by David Putnam
“Thank you for calling,” he said. “I have been frantic to find him. Thank you for taking care of him and keeping him safe. I understand your motives and how it happened, and I can never repay you.”
I had a large rock in my throat and found it difficult to reply. And even though this was the best deal for Wally, I still transferred some anger to Mr. Kim for making us go through this. The emotion wasn’t logical, but I understood its basis.
“Wally,” I said, “I want you to meet a good friend of mine.”
“Who? Who’s this?” For a brief second, Wally lost his smile. That intuition thing again.
“He’s a good friend, and—”
Mr. Kim again proved this was the right decision. He pulled out three Tootsie Pops from his pocket. Wally’s face lit up. He wiggled down off my lap and went over to his father, an action that displayed a child’s natural vulnerability. Mr. Kim didn’t try to pick him up. He took his time. “Hello, Wally.” He handed over the chocolate sucker, the one Wally pointed to. Mr. Kim smiled and a tear ran down his cheek. He helped Wally unwrap his Tootsie Pop. Wally stuck it in his mouth and immediately tried to come back to the safety of my lap.
I held Wally off. “Wally, do you want to know a secret?”
He nodded, too involved in his sucker to take it from his mouth to talk.
“Mr. Kim, my very good friend here, is going to Disneyland and wants to take a little boy with him. Do you want to see Dumbo and Mickey Mouse?”
Wally looked at Mr. Kim then back at me as he thought about this offer. He shook his head “no,” and tried a little harder to get back in my lap.
Mr. Kim looked scared. “Wally, I have some toys in my car right over there.”
“What kind of toys?”
“A bright red fire truck and some race cars.”
I hoped for Wally’s sake that Mr. Kim really did have the toys in the car. Wally was going to be scared enough.
Wally hesitated, then again shook his head “no.” Mr. Kim couldn’t resist himself and gently stroked Wally’s hair. This spooked Wally and he wiggled harder. I let him get back up in my lap as I tried to think of what else would work, short of physically forcing him. Mr. Kim looked back at the limo. If he was going to call the car, this was going to turn emotional for all three of us.
I turned Wally around to face me. “I guess you don’t want to go with Mr. Kim, do you?”
This time he pulled the sucker from his mouth. “No.”
“Okay, too bad, you’re really going to miss out.”
“Miss out on what?”
“Oh, Mr. Kim is on his way to buy a puppy.”
Wally’s head whipped around. “A puppy?”
Mr. Kim laughed. “That’s right, a puppy. Do you want a puppy?”
Wally nodded his head “yes,” wiggled down off my lap, and went over to Mr. Kim. “Let’s go. Let’s go get a puppy.”
Mr. Kim wiped the tears from his face. He extended his other hand. “Thank you again, Mr.—”
I took his hand and shook, “Luther, John Luther.”
We each took one of Wally’s hands and walked him to the limo.
“I know you told the Korean embassy that you would not take the million-dollar reward. Please, the money means nothing to me, not compared to what you have done.”
Marie and I hadn’t done it for the money, and taking it would somehow trivialize our acts, all of them.
“I won’t take the money, but there is something you can do for me.”
CHAPTER TEN
Later that same night we stood in the open front door. At our feet sat a beat-up, black leather valise packed with one change of clothes and $20,000 from our savings. Money to get the job done and money to get me home. In a kidnapping, the first twelve hours are the most crucial; after that, the odds of a favorable outcome diminish to single digits. I wasn’t going to be gone long.
I’d said my good-byes to the kids when I put them to bed. I held Marie in my arms, my face resting on the top of her head. Her hair smelled of green apples. I imprinted her scent in my memory. We stood quietly with the knowledge the trip would begin once the limo from the embassy pulled up out front. I didn’t want to go.
Marie had said little throughout the evening. Now she spoke. “I need to tell you something.”
I didn’t move. In an instant my mind spun out a thousand scenarios, the most obvious from similar B-movie situations: I won’t be here when you get back. But Marie would never pin an or else on this trip, not with these stakes.
After I squirmed a little, she said, “I fought with myself over whether or not to tell you. You have so much on your mind already. But I decided you’d be mad if I didn’t.”
“What is it? Tell me, please.”
“I don’t want you to worry while you’re gone. You have enough—”
“Marie.” I tried to pull her away to see her eyes. She clung to me.
“He told me not to tell you.”
“Who, Dad? What is it?”
“There’s something wrong with him.”
This time I wouldn’t let her get away with it. I pulled her back and watched her expression. “What are you talking about?”
“Your dad’s sick. I don’t know what it is. He won’t go to the clinic.”
“Cancer? Is it cancer?”
“I can’t tell. No one can until there are tests. It could be anything.”
My knees went weak. “How long have you noticed the symptoms?”
“He hasn’t been eating right for a while and, when he does, it’s a little at a time. Haven’t you noticed his weight loss? I’ve been trying to get him to go to the clinic for about two weeks now. I was about to tell you, then all this mess happened. He’s going to be real mad I told you. He said that if I didn’t tell you, he’d go to the clinic tomorrow after you left.”
I nodded, taking in this news and weighing it against canceling the trip. What price did one have to pay to do the right thing? This one could come with a heavy toll. “How bad do you think it is?”
She put her head back on my chest. “Bruno, don’t worry about it. There’s nothing to worry about until there are tests. Odds are, this is something minor.”
The limo pulled up out front, the headlights illuminating the trees and other houses in diffused blacks and grays.
Decision time.
She said, “I didn’t want you to go without knowing. It’s probably nothing. Tomorrow we’ll know more after he sees a doctor. I’ll call you first thing, I promise.” She reached down and picked up the valise. “Come on.”
She wasn’t going, but carried the valise to show me in some small way she approved of the trip. She went out the door into the night. I could do nothing else but follow along like a wayward orphan.
The walk down the flagstone entry to the street went on and on as I fought the desire to stay behind, to let someone else handle the problem thousands of miles away, a problem that had the potential to impact our lives to an unimaginable degree.
Over the six months before we’d left the States, Dad had aged twice as fast. He’d literally wilted right before my eyes. I assumed that the stress from hiding the kids caused this damage. Cancer studies have proven that stress is a serious causation factor. I couldn’t have deterred him from getting involved with bringing the children to Central America. He’d always been a protector of the neighborhood.
But this wasn’t necessarily cancer. I had to keep telling myself this wasn’t cancer, this was something minor, like an intestinal virus.
Marie, slightly ahead, passed through our ornate wrought-iron gate. “Look at this.”
Her words pulled me out of my conflicted thoughts. On the sidewalk, large painted white letters reflected the limo lights. “I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE, YOU BLACK RAT BASTARD.”
What else could go wrong? I muttered, “Shit.”
She squatted, touched two fingers to the paint. “It’s still tacky. Who did this?”
“I know who it is.”
�
�Who?”
“You know how I’ve been trying to get the guys at the bar to tell me why they’re here?”
“You mean outing your friends? I told you that was a bad idea. Wait, there was only one left. Don’t tell me this is that crusty old man, Jake Donaldson?”
“Yeah, ol’ Jake Donaldson. And you were right, I probably shouldn’t have been trying to find out their dirty little secrets. Turns out, he’s a murderer on the lam. He’s no one to mess with. He saw me with Barbara. He thinks I ratted him out and Barbara is here to take him back. Now he wants to get even.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “He comes around here again, I’ll take a ball bat to him, make him wish he was back in the States on death row.” She wasn’t just saying this to make me feel better; she really would take a bat to him.
I remembered the story about him, how he’d shot and killed a black kid out on the sidewalk, and now he’d tagged me on my sidewalk. I wasn’t going to feel right leaving with this hanging. Although, he wanted me, not Marie or the children. He wouldn’t necessarily go after them, not when I was the target. In fact, not being around might even be better. I preferred deluding myself. Crazies were unpredictable.
Marie read my thoughts. “Trust me, I can handle this.”
Her tone changed back to the familiar Marie and made it easier for me to get in the limo. I stepped up to the back door. The driver got out, came around, and opened it for me.
“What’s with the limo? Wait, I don’t want to know. Save it for when you get back, and then you can tell me the whole story.” She went up on tiptoes to peck me on the cheek. Not good enough. I took hold of her and kissed her hot and wet and deep until we both gasped for breath when we broke. I hugged her and whispered, “I love you more than you know.”
“Ditto. You just come back safe, you hear me, Bruno Johnson?”
My throat closed up. I could only nod. I let go and shot into the limo before I changed my mind. The door closed with the finality of a jail door clanging shut.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I had expected the driver, an embassy employee, to look like Oddjob from the 007 movies, close-shaved hair, shoulders humped with muscle, without a visible neck. Instead, Mr. Kim sent a young, slightly built Korean man dressed in an expensive suit. He watched the mirror as we pulled away from the curb.
“Can we please make a detour?” I asked.
“Of course, I have been told to help in any way possible.” His English came with a hint of East Coast accent, my guess, somewhere close to Boston.
“Calle Buena Vista. The salmon-colored hacienda. You can’t miss it.”
“Yes, sir.”
I mulled over the options. Within ten minutes, the driver pulled up to the intercom recessed into a cairn of flagstone rocks. I rolled down the window and pushed the button. Nothing. I pushed the button again and held it down.
“Jesus, Bruno, is that you?”
I stuck my head out the window so the hidden camera got a better angle.
The large heavy gate slowly swung open. The driver continued up the drive and pulled through the porte cochere and stopped by the open front door. Ansel stood in the doorway in a kelly-green silk robe. I didn’t get out. I wanted him to come to me. He hesitated, and then came down the steps.
“What the hell, Bruno, a limo?” He ventured closer, holding his robe together in a feminine way with both hands. His normally curly red hair was combed off to one side and mussed. His freckled face creased by a pillow.
I said, “I need a favor.”
He looked up and down the limo. “Sure, pal, anything you need.”
“I…ah… got called back to the States on business and…”
He leaned in closer, lowered his voice. “You can’t go back. You’re like the rest of us. They’ll nail your black ass to the wall for mortgage fraud.”
I hadn’t told the guys about the children, the real reason I came to “The Rica.” Instead, I had told them that I had fled the US just ahead of a major indictment for identity theft. I told them that I had created a gallery of fake persons with their own histories, and refinanced lots of homes at the peak of the market. According to the cover story, I had fled with twenty million.
“Trust me,” I said, “I know what I’m doing and I have no choice. I have to go.”
“Sure, sure pal, what do you need me to do?”
“You know that thing with Jake Donaldson?”
Ansel slapped the sill of the door. “Sure, that was really something, wasn’t it? Who would have thought, huh?”
“You saw how he pointed his finger at me when he walked away?”
“You know, Jake, he was just mad. He’ll be back at the bar like nothing happened. Trust me on this, I know people.”
“He painted a threat on the sidewalk out in front of my house.”
“You’re kidding me, right? No shit?”
“Yeah, and I don’t think anything will happen, and I don’t expect to be gone that long, but, could you—”
“You got it, pal, anything you need.”
“Let me finish. I want you to hire some local help. I want my place watched twenty-four seven.”
“Oooh, that’s going to be expensive.”
“You’re really going to strong arm me like this when my back’s to the wall?”
He shrugged.
I couldn’t expect him to foot the bill. “You cover it and I’ll catch you when I get back.”
“Ah, Bruno, not to be a wet blanket—but, what if you don’t come back?”
He was right. I could get arrested and never see daylight ever again. I reached into the valise and peeled off one of the four bundles. “Here’s five grand.”
He took it, thumbed the bills. “With the prices down here, this will probably last you three or four weeks. But what about my, ah, handling fee?”
I glared at him for a long second hoping his conscience would kick in. He’d taken a movie star’s entire savings and fled the country without so much as a rotten night’s sleep.
I took out another bundle and tossed it to him. “I hope I’ll be able to do you a favor someday.”
His eyes turned greedy as he thumbed the cash. “I told you, I’m here to help.”
I rolled up the window. The driver had heard the entire conversation, knew the meeting had ended, and drove off. I didn’t know why Ansel’s slimy behavior bothered me. You lie down with thieves, what do you expect? I guess I had just considered him a friend, and it hurt to find out otherwise.
The sleek white jet set down at a seldom-used General Aviation Center in San Bernardino, Southern California. Every detail of the trip had been prearranged by Mr. Kim. Customs came on board through the front door as I went out the back with the catering elevator truck. Just that easy. Crossed my mind that if a South Korean diplomat could orchestrate a human smuggling operation in a few short hours and pull it off, why couldn’t North Korea smuggle in a tactical nuke and ruin everyone in the world’s life with one press of a button?
At four o’clock in the morning, the catering truck let me off at the Quick Stop Market, an all-night convenience store in the city of San Bernardino. I purchased two disposable phones and called the number Barbara Wicks had given me. After one ring a male picked up on the other end. “You here? Where?”
“Corner of Waterman and Baseline in—”
The line went dead.
I bought a coffee and two packages of Hostess Sno Balls, the half-round balls of soft chocolate cake and marshmallow covered in pink coconut. I could never eat them around Marie. She said Hostess baked goods had too many poisons, processed sugars, and flours, and enough preservatives to give them a “half-shelf life of fifty-six years, three months and two days.” She had a habit of over-embellishing statistics when she wanted me to understand something was serious. I already missed her.
I sat on the concrete with my back to the Quick Stop, to the left of the front door, drank my coffee and ate the first package of Sno Balls. I didn’t need the second one. M
y stomach stretched tight, but I hadn’t had them in nine months and stared at the last forlorn pair.
The dew hung in the dark night air, creating a yellow halo around the streetlight out past the parking lot. My heart leapt up into my throat. A black-and-white police car pulled in—a sleek predator, a shark. The cop car came right up to me, the blinding headlights no more than three feet way. I brought up my arm to shield my eyes. The car stopped close enough for me to feel the warm breath from its radiator. I fought down my panic. I didn’t have any ID. If they ran me in and took my prints, they’d find the murder warrant. I’d be through before I even got started.
Options: I could stand, casually brush off my hands, and walk away. If they tried to jam me, I’d run. I didn’t know the area, and they’d call in a helicopter and other units to seal off the area. What other option did I have? I could just sit, wave as they went on by. What would I do if I were these cops and still working the streets? Would I jam someone like me?
Hell, yes.
I rose, my old joints popping, picked up my Sno Ball trash, and walked to the trash can, away from my valise. Two cops got out and talked. They’d pulled in for the same as me, coffee and a snack. The driver stood six inches taller than the shorter, stout passenger. Both sported buzz cuts, their scalps gleaming in the light from the store. Their pressed blue uniforms, polished leather and shoes indicated new guys, not tired old veterans who might have been more interested in the coffee than jamming up some Sno Ball-eating black man sitting in front of a Quick Stop at four in the morning. Just my luck.
Fifteen feet perpendicular to the cop car, the parking lot ended in a wall of ebony darkness and temporary safety. I headed that way.
One of the cops said, “Hey!”
I kept walking, one foot in front of the other. Don’t panic, be cool. Be cool.
“Hey, stop, old man.”
I froze, and didn’t turn around right way as I fought the urge to bolt. Their shoes scuffed as they moved up behind, one off to the side in a flanking maneuver. Good procedure.