The Disposables Read online

  I sat back on my heels. “Ben Drury?”

  “Yeah, I think that’s it.”

  “I have to go.” I got up and kissed him on his forehead. Ben Drury meant bad news, the worst. Chantal wouldn’t have risked calling unless Ben meant to make a home call. I had to roll fast. Parole agents didn’t make home calls on Sunday. Something was up.

  “I talked to Marie tonight, she said she was going to have some meds dropped off tomorrow, okay?”

  He nodded.

  “She’ll check over Alonzo. And, I think I forgot to take the Gatorade bottle down. Can you have Toby do that for me, old man, right away so I’ll know the next time?”

  His hands were crippled up with arthritis. He patted my arm with a weathered claw, “You take care, son, you hear?”

  “I always do, Dad. I wish I could stay longer. I have to go.”

  He closed his eyes and nodded. I started for the back door and then switched direction, went down the hall to the bedroom. I stroked Alonzo’s soft hair and kissed his forehead one more time. In his sleep he mumbled the name, “Alfred,” his brother. Alonzo was small for a three-year old, so vulnerable in such a violent world. The clock ticked in the back of my brain. I had to go. Soon it would be over. Then I’d make it up to him.

  I grabbed a cookie from the cookie jar on the kitchen counter on the way out, stopped at the door, and looked back at Dad, Alonzo’s great-grandfather, who stood at the entrance of the living room. “Tell Alonzo, no matter what, I’ll come see him tonight. Okay?”

  “I shouldn’t tell him that if there’s any chance at all you won’t make it. It’ll break his little heart.”

  For a second, I thought about Ben Drury, calculated the odds, then said, “You go ahead and tell him.”

  Chapter Five

  On the porch I gave Junior the cookie and patted his head. There was nothing else to do but run for it. Taxis didn’t come into the ghetto when it was dark, not this far south. I had to make it back to Killer King, the farthest place a cab would venture down from Imperial Highway, and only if the money was right. Short of carjacking, a taxi was the only way I was going to get to Chantal’s in time.

  Five blocks west and thirteen long blocks north. I couldn’t run the whole thing and had to walk-run, my face and hands throbbed, my old body yelled that the brain had gone off line into the red zone and threatened a full meltdown.

  At Killer King I used the pay phone out front, hoping Marie wouldn’t come out for a smoke and see me. She didn’t know about Chantal. She knew about the apartment, but not about Chantal. Marie wouldn’t understand. I paced in the shadows waiting as the sun broke on the horizon. I wasn’t going to make it.

  According to my parole officer, I was supposed to be home in bed on Sunday mornings. I was labeled High Risk because of my commitment charge. Drury had my work schedule, my entire life schedule. He had the ability to drop in on me at anytime. Until now, Ben had been cool and always called first, a professional courtesy only extended from parole agent to ex-cop.

  The situation now called for a serious two-step shuffle, lie to him about how my job was going, and hope Mr. Cho wasn’t mad enough to call him to rat me out. Then hope Ben didn’t find out for two more weeks. That’s all I needed was two more weeks.

  I paid the cabby twice the fare to take me up to Crenshaw and then gave him a twenty-dollar tip for busting some of the red signals at empty intersections. At the gate to the apartment my hand was almost too swollen to get in my pocket for the keys. Chantal lived in a three-story apartment building, one as upscale as they came for the Crenshaw district. I fumbled the keys, got the gate open, and looked back to the street for the light-blue, nondescript government car Ben always drove. Still too early for his visit. Though, this was an extraordinary situation that added variables. He never made a home visit on Sunday. Something was definitely up. And added fuel to the theory that the cops on Long Beach Boulevard may have been watching for more than the torch, the guy robbing his victims and afterward tossing the can of gasoline on them.

  I had a key to the apartment door and had promised to always knock out of courtesy to Chantal, a kept woman, a high-dollar executive’s, on-the-side squeeze. She allowed me to give her address as my residence of record as long as her sugar daddy never knew about it.

  I’d met Chantal back before the big fall, back when I was running and gunning on the Violent Crimes Team. I’d helped her out with a problem her nephew had with the law, and she returned the favor. Ben Drury promised to always call and it worked out as long as I let Chantal know where I could be reached.

  I stopped at the door, fist raised to knock. If her sugar daddy was in there, that would be it. The jig, as the saying goes, would be up. I’d have ruined her life, and she’d be mad enough to tell Ben some simple, basic details to get me a year’s violation back in the joint. And worse case, an add-charge, a new case with ten to twenty years’ exposure.

  But she’d been the one to call. She had to know I’d be coming over. I knocked and waited. Knocked again. Out on the street I heard a car pull up. A door slam. I went to the open balcony in the hallway and looked out. The light-blue nondescript government car sat at the curb. I saw the top of Drury’s brown hair bob as he walked toward the gate. Back at the door, I knocked again, this time with more urgency.

  The door opened a crack. I shoved my way in. Chantal started to protest. I put my hand over her mouth and closed the door behind us. “It’s okay, it’s me. Paroles are coming up right behind me, right now.” Her body hot, against mine, my hands slick on smooth silk.

  I yanked my shirt off, the white t-shirt underneath was splotched with drying blood from my hands. I yanked my t-shirt off and tossed them both to her.

  “What happened to you?” She asked, calm as if nothing of import ever happened, her eyelids pinned and her pupils constricted. Heroin. Shit. Perfect timing, girl.

  “Ditch that stuff, he’s going to be here any second.”

  “Relax, would you?” She sauntered back into the bedroom. She wore a silk eggshell-white nightgown that clung to her body and let every beautiful curve in the cleave of her lovely heart-shaped bottom show off with each rise and fall of her long, perfect legs. Her skin was cocoa smooth, without blemish. She kept her hair down around her shoulders, a different look. She always wore it up.

  I sat on the living room couch and tried to control my breathing. The couch, made of cushy white leather, matched the white fur carpet. I sank in. Everything else in the room was hand picked, all chrome and black.

  Ben knocked at the door. I looked to the hallway. Chantal was taking her sweet damn time.

  “Chantal, someone’s at the door.”

  “Can you get it for me, babe?”

  “I guess, yeah, sure why not?”

  I quickly untied my boots and kicked them off as I walked to the door. I was about to open it when I realized what I still had in my pocket, twenty-two thousand dollars, a red-hot parole violation. Again the knock, more urgent this time. “Open up, police.”

  Police? Ben Drury, State parole, right? Not the police, it can’t be the police.

  I tossed the wad of bills in a waist-high fake oriental vase with silk flowers, next to the entertainment center, and shoved it down its throat. I went to the door, took in a deep breath, and opened it.

  A big hand shoved my chest. I stumbled backward and almost fell. The hand came in attached to the thug cop I’d only recently met out in front of Mr. Cho’s store. The cop who’d kicked me in the face. The cop whose nose was red and swollen three times its normal size from the roundhouse I’d given him.

  Chapter Six

  The thug cop had run a check on me, found out about the parole, called Ben Drury at home, got him out of bed early on a Sunday to come out for a little get-even time. Back in the day, as a young and full-of-testosterone copper, it wouldn’t have been out of the realm of something I would have done. The parole tail on me gave him the balls to overlook Robby Wicks’s warning.

  The thug sai
d, “Morning, Mr. Bruno Johnson. We’re here on a routine home check.”

  I looked over at Ben, who looked away. No doubt, the thug had something on Ben.

  “Nice digs you got here, Mr. Johnson. How can a piece of shit like you, who works at a chickenshit little hole-in-the-wall grocery store, afford a place like this?” He kept walking, shoving me on my chest until I was back at the couch and sat down hard.

  “What’s going on?” Chantal came from the hall, her eyes a little more alert from the adrenaline, her nipples poking straight out of her nightgown like a couple of number two Black Warrior pencil erasers. The thug cop moved closer to her for a better view, lust apparent on his shovel face.

  His sudden change in behavior, from aggressive to ogling, stopped her cold. “Mr. Drury, who is this? He has no right to come into my home.”

  “Just calm down, Ms. Sykes, he’s a deputy with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. His name’s John Mack, and he does have a right to be here.”

  “Chantal,” I said, “I’m sorry.”

  Mack made no effort to hide his ogle as he kept his stark, blue eyes locked onto her breasts.

  Chantal crossed her arms on her chest. “If you say so, Mr. Drury, that’s fine. I trust your discretion. I’m not happy about it, but I’ll go along. For now.”

  “For now?” Mack said, “Who do you think you are? You uppity little nig—”

  Drury stepped in between them and pointed a finger at Mack, looking him in the eye as he addressed Chantal, “We’re sorry for the intrusion this morning. I promise this won’t take long.”

  “How can we help you, Mr. Drury, to get you out of here sooner?”

  He turned back to face her. “I heard some disturbing news about Bruno. I came over to make sure everything was okay.”

  “Is that right? Exactly what did you hear?”

  “He had a run-in with the police last night. He slugged one.”

  Chantal looked at Mack, and brought her hand up to her mouth, stifling a smile. “Oh, really, who could that be?”

  Mack’s gaze snapped off her breasts, his expression instantly transformed to ugly. He took two quick steps toward her. I jumped up to stop him. He pivoted and shoved me back down on the couch. Chantal brought her fists up to defend herself as her eyes flared. She had grown up in Nickerson Gardens and knew how to defend herself.

  “Hold it. Hold it,” Ben yelled. “Let’s everyone just calm down.”

  Mack looked at Chantal, his expression softening.“Hey now, lookee here, the arrest gods have shined down on me this lovely Sunday morn. It looks as if our lovely lady is smacked back. She’s under the influence.” He reached to grab her wrist. She jerked away. Ben moved in between. “Stop it. We had a deal, no misdemeanor bullshit.”

  “Okay, but if she’s under the influence, then she has to have her kit and dope somewhere in the pad. And dope is a solid felony. I’ll just have a little looksee.”

  “You have no right to search my house without a search warrant.”

  Ben had her by the shoulders. “This is Bruno’s residence of record. We don’t need a search warrant.”

  Her head whipped around, her eyes ablaze, burning a hole right into me. “Is that right, Bruno?”

  Too ashamed, I could only nod.

  Mack stood at the stereo, tossing all the CDs to the floor. He pulled the pictures off from the wall, tossed them on the floor, and started to move systematically through the room conducting a professional search.

  “Ben Drury, you stop this right now, or I swear I’m going to make a call.”

  Mack hesitated.

  Drury said to Mack, “I warned you.”

  Mack smiled. “Grow some balls, Drury. All we have to do is find her stash and then nobody can touch us. Nobody. We’ll be bulletproof. Trust me.” He picked up the vase and turned it over. The silk flowers fell out. Green Benjamin Franklins cascaded to the carpet.

  Mack threw his head back and laughed. “Lookee, here.” He turned toward me, “Peekaboo, asshole.”

  This, a term I myself had coined years ago, and it had become a standard BMF catchphrase. He knew its origin and purposely used it on me. Threw it right in my face.

  “What?” Chantal said, “That’s my money. It’s not against the law to be leery of banks and to keep cash in your home. Is it, Mr. Drury?”

  “It is if it belongs to a parolee.”

  “I just told you that it’s mine.”

  Mack came over to the couch, “Stand up, asshole, it’s time to go to jail.”

  I knew I could take Mack, he was younger, stronger, but overconfident. The problem was whether or not Ben would stand by while I put Mack on the deck. I had no choice. No way could I go back for a year on a violation. Not right now, not with everything already in motion. I stood up, the decision made. I’d chance it, put him down. Go on the run until everything ran its course.

  Drury’s cell phone rang. He looked at the incoming number. “Hold it. Hold it, the both of you, give it a rest.” He pushed the button, said, “Drury. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I understand.” He punched off. “We’re through here.”

  Mack’s head spun. “What’re you talking about?”

  “You heard me. We’re done. We’re leaving right now.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do. I work for the Sheriff’s Department.”

  “You’re absolutely right. I’m leaving. You can do what you want. But be warned I told you the setup here, and if you stay, it’s at your own risk. You’re no longer sanctioned by state parole for this search. You will need your own probable cause.” He turned to Chantal, “I’m sorry, Ms. Sykes, for bothering you on Sunday.” He walked to the door, opened it, “You coming, Mack?”

  Mack looked at me, gave me his best cocksucker eyes. “We’re not through. You and me are going to tangle. Count on it.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  The words locked his jaw tight and screwed his muscles down. He hesitated, weighing his options, as if he could weather the shit storm he’d stir up if he jumped now instead of later.

  It passed.

  He stomped over to the door, turned, and said, “Lady, you know what kind of piece of shit you’re living with? He’s a murderer. He hunted down a twenty-five-year-old kid and shot him in cold blood right in front of witnesses.” Mack pointed an unloaded finger at me. “The kid wasn’t wanted by the law and he had nothing in his hands. This piece of shit gunned him in cold blood. Think about that the next time he’s kissing on your neck, running his hands up to grope that sweet little ass of yours, and then ask yourself, when’s he going to snap and kill again. Kill again for no reason. Think about it.”

  Chantal walked over to Mack, smiled, put her hand up, and stroked his face. “And you, honey, try and keep your big nose where it doesn’t belong. Next time you might not be so lucky.”

  Mack’s face bloated red. For a long second, I thought he would just say, screw it, pull his handcuffs, and take us both down. He finally gave it up, kicked the doorjamb like a spoiled little kid, and followed Ben out, slamming the door so hard the walls shook. I would now have to be careful and not give him my back. Without witnesses around, given the chance, he’d surely gun me.

  Chapter Seven

  Chantal’s shoulders quaked as she walked unsteadily over to a chair, sat, and lit a cigarette from the box on the end table.

  I didn’t know what to say or do. I walked over, got down on my sore knees, righted the vase, picked up the silk flowers, and replaced them. My voice croaked, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

  She took a long drag on her cigarette, held it in, and then blew it out of her nose in one long exhale. “What a prick, that guy.”

  I started shuffling all the cash together. “Boy, we were lucky. If Drury hadn’t gotten that phone call—” I stopped and looked at her.

  She took in another long drag and spoke as the smoke came out her mouth. “The way you came in, I knew there was going to be trouble so I made a preemptive call.�
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  “I don’t know what to say. Thank you. I owe you big.”

  She held out her hand. “Yes, you do. You have no idea how much explaining I’m going to have to do. Calling him at home on Sunday morning, telling him that state parole was at the door, and could he do something about it? That’s going to cost me dear.”

  I looked at her hand, then down at all the money in mine. It represented a good a chunk of what was needed. To give it up meant I’d have to venture back out on the edge to replace it, take the risk all over again. Another delay, another big risk, when I’d thought I was all but done with that part of the plan.

  Had she not stopped the law machine from running me over, I’d have been on the run from parole with an armed-and-dangerous warrant out for me, or worse, in the can waiting for a parole hearing. How much was that worth? More than twenty thousand, that was for sure. I set the money in her hand and said, “Thank you. I mean it, you saved my ass.”

  She got up with a big smile, sauntered over to the stereo, and set the money on top in one tall pile. “You know what? That big ugly bastard made me feel dirty all over.” She slipped the spaghetti strings to her nightgown off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. “I think I’m going to take a shower.”

  She walked down the hall, her perfectly shaped naked bottom over spiked high heels rose and fell with each step.

  She’d put the heels on when she’d gone in the bedroom, put them on purposely for the overall presentation. While at the same time making that phone call that saved my ass. She was one cool, conniving woman who knew what she wanted and how to get it. She hesitated, looked over her shoulder to see if I followed. Her eyes and smile beckoned.

  I shuddered and closed my eyes and tried to think of something else, about Marie, her smile, the way her eyes flashed when I said something that made her happy, made her laugh with the little crinkle at the corner of her lips. When I opened my eyes, the hall had turned drab in Chantal’s absence.

  I went into the second bedroom, shut the door, quickly stripped out of my clothes, entered the bathroom, and locked the door. Locked Chantal out. Just in case. If she walked in the bathroom, opened the shower door, and stepped in while I lathered up, I didn’t think I’d be able to—I shuddered again at the thought and turned the hot water off and the cold on high. “I’m with you, Marie. I’m still with you, babe.”