called me. He wanted them to call me. When I showed up, he acted like it was no big deal, like this was just a social visit. You know what I mean?”

My mouth went dry. “And?”

“Well—”

“Come on, Ramon.”

“Wicks tried to cover it but he finally got around to the reason he came. He asked about you.”

“He asked about me?” That wasn't so bad, he was just checking up to see how I was doing. That wasn't it at all. Not judging by Ramon's expression.

“What? Give me the rest of it.”

“He wasn't alone.”

“Who was with him?”

“A guy who wasn't like other cops. His hair was—” Ramon put his hands up to his own semibald pate. “You know, perfect, his clothes were pressed and new.”

“Who was he, Ramon?” I already knew the answer.

“He had a little gold badge hooked to his belt next to his gun. I saw it when his blue suit coat came open. He wouldn't take a free meal. The guy insisted on paying. The badge, I seen it before. It was FBI.”

Tommy ate tacos until his stomach bulged round and hard. My appetite was suddenly gone.

Ramon patted Tommy's head. “Where's this niño's shoes?”

“It's a long story. I'm watching him for his mama who had to go out of town.” Tommy looked up at me at this news regarding his mama.

Ramon got down on one knee. “Chiquito hombre, how did you break your arm? Did you fall off a wild bucking bronco?”

Tommy looked away, hesitated, then looked right in Ramon's eye. “I fell off the back porch while I was playing. My mama told me not to play there.” The coached lie hung heavy in the air.

The kid covered for his parents. The experts had ruled the break as a spiral fracture only accomplished by a child abuser who yanked and twisted at the same time.

“My mama really went out of town?”

I nodded, the lie stuck in my throat. Right now this was the only way for his own good. “Come on, kid, we have to roll.”

“Don't forget the ice cream. You promised chocolate ice cream with hot fudge.”

Ramon chuckled. “Wait a minute.” He disappeared back in his office and rummaged around. He came back with a pair of shoes, stylish shoes still in the box, the kind with the skates
in the heel. When Tommy saw them his eyes went round as saucers and his mouth into a little O.

“I hope these fit. I got them for my nephew, but never got around to giving them to him before his own grandmama beat me to it and bought a pair.”

Tommy grabbed the box and sat down on the floor. “They'll fit. They'll fit.” His pure delight warmed my heart.

I could see they were a little too big. I got down on the spotless floor to help him. I wadded up some of the tissue paper from in the box and put it in the toes. His legs wouldn't stop moving as I tried to lace them up. I tied the last bow. He jumped up and skated around the small kitchen area. I held my breath. If he fell—

“We have to get going. Thanks, amigo. And don't worry about that other thing with Robby. I already knew all about it. It's no big deal, okay?”

“Sure, sure, Bruno. Don't be a stranger.” He put his warm hand on my arm. The man was street-smart. He knew I was in way over my head. I'd put it out of my mind, tried not think about it until I got Tommy to Dad's safe and sound. I had to focus on one thing. The alternative was far too ugly.

Tommy insisted that he walk and wouldn't let me carry him. We took Long Beach down to Mr. Cho's and went in. Cho stood behind the counter. He started yelling as soon as we came in. “Get out, get out. I call poleese.”

We ignored him and went to the chest freezer where he kept the ice cream and then over to the isle where he kept the jars of marshmallow and chocolate syrup. Mr. Cho followed along yelling. Tommy didn't seem to mind. He must've grown accustomed to a similar environment.

“All they got is chocolate syrup and no hot fudge. Is chocolate syrup going to be good enough?” Tommy put his hand to
his mouth and burped. The thought of more food took him to the edge. He nodded and skated away down the aisle.

“Where's my last paycheck? You owe me for two weeks.”

“They say, you come back I call. Get out. Get out. I call right now.” He went to the phone on the counter and dialed.

“Okay, forget the check. I'm taking the ice cream instead.”

“Hello, poleese.” I snatched the phone from his hand and listened, heard the dial tone. He didn't want any more trouble and tried to bluff. I yanked the phone from the wall. “Have a good life, Mr. Cho.”

Outside, I again averted my eyes from the spot where the kid had fallen, not wanting to see the dried blood if it was still there. I ran to catch up to Tommy who rolled off down the street riding on the heel skates.

I'd been wrong or right, really, the first time I assessed the situation. The surveillance had been for me, and the robbery was collateral damage. Robby had not been there by coincidence, his team was watching me. But then what about the murders with the gasoline? Was it just a cover? He hadn't made it up. The murders were really happening. The story was all over the papers and TV news.

I caught up to Tommy and guided him around the corner. I'd been right about that night. My internal radar had been right-on after all. I didn't feel any eyes on us now, but wasn't going to take the chance. I used a preplanned escape route I'd set up far in advance. If they were watching, the plan would only work once. We went on down to Washington Avenue and turned west. Tommy's stomach was full. He'd had a little nap and now he had some shoe skates. The ice cream made my hands ache from the cold and acted as a good prop. The bag of cash hung off my shoulder. I took Tommy by the shoulder and guided him down a long path to an old, tired manse. In
its day, Lynwood was an upper-middle-class neighborhood, labeled The All American City. The south side had huge houses on big lots. Los Angeles, the city on the west border, put in vast blocks of public housing—Imperial Courts, Nickerson Gardens, and Jordan Downs. Crime raged in all the nearby cities: Compton, the gateway to Los Angeles, and Bell Gardens, and South Gate. Eventually, the good folks moved out and left the zoo to the animals. Some stayed and fought the good fight. This house was one of them.