David Putnam - The Disposables

I opened the door again, the light made me squint.

Behind me Chocolate yelped, said, “My God, Bruno, these aren’t twent-” I closed the door. Her words drowned out behind the wood.

“Well?” Robby said, “Was it as good as it used to be?”

I stepped over and gave him a left jab to the jaw then an uppercut to the gut. He was soft, too many years as a supervisor. He went to his knees.

He pulled his gun, something he never did lightly. He stopped short of aiming it at me. “What the fuck’s the matter with you?” His words came out in a groan, his face a shade paler.

“You, man. What’s the matter with you? You were never like this before, crude and crass, uncaring about the other person. What the hell happened to you?”

“Life, asshole. It’s what happens to everyone. Did the bitch tell you or not?”

I wanted to sock him again. I turned and went down the hall, down the stairs, and out into the cool of the evening, the entire time thinking how to turn the thing around. At the car I waited. Robby didn’t follow right behind. I waited. He didn’t show. Did he go back and bat Chocolate around? I took a step toward the entrance just when he came out. He banged the door shut, his arm holding his stomach, his shoulders slightly hunched. He went around to the passenger side where I stood. I thought about backing up a step beyond his wrath.

“I lost my lunch. Thanks a lot.”

I didn’t feel sorry, not after the way he talked around Chocolate.

“What did she tell you?”

“She said the dude who threw the gas and lit the guy up was wearing purple.”

“That’s it? Purple? That’s all she’s got? We put her up, fed her, and that’s all she’s got? Purple?” He put his arm on the car, leaned over until his forehead touched the cold metal of the hood, and let out another long, sad groan.

The man was chasing me, making my life miserable, and I still felt sorry for him. And at the same time guilt for what I was about to do.

I was facing the motel, Robby facing me. A figure, concealed in shadows came out into the light. Chocolate. She held her hand up to her ear, index and thumb extended, the sign for a phone. Then she pointed at Robby. She melted back into the dark, back into the street. She was trying to warn me. She’d seen Robby on the cell phone after he left her and in between the time he came back to the car. He hadn’t lost his lunch, it was a crummy little alibi for a crummy little man. What had happened to the great Robby Wicks?

Why would he have to make a call without me hearing? Especially, before I told him what Chocolate had told me?

I held out my hand for the keys. “Hey, man, if you’re sick, let me drive.”

He kept his head on his arm and didn’t look up. “Drive where, asshole? That was our last lead. We’re through until he does it again. When he does, hope he makes a mistake and leaves us something this time.”

“He?” I asked.

Robby froze. Slowly he looked up.

I said, “I never said he. I did, but didn’t mean it that way. It’s they.”

For a moment he looked scared. It didn’t match the reaction he should’ve had. Fear flashed for a microsecond. Again, had I not known him so well, I might’ve missed it. He recovered. “They? What the hell you talking about, they? There’s more than one suspect?”

“I told you purple. That’s Grape Street. She said Grape Street Crips had a new initiation.” This was all the lie I needed. He took it from there. His eyes grew big. “You’re shit-tin’ me, right? We got all of Operation Safe Streets and the Gang Enforcement Team, working on this, and they couldn’t come up with that kind of intel. Some street ho-”

“Careful.” I pointed a finger at him, at the same time felt a surge of guilt for what I just put into motion, the pain, the carnage. Grape Street was a notoriously violent street gang that needed a little extra attention. Justification for my sins.

He took his cell phone out of his suit coat pocket, then handed me the keys. “Here, you drive. And don’t you dare crash. I’d never be able to explain it.” We got into the car. I reached under the seat to let the seat back for my long legs and felt a crumpled paper bag with a pint bottle.

He dialed his phone. “This is Wicks. Put it out to everyone and I mean everyone. I want every swingin’ dick in Nickerson Gardens, who’s wearing purple, brought in. Now. I mean right now. Call in whoever you have to, to get it done. Call Century Station and tell them they’re about to be inundated with assholes. I’ll call the chief and get it cleared.” He snapped his phone shut, put it inside one breast pocket, and reached into the other side where he pulled out a silver flask. Robby never drank on the job. Things sure had changed in the three and half years I was gone; a year and a half to fight the case and two years of a four-year sentence in the joint.

He unscrewed the cap, tilted it back, and took a long slug. I didn’t know why I hadn’t smelled it on him until now. My partner, my friend had turned into a juicer. He pulled the flask down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. In the day, we drank quite a bit off duty, mostly beer to celebrate great accomplishments-crooks no longer prowling streets, put away for long stretches, bank robbers, murderers, some put down hard-but we never drank the hard stuff. The day be fore I surrendered for my stint, I got stinking-assed drunk on twelve-year-old bourbon and felt the shame of it the next day. Dad drilled it into me not to drink at all.

Robby looked over at me with genuine elation. As far as he knew, the key to his difficult case was on the table. All he had to do was reach out and touch it. I just didn’t know what it had to do with me or why I was being followed. Not for real, not that I wanted to give credence to anyway.

I felt worse.

Then I thought about what Ramon, the owner of Lucy’s, had said, that Robby was asking about me with the FBI standing right there beside him. That meant federal time. And that, I didn’t really want to think about. The Feebs, one of the crimes they investigated was kidnapping. Not that I looked at what I was doing as a crime; saving these kids wasn’t kidnapping, not morally it wasn’t. Other people would see it differently, especially since some of the kids were white. No, the guilt didn’t last very long.

Robby’s wide smile filled his entire face. He might make captain out of this. Hell, if he took me down, recovered the kids, and the murder suspect, he could make deputy chief. He handed me the flask. I sat entranced with his eyes. Would he turn on a friend? Especially the kind of friends we’d been. All that had obviously changed. I just couldn’t get my mind around it. I would never have turned on him, not for any enticement. Yet, in a way, I just had. My stomach rumbled. Soon I’d have his ulcer.

I didn’t smile back, couldn’t, but I could take the flask and drink from it to deaden some of the pain brought on by the loss of a friend. I tilted it back, not knowing what to expect. Vodka. The odorless drink of a drunk.

Two and a half years without a drop. The liquor burnt all the way down, warming my stomach, and seconds later my blood and lungs, rekindling that hint of shame. To drink right now dulled the senses. Not a smart move when so many people depended upon me. I breathed fire, took a breath, and another long slug, finishing the flask.

“Hey, hey, buddy, don’t Bogart the whole thing.” Robby took the flask, tipped it back empty in his mouth. “Not to worry.” He reached into the glove box and pulled out another one, then turned on the unit radio to channel 22. It immediately lit up with chatter.

“Jesus, listen to all that. We have unleashed a shit storm like those punks have never seen.”