David Putnam - The Disposables

The laugh again. Ruben was going to do it. He stalled only to savor the moment. Gasoline fumes burned before the actual liquid. Ruben just had to move the flame close to ignite the fumes, to touch it off. Mack was in a bad way. If Ruben lit him, there was no way to put him out in time. Immolation, the worst, most painful way to die.

Mack knew I was there, but couldn’t see me moving because Ruben stood between us. Ruben, already too close to Mack, moved closer, inches at a time. His laugh tightened. His hand moved higher.

Ruben abruptly stopped laughing and said, “Gaily be knight, a gallant knight. In darkness and in shadow. Traveled along singing a song in search of-” His hand moved down in a slow arc.

Mack yelped. He brought his hands up.

I moved low and fast, shoulder down. I gave an Apache war cry. It came out all on its own from the bottom of my gut.

Startled, Ruben hung the flame over his head.

Mack backed up.

I hit Ruben waist high, driving my legs, feet digging in. I had to hit him hard enough to get his finger off the little paddle that kept the lighter lit.

Ruben’s legs came off the ground. He grunted as I knocked the wind out of him. We plowed into Mack who couldn’t move fast enough. Mack saw his death in the shape of two bodies bowling toward him, a small flame held above like the Statue of Liberty. Mack screeched like a little girl.

We hit the ground in a dog pile. Mack on the bottom. The gasoline reek strongest now. If Ruben flicked the lighter, whether it lit or not, the spark would be enough to barbeque us all. I fumbled. Looking, feeling for Ruben’s hand that held the lighter. Mack yelled, “Get off. Get off.”

I couldn’t find Ruben’s hand and out of desperation decided to go to knuckles. I slugged Ruben in the head again and again. Bare hands against thick skull. I wanted to ring his bell to daze him, make him forget the day of the week, forget his own name.

Mack grunted. Mack bench-pressed the both of us off him, tossed us aside. Mack stood, backed away, fear bright on his face. He yelled something unintelligible twice, then came in fast with a heavy boot and punted Ruben in the face. Ruben’s teeth skittered against the wall of Huggies.

Mack pulled back and booted him again. Ruben had gone still. I held no love for Ruben, the way he killed five other undeserving folks. Four years ago I might’ve been right there with Mack, meting out a little curbside justice, but I’d learned my lesson and changed for the better. Being inside, seeing the end result, changed me. I laid across Ruben and covered him as best I could. Mack didn’t pull back on his last kick. It glanced off my back. “Hey, hey, enough. The man’s down. The man’s down.”

Fong ran up, not knowing what happened, put his shoulder into Mack and shoved him away. My breath came hard. “Give me your cuffs.” Fong tossed them to me. I climbed off of Ruben, pulled his arms behind him, and cuffed him. I rolled to my feet, stood as I tried to catch my breath.

Fong finally smelled the gas and guessed what happened. He leaned down and picked up the Bic lighter. “Son of a bitch. Don’t tell me he tried to torch you?”

Mack turned and walked away, the emotions of the event too much for him. He didn’t want us to witness it. I couldn’t blame him.

Fong reached into his pocket, tossed me the car keys. “Here, bring the car up to the mouth of this little alley so we can load this piece of shit.”

I hesitated; I was Ruben’s only advocate. If I left him alone, no telling what these angry BMFs might do.

Fong scowled. “Get your ass movin’, we ain’t got all night.” I walked backward toward Willowbrook until it became too hazardous with all the debris. I turned and walked slowly, listening for the telltale sounds of an ass beating. At the street, I turned back and looked. Ruben still lay facedown on the ground, unmoving. Fong and Mack had their backs to me. Fong had his hand on Mack’s shoulder, in close, whispering to him. Mack was more shaken than I had thought. I ran for the car to get back as soon as I could.

I opened the door and started up. I could run for it, be in Mexico in three hours, home free. Then I realized Fong, the guy who’d wanted to store me in the trunk, was the one who’d trusted me, tossed me the keys. I put it in gear and skidded up to the opening between the buildings, held my breath when I looked. Fong and Mack each held a shoulder, hands under Ruben’s arms, dragging him to the car. It was over.

They opened the back door and tossed him in, an empty sack of useless humanity. Fong opened the driver’s door, “Get out, skillet, I’m driving.”

Mack walked by me, grabbed the driver’s door before Fong closed it, “Don’t call him skillet.” They both stared a long time at one another. Fong nodded. “Okay. I got it.”

Mack said, “Get out, I’m driving.”

“Johnson, you ride up front.”

Fong didn’t protest. He got in the back, shoved Ruben over.

Most of the gas had already evaporated off Mack. The sour smell of barf emanated from him. Something else went missing, snuffed out in near flambé experience, something gone from his eyes. I’d seen it often in prison. That little extra spark that kept a man upright, head held high, went missing. Before now Mack had burned too bright, the odds swung in his favor. It would return. If it didn’t, well, I’d ask Mr. Cho if he needed somebody to run his counter.

Fong recovered, slapped Mack on the back, “We got him, bro. We did it. This is the guy. It’s got to be, the way he went after you, used the same MO, the can of gas, the lighter, we got him. Can’t wait to see the look on that asshole Wicks’s face. Let’s call him.” Fong opened his cell phone, scrolled, tapped the number, and put it to his ear. “Damn. Voice mail.”

In a few short hours the BMFs would gather, and over a case of beer, celebrate the taking of big game.

“That lets me out, right?” I said, “You can pull over here and put me afoot. That’d be okay by me.”

Mack took his vacant eyes off the road for a second, turned. I read sadness and contrition, but I also saw his confidence ebbing back.

“Don’t think so, Johnson. You still have to answer for Bressler.”

“I told you the truth about torching those people and I’m telling you the truth about Bressler.” I wanted to add that he owed me for the little tussle back there where I kept him from becoming a Fourth of July sparkler.

Fong fumbled around in back. He shoved Ruben the Cuban from side to side searching his pockets, a prebooking search as it were, pulling out everything in his pockets, a legal search acceptable in court. He handed the items over the seat, three books of matches with Theo’s Bar on the covers, a can of butane refill for cigarette lighters, some empty Ziploc baggies with residue, a moldering wallet chocked full of moldering papers, a fat key ring with old unused antiquated keys, and five cheap cigarette lighters, all blue.

I opened the wallet, damp, still warm from his body heat, and pulled out the papers. The newest addition to the mess, a yellow copy I recognized as a booking application to Los Angeles County Jail. I unfolded it and saw John Edward Ruben-stein had recently been arrested for under the influence of a controlled substance and had only just been let out on a promise-to-appear citation.

“You better have a look at this.” I handed it over to Mack as he steered us toward Century Sheriff’s Station on Alameda.

“Can’t you see I’m driving?” His anger bled through. Transference from what happened, anger at displaying fear.

Ruben the Cuban moaned as he came around.

I took it back, “When did that last guy get torched, two nights ago? This says our friend here was in custody at the time of the last burning.”