David Putnam - The Disposables

He hesitated.

I may have tried to take control of the meeting too quickly. He stomped over to the door and slammed it. I heard the solid steel door lock automatically. Deputy Mack was prone to those kinds of mistakes.

“You going to start talking or am I going to walk out?”

“The door’s locked.”

His face flushed red.

I held up my hands, “Whoa. I’m sorry, really. Don’t get mad. I’m going to make you a star.”

“Like hell you are. You got nothin’. I don’t even know what I’m doin here.”

“If that were true, you wouldn’t be here at all. You know there’s something terribly wrong with what’s going on. More so than normal, I mean.”

He calmed down, looked over his shoulder with a quick glance, and backed up to sit in a hard plastic chair.

“I know you have no reason to believe me. I didn’t burn those people and I didn’t shoot Crazy Ned Bressler.”

He opened his mouth to speak. I cut him off. “I know who burned those people. That’s why you’re here. You know it’s the truth.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“You know why?”

He stared, thinking it over, not rising to the bait.

I leaned forward, my hands on the edge of the bed, “Why don’t you tell me why I’m telling you.”

His light-blue eyes were almost gray. He waited a long time, his jaw muscle knitting. Finally, he looked away as if making a confession. “I grew up in south Texas. My daddy was a lawman and so was my grandpap. I wanted to get away from being Big John Mack’s little boy and make my own way.”

I didn’t know what this had to do with anything, but I had the time.

“I moved out here and joined the best law enforcement organization in the world. Everything was great. I loved my job. I moved up fast, made it to the shit-hot Violent Crimes Team. At first, this job-there was nothing better. It was everything I wanted and imagined. Until about two years ago.”

I knew what he was talking about. I’d been there.

He paused, so I finished it for him. “Until your leader changed emotionally.”

He looked back at me. “I called back to Texas and talked to my people. You know what my daddy said? He said, an Apache will ride his horse right into the ground until it dies. Then he’ll eat it. Robby Wicks is an Apache.”

Deputy Mack was a lot smarter than I gave him credit for.

He said, “So, asshole, if you got something to tell me you better get after it.”

“I’ll tell you on two conditions.”

“You don’t get any conditions. Look around you, you’re in a world of shit right now.”

“Think about this,” I said, “if what I tell you is true-and you know there is better than even odds that it is or you wouldn’t be sitting here-this world of shit of mine, most of it anyway, will disappear. I’m telling you, you’re going to be a star.”

“Knock that star shit off. All I want is to rub Robby Wicks’s nose in it.”

“And all I want is simple. I want to go with you.” I thought he would laugh or yell, but he just looked at me as if he half expected something like this. Something more was going on. I needed to be out in the open to get at it. “And I want a face-to-face with my girl and my dad.”

“Gimme the name. Tell me who you think is really burning the people.”

This time I waited. If I told him, then he could go out on his own and find him. He wouldn’t need me anymore. This was the only ace I had, and he knew it. I’d have to start trusting him sometime. Dad always said there was some good in everyone. I wanted in the worst way to believe that about Mack. “It’s Ruben the Cuban.”

Mack stood up, walked to the door, and knocked on it.

“Do we have a deal?”

He didn’t turn around or answer.

“Wait. I know Ruben the Cuban. I can find him fast.”

Mack said nothing.

The door rattled as the key went in the lock. My only chance was about to walk out the door never to return.

“Mack?”

The door opened. He took a step out.

“Mack?”

Mack stopped, but didn’t turn around.

I said in a lower tone, “Ruben the Cuban used to work for Q-Ball-Quentin Bridges-and he used to frequent the burned-out apartment building on El Segundo where he sold rock for Q.”

It was everything I had. I threw it out there to show Mack, to prove I was straight up and telling the truth.

The hard steel door swung closed and locked.

I sat on the edge of the bed, knowing I had played it wrong. Mack wasn’t like me. He had the information now. He didn’t need me. He’d run with it. My stomach growled. My muscles relaxed. I hadn’t realized I’d been so tense. I stared at the door, at the little window until my eyes burned from not blinking.

Keys in the lock jangled. I let out a long breath.

Mack came back in with the Asian deputy from the Violent Crimes Team, the guy Robby called Fong. They closed the door. In another time and another place, I might’ve thought they were there for a different reason, a little get-even time for their downed comrade. Fong went to the far wall, put his back to it, crossed his arms, his almond-shaped eyes all but invisible. He was built low to the ground with stout, broad shoulders and little fat, his gleaming black hair combed straight back.

Mack said, “You only want to go along so at the first opportunity you can make a break. You got nothing to lose.”

“You’re wrong. I’ll give you my word. And if you know anything about me, you know that it’s good.”

Fong smirked. “You’re a serial killer. We’re supposed to believe you?”

“That’s the dilemma, isn’t it? I’m not. You believe that I’m not or you wouldn’t be here contemplating taking me out of custody for a show-and-tell.” I gave them the words to make it easier for them, help with their excuse to do it. An investigator had the right, with approval of course, to take an inmate out of custody to do a show-and-tell. The inmate was to be kept under heavy guard, handcuffed and waist-chained, and was never to leave the backseat of the undercover car. The inmate then pointed out a drug house, a crash pad, where suspects were hiding or where the bodies were buried.

They looked at each other. All this had been planned beforehand or Fong wouldn’t have been out in the hall waiting. When Mack had gone out, they had discussed it again, made their decision to do it. They had to be scared of losing their jobs, going to jail, and worse. They were scared of the Great Robby Wicks.

They needed a little added nudge. “Q-Ball right now is in an apartment on 124th Street right off of Wilmington in a cul-de-sac.” I raised my right hand, “I swear to you.” Then I remembered how Q had made the illegal U-turn in front of the Bimbo Bread truck on Long Beach Boulevard. He could be at Killer King Hospital. I also remembered about Tommy Bascombe, how he clung to me, how his head came up like a little prairie dog with the sound of the crash. How Tommy gobbled down the food at Lucy’s and was now either in foster care, or worse, back with Dora. I pushed that thought back. One small step at a time.

“Here’s the deal,” Mack said. “I don’t trust you. Not for one second. That’s why I brought Fong in. He’s going to walk five paces behind with a gun in his pocket. He won’t be involved in anything we do other than watching you. That’s his entire focus. If you so much as take a hurried step to get out of the way of a bus that’s about to hit you, he will shoot you in the back. You understand?”

“No, problem. I told you I gave you my word. My word’s good as gold. You can ask Robby.” I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

Mack went and knocked on the steel door to call the jail deputy, then turned back and said, “You’re like all the rest of those who have a higher opinion of the Great Robby Wicks. If you only knew. He always refers to you as his ‘skillet.’ He’d say, ‘me and my skillet we did this’ or ‘you should’ve seen the skillet’s eyes when I gunned him, shot his black ass off’ and…”