I grew sick to my stomach with the fear of what I’d find in that room.
CHAPTER THREE
THE DUST FROM the outside wafted in thick and obscured the room, but not enough to hide the terror in the mother’s eyes.
“It’s okay, take it easy. I’ll help you find your baby. I’ll find him, I promise.”
“My baby,” she shrieked. “My baby.”
I climbed across chunks of the folded wall and over the couch to get to her. The dust now filled my lungs and I coughed as I hugged her trembling body. “It’s okay, I’m here to help.”
I let go of her to move the couch, but she glommed onto me. I couldn’t budge the couch. Her legs had to be compromised at least to some degree, broken or crushed. “Where’s the last place you saw your child?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure anymore. Over there, I think. What happened? Was it an airplane? Did an airplane crash into our house? My baby, please help me find my baby.”
“How old is the child and what’s his name?”
“Delbert Fawlkes, I named him after his daddy. Everyone calls him Del, jus’ like his daddy. His daddy works for Papa Dee. You know Papa Dee?”
In her hysteria she’d gone to jabbering to help bury the reality of the moment. Of course I knew Papa Dee; everyone in South Central LA knew him. He controlled all the rock cocaine in the projects—Jordan Downs, Nickerson Gardens, and Imperial Courts. Word went around that Papa Dee was on the move to expand. The poor bastards gunshot in the Impala—if they lived, it wouldn’t be for long, not once Papa Dee found out what happened to his people, driving a car into their house like this.
A child cried.
“My baby, that’s Del. Help my baby. Please, Lord God, help my baby, mister.”
Not ten feet away, the length of a car, six or eight deputies dragged the wounded suspects from the Impala and not too kindly. Their racket covered the baby’s cry.
I moved toward the direction of the sound and coughed some more.
Del cried again. I shone my light into the darkness. A toddler stood in the hall that led to the back of the house. He wore a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pajama top and a diaper, his chubby little legs slightly bowlegged. Tears glistened on his smooth black skin. Blood trickled from his lip and his nose, not much, not enough to worry about unless it came from internal injuries. He must’ve been in just the right position to be shoved into the hallway when the car came through.
One lucky little guy.
I made it over to him, cooing, saying his name. The poor child shook with fear, half-scared out of his wits. Who could blame him? I picked him up and carefully carried him back to his mama. Her legs were still pinned to the wall by the crunched-up couch. I handed him to her just as firemen climbed through the opening with a large light, tools, and medical boxes. I left them to it and went to find my other obligation, trainee Crews.
* * *
Crews stood off to the side with three trainees, in a separate group from the field-training officers and other patrol deps. I headed toward Crews, weaving in and out of the emergency vehicles now jamming up the street and blocking in our patrol car, just as Sergeant Foreman came out of the darkness. “Bruno, get your ass over here.”
Foreman always made it a point to go out of his way to make my life miserable. I deserved it. Not all that long ago, I’d gone to a call, one that always popped up in my memory tagged as The House That Bled. I found a gunshot child at the location and rushed him to the hospital in the patrol car against Foreman’s direct orders. He had wanted me to wait for paramedics. I should’ve been reprimanded, but instead, the station captain squashed the reprimand. He said to Foreman, loud enough for witnesses to hear, “Now, just how the hell do you think that would look if Bruno fought this reprimand and the press got a hold of it. The kid lived, you dumbass. Get the hell outta my office.”
Further rubbing salt in the wound, the training lieutenant made me a training officer.
Deputy Good stood among the other deputies gathered for Sergeant Foreman’s briefing.
Foreman looked at me when he spoke. “Okay, no guns were found in the car.”
Wilson, the new guy, who’d gone on scene of the robbery and started the pursuit, said, “How’d they get shot, then? Without any guns in the car, how’d they get shot?”
Good Johnson grunted, said, “Rookie.”
Foreman nodded in agreement to the rookie comment and said, “In all the excitement the guns discharged inside the car, and then when you got onto them, started the chase, they tossed the guns out the windows.” He looked from Wilson to me, “That’s why I want you, Bruno, to take all three trainees, divide up, and walk back the entire length of the pursuit. We gotta recover those guns. We can’t afford to let any kids get a hold of them or it’ll give the sheriff’s department a black eye.”
I wanted to say, “Right, and also endanger some kids as well,” but I held my tongue.
“Yeah, have a good time with that, Bad Boy,” Good said, “while us real deputies handle the tough calls.” He laughed, along with some of the others who held the same prejudices.
I left that group without further comment and went over to the three trainees. “Okay, follow me.” I kept walking right on by them and moved between the cars.
The pursuit hadn’t lasted that long, but at eighty miles an hour, we’d covered a lot of ground—ground that in reverse and on foot, would take hours to search. I moved out of the street and up onto the sidewalk. “You two take that side, one in the street and one on the sidewalk. We’re looking for guns tossed during the pursuit. Do a good job, because if you miss it, and it’s found later, there’ll be hell to pay. Me and Crews here will take this side. Keep your partner in sight and don’t separate for any reason. We’re still deep into Indian country, and you cherries don’t know your heads from your asses and you will get eaten. You understand?”
All three answered in unison, “Yes, sir.”
“Get to it.”
They moved out.
Crews and I started our sweep. The more I thought about what happened, the more I knew Foreman and the others were wrong. I thought I knew what had happened, only I couldn’t leave to check it out, not when left with the responsibility for the safety of three new guys.
We made it to the main artery we’d turned off of, Compton Avenue. I stopped. Crews looked up from scanning the ground with his flashlight. “What? You find something?”
“No, but this is ridiculous.”
“Why?”
“Never mind.”
He came over close. “How am I going to learn if you don’t tell me?”
I waved the two trainees across the street to keep going, then looked at Crews. “Okay, back there at the scene, inside the car, before anybody was moved, what did you see?”
He thought about it. “Two suspects with GSWs, both dressed like gangbangers. Two shot, two got away on foot, total of four. What am I missing here?”
“Entry, exit?”
He took a second to think about it. “I didn’t really look when—”
“Details, pay attention to the details, they’ll save your life one day.”
“Okay, I got that. What did I miss?”
“Both were shot from behind.”
He shrugged. “I’m still not following you. Oh, wait. Sergeant Foreman said he thought they were ADs, accidental discharges. I gotta tell ya that sounded a little screwy to me when he said that.”
“Why?”
“Well, I could see one AD, inside the car. The assholes get excited and the gun goes off. But not two.” He snapped his fingers. “And then you add in that they were both shot from behind and no way could that happen like that, especially in the car.”
I snapped my fingers like he did and pointed at him. “Give the rookie a cracker.”
He beamed. “So what are we going to do?”
“Foreman already hates my ass, but what’s right is right.” I yelled at the other two deputy trainees across the street. “Yo
u two, keep going, stay together and stay on your side of the street. We’re gonna be right back.” They nodded and kept looking, intent on being the ones to find the sought-after evidence that I knew wasn’t there and they believed would make them look good in the eyes of their FTOs, their Field Training Officers.
“Come on,” I said to Crews, and stepped into the middle of Compton Avenue to flag down a passing car.
CHAPTER FOUR
A NEWSPAPER DELIVERY van drove us the short three miles to the Stop and Go where the robbery occurred. We got out. I shook the long-haired driver’s hand. “Thanks, man, I owe you.”
“No problem, dude. Glad to do it. Good luck.” He backed up and drove off.
Deputy Wilson’s patrol car sat in front of the Stop and Go. His car had been lead in the pursuit and not boxed in like ours. He’d been assigned the handle on the call and came back to get a formal statement from the clerk.
The bright light from inside lit up the parking lot. Wilson stood at the counter, notebook in hand talking with—
“Oh, shit.”
Crews stopped when I did and said, “What? What’s the matter?”
The clerk made eye contact with me and lost his smile. “Nothing,” I said. “Tonight just went from bad to worse.”
Crews nodded. He opened the door and we entered the store.
The clerk pointed at me. “I don’t want that nigga in my store.”
Wilson turned and looked at me, confused.
I moved right up to the counter, staring the clerk down, not believing who, of all people, it turned out to be. I didn’t know that Noble had gotten a job, let alone worked in a store on my beat.
Wilson said, “Bruno, you know this guy?”
“Yeah, I do.” I still looked at the clerk, “Noble, give me the gun.”
Noble raised his hands, open, spread wide. He feigned surprise, “What’re you talking about, Deputy?”
“Don’t make this any worse than it already is. Gimme the gun.”
Noble instantly shifted to violent anger, which he was prone to do. He pointed at me and yelled, “Get him out of my store, right motherfucking now.” His body vibrated with pent-up rage. He fought to keep from coming over the counter at me. We’d done battle before, a number of times, and what he lacked in skill he made up for with an innate, brutal violence that usually left his adversaries lacking body parts: eyes, noses, and ears.
I didn’t break eye contact and said, “Crews, read this suspect his rights. Do it right from the card, no mistakes.”
“No,” Noble yelled, “No, this ain’t right. I’m tellin’ you right now. I was defending myself. They came in here and stuck a gauge up in my face, Bruno. I only did what I had to do.”
Wilson’s mouth dropped open. “What? What are you saying? What’s he talking about? What gun? Who’d he shoot?”
I pulled my gun in a quick, smooth draw and pointed it right at Noble’s forehead. I didn’t want to, Lord knows I didn’t want to, but this crime would send Noble over the edge. A two-time loser at only twenty-one and on parole, this would send him back to the joint for a long stretch. If anyone back in that Impala died, he’d be eligible for that forever kind of time. This impending arrest made him as dangerous as a wounded lion. I’d pulled the gun not for me but to protect the two new guys standing with me who didn’t have all the information.
He raged, “You’re pointing a gun at me? At me? You son of a bitch.” He vaulted the counter, a human torpedo. I hit him with the pistol on the top of his head. He wilted to the floor.
Crews jumped on him.
“No. Get back. This is my cross to bear and mine alone.” I pulled Crews off, holstered my gun, and handcuffed Noble, hands trembling.
His scalp bled from the laceration.
I rolled him over and patted him down. Under his Stop and Go smock I pulled from a shoulder holster a Ruger Redhawk .44 magnum with an eight-and-three-quarter-inch barrel. I broke open the cylinder; five of the six rounds had been fired. I handed the small cannon to Wilson as Noble’s eyes rolled from the top and came down into focus. “Bruno, man, you can’t do this. It was self-defense. You do this, I’ll never get out. Never. They’ll kill me in the joint. You know that. They’ll shank my ass.”
I helped him to his feet, my stomach churning with emotion. “You shot them in the back after the threat had passed. It’s not up to me. The DA will make the determination.”
“Come on. Come on, man. Can’t you for once in your life step across that perfect line and not do what’s right? I was tryin’ here. I was tryin’ real hard to do right. I got this fucked-up straight man’s job doin’ the eight ta five thing. I wasn’t slingin’ no more for Papa Dee. I was only packin’ heavy tonight’ cause Del, Dee’s main man, was gunnin’ for me, said I still owed him. I don’t owe him shit. Can’t you see that? I was tryin’ hard, Bruno.”
I swallowed down the lump in my throat. “You made a poor choice bringing a gun to work. You’re on parole, Noble. Jesus, you’re on parole.”
Tears filled his eyes. “You and your ‘what’s right is right’ bull-shit. What’s our daddy gonna say? Huh, Bruno? What’s our daddy gonna say about you arresting your own brother?”
CHAPTER FIVE
SAN JOSÉ, COSTA RICA CURRENT DAY
FROM THE HALLWAY of our house, I peeked inside. The tall door was open only a crack. All ten kids quietly played with each other on the floor, in the chairs, and at the low table. Their sitter, a tired old man—my father—slept in the recliner.
I still wore my work clothes, an issued floral shirt and white pants from the La Margarite, where I tended the outdoor cabana bar. The nameplate read “Bob Johnson,” a not-so-clever alias.
Marie, my dad, and I had scooped up these endangered kids in South Central Los Angeles and fled with them down to Costa Rica, where they at least had a chance to be safe and to survive. My grandson, Alonzo, had been placed by the court with my in-laws, the same parents who’d raised Derek Sams, the man who’d abused Alonzo’s brother, Albert, until he died. Rick and Toby Bixler, brothers burned in a failed PCP lab. Those two would’ve gone back to the same hazardous and toxic environment had we not intervened. Sonny Taylor, the cute, hungry little kid who ate his mother’s meth and then, after the judge gave him back to her, got locked in a closet. What chance did he have? Marvin Kelso, his mom’s child-molesting boyfriend—I couldn’t even think about that horrible scenario. Randy Lugo, with five broken bones—how long before it would have been his neck? Tommy Bascombe, his mother a speed freak who took Tommy to the most dangerous parts of LA to score dope. She had even traded him off for a while, but always got him back in time for social services to do their home inspection. She wasn’t going to miss out on her welfare check. Eddie Crane, Elena Cortez, and Sandy Williams, the most recent arrivals, made ten total. They ranged in age from ten to five. All present, I breathed easier each and every time I came home and found them safe and sound.
The Feds back in the States were still looking for me hot and heavy, but wouldn’t bother to come this far south to scoop me up, not on suspicion only. Not for children who would be no better off if returned. At least, that’s what I wanted to believe.
We were a family now. The latest three kids, Eddie Crane, Elena Cortez, and Sandy Williams, had only been with us a short time. Marie and I had gone back to the states three months ago to rescue them from a violent kidnapper. In the process, I’d managed to anger every member of the Sons of Satan outlaw motorcycle gang, yet another good reason to be in hiding down in Costa Rica. Eddie, Elena, and Sandy had assimilated well and now acted as if they’d always been there with the other seven.
Ten kids, what a handful, what a responsibility. One so large it sometimes scared me when I thought about how much these kids depended upon me. Depended on us.
I eased the door open. The hinges creaked. All the children still possessed survival instincts honed sharp from the constant threat of abuse in their old environments. They turned to look at the door and froze, wai
ting to see who came through, friend or foe. I could only hope that one day they’d grow to feel safe like children should.
I raised my hands, fingers splayed like a monster. I put on a monster’s grimace and pushed in the rest of the way. When the kids saw me, their frozen expressions shifted to smiles. I stepped into the room like Frankenstein’s monster with long stiff-legged steps. “I just got off work,” I said, in a louder than normal voice, “And!” I stopped. The younger children shrieked with joy and crawled around to hide. I took another step. “Suddenly, I’m feeling kinda hungry.” The rest of the children scrambled about; two of the older ones from the original seven charged right at me. I roared like a monster, grabbed them both up, and wrestled them to the floor, tickling and rolling around with them. The other kids piled on, all laughing and having a wonderful time.
We rolled around and around. I pretended to eat arms and legs and they pretended to be a town mob fighting off the monster. I roared, they shrieked and laughed. We played until I couldn’t breathe. A man on the backside of forty, pushing fifty hard, I couldn’t keep up with ten healthy and vigorous children. I gave up and lay flat on my back. Everyone piled on. Tommy said, “Come on, play some more, play some more.” Some of the others took up the mantra. “Come on, play some more.”
“No, no, I can’t.” I struggled up to all fours and tried to stand as they hung on like koala bears to a tree.
I froze. They did, too. I waited a long second and then said, “Suddenly, I’m feeling kinda hungry.” They all yelled and shrieked and piled on harder to fight the monster. We rolled around some more until my old body said it was enough. The kids sweated and breathed hard. I peeled them off one at a time. The older ones knew the game had ended and moved back to the low table and their board games.
I caught a glimpse of my girl Marie standing at the door, smiling. “How long have you been there?” I asked.
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