David Putnam - The Disposables

The doorway shadowed with a throng of Blood gang members. In an after-action, beer drinking tailgate party, the BMFs would have called it a “blood clot.” I automatically turned my shoulder away from them, putting my body in between the threat and Tommy.

“Step out of the way, boys. I got no beef with you.”

Four of them, just outside the door, backed up almost to the chain-link fence that surrounded the defunct pool. Only one held a gun, a sawed-off double-barrel twelve-gauge. Enough fire power to cut me right in half. The largest by far of the thugs had on a red tank top. His thickly muscled right bicep wept blood from a fresh bullet wound, the result of the earlier gunshots, a drive-by. Fearless, loyal, and brave, he said, “Where’s Q-Ball?”

I kept the gun down by my side, half looking at them over my shoulder. “You don’t want any part of this. Back on out and-”

“I said, where’s Q?”

Behind me on the floor, Q said, “Man, are you crazy? Doan you know who dat is? Dat’s Bruno Johnson, the poooleeese. Let him go ’fore he kills all’ve us.” Q’s voice rose as he spoke until it was almost a screech. He crab-crawled deeper into the apartment. On the top of his head, ropy strips of scalp laid bare where the hair never grew back from when I had tried to educate him in the ills of drug dealing. I guess I’d been a poor teacher.

The four thugs looked at one another. The big, mean one with the fresh bullet hole in his arm remained undeterred. “Fuck this punk, man, dere are fo’ of us and only one a ‘m.”

Q screeched from deep in the dim apartment. “Dint you hear what I said? Dat’s Bruno, The Bad Boy Johnson, and I swear to gawd, he’ll kill us all. Let him go, let him go, let him get his sorry ass outta here.”

Maybe he had learned a little something from our prior lessons after all.

Q’s hysteria turned contagious. The big thug broke eye contact, looked at his friends who continued to back up. They all shifted and moved off around the dirt pool, slowly at first, then in a big hurry, cowardly curs with their tails between their legs.

I put the Colt in the pocket of the army coat and picked Tommy up, his rib bones hard against my hands, he was so damn skinny. He wrapped his legs around my waist. I buttoned the coat around him. He’d stopped shivering.

I went back into the foul-smelling apartment only dim enough to show the outline of furniture, found Q huddled in the kitchen, next to the wall and fridge, his arms over his head. “Whatta ya want? Whatever it is take it. Take it and go.”

His plea stopped me short and gave me an idea. I nudged him with my foot. “You know damn well why I’m here, asshole.”

“No, I don’t, swear to gawd I don’t.”

“I want my money.”

“What gawd damn money’s dat?” His head came up, indignant. Money was his life and easily superseded his fear.

I kicked him, but not hard. “Don’t you play dumb with me, you candy-ass punk, I’ll shoot you right here. You know me. You know I’ll do it and not think twice about it.”

“Aw’ite, aw’ite, doan shoot. All the green I gots is in a bag behind the vent, behind the vent under the water heater.”

I kicked him again. “Get it and hurry up.”

I followed as he crab-crawled quickly through the living room area, down a short hall to a closet. Tommy’s legs had relaxed, his whole body limp. The comfortable heat after the constant cold put him right to sleep.

At the end of the hall, Q started to open the door. I kicked it closed. “You come out with a gun it’ll be your last conscious act. You understand me?”

“I ain’t no fool.”

“Get it then and make it snappy.”

He opened the closet. Inside sat a fat water heater just like he said. He fumbled in his pocket and came out with a slot screwdriver, the key to his riches. His hands shook. Blood dripped from his broken nose onto his wrist as he fumbled with the four nearly stripped screws. When the vent came off, I grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him away with my free hand. I reached inside and felt a Mac-10 submachine gun on top of a nylon gym bag. I pulled the bag out.

“How much is in there?”

“Dere’s forty-five.”

“Forty-five, that means you can tell Jumbo he still owes me another-no, you tell Jumbo this is interest only. You tell him he still owes me the entire one-twenty-five. You got it?”

“Jumbo? I doan know no-”

I shoved him with my foot, then put it on his chest pinning him. “Don’t even try to tell me you don’t know Jumbo.”

“Awite, awite, I knows him. But all dat money ain’t his. Some’ve it’s mine.”

“You can work it out with him. This is your boy, isn’t it?” I said, indicating Tommy Bascombe under my jacket.

“Hell, no, that ain’t my boy.”

I put more weight on his chest.

“Awite, awite, he’s my lil rugrat, whatever you say, awite.”

“I’m taking him, holding him ransom until I get the rest of my money. You understand? You want your kid back, you better tell Jumbo to pay up. And I don’t have to tell you what will happen if you go to the cops. You or your woman out there.”

The idea came to me all of a sudden, some smoke to cover for the taking of Tommy.

“We won’t rat to no cops, dat’s for damn sure.”

“Now get up. You’re going to walk me out of here just in case some of your homies think they can take me on.”

“Aw, man.”

Outside on the sidewalk, night had slammed down without fair warning. Tommy still slept against my chest and grew heavier with each step. I tried to hold him up with one arm the other in my pocket holding the Colt against Q’s spine. He carried the bag of money.

“Where’s your hooptie?”

“I ain’t got no ride.”

“I’m not going to steal your car. You’re going to drive us out of here.”

“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?”