by David Putnam
“Rivers is my maiden name and I’ve always gone by Nicky because I don’t like Veronica. That lout of a husband of mine thinks ‘Nicky’ is too gimmicky for a wife’s name. Especially for someone like him who wanted to ascend to the higher ranks within the sheriff’s department. That’s all he thinks about is making rank.”
What a fool. I should’ve put it together sooner. I never thought about it when I’d first met her. Never for a moment did I think, in my wildest dreams, she’d want to have lunch, let alone that our lives would sync so well together. And that kiss last night …
“I know,” she said, “it’s kind of a bad situation. That’s why it’s better if we … you know, kind of wait until I can at least get the papers filed. Okay? You okay with that, Bruno? We don’t take this to the next level until I get the papers filed?”
The words continued to bump into each other and wouldn’t cooperate. The next level? Is that what I really wanted? And worse, I’d dated a lieutenant’s wife, I’d kissed a lieutenant’s wife, a major taboo in the unwritten rules in a cop’s world. What would Dad say when I told him what I’d done?
CHAPTER NINE
MY EYES ADJUSTED to the darkness. I could see her better in the ambient light cast from the streetlights. My heart pinged a little harder and reminded me I was a fool for thinking I could make the two of us work as a couple. We moved in the same world, but at the same time, a universe apart. As a deputy district attorney, she worked in the educated or intellectual section of the justice system. I populated the knuckle-dragging street-cop part that brought in the bloodied absconders to answer for their crimes.
She said, “I was going to call.” She put her hands on my chest and closed her eyes. “Wait. After you kissed me last night … after we kissed, that’s all I thought about. I wanted to call you. I wanted to be sure you understood about my situation that—”
I put my finger up to her lips. “Sssh. It’s okay.”
She opened her eyes and moved back in close. I hugged her.
It really wasn’t okay, but I needed time to think this through. I did like her a great deal—no, I more than liked her. And even though it would be easy to fall in love with her—or maybe that ship had already sailed. I was confused and needed time to think.
She went up on tiptoes and kissed me lightly on the lips, afraid, the same as I was, of a deeper kiss.
She said, “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way. I fought over coming here, I really did. I just needed to know. You do feel the same way? You haven’t said it yet.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“You just dodged the question. Did I just make a colossal fool of myself?”
“No. It’s not that. I just … I’d like some time to think, that’s all.”
“So then you feel the same way I do, and you just want some time to think about it? Or you don’t feel the same way, and you need time to think of a way to tell me?”
I pulled her in close and kissed her like the night before—a very long kiss.
I whispered in her ear, “No, I’m pretty sure I feel the same way you do.”
She pushed away, relief plain in her expression. “Okay, then I still think we need to cool it until it’s official until I file the separation papers. Even then … I mean, if we decide to continue on, we need to keep it on the down-low for a while. This gets out … well, you know the kind of problems it could cause.”
“I know. And I agree.”
She put her head against my chest. I held her there. Her hand came up and felt the gun in my waistband between us that had been poking her in the abdomen. She pulled away little. “Hey.” She reached up and tugged at the blue bandana tied around my head, then at the embroidered, “Karl,” patch on my shirt. “What’s going on here, Bruno? Why are you out here hiding in the bushes dressed like some kind of street thug?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to lie to her.
She looked back across the street to check the vantage point, then looked back at me. “Oh, no, Bruno. You’re going to follow Olivia, aren’t you?”
Her revelation was one of the drawbacks of being in a relationship with an intelligent woman whose job it was to think like a criminal in order to prosecute them.
She said, “This is not the way to deal with this problem.”
She had no business telling me how to father my child. I took in a deep breath before I said something I would regret. “Then tell me what I should do, because I’m at a total loss. I’ve tried everything. She won’t listen to reason. I’ve talked to her again and again. I can’t get through to her.”
“That’s because she’s in love.”
“That’s what she said.”
“Well then, you’re not listening when you are talking to her.”
“You don’t understand, he’s no good for her.”
“How many times have fathers said that over the ages?”
“I know, I just never thought it would be me. Tell me what I should do. At this point, I’ll do anything.”
“You’re not going to want to hear it.”
“Tell me.”
“You’re going to have to ride it out. The more you push, the more she’s going to move closer to him. You’re going to have to let her find out in her own way, in her own time. If it’s not meant to be, she’ll figure it out. She’s a smart girl, especially if she’s anything like her father.”
Following Derek into a dope house didn’t bode well for that statement.
A car came down the street; the arc of the headlights blocked by the cab of the Ford Ranger kept us in shadow. Even so, I moved around so I stood in front of Nicky.
“You have had the talk with her, right?”
“What are you talking about now, what talk?”
Nicky didn’t answer.
“Oh. Ah, that. Not nowadays. Kids know all about it before they … wait. What?”
I just realized what Nicky meant. It locked in along with my ignorance over Olivia’s age. How had I been avoiding the issue of her growing up? I turned around and walked over to the truck. I put both hands on the hood and let my head sag. I’d been a bigger fool than I thought. Nicky followed and put her hand on my back and rubbed. She didn’t lean in and call me a fool, though I deserved it. I whispered, “She’s only fourtee—I mean—fifteen. What the hell.” I sighed. “I need to get her on birth control, don’t I?”
“Bruno, I can have a talk with her if you like. I can even drive her to the clinic.”
I always knew the threat was out there waiting to engulf my child in all of that mess and turmoil. I had put it aside, thinking she was far too young. But she wasn’t too young and hadn’t been for a very long time now. The frustration of it all amped up tenfold.
“No, this is for me to do. I’ll do it.” I gritted my teeth. I only hoped it wasn’t already too late. Good thing Derek Sams wasn’t standing in front of me right at that moment.
“You’re in the middle of a murder trial. The judge isn’t going to like his star bailiff—whom he greatly depends on, by the way—not showing up to trial.”
“I’ll deal with that. Thank you, though.” The judge would understand and let me off one day.
She put her hand on my arm and pulled it away from the truck. She moved in front of me and again laid her head against my chest. “I’ll work on those papers tomorrow, get them filed, and get him served, okay?”
She didn’t realize she was heaping more guilt onto the already too-tall pile. No way did I want to be the one breaking up their marriage. But at the same time, that heart ping I had for Nicky worked hard at overcoming that foolish emotion. She was already separated. Under normal circumstances that would’ve been enough. Not this time, though. Her husband was a cop. Once the word got out to the rank and file—and it would eventually—no one would want to work with me. She knew the rule; that’s one of the reasons why she wanted to keep our relationship on the down-low after she filed. I needed some time when she wasn’t close enough to kiss, wasn’
t close enough for me to feel the heat radiate off her body, so I could think clearly about this problem. I knew what I had to do—I had to walk away from us—that’s what logic dictated. Only I didn’t think I could.
I kissed her forehead. “Come on, it’s getting late. I’ll walk you to your car.”
“So you’re going to go inside and forget about following your daughter?”
“Yes, of course. You’ve helped me see things more clearly now. Thank you for that.”
“Good.” She took my hand and I walked her down the street to her car. At her car door, she moved in close. I kissed her. She patted my chest. “Listen, one word of advice. Your daughter is a teenaged girl.”
“Ah, man.”
“No, just listen. Just because she serves you up a fat piece of guilt pie doesn’t mean you have to take a bite.” She looked up into my eyes. “You understand?”
I nodded. “I understand, but it’s hard. She’s my daughter.”
“I know, but you have to be strong.”
“Thanks, this has helped a lot.”
“Goodnight, Bruno. See you tomorrow in court.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Nicky opened the car door and got in. I closed it for her and moved up to the curb and watched her drive away.
I went back to the overgrown bougainvillea, stood in the shadows, and waited.
CHAPTER TEN
LESS THAN AN hour until his visit, Borkow climbed onto his bunk and put his hands up behind his head trying to imagine what it would be like outside the concrete walls, smelling the fresh air of freedom. Soon. He’d never come back. He just needed a couple of minutes to compose himself, and, as he had many times before, he contemplated how he had ended up in such a horrible state.
It wasn’t his fault he was stuck in jail pending a death sentence. No, it was Stacy’s fault—Tasty Stacy’s. After all, he’d given her fair warning, told her far in advance what set him off—what he was most touchy about. He loved Stacy, to an extreme. One night he’d let it slip and told her. Moved up close to her ear and whispered to her his biggest weakness, handed her his deepest and darkest secret. That’s what lovers did—they kept each other’s secrets.
A new emotion for him, this thing called love. In that moment of weakness, right after she’d finished rubbing her lovely, naked feet up and down his erect phallus, as his body stopped convulsing, that’s when he’d gone and done it. That’s when he told her. What a fool thing to do. He exposed the most vulnerable chink in his armor and let the words slip. His eyes still crossed in ecstasy, he didn’t know why. He’d just eased up and whispered in her ear. Explained to her as a precaution, really. Yes, that’s what it was, a precaution. He told her she should never, under any circumstances, accidental or otherwise, utter that horrid little name. That was when he’d whispered it to her—the ugly moniker—Shoe Freak. Even then, it caught in his throat like a sideways stick. Sure, he liked women’s shoes, but no way did that make him a freak.
Stacy resided in an expensive condo in Marina Del Rey and supported herself with the alimony from her second marriage, along with “a little dab of money” from a trust fund.
But one day, she told Borkow to “get the hell out and never come back.” Without just cause, she slapped him hard across his face, using her long, manicured nails like a claw, drawing blood. The slap was not a problem. He understood the female psyche better than any man alive. He knew it better than most women. He ran four successful massage parlors, after all.
So he knew if he left without a peep and waited an appropriate amount of time, he could weasel his way back into her good graces, back into those one-of-a-kind lovely feet. He’d bring her an insanely expensive pair of bejeweled Manolo Blahniks. That was enough to melt any woman’s heart.
At the time of the incident, he’d smiled at her as she continued her rabid insistence to “grab your shit and get the hell out.” The demand rolled off his back slick as water off a goose. Sort of.
But then, at the end—at the very end—of that last repeated demand, when he was about to leave, that’s when she did it. At the end of that last unfair and untimely demand to leave the premises, she’d added with a sneer, “You Shoe Freak.”
This time—like the other two times, when he returned from a fugue state—he was standing over Stacy, a blood-slick Spyco knife in his hand. Bloody up to his elbows. Stacy’s five-year-old daughter, Gwen, standing in the hallway, screaming her lungs out.
Borkow tried to tell his defense attorney, a thick-bodied woman named Gloria Bleeker, that he qualified for “Guilty by reason of temporary insanity.” But the ignoramus told him he was too sane.
He’d tried to persuade Bleeker that he loved Stacy—no way would he hurt her—that he could convince any psych that he loved Stacy and under any other circumstances would never harm her. But Bleeker would have none of it.
After tonight, though, after he was out of this shit hole they called Men’s Central Jail, he’d have to seriously consider paying Ms. Gloria Bleeker a visit, discuss his case with her in person without ten deputies there to back her play. She’d taken far too much from him, and he intended on getting a little payback.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LESS THAN AN hour later Borkow sat on the stool in Visiting. Across from him sat Lizzette, one of his girls. She looked nervous, but he was confident that she would play her part in the little one-act play about to open to a limited audience in Men’s Central Jail Visiting. Ta-da.
The jail visiting area consisted of a long wall with individual windows of reinforced glass in steel frames, the kind of glass with the thin metal wires running through it. There were thirty windows in that section of Visiting each with a phone attached with a metal cable. The visiting configuration looked more like a wide hall with a zoo-like wall running down the middle separating the animals from the weak and vulnerable. Each window had a round stainless-steel seat welded to a round pipe that went through the wall to the other side where there was a similar stainless-steel seat for the inmates to sit on. If the inmate was fat enough when he sat down, the person on the other side would feel the pipe move.
The visitors came through the main lobby and registered with the deputy stationed at a desk who then made the request back in the blocks for the inmate to come to Visiting. On the inmate side, two deputies walked up and down behind the thirty positions to ensure domestic tranquility. Like any other place where people gathered, there was always the possibility of violence created from ill-advised domestic contact.
This jail, due to budget constraints, had yet to put up surveillance cameras. The thought being there were always deputies in the lobby and on the prowl on the inmate side. What could happen?
For the plan to work there were a lot of moving parts, and if any one of them failed, all the inmates involved would be put in red jail uniforms instead of blues, labeled an escape risk, and then could only move waist chained with an escort. All thought of future escape in the toilet.
Lizzette was part Asian and part black, with wonderful green eyes and lush lips. If her feet weren’t some of the ugliest Borkow had ever seen, with gnarled toes and an almost nonexistent arch, he might’ve even loved her.
Now, as she sat on the other side of the visiting window on the civilian side, sweat beaded on her forehead. She kept her hands under the short stainless-steel counter so no one would see them shake.
The surrounding people, friends, and family and children of the other inmates, had no idea of the chaos about to befall them or how their night would be disrupted and forever remembered in nightmares. The civilian side was crowded with two, three, and even four people stationed at each window. All the noise from that side vibrated the reinforced glass windows allowing a kind of hum to get through.
Willy Tomkins—right on time—strolled into Visiting on the inmate side and suddenly stopped right behind Borkow. The stool next to Borkow where Tomkins was supposed to sit was occupied by some no-neck gang puke. That little deviation from the plan bewildered
Tomkins, and he looked at Borkow and shrugged.
How did fools like Tomkins survive out in the real world? Borkow grabbed a handful of Tomkins’ blues, pulled him down to his level, and whispered in Tomkins’ ear, “Quietly, and without a fuss, tell the Mex asshole to piss off.”
Tomkins shrugged away and whispered, “Alright. Alright.” He straightened his blues, went over, and leaned down. He whispered in the Mex’s ear and pointed over to Borkow. The Mex didn’t hesitate, his expression filled with fear. He got up and fled, leaving his female visitor to wonder, “What the hell?” Tomkins took his seat and picked up the phone, smiling at the Mex’s now confused hina.
Stanky Frank came in next and took his position on a stool, two down, just to the other side of Tomkins. Borkow had chosen him for his strength to lift the window from its frame without dropping it. A clatter that would surely raise the alarm and cut into the precious few seconds needed to get through the window, across the front lobby floor, and out to the street—seconds they didn’t own and control.
Next, Twyla, a slim twig of a girl with a blond wig and sunglasses, came into Visiting on the civilian side of the reinforced glass-framed barrier, carrying a big purse that hung off her shoulder. She sat at an empty window waiting for Genie, the last in their little cohort.
Tonight, all of his women wore provocative dresses that showed plenty of leg and overly exposed, bolstered cleavage.
The smartest of his crew, Sammy Eugene Ray—Little Genie—brushed by him, cool, as if this day resembled all other days. Without his help, Genie would forever live in the hallowed halls of the Gray Bar Hotel for the killing of four opposing gang members who had tried to move in on his dope territory. Eighteen months earlier, he’d pled guilty to avoid death row, and got for his trouble four consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole. Genie looked harmless—shorter than most murderers with his perfect mocha skin and an unassuming air. But the secret weapon in his criminal endeavors—the one he wielded like a knight with a killing sword—his movie star charisma, backed up with a five-hundred-watt smile. Flashy white teeth and sparkling eyes had the women swooning—and women were the key to any successful criminal enterprise.