The Reckless

by David Putnam

  Three apartments to go.

  He held my eyes trying to get a read on me and didn’t nod back. A bad sign.

  Two.

  We came up on him, and I said loud over the noise of the sandblaster, “Hey!”

  “Can I hep you?”

  When he said it, his gold-cap glinted in the top row of his teeth.

  Confirmation.

  This was the Bogart Bandit.

  I looked at Tony to see if he’d caught on to this sudden change in our status, how the threat level increased from a casual contact to just short of going to guns against a violent felon. He hadn’t noticed.

  I said to Raymond Desmond Deforest, “I’m with welfare and child protective services.” I pulled out my sheriff’s flat badge, flipped it open fast, and pulled it back so he didn’t have time to read it. “We need to count how many children you have in your apartment to verify entitlement.”

  I didn’t want to fight him on the cantilevered walkway if he resisted. Someone might end up going over the rail. It happened once before when I worked with Wicks. A big biker named Shackleford went over—broke both arms and cracked his skull. He died four days later of a swollen brain. Blood and bone.

  Deforest looked us up and down one more time, deciding whether a black guy dressed like a truck driver might actually work with CPS. He’d played it smart for two years. He’d been able to evade every effort to capture him. I didn’t think he’d fall for my ruse.

  “A’ight, den, come on in.” He turned and took the two steps back to his open door, and entered.

  I moved quickly to stay with him, Tony right on my butt.

  Inside, as soon as our eyes adjusted, I found we’d made an awful mistake. Four more gang members sat in chairs and on the couch, all of them much bigger than Deforest. We were outnumbered and outgunned. That’s why Deforest had agreed to go in. He knew the odds would change in his favor.

  A fifth gang member, behind us, closed the door, trapping us like a couple of rats.

   CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  TONY DIDN’T LOOK scared at all, too much of a new guy to be scared. His trumped-up bravado let him falsely believe he could take on the world and win. He stared Deforest down and finally tore his eyes away to look at me to call the play. I’d caught his look out of the corner of my eye.

  There was nothing for it. We’d run out of options when we crossed the threshold. I pulled both guns at once, my hands moving at lightning speed, and yet still not fast enough. I moved right up on Deforest, the Bogart Bandit, as I pointed my gun at his nose yelling, “Everyone down! Everyone down on the floor. Now. Get down. Get down. On the floor. Sheriff’s Department. Sheriff’s Department. Get down. Get down.”

  Tony drew his gun and grabbed a hold of the gang member behind us, the sharpest move he could’ve made. I reached out and swung my arm around Deforest’s throat, yanked him toward me. Now they’d have to shoot through him if they wanted me.

  The other four didn’t react as fast as we did. They’d just started going for their guns, reaching while I’d grappled up Deforest.

  “Don’t,” I yelled. “Don’t do it. I’ll shoot him.”

  Everyone froze for one interminable moment.

  “I said, everyone get on the floor. Do it now.”

  The moment broke, and the four moved to the floor and went prone.

  Behind me, Tony whispered, “What now?”

  “Get on your radio and call for backup.”

  “I don’t have a radio.”

  I broke eye contact with the ones on the floor, the ones I held my gun on, and looked at Tony. “What do you mean you don’t have a radio?”

  “We didn’t bring handhelds; they needed all of them for the operation. We only have the one in our car.”

  Deforest, his chin in the crook of my arm, said, “What are you going to do now, Mr. Pooleeseman?”

  “Shut up.” Then I said to Tony, “Cuff that guy you got and then you’re going to step out the door and yell to my partner.” Outside with all the noise from the sandblasting, Ned didn’t know what we’d stepped into.

  Deforest said to his friends on the floor, “They cain’t shoot you—you don’t have any guns in your hands. Dey can’t shoot an unarmed nigga. You kin take ’em. Ten thousand for the homeboy who—”

  I tightened my grip on his neck with my arm choking off his words, and whispered, “Try me. You’ll be the first one, fat boy. I’ll pump one right in your melon.”

  This time, with his face bloating, his lungs struggling for air, he rasped out, “Twenty thousand.”

  Three of the gang members on the floor started to get up.

  The apartment door kicked open. Ned rushed in following his drawn gun, his voice calm and controlled. “Peekaboo, assholes.”

  Mike, with his aviator sunglasses, swung the shotgun into the room and leveled it on the three getting up from the floor. They saw the gauge and eased back down.

  We cuffed three more and ran out of cuffs. Tony went to Deforest’s phone and called in an additional sheriff patrol unit for transportation.

  I said to Ned, “Let’s toss this place.” We started a methodical search and immediately turned up six handguns, a sawed-off shotgun, and a cheap TEC-9—a poor man’s machine pistol.

  Deforest asked, “How’d you all find me? The FBI’s been all over my ass for three years now, goin’ on four, and they couldn’t do it. No, sir, dey didn’t even come close.”

  Ned stopped pulling up the carpet and looked at him. “Don’t try and flatter yourself, little man. It was only two years and the way we found you, we got a tip that some Oompa Loompa with a gold tooth had moved in here and we knew it had to be you.”

  Mike with the shotgun and sunglasses smiled. Ned laughed too hard at his own joke.

  The crooks on the floor laughed, too, and one said, “Man, dat’s harsh, but I kin see it. I can. Bogart, man, you could be in dat movie with Charlie and his Chocolate Factory.”

  They’d heard the name “Bogart” the FBI gave Deforest, probably from the television when they put out the reward.

  “Shut up, all of you all, or when I get out, I’ll come for ya all. I will. I don’t look like no got-damn Oompa Loompa. Shee-it.”

  Ned moved closer. “Really? I bet if you put on ten more pounds I could even get you a job in the wax museum as one of them Oompa Loompas.”

  Now everyone laughed. I suppressed a smile. “All right, knock it off.”

  I went to the phone, took out the business card Jim Turner gave me, and dialed the direct number to his desk. He answered on the first ring. “FBI, Special Agent Jim Turner, bank robbery.”

  Ned hurried over and put his ear right up next to mine.

  “Special Agent Jim Turner, this is Deputy Johnson and—”

  “Yes, Deputy Johnson, how is all that reading coming along? I forgot to tell you that I’d prefer you read the file at a desk in this office. Would you return to this office, now please?”

  Ned let out a little giggle.

  I said, “Aah, I don’t think it’s necessary to read that file anymore.”

  He paused, his next words cautious. “Why is that, Deputy Johnson?”

  “We got the Bogart Bandit.”

  Another long pause. I tried to imagine him sitting at his desk among all his peers, and next to his boss Chelsea Miller, as his face started to bloat and turn red, his hand turning white holding the phone. “Fuck you.” The words came out in a harsh whisper.

  He’d broken character. I never imagined some uptight admin pogue like him saying something like that, not an up-and-coming Special Agent with eyes on a plum assignment in D.C., and especially not in his office in front of all his peers.

  Ned howled with laughter. I stepped away from him. He followed along. Turner had to be able to hear him.

  I said into the phone, “Where do you want me to take Deforest? He’s a federal fugitive, and I think I’m supposed to take him forthwith to appear before a federal magistrate, right?”

  Silence.


  Jim Turner must’ve been trying to get himself under control. He came back on, his words spoken through clenched teeth. “If you have him? If you really have him, bring him to me. I want to see him.”

  “Sure thing, Jim. To your office?”

  “No. Where are you?”

  “San Bernardino.” He didn’t want to make matters worse by me parading the Bogart Bandit in front of all his peers in the FBI bank robbery bullpen.

  “Bring him to the front parking lot at San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department. I’ll see you there in twenty minutes.” He slammed the phone down when he hung up.

  I said, “Okay, good-bye,” to nobody and hung up. It was small-minded of me but I couldn’t believe how good that felt.

   CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  TEN MINUTES LATER we drove the Ford Ranger with the Bogart Bandit, Raymond Desmond Deforest, wedged between us. The huge bulge of his fat body made it difficult to shift the truck and work the clutch.

  Deforest looked at Ned. “Who do you two donut-eaters work for? I have a right to know who finally caught me. FBI? I heard you all talkin’ ta the FBI on the phone.”

  “Shut up,” Ned said. “Hey, Bruno, can you stop at that drive-thru right there. I’m starvin’, and my large intestine is about to eat the small one and you know what that means—it’ll probably give me a lot of gas.” He put one hand on his stomach and moved his butt around on the seat. He pursed his lips as if trying to hold something in.

  “Yeah, yeah.” I almost checked the time. It didn’t matter. I decided Special Agent Jim Turner could wait. Let him sit there in the parking lot festering in this heat while he tried to decide if I was yanking on his leg about the capture of Deforest. It also gave me time to savor the short-lived victory. Tomorrow they’d give us the case involving Amos Gadd and the children.

  I wheeled into the Sonic Burger on Waterman and pulled into one of the service slots. A girl on skates wheeled over.

  Deforest said to me, “I’ll take a double cheeseburger with extra grilled onions, large fries, and a chocolate malted.”

  The nice blond skated up to Ned’s window and gave Ned a big smile. “What’ll you have, boys?”

  “Damn,” Ned said to her, “I haven’t had dinner, and I’m already thinking about dessert.”

  The girl blushed.

  Deforest laughed. “Nigga, you don’t have a chance with dat fine piece a—”

  Ned elbowed him.

  “Ow—hey!”

  “Give us two cheeseburgers, two orders of fries, and two chocolate malts. That good for you, Bruno?”

  “Sure.”

  “Two?” Deforest said. “Did you order something for me? You didn’t order anything for me.”

  Ned didn’t turn around and kept looking at the girl in his window. “Do you have something light like a tuna fish sandwich and an ice tea?”

  “Hey. Hey. No way, man. I don’t want any kinda shit like that.”

  She continued to smile. “Yes, we do.”

  “We’ll take that, too.” He turned to Deforest. “You don’t exactly have a say in this. You’re lucky you’re getting anything. Besides, you don’t want to be an Oompa Loompa all your life, do you?” Ned reached over, patted him down, found some folding money in Deforest’s shirt pocket. “And you’re buyin’.”

  “Hey, dat ain’t right.”

  The girl let out a little snicker until her eyes fell to Deforest’s handcuffed hands, then she turned scared, her eyes went large, and her mouth formed into a small “O.”

  “It’s cool.” Ned pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. “We’re Deputy US Marshals.”

  “Really?” the girl said.

  “Yep, that’s us, Deputy US Marshals.”

  “Really?” Deforest said. “I got caught by the federal pooleese. Man, I can’t wait to tell Lil Marv about this. He’s gonna shit. He’s jus’ gonna shit. And this whole time I thought you were a couple a donut-eatin’ County Mounties. I woulda swore on my mama’s eyes that you were. Damn.”

  “Hey,” Ned said. “Watch it, there’s a lady present.”

  “I’ll be right back.” The girl skated off. Ned watched her go in the side mirror mounted on the door. “Man, oh man, that girl’s got legs that go all the way to the top.”

  I twisted, turning my back to the door as best I could to put a little distance between me and Deforest. “What did you do with all that money you stole from all those banks?”

  “Damn, I get asked dat all the time. Every damn-body wants ta know dat. People think I got all kinds of money stashed away somewheres, that I got money comin’ outta my ass. It ain’t like dat. I get maybe fifteen to twenty from each bank job. Which is nothin’ really. I got too many expenses. I gots three womens with chillrens ta support. Can’t ever stay in one place more’n a couple a nights. Take’s some real money ta do dat. And my homeboys, dey can eat, I’m tellin’ yeah, dey kin put down the waffles and chicken.”

  “Fifteen to twenty thousand?” Ned said.

  “Dat’s what I said, funny man. You got saw dust in your ears?”

  Ned said, “Times eighty-six banks, that’s a million three on the low end and a million seven on the top end.”

  “Get the fuck outta here.”

  “No, it is, do the math.”

  “Are you shittin’ me? Eighty-six banks, that’s the number dey said I did? A million seven? Can’t be that much. Can’t be.” His eyes defused as he tried to remember all the robberies he’d committed, all the pissed-away money he’d blown.

  “Hey,” I said. “What’s it like to rob a bank? What’s it feel like?” I never wanted information of that sort until I’d started constantly thinking about those children, enticed and lured from the basketball court, brainwashed and talked into robbing and scaring the living hell out of people. Putting a gun in someone’s face, seeing the fear from the threat of death, and then taking something that didn’t belong to them by force. The victims would be emotionally traumatized for the rest of their lives.

  Ned said to Deforest, “What are you, some kind of degenerate gambler?”

  “No, wait,” I said. “Let him answer my question first.”

  “What?” He came out of his mini-trance.

  “What’s it feel like to rob a bank?”

  He turned slowly to look at me. “It’s like nothin’ you’ve ever experienced. It’s a rush, man, like you wouldn’t believe. I’m tellin’ ya, you cain’t get that high even off the glass pipe, no sir. I shit you not. I love it. The power it gives me. The feeling dat I am somebody and everyone has ta stop and listen to me. For those few seconds, I’m it. I’m the shit. I’m God with the power. I’d be robbin’ them banks even if I didn’t get any money, dat’s how good dat shit feels.”

  “Huh,” Ned said. “Hope you enjoyed it. Now you’re probably going away forever. Even if it’s only one year for every bank, that’s more time than you got left in this world, you chubby little Oompa Loompa. That’s the kind of power the judge is going to inflict on your ass. Was it worth it?”

  He turned to look at Ned. “Worth every year in the joint.”

  That was not what I thought he’d say. Every crook I’d ever arrested, each and every one of them, showed a deep resounding regret when I snapped on the cuffs. Not for doing the crime or for harming their victims, physically, and emotionally, but because they’d been caught and now had to pay the price with weeks and months and years subtracted from their lives. Lives now restricted to dimly lit little concrete caves sealed with bars that reeked of body odor and unwashed ass. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was the overpowering despair that filled every crack and crevasse and forced out every bit of fresh air.

  The girl brought the food and hooked the tray on Ned’s window. She gave him a big smile and skated off. Ned handed me a burger and fries. He set the tuna fish sandwich in Deforest’s lap. I swapped it out with my burger and fries.

  He looked at me. “Thanks, man, you all right.”

  Ned took
a big bite out of his burger and talked around his food. “You’re a soft touch, partner.” He pointed his burger at me. “One day it’ll get you in trouble, mark my words if it don’t.”

  “You’d deprive a guy of his last cheeseburger and fries he’s ever going to eat?”

  Deforest was about to take a bite of his burger. “Aw, man, you had ta go and ruin it. Now I don’t feel like eatin’ nothin’.”

  “Good, I’ll take it.” Ned reached for the greasy burger.

  Deforest pulled it way. “I said I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t say I was crazy.” He took a bite and chewed. “You two are all right. Well, you are anyway.” He pointed at me and said, “I guess I’d rather be arrested by a couple a US Marshals than some of those chickenshit sheriff’s deputies.”

  “Really, you don’t like deputies?” Ned asked.

  “Hell, no. Dey the worst. I’m tellin’ ya. And them damn LA County deputies, well; you kin jus shoot all dem assholes. They never give you one chance in hell. They jus’ as soon shoot your black ass as look at ya. I’m not kiddin’, dey bad. Trust me on dis. They’d never stop and buy you a last cheeseburger like dis. No way.” He took another bite. “No, sir, they wouldn’t.”

  We finished and drove the last couple of miles to San Bernardino Sheriff’s headquarters—fifteen minutes late—and pulled into the parking lot.

  Special Agent Jim Turner stood at the back of his Crown Victoria leaning against it, his arms crossed and his jaw locked tight.

  I parked next to his car just as the door on the passenger side of his car opened. Out stepped Chelsea in a black pantsuit and low heels. She wasn’t happy. Turner hurried over to Ned’s open window and looked in. “Son of a bitch.” He kicked the side of my truck.

  “Hey, hey, don’t kick my truck. What’s the matter with you?”

  Turner looked over at Chelsea. “It is him. They got Raymond Desmond Deforest, son of a bitch.”

  The Bogart Bandit turned to me. “Tell me I don’t have to go along with this punk.”

  Ned chuckled. “I feel for ya, brotha, I do.”

   CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN