David Putnam - The Disposables

“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.”