David Putnam - The Disposables

“Which house is it?”

I said nothing.

“I gotta tell ya, Bruno, you confounded me at every turn. And what makes it worse, what really chaps my ass is that I trained you. How did you hide it from me? For months. Man, I cussed you.”

“You shot me in the back just like before.”

“The same I would a rabid dog. You wanted to know how I could treat you the way I did. You kept a million easy dollars from me. From me!”

“I found Chantal.”

He froze.

“She told me. She told me all of it. You’re worse than the worst we ever chased. She was a beautiful, kind woman. You killed her. You killed her for money.”

“She was a murderer. Did she tell you that? Huh?” He took his arm from around Marie’s throat, held her with one hand behind the scruff of the neck. The pressure and pain took her to her knees. The anger I caused him translated to her pain.

I whispered, “I’m sorry, baby.”

She wept huge tears.

“She shot the supervisor’s aide.” Robby again, trying to justify his criminal intent. “She tell you that?”

“And you burned him to hide it.”

“Big deal.”

“Did you take out Bressler or did Jumbo?”

“Does it really matter?” Robby jerked Marie around like a misbehaving dog. “Point out the house, or I’ll finish off your boyfriend. I’ll pump a bullet right in his brain pan.” He pointed his gun, the sight lined up between my eyes.

“Someone heard the shot. They’ll call the police.”

He laughed. “You know better than to try and bluff a bluffer. This is the ghetto, man. By now everyone’s run up into their cribs hidin’ under their beds, too afraid to get involved. You forgot who you’re talking to.”

“Last chance. Tell me or I will put him out of his misery.”

Then someone did get involved.

“Right there,” the decrepit old man yelled. He came from out of the shadows the same as Robby had, only from the other side of the street. A black man with snow-white hair and cataract eyes, leaning on a spun aluminum baseball bat intended as a weapon.

“No, Dad, go back. Go back.”

Robby spun Marie around to put her in between him and the approaching threat, a tired old man who didn’t have the strength of a third grader. “Ho, so your old man was involved in your scandalous activities. I should’ve known. Who else were you going to trust?”

Dad continued to advance as fast as his tired, broken-down body allowed; a beeline right for Robby, right toward certain death.

“I saw which house you came out of, old man.” In the yellow streetlight, Robby’s eyes turned crazy. He shoved Marie down face-first into the pavement. She hit both hands out in front, skidding across the surface of abrasive asphalt.

“Stop, old man. Stop right there.”

“Robby, don’t. You don’t have to shoot him. Robby, please.”

Robby brought his gun up.

The gunshot echoed off the face of the quiet houses, rolled down the street until it dissipated.

A gunshot too loud for a handgun.

Robby rose up and was flung back three feet. He landed in a crumpled heap. He grunted once and lay perfectly still.

I looked back up the street. Mack walked slowly down the sidewalk, an Ithaca Deerslayer, 12-gauge shotgun at port arms.

On hands and toes I scrambled over to Marie. “Marie. Marie.”

She rolled over and kicked at my face. “What do you think you were doing walking out there like that? He could’ve killed you.”

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

Her shoulders shook as she cried. I took her in my arms, “I’m sorry. It worked out. Pop, you okay?”

Dad stared down at the mortally wounded man. “What? Yes, sure.”

Marie said, “Bruno, you’re bleeding, you’re shot.”

Mack continued past us, went over to Robby. He knelt down felt his neck. Took Robby’s gun.

Sirens started up headed our way.

I told Marie, “Help me up.”

I hobbled over to Robby. All the buckshot hit him in the chest, neck, and chin. The sight stunned me. I never thought I would see it. Not Robby Wicks down in the street. Dead.

“Bruno,” Mack said, “we don’t have a lot of time.”

“Yeah, I know, we’ll get off the street. Come on, Dad.”

“Bruno?”

I froze. His tone told me he spoke from his official side, not out of camaraderie.

I said, “We haven’t done anything wrong. You, yourself, let us go. Remember?”

He took a step back out of range of Dad’s baseball bat. He let the Deerslayer hang down by his side.

Marie understood, shook her head, “No, not the kids. You can’t have the kids. Not now. Not after all we’ve been through. Please.”

“Don’t beg,” I said to her. I turned to Mack. “Why?”

“I can clean it all up with the kids. You can walk clean. Think about it. If you don’t give them up, they’re just going to keep chasin’ you and you can’t keep running.”

“Is that really your motivation?”

“Of course, what else?”

Sirens drew closer.

“How about a deal?”

“You have nothing to deal.”

Marie said, “No, Bruno, it’s all or nothing.”

“It can’t be-”

Mack said, “We don’t have much time.”

I leaned on her, growing weak, “We were going to give him up anyway once we got everyone to safety,” I told Mack, “They chased us hard because of Wally. We’ll give you Wally. We know he’s going to a good home. But if you want the others, they won’t stand a chance. You’ll give them back to their people. You want them all, you’ll have to gun me right here in the street.”

Dad said, “Me too.”

Marie said, “Make it three.”

Mack looked around as he tried to decide. Way down by Wilmington, red-and-blue rotating lights turned onto our street, seconds away.

The warm Pacific breeze blew across the patio, the sun warm on my naked chest. Marie came out carrying a box under one arm and sat on the lounge next to mine. “This just came from FedEx.”

My heart beat faster, my mouth went dry. “Babe, nobody knows we’re down here.”

“Take it easy, big fella, it’s from Mack. Should be fine. Relax, the kids are all playing video games, and your dad’s doing so much better with all the stress off of him. I’m really glad we took him along.”

Two weeks earlier, that night right after the shooting, we’d all hobbled back to the house. When I opened the door, Marie saw little Tommy Bascombe and socked me in the stomach. I forgot to tell her about that part. She cried and kissed me like she’d never kissed me before and that’s saying something.

We’d fled that night, left everything behind but the clothes we wore. We hopped into a car and hightailed it for the Mexican border. We crossed from San Diego into Tijuana, kept driving through Rosarita and down into Ensenada where we had already reserved a suite with three bedrooms. Everything prepaid in advance.

The nice thing about a woman who’s a physician’s assistant, she can handle most medical injuries. And, in Mexico, they sell just about anything over the counter, painkillers, antibiotics, and such.

After two weeks in the sun with three regular hot meals a day, I was healing quickly. Today was the first day I was able to sit on my butt. We were waiting for Dad’s counterfeit passport to arrive from the States before we continued on. The cargo ship that would take us all to Costa Rica, would dock in Ensenada in another five days.

Now, for the first time in the two-week vacation, Marie looked a little stressed. “What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Come on, Bruno, you know what’s bugging me. Our finances. We’re broke. We bailed so fast we couldn’t get to our savings.”