David Putnam - The Disposables

I owed him.

The name Jenny brought it all flooding back, the hot night, the sweat, the odors, the images of shiny patent leather and blue gingham.

“Yes, I’ll help you, but only for a week. One week.”

Robby smiled as he wheeled into Stops and parked among the derelict vehicles belonging to other customers. Stops had been at the corner of Wilmington and Imperial Highway forever. Right across the street was Nickerson Gardens, a city housing project that the city had finally fenced in with ten-foot-high wrought iron. Most places turned the curved pointed tops outward to keep the riffraff from entering. With the Nickerson, the wrought iron points were turned inward to keep the animals from escaping the zoo. Stops served hot link sausages on a bun smothered in barbeque sauce and chili fries so thick with grease they’d lie in your stomach for days. Cleevon Tuttle, a rotund black man in white apron with red barbeque sauce smeared in splotches all down the front, set a tray down on the counter with two hot links and chili fries. “Good to see ya, Bruno.”

Robby, his money clip out, peeled off some bills. Cleevon lost his smile, “Man, don’t you dare insult me.”

Robby put his money away and took up the tray.

Cleevon looked back at me. I’d had a great deal of respect for this man, that’s why I hadn’t come around. I broke eye contact and lowered my head.

“Don’t you be that way, Bruno. We was all pullin’ for ya. And if Johnny Cocoran hadn’t gone and died, you woulda got off just like O.J.” He leaned over the counter and took hold of my hand. “You stop that now. Listen to me, you been out a while, come around when you get hungry, anytime. It’s on me. You hear? You got nothin’ to be ashamed of. That sombitch had it comin’. He needed killin’. Everyone knows it.”

“Thanks, Cleevon.” All the help behind the counter stopped and watched. My new self-image, the crazy emotional old man thing, had me by the throat, sparking tears. “Doesn’t matter,” I said, “I still killed a man and I had to pay my dues.”

Robby saw my dilemma and nudged my shoulder. “Come on, let’s eat. Thanks, Cleevon.”

I followed Robby over to an outside table so we could keep an eye on his car and the thugs across the street on the other side of the wrought iron fence who milled about in gang attire, watching our every move. Robby took off his suit coat, which exposed his shoulder holster, let the thugs see it. He also didn’t want to get the messy chili on it.

The smell of the spicy food made my stomach growl. I’d been so busy, I couldn’t remember when I’d eaten last. Robby was always hungry and never put on an extra pound. He had that kind of metabolism. We ate in silence. He finished off his link and half the fries before he pushed them away and took up his Coke.

We’d missed the rush. Inside at the counter the line grew until it snaked out the door.

Without preamble, Robby started in. “The first victim was a good-for-nothing coke whore over off of Long Beach and Elizabeth Ave. The patrol deputy heard what he described as screeching. He turned the corner and saw Keeshawn Wilkins burning like a fresh-lit match, writhing in the street. When she saw the patrol car she yelled, “Help me.” That was it. She collapsed and burned out. I talked to the deputy personally. He admitted to me he was shook by it and all he saw was the burning woman. If there were wits in the area, he wasn’t aware, couldn’t remember. He said he never felt so helpless. I think it actually fucked him up in the head. He put in for a transfer to Malibu station.”

Barbeque hot link was a poor choice for lunch. But then anything would have been a bad choice. I pushed my half-eaten sandwich aside and washed it down with a lot of Coke.

“The next one, Devon Sherman, he was already a smoldering heap on the sidewalk when someone, an anonymous tip, called it in. That one was right out in front of the church over off Aranbe, you know the one. The press got a hold of it and tried to make it look like some kind of hate crime. We weathered it pretty well until the third one. Rasheen Patel, a motel owner over on Atlantic Avenue just north of Taco Quickie. He was robbed. And if you ask me, it looked like a copycat, which is going to make things more complicated when we do catch the guy.

“The fourth one, you’re really going to like this one. Late last night, not even in this area, up north of here, Central and Twentieth Street. Same MO, only this time it was the field representative for County Board of Supervisor Kendrick, name of McWhorter. You can imagine what a circus that turned this thing into.”

The tables around us started filling up, and Robby felt uncomfortable talking about the sensitive case. He looked around. “Let’s get out of here.”

Back in the car, he took out a pack of Dentyne from over the visor, unwrapped a piece, put it in his mouth, then offered me the pack. I waved him off.

He chewed and looked at me. “Well, what do you think?”

“When you first told me about this the other night, you said the guy used a coffee can to hold the gas, tossed the gas, held up a lighter, and demanded money.”

Robby smiled, reaching over to lightly punch my arm. “That’s why I need you on this. You don’t miss a thing. Rasheen Patel was braced by the suspect out on the side of his motel when he was taking the trash out.”

“Which motel?”

“The Sands.”

“You have a witness from the second story who was looking out the window.”

This time it shocked him. “How did you know that?”

“How else would you have that kind of detail without a witness? The suspect wouldn’t do it with anyone standing close. And I know the Sands and where the dumpster is around back. Why do you think this one’s a copycat?”

“Because the first two had their money still in their pockets, burnt, but it was still there.”

“And the field rep for Kendrick?”

“His money was missing. Kendrick said McWhorter carried about a grand around all the time and liked to flash it. He was bold, into the power thing.”

“Where’s your witness?”

“We have her stashed. No one knows about her, especially the press. You can talk to her tonight. Right now, I need some sleep or I’m going to doze off standing up. You don’t look so hot yourself. I’d ask what you’ve been doing, but I know it’s something I don’t to want to know about. Am I right?”

I ignored the last part. “Can you drop me at my pad?”

“Sure.” He started up and turned north. He’d read my file and knew my residence of record. Had he not been so fatigued, he would’ve asked me where I was staying instead of tipping his hand.

He talked the entire way in order to stay awake, inane chatter about bygone days. For the most part, I tuned it out. I had more important things to think about. The foremost of which was whether or not someone saw me burying 75K behind the burnt-out apartment complex on Alabama and 117th. When you’re so tired the paranoia gets a good foothold, it plays havoc with your logic. My imagination had bulldozers knocking down the burnt-out apartments, churning up my hard-earned cash, the wind picking it up and blowing it down the boulevard.

He pulled up in front of Chantal’s apartment on Crenshaw. “I’ll pick you up right here in six hours. Then you can talk to our one and only witness.”

I nodded. “Right.” Which meant only three hours’ sleep. I had to track down Jumbo to get the rest of my money before he had time to change his mind. I watched Robby drive away.

I knocked on the door. Chantal opened it. She was dressed in Chinese silk pajamas. Her hair was mussed and she didn’t have on any makeup. I’d never seen her this way. She looked ten years older, the youthful girl gone.