David Putnam - The Disposables

I shrugged, too scared to smile.

“You got anything illegal in the car?”

“No, not at all. I was just going out to get some milk for my babies.”

“Then you don’t mind if we search?”

“No, not at all. Go ahead.”

The one cop nodded to his partner, who immediately went over to the car and opened the door. The inside of the car was, “clean as a Safeway chicken,” as Robby would’ve said. The searching cop worked over the inside for about ten minutes then came out with the ignition keys in his hand, headed for the trunk. The trunk contained the black bag with Q-Ball’s money, 45K, and the gun. It wasn’t against the law, under normal circumstances, to have that kind of money, but a black man at night in the ghetto was a sure call for the narcs to respond. If they put a narc dog on it, he’d sure as hell key on that dope money. After that, they’d eventually find out my real name. Game over.

The cop tinkered with the keys trying to find the right one. “Come on, show me which key opens the trunk.”

The car was an early model Plymouth, root beer-brown with a black stripe. As a precaution, I’d taken the trunk key off and put it in my shoe. “Oh, I lost that key a long time ago. But you can pull the backseat off, and if you’re real small, you can crawl into the trunk.”

The one cop looked at his partner, as if asking what they should do next. Time hung in the misty night air.

“Screw it. Let’s go.” He turned to me, “I’m going to let you off with a warning this time. Get a driver’s license. I stop you again, I’m going to run you in.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The night was suddenly lit up with a bright spotlight from a slow-moving sheriff’s patrol car eastbound on Imperial Highway. I brought my arm up to shield my eyes, my face from recognition.

“Hey, look what we have here.” Said a voice from the slow moving car. The car squeaked against the curb. “It’s Bad Boy Bruno Johnson.”

The two blue bellies jumped me, took me to the ground hard. One gave me a cheap shot, a fist to the back of the head. The other hit me with a flashlight across the back of my legs. I roared and came up with them on my back, in a push-up position. There was nothing else to lose. They had me. The blue bellies quickly figured they’d grabbed a tiger by the tail.

I would have taken them and gotten away if the two sheriff’s deputies hadn’t joined in.

Dog pile on the black man.

The deputy who’d identified me, Good Johnson, no relation, laughed his coffee-sour breath right in my face as they got the handcuffs on. He’d been at Lynwood Station for at least fifteen years. The kind of deputy too cynical and callous, a violent-tempered ghetto deputy no other station or division would have. He was stuck, destined to do his entire career at the same place, festering, getting meaner and meaner until he’d eventually implode; take a lead pellet in the mouth to end his, sad, pitiful life.

The tag “Good” wasn’t earned out of job performance. It came up out of necessity when I first arrived at the station, a boot deputy. Two Johnsons became a problem. A white Johnson and a black Johnson like in the westerns with the cowboy hats. They called him the Good Johnson and me the Bad. Good added the “Boy” to mine, a derogatory reference to race and it stuck. Bruno The Bad Boy Johnson.

One blue belly stayed with his knees on my back, making it difficult to breathe, pinning me to the dirt. The others stood and brushed off their uniforms.

Good said to his trainee, “Get on the radio, advise 60L8 we have his package.” He turned to the blue bellies. “Nice stop. This guy’s wanted. There’s a BOLO out for him from our homicide division.” He kicked my hip. “He’s a real piece of shit. Used to be one of us, believe it or not. You guys can clear. We’ll handle it from here.”

I was on the ground again, handcuffed with white cops standing over me, deciding my fate. I didn’t like it, not one damn bit.

Down Imperial Highway came a screaming police car running the red signals, braking hard and accelerating, his engine winding out in a roar in between each stop. The blue bellies stepped back in the shadows, sensing something was about to happen. Good put his foot on my head in a pose, the great white hunter.

The car slid to the curb.

Robby Wicks jumped out, came up, and shoved Good. “Get the fuck off him. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Robby stood me up and brushed me off. The coincidence that this was the second time it happened was not lost on me.

I looked him in the eye. “This is getting to be a habit with you.”

“You were late for our meet. I thought you might be jacking me off. I put out the call. Just to make sure you knew how serious I am about you helping on this thing.”

“So you’re not arresting me?”

“No. Have you done something I don’t know about?” He’d said it purely for the benefit of his audience. A question he’d never ask, not wanting to know the answer.

“Come on, take the cuffs off.”

“I don’t think so, not after what happened the last time.” He escorted me over to his car, hands still cuffed behind my back.

Johnson yelled, “You’re welcome. Those are my cuffs. I want ’em back.”

Robby turned, smiled, “Okay. For your own safety, get in your car and lock the door. I’ll bring them to you.”

He started to take the cuffs off. “You be cool, we have too much to do tonight for any more bullshit. You already put me behind the eight ball being late like this.” I nodded. I rubbed my wrists. He walked over and tossed the cuffs in onto Johnson’s lap. Johnson peeled out, tires spinning. The blue bellies quietly walked over to their car, got in, and left.

Robby waited until they were out of sight, saw me looking at my car. “You can’t drive. You don’t have a driver’s license. It’s a parole violation.”

“How am I supposed to get around?”

“Last I heard, you were laying your head in that burnt-out derelict apartment house over on 117th and walking or taking the bus to the liquor store.”

How’d he know about the pad on Alabama? “I don’t work there anymore.”

“Don’t dodge the question.”

“All of a sudden you know a great deal about me.”

“I told you, I want you to help me out with this thing. When you FTA-ed I gotta come look for you. Why all of a sudden are you driving a car? And whose car is it?”

“Okay, truce. I can’t leave my car here. I’ll follow you. Where’re we going?”

He hesitated, thinking it through. He knew I wouldn’t run, not with him following. “We got the witness stashed over at the Shamrock on Atlantic.” He looked at my car and thought some more. I didn’t give him a chance and headed back, got in, started up.

He wandered to his car, checked over his shoulder one last time before he got in, and fell in behind as I pulled out.

How did he know about my place on 117th and Alabama? That was supposed to be a cold pad. My residence of record was Chantal’s on Crenshaw. What else did he know? How long had the FBI been on me? Two weeks prior was when I’d first sensed I was being watched and didn’t trust my instincts. The money Jumbo paid me, the cash I buried out back of 117th, did they know about that too? Was the whole deal blown?

I was going to have to play along until I found out.

We stayed on Imperial Highway all the way east until Atlantic and turned south. He pulled into Taco Quicky, a joint owned and operated by a reserve deputy. Like Lucy’s, the cops from all around came to eat for free. The parking lot was an absolute safe zone that crooks walked a wide path around. He rolled down his window. “Leave that heap and get in.”