David Putnam - The Disposables

He nodded his head. I took my hand away. Q gulped and gasped. “He layin’ his head over ta Shawntay’s.”

“Where does this Shawntay live?”

“Two, three houses other side of Hawkin’s Market. You know the place, tween hunert-and-fifteen and Avalon.”

“He better be there.”

“Swear to God, he stay dere. But he in and out all the time, I cain’t gearuntee he gonna be dere.”

“Listen to me,” I said. “I’m going to the same joint you’re going to eventually end up in. If you’re not straight up, I’ll take care of it later.” I backed up, turned, and walked to the door. Mack held up the chains. I stood between Fong and Mack. Fong brought his gun up and pointed it at my face. The threat wasn’t there. I knew he wasn’t going to shoot. I raised my arms so Mack could put on the waist chain. “Is this really necessary? I gave you my word.”

Mack answered by swinging the chain around my waist and hooking it up. While he did, Q recovered some of his balls, said, “Why you want Ruben so bad?”

No one answered him.

“He do sumthin’ real bad?”

Again, no one answered.

No one spoke on the way over to Shawntay’s. In the dark, the place sat steeped in a cold mist that hung in the night air. Shawntay’s, like all the other homes on the street, was a mangy, broken-down, two-story craftsman that needed fresh paint and shingles and windows to replace the holes with cardboard shoved in them. The grass and shrubs and trees were in violent revolt. The only thing warm about anything in the neighborhood came from the yellow-orange glow that escaped out of slits from the window shades and meant someone was home.

Mack knew the risks of losing Ruben, especially if we just ambled up like the Avon lady and rang the bell. Someone had to cover the back. The highest percentage of chance for action always came from the back. The suspect would smell cop and flee in the opposite direction. Mack parked five houses down, turned off the headlights and the engine. We sat and listened to the car tick as it cooled, no one saying what was obviously on our minds.

“Fong, you take the back. I take the skillet with me.” Fong didn’t reply. They sat unmoving for a long beat. Fong and Mack had done this before. They knew how to take down an armed and dangerous without any more planning than deciding front or back. Right now what to do with their extra baggage gave them pause. They’d worked as a team for a while, so that without any cue, they opened their doors at the same time. Fong opened my door, said to Mack who came around the front of the car, “We put him in the trunk; we won’t have to worry about him.”

Mack grunted. “Just take the back, okay.” Fong moved off into the dark a little miffed. I watched him go, waited for him to look back at us one last time. He didn’t. Outside the warm car, the insidious cold seeped into muscle first, then into bone until my teeth chattered in unison with my chains.

“Come on.”

I followed Mack who took several steps and then must’ve remembered I wasn’t a member of his team. He waited for me to catch up and move ahead so he could watch. I made a hell of a noise going down the sidewalk. “This isn’t a smart move. Come on, take these off. I told you I promise I won’t run.”

“Pull those chains in tight so they don’t rattle so much.” We kept moving. I tried what he said. I needed him on my side. If we caught Ruben and made him for the killings a big part of my problem would melt away.

A tall untrimmed hedge on both sides of the front walk had mostly grown together, six, eight-feet high ran right up to the front door. The unkempt center left little room to pass. The sleeves of my shirt turned wet from the dew as we passed through. Two concrete steps led up to a tired wooden stoop.

The thick front door abruptly opened. Orange light spilled out. We both stood at the bottom of the steps still in the hedge tunnel. The man coming out moved in wisps of white smoke that filled the air with a harsh chemical scent, rock coke, his back to us, his jovial mood apparent as he waved good-bye to well-wishers.

Two things happened all at once. I heard Mack’s gun clear leather as he shouldered me out of the way. With nowhere to go, I got shoved into the hedge. Mack put one foot up on the second concrete step, grabbed the thin black man by the back of his neck, and pulled him down to our level. The man yelped like a kicked dog. The well-wishers inside behind the closed door missed the action outside and moved deeper into the house. They hadn’t heard the snatch. Mack’s latest prey was shoved into the hedge next to me, the pencil-thin light from between the window covering worked like a laser scanning the man’s features. Our shoulders touched. He tried to squirm away from me, his eyes wide in terror, more afraid of me than the large handgun Mack shoved up under his chin. You would’ve thought I was a thirty-foot boa constrictor, maw wide about to swallow him whole.

“This him?” Mack hissed.

“No.”

Mack looked back at Thin Man. “Who’s in the house?”

He didn’t answer, didn’t look at Mack, and kept his gaze on me.

I said, “I know you, son?”

Thin Man nodded.

Mack shoved the gun upward until Thin Man’s chin pointed almost straight up at the stars. “Answer me, asshole.”

“Ease off him,” I said.

A long couple of seconds passed. Mack backed off.

“Where do I know you from?”

“The ’hood,” Thin Man’s voice croaked with fear.

“I know that, son. Where? What’s your name?”

“Fo’ years ago August tenth, you caught me stealin’ in an alley and damn near beat me ta deaf.”

“That’s not the whole story. What happened? I didn’t just-”

“This ain’t old home week,” Mack said. “Tell me who’s in the house.”

Thin Man continued, wanting to answer anything I asked. “Had me a slew a DVDs in a bag, in da alley. You caught me, beat the hell outta me fo being strapped.”

I nodded. “Who’s in the house?”

“Shawntay, Deewayne, that dumbass Franklin, and his bitch, Greta.”

Mack knew better now and kept quiet.

I asked, “What about Ruben the Cuban?”

This time Thin Man stole a quick glance at Mack. Either he didn’t want a rat jacket or he was more afraid of Ruben and needed the half second extra to think. “He in dere. But he ain’t right in the head.”

My chains rattled and startled Thin Man. He looked down, saw the restraints, and repelled away as if the chains were contagious. “You in custody, Detective Johnson?”

I continued on as if I hadn’t heard. “Where’s Ruben in the house?”

“He up the stairs first doe on the right.”

“He armed?”

“Ruben, he always strapped. He smoked a grip of crack tonight. Damn near outta his head.”

Mack yanked Thin Man out of the hedge, patted him down, found a cell phone, and tossed it up and over. No sound came from where it landed. Mack said, “You get on and keep your mouth shut, you understand?”

Thin Man took a step down the path before stopping to look back one last time. “You okay, Detective Johnson?”

I didn’t remember the kid, but he’d remembered me and was asking if I wanted him to help me with Mack. The kid had a lot of nerve. Mack picked up on it and squared off with him ready to go to battle.

“No,” I said, “everything’s cool. You go on.”

He nodded, took a couple more steps on the path that immediately enveloped him in darkness and hedge. Gone.

Mack watched, waiting for him to spring back out with a rock or war club. “By his own words, you beat the shit outta him, and he wants to help you out?”

“He knew he had it coming. You ever work the ghetto? The people are not policed, they’re ruled. When I worked patrol, we fielded three two-man cars, not near enough to protect and serve. There are simple rules, you get caught with a gun, you get beat down. It’s an unwritten law of the street. In California, a gun violation, all by itself, no other crime involved, like robbery or assault attached is a misdemeanor. You get your ass beat, you remember it. You only beat someone’s ass when they got it coming, they respect you for it.” I held my hands open, still cuffed to my waist on each side of my hips. Mack looked me in the eye for a long moment.