The Squandered

by Putnam, David;

  “They’re bad news, Bruno. They run all the coke in LA. There’s a joint task force; LASD, LAPD, State DOJ, and the FBI, are up and running with fifty investigators working on this group exclusively for the last eighteen months. Wire taps, pin registers, the works, and they never seem to get a handle on ’em, not so much as a foothold. This group is that good. The task force even has a mobile command post they use full time and move around as needed.” Mack looked back at me. “This is serious shit. Every time they think they’ve cut off the head of the snake, the snake grows a new one, comes right back stronger than before.”

  “And this guy Don Brodie?”

  “He’s just recently been identified, new info within the last couple of weeks. Now they’re thinkin’ that he calls all the shots. I’m surprised Sommers even let that out. I’m surprised Sommers even knows about it. The task force only just got a whiff of this guy Brodie, and that was nothing but luck, buddy boy. They got him through GPS on an associate’s car. And if Brodie’s half as bad as the talk on the street, then you better watch your back. Seriously.”

  “What kind of background does he have? Where did he rise up, what neighborhood?” I asked.

  “That’s just it, the guy’s a ghost, just like his organization. They have ten investigators on Brodie, just on him, ten of their best. He rarely leaves that bungalow in Beverly Hills. He eats room service and, twice a week, he has a high-dollar escort come visit, a redhead each time. They got his prints and he comes back with nothin’, not so much as a birth certificate, not a piece of property in his name, no relation to any corporations or shell companies, no family, I mean zilch.”

  “That’s not possible,” I said. “Not with today’s information highway.”

  “I know.”

  “You get a look at him?”

  “No. Wong’s on the task force, on the FBI contingent, and we stay in touch. This guy Brodie looks like some kind of nerd. I seen a photo. He wears glasses and sweaters like he’s some kind of yuppie trapped in the seventies. He has twenty-four-seven security all around his bungalow, must cost a fortune.”

  “If he doesn’t use a phone, get around the money or dope, they’re never gonna get him.”

  “That’s right. Why does the LAFC and D want your brother out?”

  Marie held up the book. “This caused the whole mess. Noble wrote about a dope deal that went down twenty-five years ago. A half ton of coke went missing, and Papa Dee and his lieutenant disappeared with nine million dollars in diamonds.”

  Mack gave a long whistle. “Nine million in diamonds. Those are probably worth even more in today’s market.” He paused, shook his head. “I’m not buyin’ the coke, though. Diamonds like that would probably fit in the palm of your hand, a half ton of powder, no way. Someone would’ve found it. That’s a lot of blow.”

  My nephew said, “I don’t care about the diamonds or the dope. I just want my kids back.”

  We discussed the plan, to spring Noble, set the time, and disbanded. Mack insisted on being involved, and since he worked at the sheriff’s department, I got overruled. We’d use his plan, also against my better judgment. A plan that, on its face, appeared beyond ridiculous. Mostly because it called for me to ride a wheel-chair right into the lion’s den. Mack said for his plan to work we needed only to “pretend you know what you’re doing. It’s just that simple.”

  When we left, I let Marie drive, which rarely happened. I had to get back to the book, back to the “Ghettocide” chapter to find out what happened.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  A NOBLE SACRIFICE

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Ghettocide

  With great difficulty, I left my love Sasha in that drafty red-brick library, lying naked on the cot with candle flames of hope flickering in her brown eyes, and headed off to meet up with my boys. I paged all three to a pay phone on Willowbrook Avenue. We met at Stops on Imperial Highway across the street from Nickerson Gardens.

  Now it’s okay to name names; they’re all gone. They went the way of the ghetto gunfighter, the way they wanted to go.

  Life on the street.

  Much later, though, after I’d gone to the joint, I heard about each one, got the news while at Chino and in The Q. Their families should be proud; at least pride was what I felt at the time. Not so much anymore. What a terrible waste of human life. Now, as a keeper of the word, I covet life as a sacred gift.

  For the job, I decided to stick with friends whom I could trust beyond question. For those of you who live in Willowbrook and might have known them, they were legends, they were closer than brothers: Conard, Little Boom, and Alpo. Conard, because he could drive the hell out of anything with wheels. Little Boom, the same but with guns—he could drop a Blood running down the street from a moving vehicle. And then there was Alpo. Well, Alpo just because, when it came right down to it, I didn’t know if I could do what had to be done. I knew I could tell Alpo the plan, and he’d stick to it no matter how bloody a road we traveled.

  The caper turned simple with diamonds involved and without all of that bulky money to lug. The plan—not well wrought, but everyone agreed to it—hatched right there in the parking lot of Stops over a hot link smothered in barbeque sauce.

  We’d all take separate cars, G-rides. Conard took care of that. He didn’t need much notice. He had the cars scoped out already. Took him less than an hour to grab all four.

  The plan? We’d pick up Delbert Fawlkes and Papa Dee as they left the safe house in Compton headed for the deal in San Pedro. We’d follow them to a location that looked good to Conard. Conard would give us the signal: flash his headlights off and on twice. And then, before the next intersection, we’d box Del and Papa in. We’d get all around their car with our cars as we approached the traffic signal, one of our cars for each side of their car. We’d move in tight so they couldn’t open their doors or drive forward or backward, not so much as an inch. Mash right up into the grill and trunk. They wouldn’t suspect a thing, not until we made our move and closed the trap on them. We’d have the element of surprise on our side. Then I’d ask … no, I’d order that woman-beating bastard to toss over the diamonds. Simple. Keep it simple and nothing could go wrong.

  The best laid plans of mice and men, right?

  The first part came off without a hitch.

  We set up at eight thirty, only three hours after I’d left Sasha. Her kiss, her scent, lingered like a physical presence.

  Del walked out of the house on Aranbe at eight forty-five, right on the nose, and looked around. He kept his hand under his navy peacoat, ready for action. He favored two customized Colt Combat Commanders with satin finishes. Everyone knew about those guns, some more intimately than others. Not that they could ever talk about them again.

  I’d parked closest, insisted on it; everyone else laid off a little.

  Del stood in the shadows under the tree, away from the streetlight. Once he nodded, out popped Papa Dee and they made for his car—a big Cadillac El Dorado, gray with a black landau top—got in and took off. I dropped in behind until the first turn. Conard took over, driving a one-ton flatbed with tall tires. The backup plan, if they tumbled to us, Conard would put an end to their escape by ramming the life out of that beautiful car. Come in from the side and hit it right in the center.

  Conard stayed with them for less than a mile, until the first signal at Compton Avenue, and peeled off, his truck too memorable. Next, Little Boom took up the tail. Conard came back in off a side street and stayed third in line to wait for the right time to give the signal, and if necessary to leave enough running room to ram. He wouldn’t wait too long. The longer it went, the better chance they had of spotting us. I’d take the right side, Conard the back, Little Boom the left, and Alpo the front. That’s how we planned it, anyway.

  Del made a left onto Wilmington heading south. The streets were wet from a passing rain. Houses lit up the night with red and green Christmas lights. All the lights reflected off the wet black asphalt.

  N
ine o’clock at night Wilmington still ran heavy with traffic, too many people out doing their Christmas shopping. That many people made our play that much more difficult. With each passing minute, Del drove closer and closer to San Pedro. My nerves had started out frayed; now they screamed for relief from the awful tension. And the game had only been in play a few minutes, less than five.

  Conard flashed his lights. He’d made his choice.

  Too soon. Too soon. We were still in our own hood.

  He must’ve felt the same pressure.

  The intersection he chose, Wilmington and Greenleaf, didn’t leave enough time. Not enough for all of us to get into position. The distance between all the cars southbound on Wilmington started to compress as we approached the red signal at Greenleaf, making the maneuver to get up beside or in front of the Eldo next to impossible.

  No chance. We didn’t even have one side of the box. We’d have to wait for another opportunity. Right? We’d have to wait. Please, Conard, wait.

  We didn’t have cell phones back then to communicate, so you just had to roll with whatever went down.

  Wilmington and Greenleaf wouldn’t work for us. The Eldo came to a stop grouped in the middle of un-involved people—civilians unaware of the major coke traffickers, Del and Papa Dee, sitting amongst them, predators amongst the lambs.

  I held my breath for one long half second, wishing for the light to change, wishing for none of the boys to jump the mark at this inopportune time.

  Damn, wishing didn’t work.

  Alpo jumped out and ran down the row between the cars, his big .45 plainly visible under the bright streetlights.

  Conard popped out of the truck next, then Little Boom. Nobody wanted to miss out on the action. I got out fast, my limbs not moving like they should, moving as if at half-speed, although, I knew they weren’t.

  Alpo made it to the Eldo, the driver’s window. That’s when everything slowed to a crawl, everyone’s movements shifted into slow motion.

  Alpo yelled, “Hands up, motherfucker.” He didn’t wait for compliance. He opened up point blank right into the closed window. Right on top of Delbert Fawlkes.

  The big .45 boomed.

  Conard came up at the same time and started to pass in between the back of the Eldo, headed for the passenger side to cover Alpo.

  Del must’ve seen Alpo coming up. He fired, and Alpo crumpled. His one arm came up to hold his belly in, but Alpo kept firing with the other hand.

  Under withering fire, Del shifted in reverse, the white backup lights coming on. Conard saw the threat as he passed between the cars. He flipped backward on top of the hood of a Toyota Camry just as Del backed into it, tires spinning for traction. The Eldo would’ve taken Conard’s legs off.

  Del put it in drive and rammed the car in front, Papa Dee yelling now, in between the gunfire, “Get the hell outta here. Get me the hell outta here.”

  Little Boom made it up, stopped behind the Eldo, raised his hands, a nine in each, and fired.

  And fired.

  And fired.

  Fifteen rounds in each gun. The brass shell casings flicked out over his shoulders and tinkled down on the wet asphalt.

  The Eldo continued to ram cars, backward then forward and backward.

  All the windows to the Eldo shattered as bullets flicked through them. The red brake lights blinked out. The trunk was pocked with multiple holes.

  Alpo held his gut, dropped his mag, and reloaded. He went at the inside of the car again, his arm extended. He unleashed hell from two feet away. Conard, from the hood of the Camry, let go with his .357, much louder than the rest. The muzzle flash lit up the night, each shot freeze-framed the action, as his face contorted in fear and anger.

  Me? I stood in place, too stunned to participate, the gun, a big Ruger Redhawk .44, limp in my hand.

  With the first rounds fired and the ramming of the cars, the civilians took off.

  The guns went silent.

  The signal changed from red to green. That’s how long death and mayhem had taken, the time in between the red and green signal. A minute to a minute and a half, no more.

  White cordite hung in the air, thick and acrid, tinted yellow by the streetlights. Papa Dee and Del no longer sat upright in the car. The Eldo, now a ghost ride, slowly drifted off all on its own.

  None of my guys moved. Alpo was bent over at the waist, the .45 in his hand almost touching the street. Blood dripped down his hand, onto the gun and the street.

  I took a breath, sucked in a large one. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding it.

  Then, without warning, Del sat up in the Eldo and stuck his foot down flat on the gas. The Eldo leaped forward into the night. The silver car flashed in and out of the streetlights, growing smaller.

  Del made the first quick turn and was gone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  LOS ANGELES COUNTY MEDICAL CENTER CURRENT DAY

  I SAT IN a wheelchair, pushed by Mack, dressed in his Class B, Los Angeles County Sheriff’s uniform and escorted by Marie clad in blue doctor scrubs purchased ahead of time for our little operation. I didn’t want Marie along, but Noble needed constant medical attention so soon after traumatic surgery for the stab wounds inflicted by the Sons of Satan. Wounds intended for me.

  Mack wheeled me in the emergency door, past all the chairs filled to capacity with the maimed, the sick, and the hurting, past the reception counter, and right over to the elevator that said “Law enforcement only.” Like any deputy in the county, Mack knew the way. The place smelled of body odor mixed with disinfectant. The people paid us no mind, too caught up in their lives of pain and illness.

  Getting into the facility wasn’t the problem. Getting out with an unconscious patient, a prisoner from state prison serving a life sentence, now that wouldn’t be a cakewalk, no matter what Mack wanted to believe.

  In the elevator, all three of us looked straight ahead at the stainless-steel doors when they closed. The booth bitch, up on the fourth floor, monitored the camera in our elevator car, and I fought the urge to look up at the camera.

  All three of us stayed in character. I tried to keep my knees from shaking. I shouldn’t have been so scared, but our failed little foray into MCJ weighed heavy on my mind. Piled on top of that was the insane plan that Mack had concocted. All that stress combined gave me a headache, a grinding stomach, and the shakes.

  “Hey, just act like you know what you’re doin’,” Mack said again, once too often in fact, until I wanted to smack him. “It’s as easy as that.”

  Out of the corner of my mouth, I barely moved my lips. “Hey, Mack, there’s going to be a video record of you being here.”

  “Buddy boy, you take care of your end of this thing. I’ll worry about mine. And hey, thanks for burning me down with my girl.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Barbara went through my pants like a sketchin’ dope fiend looking for a penny. She knew what she was looking for and found it. The ring. You’re the only one who knew about it. Thanks a million, pal.”

  I looked up from the wheelchair at Marie and didn’t say anything, not wanting to burn her. I gave her the look that said we’d discuss this one later, little girl, and there’d be a spanking involved. She didn’t seem to care. She shrugged and fell on the sword. “Us women need to stick together.” She smiled. “So, did you pop the question?”

  “What choice did I have?”

  Marie giggled, the first real emotion since Blue Suit attacked her. She went up on tiptoes and kissed Mack on the cheek. He blushed bright red.

  The elevator door opened.

  My brother Noble stood there right out in the open. Unescorted, unfettered.

  He stood right there in front of us, swaying on his feet, sweat beading and running in rivulets down his too-pale face. He wore the uniform of a Valiant Security officer, complete with a plastic sheriff’s security badge clipped to his pocket. The blue uniform blouse was speckled with blood over the wound on his abdomen where it h
ad started to bleed through.

  The sheriff contracted with Valiant for the lower-level security jobs. Noble had somehow appropriated a uniform and had already made it past the most difficult part, the double-gate sally port that led out of the hospital ward.

  Of course, sure, my nephew Bruno worked for Valiant Security. Now it all made sense. But why hadn’t Bruno told me about helping his father with his escape?

  Marie moved first to catch him as he wilted. “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

  I jumped out of the chair and helped ease him down into it. He looked horrible.

  That could’ve been me if he hadn’t jumped in front of that shank.

  He’d made it past the sally port out of the jail ward all on his own. If we hadn’t been there, he wouldn’t have made it another foot. He would’ve collapsed to the floor and the deputies would’ve fallen to the ruse. Nabbed his sorry ass, added an attempted escape charge. Worse though, they’d have then made him a red suit, an escape risk, escort only. A red suit would cut his chances of escape down below nil.

  Now we just needed to get past the elevator camera, out past the ER, and then the parking lot, and he’d be home free. Nothing to it.

  Mack hit the door to close it and then pressed the lobby button.

  Noble, his voice weak, said, “I told you I had a foolproof plan.”

  “You’re not out of the woods yet, fool.”

  “I’m the fool? What kinda plan are you brain-trusts working from?”

  “Take it easy, you two,” Marie said. She touched my hand, I hoped out of view of the elevator camera.

  “Looks like we got here just in time. You were about to DFO.” Ghetto for “done fell out.”

  “Get a life. You just can’t admit that I did something spectacular without you.”

  Mack moved over close to me as the elevator dropped us fast to the lobby. He pulled my hands behind my back and cuffed me.

  “Hey, what the hell?”

  “Noble’s got the wheelchair. He obviously can’t walk out under his own power. The wheelchair was your cover. Someone sees you, they might take a second look. You’re too well known and might be recognized. Cops don’t look twice at the fish already caught. They won’t see you even if they look you in the face, not with these cuffs on.”