by David Putnam
Then he did something unexpected—he broke contact with me and looked back to the wrought-iron gate of the apartment complex. He’d come out ahead of his entourage, two thug uglies. His boys there to protect him were now coming out. He yelled to them. “Five-O. Five-O. Goddamn you!”
The two immediately went to guns, pulled them from their waistbands. They yanked them up and fired.
The sound of gunfire ripped open the quiet morning. I ducked and flinched. I fired three quick rounds at the two. Hit one of them. He spun around but didn’t go down. I turned and fired at Genie, whose hands still fumbled with the keys trying to get the car door open. I had to stop him any way I could. One round shattered the rear window, the other two thumped into the back of the trunk. A couple of inches to the left, I would’ve hit him for sure.
Genie dropped the keys and ran.
I let my gun drop to the ground, no time to reload. I pulled my second .357. The car next to me erupted with bullet holes and broken glass from a fusillade laid down by the other two. I ducked. I popped up and fired all six. I had to stop them quick or I wouldn’t have a chance, not against two of them with semiautomatics. I hit the same guy a second time and missed the other. He dropped his magazine and was reloading. The one I’d hit twice wilted to the ground with an audible grunt and went still.
I dumped my empties in the street. The brass tinkled on the asphalt at my feet with the sound of a gentle wind chime. I went for a speed loader in my pocket, my hands solid and sure, but moving far too slow under the circumstances.
I wasn’t going to make it.
The guy reloading moved toward me, smiling. He, too, knew I wasn’t going to make it in time. He seated the magazine and hit the slide release chambering a round, still moving in closer to look me in the eye when he fired the final rounds into my body from no more than two or three feet away.
I got the speed loader locked in the cylinder, but I was out of time.
Everything slowed down.
The other guy raised his gun, the end of the barrel as huge as a train tunnel.
He suddenly flipped backward with the simultaneous retort of a big gun.
I spun around.
The judge stood in the street by the open trunk of his Mercedes, a smoking Ithaca Deer Slayer 12 gauge held to his shoulder. The look of pure shock and fear on his face startled me out of my daze. Real time reengaged.
Behind me, running feet drew my attention. I turned. Genie ran down the middle of the street, opening a broad lead. He was going to get away. After all that had just happened, he was going to get away.
Nicky got out of the Mercedes. She looked scared. I checked out the two thugs. They were both down hard and would not be getting up on their own, if at all.
I yelled to Nicky, “Call 911.” I turned and took off down the street after Genie.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
MY NECK AND shoulder stung. My shirt turned slick with sticky wetness. I’d been hit with pellets from the judge’s shotgun. I’d been too close and got the edge of the Ithaca’s pattern. I sucked wind trying to pour on the speed and gained nothing on Genie, who was younger and built with more muscle. I stuck the revolver in my waistband and used my arms to pump out a little more effort.
Genie cut across the street and took the first left, heading east. Then he took the first alley, heading north again toward Slauson. Dogs barked at us. We ran past trash cans and derelict cars and fences covered in gang graffiti.
Genie kept looking back. The move slowed him down just a tick. He yelled, “Who are you? Quit chasing me. I swear to God, I’ll kill your ass.”
I gained on him some more, closed to within ten yards. If he kept looking back and kept wasting his breath to yell threats, then I’d have him.
He hit the end of the alley and turned east again on Slauson, passing businesses. People stopped to watch the pursuit. The high drama. He stumbled and almost fell. I closed on him some more, seconds away from putting my hands on him. He regained his feet and panicked.
He abruptly turned into a big sit-down family restaurant called Mel’s. The door slowed him just enough. I leaped and tackled him inside the door. We went down in a jumble of grunts and elbows and knees. My gun popped out and skittered away. His body was coiled like a steel spring, all muscle and motivation, dangerous and unrelenting.
I’d just grabbed onto the tiger’s tail.
He turned and slugged me in the head, at the same time kicking viciously at my body. I held on, trying to climb along his waist and torso to get close enough to his head so I could punch him in the face and get a chokehold around his neck to shut him down.
He kicked loose from me, rolled, and tried to scramble to his feet. I got up and drove with my legs. I hit him again, my shoulder down. We flew deeper into the restaurant and crashed into a table of four. People screamed and scattered everywhere. I slipped on biscuits and gravy and scrambled eggs and syrup-covered waffles with whipped cream and strawberries.
“Stop! Police.”
The blue uniform of a patrol officer came into view. He’d been eating his breakfast at the lunch counter.
“LA County Sheriff’s Department,” I yelled. “This guy’s wanted for murder.”
Genie had regained his feet. I charged and tackled him again. We flew past another table and hit the lunch bar. We flattened an elderly woman sitting there, rolled over her, and fell into the service area behind the lunch bar. The waitstaff ran. I grabbed a six-slice toaster from the counter. It burned my hands, but I clubbed Genie over the head with it. Nothing, no reaction. I hit him again and again. He fended me off with his arms and rabbit-punched me in the face. He hit my nose and made sparks fly behind my eyes.
The cop had come in closer, speaking into his lapel mic, frantic, yelling for code three backup. He pulled his baton, leaned over the lunch counter, and clubbed Genie across the back. “Stop resisting. Stop resisting and put your hands behind your back. Get down on the ground. Get down.” The cop climbed over the counter, slipping and sliding, and engaged Genie, striking him as hard as he could with the baton. And still, we couldn’t get him into custody. He was the most desperate person I had ever encountered. He had to get away no matter what the cost. This had become his last and only chance at freedom.
When Genie suddenly turned, he had a steak knife in his hand, the kind with a serrated blade to cut through cheap steaks. He stabbed me high in the shoulder. The pain shot down my back all the way to my heels. I pulled the knife out and threw it down.
He turned, raised both his hands, and shoved them into the face of the cop, rushing him, trying to get past him, shoving the cop backward. The cop tried to bat away his hands.
My chest heaved, trying to drag in more oxygen. I ran at Genie and hit him from behind. All three of us flew. We struck the display case by the cash register. Glass shattered. Bran muffins, pecan pies, Rice Crispy treats flew everywhere. In the confusion, I’d lost my grip on Genie.
The cop had a hold of one of his legs as Genie dragged him along headed for the same door that we’d entered. I got up with little strength left and went at him one last time. I leaped just as Genie shook free from the cop. He took one long step on his way to freedom. I hit him, grabbing his leg, and took him down one last time.
I needed something to hit him with, anything to shut him down.
He reared back with his one loose leg and kicked me in the face. The light in the restaurant warbled like heat waves. My hands and arms started to lose their strength. My grip eased.
Genie had won. He was going to get away.
Then I remembered the Walther PPK in my back pocket, the one I’d taken from Nicky back at her apartment. I held on to Genie’s leg with one arm as he brought his free leg back to kick me again; this one would shake me loose for sure. There was no way I could let him get away.
I pulled the .380, stuck it to the back of his leg, and pulled the trigger.
The gun popped and jumped in my hand.
Genie’s back went stiff then
shuddered in a convulsion. He yelped. And, still, he tried to drag himself away with his arms and hands along the carpet. I stuck the gun up against his other leg and pulled the trigger. The gun jumped. More smoke rose in an acrid white cloud.
Then everything went quiet.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
GENIE STOPPED MOVING forward. He curled up clutching his legs, his face a rictus of pain. He took in a deep breath and let loose a long “Aiiiiiiiie,” not out of pain but more a howl of regret that his legs could no longer service him in his desperate plight.
I struggled to my feet, the Walther PPK hanging loose from my hand, my chest heaving, not bringing in near enough oxygen. I swayed and almost went down. I bent over, put my hands on my knees, and focused until my heart and lungs caught up. I leaned over and offered my hand to the cop, who was trying to stand. I helped him get to his feet. Blood covered the left side of his face, and on the right his eye was swelling shut. “Thanks,” I said. “He would’ve gotten away without your help.”
He nodded, still catching his breath. “You shot him. I can’t believe you shot him. He didn’t even have a weapon. Jesus, he didn’t have a weapon. Man, I really need to see some ID, like right now.”
I shoved the gun in my front pocket, took out my flat badge, and handed it to him. Outside, faraway sirens drew closer. I went to the phone that had been on the cash register counter, now overturned on the floor, and picked it up. I pushed down the receiver, let up, got a dial tone, and dialed a number from memory.
Wicks picked up on the first ring. “Wicks.”
“It’s me.” I took in another long breath as he took a moment to pause and decide if he really wanted to talk to me at all.
“Whatta ya need, Bruno? Make it quick.”
“I got Little Genie.”
“You what? Where are you? What happened? Is he alive? Did you have to shoot him?”
“Just listen, would you?”
“Sure. Sure. Go.”
“It went down bad. You’re my first call. You understand what I’m saying? Tenth and Slauson, you’re going to have to hurry to beat the other detectives.”
“I understand. I’ll be there in less than twenty. You hold on, pal. You hear me? I’ll be there in twenty.” He hung up.
I hung up and looked around. The restaurant was decimated. It wouldn’t have looked much different if an out-of-control car had driven through the glass wall from the outside. The patrons who had not fled out the front or the back doors stood off to the sides staring in stunned horror. I held up my hand. “It’s okay. It’s all over.”
Two of the people from the table we knocked over lay on the ground moaning, holding their ribs or arms. The elderly woman from the lunch counter lay right where we rolled over her, not moving. Her eyes were closed and her chest rose and fell as she breathed, her cheek in her biscuits and gravy.
I took my cuffs from my belt, bent down, and pulled Genie’s arms behind his back and cuffed him. His hands and arms were covered in his own warm blood. I wiped my hands on my jeans.
The cop handed me back my flat badge. I took it and handed him the Walther PPK. I said, “Can you handle this scene? There was an officer-involved shooting about a block down. I really need to get back there.”
He shook his head. “No, there’s an officer-involved shooting right here. You need to stay and explain all this to my sergeant.” He looked around in awe. From his expression, he’d never been involved in anything so violent. “This is a clusterfuck of the first order. My sergeant’s on his way. I don’t think he’s going to be happy. So no, you’re going to stay right here until he comes and says it’s okay for you to leave. Which I’m guessing isn’t going to be anytime in the next ten or twelve hours.”
“Sorry, not going to happen. I need to get back there now.”
“You shot this guy in both his legs. He wasn’t armed. You can’t leave.”
“Did you hear me when I said this guy is wanted for murder? He killed three people—those are just the ones we know about. He’s death-row eligible. We—that’s you and me—we couldn’t let him get away under any circumstances. He’s a threat to public safety. What I did was what needed to be done and absolutely within the law. Do you have paramedics on the way to treat him?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, administer first aid to her first.” I pointed over to the woman at the lunch counter. “And him second.” I pointed to Genie. “Try and stop his bleeding until paramedics arrive. I have to leave. I’ll be one block down on 10th, south of Slauson. Tell your sergeant where he can find me. I’m not running away from this, I’m just needed down there.”
I walked out crunching broken glass, dodging smashed pastries and overturned plates of food.
Outside, the fresh air smelled wonderful. The bright sunlight made me squint. My whole body throbbed, my face, my hands, my shoulder, and my neck. The more steps I took, the more strength returned.
I thought back over what I could have done differently and found only one thing. I never should’ve brought Nicky and the judge along. Judge Connors had shot and killed a gun thug. Though justified, not even the great Robby Wicks would be able to sweep that little boner under the rug.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
WHEN I FIRST joined the violent crimes team, Wicks had schooled me in how to handle violent situations where, in the split second it took to make a decision—to shoot or not to shoot. Now, even with the right choice, I ended up with the joker from the deck. He’d said, “I’m your first call. You understand? If the shooting stinks at all, I’m your first call.”
That’s why when I’d called him, I cut right through all the formalities and said it quickly and economically so he’d understand.
I’d called him at his desk at headquarters a good forty minutes away. That’s if traffic worked in his favor. Twenty minutes for him to get to the Crenshaw district was a pipe dream. But I had no doubt he would try his damnedest.
Now, after the adrenaline started to bleed off and I turned down 10th, the full impact of what had happened hit me. What a God-awful mess.
Cop cars rolling code-three continued to zip by behind me headed east, going to the mess at Mel’s restaurant. Soon they’d be rolling hot down 10th. The street would be clogged with black-and-whites and plain-wrapped detective cars. They’d be there long into the night, with their Klieg lights, forensic techs, the deputy coroner, and homicide detectives from two different agencies, taking notes and measurements, second-guessing everything that had happened.
Up ahead, Judge Connors sat on the curb at the rear of his Mercedes, his head in his hands, the shotgun on the ground next to him. I’d done this to him. It was my fault. I’d put him in a position where he thought he needed to take action.
He’d taken a life, a difficult thing to do under any circumstances.
He’d never again be the same. He’d have the nightmares, and the shakes, to deal with in the upcoming weeks and even months. I knew, because I’d been there too often.
Nicky stood close with her hand resting on his shoulder, quietly reassuring him. There wasn’t any sign of Twyla; she was either hiding in the car or she’d fled. I couldn’t blame her.
Off to the right, in the grassy area between the sidewalk and the apartment, lay both gun thugs, absolutely still—the eerie kind of still that only comes with the recent dead.
When I was halfway to them, Nicky looked up and saw me coming, relief plain in her expression. Her emotions shifted to shock. She ran to me. “Oh, my God, Bruno, what happened? Here, sit down, you need to sit down. Where are you hurt? You have blood all over you.” She tried to guide me out of the street. Instead I took her into my arms and hugged her tight. I soaked her up. I wouldn’t have the opportunity again for hours upon hours to come.
There wasn’t any time to dawdle. Things were going to start moving faster now. I pulled away from Nicky, took her hand, and led her over to the judge. Off to the side in the grass, the judge had lost his breakfast. The sour stench wafted on
the still, warm morning air. I squatted down next to him. “You okay, Your Honor?”
He didn’t look up and said nothing, his face in his hands. He was right on the razor’s edge of going into shock.
I put my hand on his knee. “Listen, I owe you a great debt of thanks that I can never repay. You saved my life.”
He looked up, his eyes red and swollen. He swallowed hard. “I what?”
“You saved my life. That guy was about to drop the hammer on me.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. And I’ll tell you one thing for sure—I’d have you as my partner any day. You can back me up anytime you want. That was one helluva shot. I don’t know many cops who would’ve taken it. That guy was too close to me. Thank you.”
His chin came up a little. He broke into a smile. “Damn straight that was a tough shot.”
“Yes, it was.” My hand involuntarily went up to my neck.
His eyes finally took me in as he shook off the shock that was trying hard to overcome him. The information from his eyes finally got through to his brain. “Bruno, you’re hurt. You’re bleeding all over the place. Look at your poor face, your shoulder.”
“I’m all right.”
“You sure?”
“I’m fine.”
“Did you get him? Did you get that son of a bitch?”
“Yeah, with the help of another cop, we cornered him up the street in a restaurant. That’s where all the cop cars are going. They’ll be coming back here soon. We need to get our story straight.”
“There’s no story here,” Nicky said, “only the truth.” She pointed to the dead on the grass. “That was a good shoot. You don’t get shoots that are that squeaky-clean. So, no, we’re going to tell it just like it happened, right down the line.”
The judge said, “Yeah? You think so?”
“I was standing right next to you, Your Honor; I saw it all. Bruno’s right—he’d be dead if you hadn’t taken affirmative action to stop the deadly threat he was facing. You literally saved his ass.”