The Ruthless

by David Putnam

  Bea clutched Xander’s hands tighter. “While Cleo still faced me, Melvin had pulled a knife and stuck her in the back. I didn’t know that’s what happened until she let out this screech like some kinda alley cat. She spun around and … and pulled a straight razor she kept under her dress on a garter belt. She went at Melvin in a flurry. That razor flitted through the air like a bee. She did it with Melvin’s knife sticking from her back.

  “Melvin held up his arms and backed away, but she went at him. It was the most horrible thing I have ever seen. Blood went everywhere. His arms in shreds, he finally turned his back to her to open the door. She got him there, too, long deep slices in his back right through his shirt. He ran out into the night howling. Cleo slammed the door and turned. She had a knife stuck all the way in her back clear up to the hilt. She just stood there like it was nothing. Like she wasn’t human. Melvin’s blood dripped down her hand and ran down her arm. I thought she was coming for me. I backed up to the wall.

  “Then all of a sudden, she must’ve realized she was stabbed. She dropped the straight razor. She said, ‘He’s done gone and killed me, Bea.’

  “I’ll never forget those words. I’ll never forget the look on her face as she wilted to the floor. She died right there in front of me.”

  Safe in the living room on Nord, Bea turned to Xander. “Her body was so hot. I remember it was so hot and slick when I picked her up and put her on her side on the bed. I didn’t know what to do about the knife in her back. I wanted to pull it out but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t even touch it.” Bea shuddered. “Hold me, honey, please hold me.”

  Dad came out of his trance, his eyes sad. His words had created a flash-brand photo of my mother, one I’d never forget. An image, a persona of her I wished he had not created. He’d been right all along in keeping it a secret.

  He said, “I didn’t tell you because … well, you can see it wasn’t something a child should hear. And when you got older, you never asked again, or I would’ve told you. You believe me when I say I would have told you, don’t you, Son?”

  “Yes.” My voice cracked. “You still haven’t said what happened to her.”

  He again turned his head away, unable to look me in the eye. “First and foremost, I had you to consider, your well-being. That’s what I tell myself. I loved her, Son, so much words can’t describe.” He turned his attention to his own hands, as if they held the answer to the secrets of the past. “She not only violated the law, she put you in jeopardy. I didn’t know if Melvin Shackleford survived. If he did, would he come for Bea? Would he come to this house with you here? Would the cops come busting down the door with guns and batons looking for my beautiful Bea?

  “The worst part about all of it … she … she wasn’t the girl I’d married. Not anymore, she wasn’t. I know that isn’t fair, but it was true. I couldn’t control her and that might’ve been all right if it were just me, but I had you to worry about.

  “So when she fell back to sleep, I called the sheriff. I always believed there should be justice with mercy. I just never thought I’d be the one not to practice it.

  “They came and took her away; they had to drag her out. It tore me up inside. The look of betrayal in her eyes … well, it’s something I’ll have to live with the rest of my life.” He turned his attention back to me. “It was the single most difficult thing I have ever had to do. I never saw her again. Never heard from her, not so much as a letter.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that. I think you made the right choice.”

  He gave me a wounded smile. “Thank you; you don’t know how much that means to me.”

  Dad believed so strongly in law and order, he turned in his wife whom he loved more than life itself. How could I ever admit to him what I did to Derek’s fingers? Admit to Dad what I had in mind to finish the issue with Derek? Not to protect my family like Dad did. I had already failed in that respect, failed to bring a full measure of justice to Derek.

  The shame of it shrank me to two feet tall. I hugged Dad much longer than a normal hug. I hugged him like it might be the last.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  I DROVE AROUND the Crazy Eight three times checking out the cars parked in the area and watching the pedestrians for a furtive movement that might be a cloaked threat.

  No more mistakes.

  I parked five blocks away instead of the usual two or three and moved along the sides of the buildings on full alert. I had missed the meeting with Johnny Sin and Jumbo and they knew I frequented the Crazy Eight. This would be the first place they checked. I had too many problems swimming around in my head. I needed to pare them down one at a time to make them manageable. I’d take on the biggest threat first: find the man who had killed my friends—Judge Conners and his wife, and Twyla. The man who might, at that very moment, be targeting me. I had to dig this La Vonn character out of his hole with a little blood and bone. After that, I’d take care of Johnny Sin for running down Black Bart and at the same time take his guns off the street.

  And then I’d finally deal with Derek Sams. I had to constantly fight the urge to move Sams higher on the to-do list. But I knew once I took care of Sams my life would be irrevocably changed, and not for the better. He had me locked in a box with the restraining order and the lawsuit. I’d need time to think that one through. Maybe Wicks was right when he said to let time muddle the issue, cool it out.

  I stepped inside the Crazy Eight and I let my eyes adjust to the dark. Nigel stood at the bar, his arms and shoulders a protective shroud over a half-empty mug of cheap beer, a hungry dog protecting his food bowl. His body had the gentle sway of a skilled drunk settled in to finish his main goal in life: to drink the world dry.

  I grabbed him by the scruff and yanked him along. He yelped. His hand in the mug handle jerked beer on the bar and onto the man sitting on the stool next to him.

  I headed to the back door with my bellowing package. “What’s going on? Let me go. Who are you? What the—”

  Ralph Ledezma, in his purple satin bowling shirt and red wiry hair, yelled from behind the bar, “Hey, Karl, he hasn’t paid his tab.”

  Blurry eyed, Nigel’s wobbly head came around to look up at me. “Oh, it’s you. Sweet Jesus, Karl, you scared the livin’ piss right out of me.” He looked down, to a widening wet spot on his crotch. He’d peed his pants the same as a scared puppy does when you raise your voice at him.

  I shook my head. “Ah, man.” He was going to smell up my car.

  Ledezma was lying; he never let a drunk like Nigel run a tab. Ledezma would go broke if he did. But I didn’t have time to deal with it. I dragged Nigel back to the bar as I reached into my pocket. I threw a crumpled twenty on the bar. Ledezma snatched it up. “Hey, he drank more than this. He’s been here for hours.” Another lie.

  “Tough, live with it.”

  Outside in the bright light of day, Nigel withered. “Hey, hey, what’s going on?”

  I shoved him up against the wall. He didn’t fight it. “Hey, Karl, my man, take it easy, would ya? These are my best duds.”

  Best duds? He looked like he’d been sleeping in an alley for a month.

  “How much have you had to drink?” A useless question. He had not been acquainted with any part of the truth for two decades.

  He brought his hand up with an accusatory finger. “You missed the meeting with Jumbo. I worked hard to get that set up. I have a reputation to protect, you know. And you—”

  “Shut up and listen to me.”

  He shook his head. “No, sir. No. We’re no longer friends, you and me. You cheated me out of twenty-five hundred—”

  “Sorry, my friend, I hate to do this to you.” I slugged him low in the soft part of his stomach. I held onto his scruff and stood back. He threw up several mugs of beer. Maybe Ledezma had been telling the truth about how long Nigel sat at his bar.

  I held onto him and walked us around to Central Ave. where cars zipped by. He coughed and choked and sputtered and fina
lly recovered his breath. He smelled of urine and soured eggs.

  We walked on.

  “Why you doin’ this to me? I thought we were friends.”

  “Your buddies Jumbo and Johnny Sin ran over my boss with a truck. He’s in the hospital fighting for life.”

  “Whaaaa?” He tried to stop but I dragged him along.

  “Keep walking. I need you sober.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” All of a sudden, he sounded more alert. Adrenaline could have that effect on drunks.

  “Karl, I told you to be careful around these guys. I told you they play for keeps. I did. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Cars drove by on the street in the noonday rush. Pedestrians on the sidewalk gave us a wide berth.

  “You’re not sobering me up just to throw me out in the street under a car, are you? You know, like to get even for what Johnny did to your boss?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I stopped and pushed his back against the wall of a defunct thrift store with soaped-over windows. “Look, I need your help on another matter.”

  “I’m here for you, my friend. You know that.” I moved my head back away from his words that carried the sour scent of fermented hops and stomach acid.

  “Little Genie, you know him?”

  “Yeah, sure I do. Who doesn’t?”

  Addicts and alcoholics lie, even ones who call you friend. It’s the biggest part of their psychological makeup. They lie even when they don’t have to. “No bullshit here, Nigel, this is serious business.”

  “I don’t know what you want with him, but as of right now, right this minute, he’s doin’ time in the big house. He’s never gettin’ out. So I don’t know how he can help you with this problem.”

  A kernel of the truth. “That’s right,” I said. “Good. Are you familiar with his organization? I’m looking for a gun thug who used to work for him.”

  He turned sheepish.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Is there money in it for me?”

  I shoved him hard against the wall.

  He brought up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Sure, I can help you with this. Sure, I can.”

  “How do you know Little Genie’s organization?” I checked over my shoulder to make sure no one came up on us. All clear.

  Nobody cared if a black truck driver accosted a drunken vagrant. People went about their everyday business and diverted their attention as they passed by. I didn’t recognize any threat and turned back to him.

  “He was slingin’ rock, that’s what he was all about, that and women. He liked the ladies, kept three or four wives and a few girlfriends. He had that kind of money. I’ve copped from his boys before, lots of times. But he lost it all, his whole network. Poof. He tried to run it from prison, but since he’s never getting out … well, there’s just not much threat there anymore, if you know what I mean.”

  “Who’s running it now?” I eased off him and let him stand on his own wobbly legs. He moved a little to the left and put his palm out flat on the plate-glass window for support.

  “Guy over in Fruit Town, on Peach, or maybe it’s Plum, I think.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Doesn’t matter, he’s in jail too, pending a case. Who are you looking for? It can’t be him.”

  “A guy named La Vonn. He was—”

  “Yeah, yeah. He was close friends with Jamar Deacon when that judge gunned Deacon over in the Jungle off Crenshaw. I know, I’ve heard all the stories.” He waved his arm. “All of a sudden all the cops on the street are askin’ about this dude La Vonn.”

  “Yes. That’s right, that’s the guy. You know La Vonn?”

  “No. But I heard about what happened on Crenshaw a few years back. Everyone heard about it, it’s a damn legend. You hear about it? That was the day this big ape of a cop named Johnson caught up to Little Genie in this little restaurant on Crenshaw. Kicked his ass and shot him in both legs. You believe that? Shot him in both legs. They about tore the whole restaurant down doin’ it, too. It was really something, man. That Johnson is some kind of knuckle-draggin’ thug, I can tell you that much.” He stiffened, checked the street out both ways, then said, “You can bet I’d never let him do that kinda thing to me, no sir.” He made a fist. “I’d put him down with this if he ever got within a mile of me. I swear I would. Damn cops. Right, Karl?”

  “Yeah, I did hear something about that fight in the restaurant. Do you know someone who can track down this La Vonn?”

  “Why? What’s he done?”

  “He brought a stolen car into TransWorld and—hey, never mind what he’s done. Can you find him or not?”

  “You and me, we’re friends and all, but come on, Karl, a guy’s gotta eat.”

  “How much?”

  “A grand?”

  “You get this guy La Vonn fast and I’ll give you five hundred. You get me a name in the next hour and I’ll give you a thousand. You get the address for the place where he’s laying his head in the next hour, and I get him, I’ll give you two thousand. You starting to get the idea how bad I want this guy?”

  With each amount I mentioned, Nigel’s back straightened a little more as he continued to sober. “Okay, if you got that kind of money, are you willing to pay the guy I take you to and pay me at the same time for hooking you up to him?”

  It wasn’t my money. I now had control of the TransWorld bank, all the federal grant funds we had left to use for the sting. What did I care if I didn’t use it to buy stolen property and instead took a dangerous felon off the street? When money talks, criminals go to jail.

  “Yes, whatever it takes. I want this guy La Vonn and I want him now.”

  “Then what are we waiting for, come on.” He took off walking in a half-stagger. I again grabbed him by the scruff and turned him around. “The car’s this way, my friend.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  “WHO’S THIS GUY again?” I asked Nigel. We sat in the Opel Kadett out in front of the La Sierra apartment building in Lakewood.

  “His name’s Turk, or Big Turk or something like that. Supposed to be a big fat dude who likes the young stuff. Midlevel dealer sells o-zees of rock. He’s the guy picking up most of Little Genie’s network and putting them back to work. He started out as a runner for Genie, so he’ll know all the players past and present. He’ll know all about Jamar Deacon, the guy the judge shot on 10th.”

  “I don’t need to know about Jamar, I need La Vonn.”

  “Since this guy Turk knew Jamar, he’ll know about La Vonn. But from what I hear, he’s not gonna want to help you with anything. He’s a real hardass. In fact, he’s probably going to cause you a big problem. You might have to slap him around a little. You might want to get a few friends before you go in and brace this guy.”

  “I can handle him.”

  Nigel smirked and leaned over closer in the small confines of the Opel. “Karl, bless your little heart, you’re no Bruno Johnson. I’d get a couple of friends if I were you.”

  This was the third place we’d tried in the last two hours, and I wasn’t feeling hopeful Nigel knew what he was talking about.

  “How come you didn’t bring me here in the first place? Why’d we mess around with those other poobutts at those other places?”

  “I just told you, this guy is a badass. He’s the last resort. You go in there, the odds are he’s gonna make you wish you hadn’t. He’ll mop the floor with you, I’m not kiddin’. It’s gonna take four or five guys to get this guy to talk.”

  “Then you better stay here.”

  “Karl, trust me on this, you’re outta your league.”

  I got out and checked up and down the street for anything out of place. Nigel got out and stood on the sidewalk. He hitched up his pants as he looked to the entrance gate.

  I adjusted the .357 in my waistband under my shirt. Something wasn’t right and I tried to figure out what it was.

  He said again, “Hey, are you—”

  I held up
my hand to silence him as I stood in the street by the closed door of the Kadett. A car on Lakewood Boulevard zipped by. The street was empty now without another car coming for at least a mile, leaving the street and neighborhood semi-quiet.

  That was it. The quiet. In the jungle, when an apex predator stalks its prey, the other animals/victims turn quiet. That same kind of quiet now emanated from the apartment complex.

  I moved from the street up to the sidewalk. “When was the last time you were here?”

  “Buddy boy, I’ve never been here. I got it from a guy on the street a while back who was bumpin’ his gums about this place sayin’ it’s some kinda safe house or something like that and no one dared come close or risk getting their asses shot off. This guy told me it was the La Sierra Apartments on Lakewood Avenue number 102, that’s all I know.”

  Nigel must’ve been a helluva aerospace engineer before he took the dive into crystal meth and rock cocaine. He had a memory for details when he wanted to.

  “You stay out here and watch the car.”

  “That’s okay by me. You don’t have to tell me twice. No, sir, I’ll stick right here, thank you very much.”

  I hurried through the open wrought-iron gate and noticed as I passed that the lock had been compromised. I entered the quad area of the upper-middle-class apartment complex. The quiet grew more conspicuous. All the doors to the apartments were closed and the curtains pulled. It was the middle of the day and the place was empty. Not so much as a breath of air moved in the quad filled with small shrubs and dwarf trees and flowers in tall pots.

  The door to number 102 stood ajar an inch or two. Fresh bloody fingerprints from one hand marred the outside edge as if someone tried to close it in a hurry. I pulled the .357 and eased the door open.

  Most everything in the small apartment was overturned or smashed. There had been a fight. A big one.

  A fat naked black man wearing only a pair of white briefs lay on his back, half in the small kitchen and half in the living room. Someone had battered his face, his eyes were swollen shut, and his lips were fat as inner tubes for a small bike. His chest rose and fell like a bellows, making his lips spatter a fine mist of blood. Punctured lung maybe.