The Replacements

by David Putnam

  I looked Barbara in the eyes and nodded. She didn’t smile, but reached out and laid her hand on my arm. “Thank you.”

  Her gratitude touched something in me. A form of forgiveness I’d craved so badly for what had happened to Robby. I leaned over the bar and hugged her. She hugged back. Tears burned my eyes. We stayed that way a long time. “We’re still good?” she asked.

  “Yeah, we’re good.”

  My mind immediately went back to Marie. How would I break this to her?

  “Is that note a copy? Can I have it?”

  Barbara handed it over. I folded it and put it in my pocket.

  “How am I going to cross back into the States?”

  “I’m going to leave that up to you, for obvious reasons. When you get up there, you’re going to be on your own. If you get caught by the police, I won’t be able to help you. I’d love to stay and catch up, and I promise we will when this is all over.” She slid off the barstool. “I have a turn-around flight back. The mayor doesn’t know I’m gone, and he’d flip if he did. I shouldn’t have left town, let alone the country, not with this major investigation going on.”

  “I understand.” I didn’t have the focus to chat anyway. Marie didn’t deserve this. She’d thought once we made the dangerous journey out of the States with our precious cargo, we would never have to worry again.

  “It’s going to take me a few days to get back, maybe even a week. I’m going to have to walk across the border.”

  She lost her smile. “I need you on this now, like, right now. You read the note, another kid is going to be taken, and those girls are in the hands of a psychopath.”

  Why me? Why three kids? What debt could I owe him? What was Jonas thinking? That was the real problem. Jonas had slipped over the tenuous edge of sanity and into his own psychotic world.

  A kernel of an idea popped into my head. “If I get lucky, I’ll be there tomorrow night.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Marie volunteered at the local clinic three days a week, partly for altruistic reasons, and partly to keep her hand and mind in the medical field. She didn’t want to lose her edge. By now, the kids’ physical wounds had healed. The emotional ones went deeper and were more difficult to overcome. Volunteering as a physician’s assistant still allowed her plenty of time with the children.

  I gave the hotel an excuse and the inside bartender relieved me. As usual, I moved through the streets in a circuitous route, doubling back over and over again, but now I was on high alert. Jake Donaldson wasn’t just a pissed-off old drunk. The timing for me to leave town couldn’t be worse. At least no one knew where I lived; I’d made sure to keep it that way.

  Except for the main roads, the people on the streets were similar in size and clothing and movement. Anyone from north of the border would be easy to spot. I stopped at a café, ordered a coffee I didn’t want, and watched the street’s ebb and flow. This also gave me a chance to think, to make sure my decision remained sound.

  Fifteen minutes later I turned down an alley free from debris and graffiti, something difficult to get used to. I climbed an old jacaranda tree like I always did and peeked over the thick, eight-foot-high wall surrounding the huge house we rented. For $500 a month, the house came with a groundsman, a housekeeper, and three meals a day. With the help of John Mack, we’d brought $250,000 with us, enough to last a good long time.

  I reached over the wall and parted some banana leaves. The kids were playing in the backyard. They laughed and giggled and frolicked without a care in the world, the way children were supposed to grow up. The sight made my heart soar. Dad watched from a hammock, asleep. Of course, if you ever asked him, he never slept while charged with the children’s care.

  I mentally counted, like I always did, just to be sure. Eight of them: Rick and Toby Bixler, brothers burned in the failed PCP lab. They would have 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, his mother locked him in a closet. What chance did he have? Marvin Kelso, his mom’s boyfriend the molester—I couldn’t even think about that horrible scenario. Randy Lugo, with five broken bones; how long before it would have been his neck? Wally Kim’s mother died a prostitute wedded to the glass pipe. Tommy Bascombe, his mother was a speed freak and 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. And Alonzo, my grandson. All present, I breathed easier.

  Alonzo and Albert had been the catalyst that started my rapid descent into lawlessness. Three years ago, my son-in-law killed little Albert, my grandson, Alonzo’s twin. My hatred went so deep I could not, would not, remember the son-in-law’s name.

  The justice system gave the son-in-law a pass. I wouldn’t. I went against all I had stood for in law and order, and stepped outside the moral ambiguity of the law. I hunted him down and shot him dead. Went to prison for it, only to come out and find the court had given Alonzo back to the son-in-law’s parents.

  The same abusive family that had raised the son in-law to be a murderer.

  I watched from the tree a moment longer, jumped down, and went to the front wrought-iron entry. Tomorrow we’d no longer have Wally Kim’s smiling face and bright eyes to warm our souls. I didn’t want to give him up but it was the right thing to do. Wally would be better off with his natural father, to be raised in his country with his culture and traditions.

  I went in quietly through the front door. The hacienda stayed cool during the day, with thick walls and wide paver tiles. In the kitchen I kept busy preparing Marie’s favorite dinner, homemade enchiladas à la Bruno. I set the table and lit two candles, and made sangria with fresh fruit submerged and floating on top in a cold ceramic pitcher.

  Without any warning, the herd from outside burst into the house with Dad trailing along, their afternoon playtime over. He didn’t look as healthy as when he lived in Compton. In his youth he’d been a strong man, the strongest I ever knew, and kept me safe while growing up in a dangerous neighborhood. He worked forty years as a mail carrier, never missing a single day from being sick. His shoulders were slumped now, his once glistening black hair was snow white, and his brown eyes were occluded by cataracts.

  The kids swarmed around my legs. I picked up Alonzo and swung him high. He giggled. I tried not to show favoritism around the other children, but I naturally gravitated to my grandson.

  “What’s with the special dinner tonight?” asked Dad. “Did I forget some important anniversary or something?”

  “Nope. Can you keep the kids in the game room tonight, feed them dinner in there, and put them down at the usual time?”

  “You know I can.” He kept his smile, but the light in his eyes dropped below a twinkle. He gathered the noisy kids with a gentle touch to their backs. “Come on, story time, let’s go, story time.”

  Alonzo wiggled to get down. He loved me without reservation. “Bronze Bow, Granpap?” he asked.

  “That’s right, we’re reading The Bronze Bow. Come on now.” When he had them all headed in the right direction, he stopped and nodded toward the table and candles. “Is this something I should know about?”

  “I really need to talk with Marie about it first. I owe her that much.”

  “Whatever it is, Bruno, don’t do it. I’m telling you right now, don’t do it. Nothing’s worth risking what you have here. And I mean nothing. You know that. You can see it. I know you can.” He kept on moving down the hall.

  I’d disappointed him. He’d called me Bruno instead of Son. He only did it when he was serious and wanted me to pay close attention to something important he’d said.

  I looked up at the ceiling and shook my head. Of course he was right. But what was I supposed to do? What about little Sandy Williams and Elena Cortez?

  Their images crept in. Images of the
m all trussed up, twine biting into their soft flesh, their eyes and mouth taped with duct tape. Anxiety rose in me, my hands and feet fidgeted, and it quickly shifted to anger.

  I sat in the flickering candlelight waiting for Marie and wondered: How could Jonas Mabry have devolved into such an animal? Maybe it wasn’t true. Maybe Barbara Wicks had it wrong. That option didn’t make sense. Barbara, the consummate professional, wouldn’t make a mistake of that magnitude.

  Outside, the wrought-iron gate clanged. Marie was home. The quiet and the calm, soon to be broken when she found out.

  The usual sounds reached out to the dining room. Her sandals slipped off, her purse hung up. She padded on small feet down the hall. She was a fiery Puerto Rican woman with green eyes. I held my breath. Every time I saw her, I felt the same all over again. Her beauty, her smile, and simply her presence made any problem dissolve away. I wanted to hug and kiss her.

  This time, the problem would not go away.

  She entered the dining room. The soft glow from the candles caressed her smile as she took in the scene. Her gaze fell upon mine. She read my expression, the emotion plain on my face. Her smile disappeared. She pulled out a chair and eased down.

  “Oh, Bruno, no. Please, no.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Marie watched me pour her a tall glass of the purple-red sangria. She took a sip. “It’s Wally, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  I had not told her about my negotiations with the South Korean deputy ambassador, the conduit to Wally’s father, Mr. Kim. With this other problem, I’d forgotten all about that issue. I nodded.

  Tears filled her eyes. She came over and sat in my lap, buried her face, warm and wet, against my neck. I held on, relishing her touch, knowing the risk that in a few minutes she might pull away and never again would I have this same wonderful feeling. Her accelerated heartbeat transmitted through to my hands on her back. She kept her face hidden.

  She ignored my question, asking one of her own. “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  She jerked away enough to look into my eyes. “So soon? Why so soon? That’s not fair.”

  “We’ve talked about this. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “I know that. I know, but so soon? Come on, Bruno, can’t we wait a month?”

  “It’s better this way.”

  She nodded and laid her cheek down on my shoulder. I rocked her gently back and forth as she stroked my hair. After a moment she said, “I smell perfume on you.”

  I nodded.

  “Did Angelina Jolie come to The Margarite and mistake you for Denzel Washington and give you a big wet kiss?”

  I’d made that story up one night not long ago when she’d asked me what had happened at work. Nothing ever happened and I made up stories.

  I shook my head ‘no’ and croaked out the words in a half-whisper. Words I did not want to share. “It’s from Barbara Wicks.”

  She leaped off my lap, her eyes wide, her mouth agape.

  I couldn’t get words to come out, trapped in a roadblock at the top of my throat. I hated more than anything in the world to hurt Marie.

  She grabbed a linen napkin from the table and wiped her eyes to see me better. Not good enough, she skipped-hopped over to the wall and turned on the light. I squinted.

  She said, “No, you aren’t going back.” She’d put it together just that fast from the name. Why else would Barbara be down here? Marie had always been the sharper of the two of us.

  Her expression wrinkled up. “I know what she wants. I saw the news—” More tears. It hurt worse, ripped my guts out.

  “I…I saw those poor little girls taken from their homes and I thought…I mean, I know this is selfish, and…and piggish of me, but I thought, ‘I hope Bruno doesn’t see this. He’ll jump on his horse and go galloping off, and no way will I be able to stop him.’”

  Her face smoothed out as she shifted to anger. She quick-stepped over, balled a little fist, and socked me as hard as she could in the chest. I sat still.

  “You promised me, Bruno. You promised me that after we got down here—” She broke down and brought her hands up to cover her face. She was torn, I could see it. She couldn’t live with herself if she talked me out of going and something worse happened to Sandy Williams and Elena Cortez, something that could have been avoided had I intervened. The truly sad part, we both knew, was that whether I went or not, something bad was likely to happen to those little girls. Historical statistics were not on their side. Now all that mattered was how much I could tip the balance in their favor.

  “It’s not what you think. I’m the only one who can help these little girls.”

  She pointed her finger at me and opened her mouth to speak.

  I raised my hand. “Wait, please wait and let me explain.” I swallowed hard. I didn’t like reliving the story of the Mabry family and the house that bled. In all the years after the event, I’d never told anyone the story except Marie. One hot summer night while lying with Marie on damp sheets, my need to share overwhelmed my need to keep the images, pain, and emotions buried. Her hot body up against mine, her head resting on my shoulder, I told her the entire story. Her breath increased, her body tensed. When I finished, she said, “I am so very sorry, Bruno.” She, too, had been outraged by the brutality, the cold insensitivity. The evil. We never spoke of the event again.

  “I have to go, because it’s Jonas Mabry who has the children. He took them in order to get me to come back to the States.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes went wide as tears filled them again.

  I pulled her into me. After a time, still in the embrace, I asked, “You hungry? I am.” I really wasn’t, but wanted her to eat something.

  “You’re wanted,” she said in a quieter tone. “The odds are not in your favor. They catch you, I’ll never see you again.”

  “Baby, I have to go. I’ll be all right. I promise you, it’ll be all right. No one’s going to catch me. I’ll get in, find out what this is all about, find the two little girls, and get right out. One day, two at the most.”

  She wouldn’t look at me and pulled away. She plopped down on the chair, tears streaming down her cheeks, her eyes aflame with anger. A reaction to be expected under the circumstances.

  “What about the next time? Huh? What about the next time, Bruno ‘the Bad Boy’ Johnson?” For emphasis, she’d used an old street moniker the guys on the Violent Crimes Team had labeled me.

  I spoke in a lowered voice, words I wanted to be true more than anything else. “There won’t be a next time, because there is only one Jonas Mabry.”

  She searched my eyes for truth and nodded.

  I went over and turned the light off. In the dim light from the candles, I went back and picked her up the same as I would a child, blew out the candles, and carried her to the bedroom. I was hungry for her, all of her. The ache I would have being away from her was already there. I wanted to savor every second of our time together.

  I laid her gently on the bed and kissed her long and deep. I unbuttoned the top button to her blouse and she grabbed my hand. She got up on her knees and pulled my shirt off over my head, kissing my neck and chest. I slipped her blouse over her head and unhooked her bra so her breasts fell loose. We lay down, went slow, stretched time, tried to pretend we could make it last forever.

  The next morning, Marie put on a fake smile as she loaded a bag of Wally’s clothes and toys and books. Dad and Marie turned away to wipe tears as they said good-bye. The kids were confused, but most of all, four-year-old Wally. Kids are so intuitive.

  We made it out the door, me carrying Wally close, even though he could walk. In an hour I would never see him again. The thought snatched my breath. I suppressed it.

  I walked straight to the center of town where the 200-year-old, five-tier fountain provided a watering hole for birds from miles around. We sat on the edge and tossed dried bread to the bold pigeons. Wally giggled and chased after them. The birds flew a
nd came right back, more intent on filling their stomachs than concern for their safety.

  Right on time, a white stretch limo pulled around the cobbled street that encircled the fountain. I fought an urge to change my mind, scoop up Wally, and run like hell.

  This was the first time Mr. Kim had even met his son. He’d come to Los Angeles for a world summit five years ago, to exchange ideas regarding the use of land mines in No Man’s Land between North and South Korea. He’d met a younger, prettier version of Wally’s mother, who had just started working the high-end convention center hotels, plying her trade. Before she’d given it all up for the glass maiden. They conceived Wally without Mr. Kim’s knowledge. Later, she contacted Mr. Kim and told him about his son, said for $100,000 he could have his son, no strings attached. Marie and I hadn’t been aware of any father when we took him from his mother, who was so sketched out and goggle-eyed with cocaine paranoia that she didn’t know what day it was. The mother later died of an overdose. Mr. Kim had been looking for Wally ever since.

  Mr. Kim was smart. He stopped on the other side of the circle. Approaching on foot would be far less intimidating. Two thick-necked bodyguards with sunglasses got out first, their shaved heads rotating from side to side searching for any threat. Mr. Kim, smaller, dressed in white linen pants and a cream silk shirt, emerged. He saw Wally and his face went from all business to a megawatt smile.

  Relief flooded me. Giving Wally up to this man was going to be all right. Any doubt that this man was Wally’s father, wasn’t there now. Wally had his chin and jaw line.

  Mr. Kim hesitated and then headed over. His bodyguards followed and he waved them off.

  I said, “Wally, son, come here.” The child stopped chasing the pigeons and hurried back. I hugged him and kissed the top of his head. I picked him up and sat him on my lap as Mr. Kim walked up. He took off his sunglasses and we locked eyes. He bowed and then extended his hand. I took it, fighting tears. He sat down next to us. He knew not to rush the exchange, not with a small child.