The Ruthless

by David Putnam

  “Why did he tell you his real name?”

  She broke eye contact and shrugged.

  But I knew. She didn’t have to say the words. Shame burned my face for even asking such an inane question.

  “What’s this Lofton look like?”

  She stopped eating, pulled the burrito down from her mouth, and stared off in the distance as she tried to conjure him up. She turned back to me. “Average, I guess.”

  “Does he have any scars, marks, or tattoos?”

  “That’s another thing different about him. One time I asked him why he didn’t have any tattoos. Every gangster has tattoos. He said, ‘If you’re in the life, why in the world would you want to make it easy for the cops to identify you? It’s the same as a brand on a steer.’” Jessica shrugged. “To me, he made a lot of sense.”

  “So how tall is he?”

  “Average.”

  “Weight?”

  “Average. I’m telling you if I saw him on the street today, I don’t think I could recognize him. He just blends in. That’s why at first no one took him serious. That’s why he went out and shot up some folks, just gunned them down for no reason at all. After he did that, you can bet people took him serious.”

  “Where was this? When did it happen?”

  “The way the story goes, he made his bones in a bar called the La Fiesta on Compton Avenue, the one by White Street. He walked in and killed six Mexicans drinking in there. Just shot them and walked out.”

  I had heard about that shooting—they called it the La Fiesta Massacre. It was never solved and was an open cold case.

  “Oh,” she said. “You asked about scars. He’s got one.” She reached down and pointed to her bottom. “It’s on his left butt cheek. Looks ugly like someone shot him with a big gun.”

  The location of that scar wouldn’t help to identify him until we had him in custody, and if we had him in custody, we could check him through fingerprints.

  “Can you draw the scar for me?” I took a pen out of my shirt pocket and handed it to her.

  She moved aside the plastic food basket and drew on the white butcher paper covering the entire table. What she drew depicted a blob with ragged edges. I’d seen something similar before but couldn’t place it.

  “I’m not a very good artist but that looks a lot like it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jessica handed the pen back, took a bite of burrito, and chewed. “I also heard he was mad as hell when that judge killed his running buddy. I know you know about that one. That judge shot Jamar Deacon up there in the Jungle off Crenshaw?”

  I would never had guessed that incident on 10th would have such far-reaching repercussions. Violence is like dropping a stone in a still pond: each ripple continues on and on, ruining more lives.

  “Yeah, I heard. Where does Lofton lay his head?”

  “He moves around. Never stays in one place more than three nights. He said that’s another part of being in the life. All he ever wanted was to be a badass street thug. Looks like he got his wish if you ask me. If you’re smart, you’ll stay far away from him, Mr. Johnson. He’s pure poison.”

  “Jessica, I really appreciate you telling me all of this. One more question. If you were going to look for Lofton, where would you start?”

  She stood abruptly, anxious to get on with running her young life full-speed into the ground. I’d crossed the line into dangerous territory. If she told me and it got back to La Vonn Lofton, he would hunt her down and make her wish she hadn’t.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  I SAT AT the picnic table at Lucy’s restaurant, reached over, and put my hand on Jessica’s. “Please?”

  I was a grade A heel for putting her on the cross and asking her a question that put her at risk.

  She nodded. “From what I heard he moved on, and I don’t know where. Honest. That’s the truth.”

  “Thank you, Jessica. If you ever need anything, look me up. I’ve moved back into the house on Nord in the Corner Pocket with my dad. You’ve been there before. Stop by anytime. I mean it.”

  Her expression shifted to neutral. “Why do you still live down here in this sewer when you don’t have to? You made it out. Why come back if you don’t have to?”

  “This is where I grew up. This is where I belong.”

  “I can take care of myself. You’re the one who needs to watch out. If you keep going after Billy Bee, it won’t matter whether you made it out and came back, ’cause you won’t be around much longer. I’m serious, he is one bad white dude.”

  “Wait. He’s white?”

  “Yeah, I thought you knew that. He’s a white dude who wants to be black in the worst way. Walks and talks like a black dude.”

  She turned and headed down Long Beach Boulevard. She stepped to the curb, held her thumb out, and seconds later a car pulled over. In a couple more years, after the last of her youth faded, she wouldn’t be able to do that anymore. Well, at least not as quickly.

  La Vonn Lofton was a white dude. Probably the single most important piece of information I’d gotten out of Jessica, and I’d almost missed it.

  Nigel hung up the pay phone and came back to the Kadett where I stood watching the car Jessica got into grow smaller and disappear. I wished there was more I could do for her. And I would, after things settled down. I’d take her off the street even if I had to use force. I’d put her up in a seedy motel and keep her there until she could detox.

  I moved around and stood by the open car door of the Kadett on the street side. Nigel stopped on the sidewalk by the passenger door, looking over the roof.

  “Are you getting in?” I asked.

  “Don’t think so, my friend. That scene at the La Sierra scared the water out of me. I’m afraid my nervous system now requires that I seek the closest locale that serves carbonated libations. I’d appreciate it if you could see your way to fund such an endeavor.”

  I kept an emergency hundred-dollar bill folded up behind my fake driver’s license in my wallet. I eased the car door closed and came around to the sidewalk as I dug out the bill. With undue fervor, Nigel watched every move of my hands.

  “I guess I owe you for taking me around.”

  “Yes. Yes, that is correct, young sir.” He continued to watch my hands. “Did you glean any information of value from the girl? As we agreed, you said if I took you to anyone who gave you good information, I would be owed quite … a lot.” Nigel unconsciously shifted to a different language and syntax when begging for money.

  “I’m a man of my word. I’m leaving here to check out another place she gave me. If it pans out, I’ll come find you with your money.”

  “I know you’re honest, Karl, and that I can trust your integrity.”

  I started to unfold the hundred. It had been in the wallet a long time, the creases sharp and flat. If I gave him the entire hundred, I wouldn’t see him for a few days, until the dope the money bought ran out. He knew it as well.

  He couldn’t wait for me to finish unfolding and snatched it out of my hands. He must’ve thought it was a twenty. When he opened it all the way, his eyes turned wet with joy as he fought back tears.

  “Thank you, my friend, you are truly generous to a fault when dealing with this bedraggled old man.” He started to turn to leave and took a couple of steps in what would be a beeline to the nearest meth dealer and a date with a glass pipe.

  He checked himself and turned back. He pointed to the phone. “That was Jumbo. He still wants to do the deal. He said now it’s just you and him. He called it ‘Mano y Mano,’ or some bullcrap like that. He’s a real wingnut. Be real careful, Karl. I don’t like the idea of dealing with guns in the first place, but making a deal with the likes of that guy isn’t smart. I hope you know what you’re doing. He’ll be at his auto parts store whenever you’re ready. Sooner is better than later, according to him.”

  “What about Johnny Sin?”

  “I asked him about Johnny, and he wouldn’t come right out and say it, but I thin
k Jumbo’s afraid of him. That’s a good thing, my friend.” He took a step back toward me. “You going to Jumbo’s? You want me to go with you?”

  “I have this other thing with La Vonn Lofton I need to deal with first. Where can I find you later?”

  He opened his hand to make sure the hundred was still there and he’d not dreamt it. Ben Franklin stared up at him as he tried to decide. He came back to me and held out his hand with the bill. “Here. Hold this for me.”

  “You sure?”

  “Just take it before I change my mind.”

  I took back the bill.

  He said, “I’ll go to the auto parts store and talk with Jumbo in person, make sure he’s on the level, and set a time and place for the deal. Come by there when you get this other thing cleared up. If I’m not at Jumbo’s, I’ll go hang out at TransWorld and wait for you there. Check TransWorld first.”

  “Thanks, Nigel, I know this is hard for you”—I held up the hundred—“but it’s the right decision.”

  He ran a shaking hand through his greasy hair. “Please. Please just take your leave. Get out of here before I change my mind.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  I STARTED TO make my first pass of The Body Shop on El Segundo to check for furtive bad guys or lookouts and spotted Wicks’ Ford Taurus out front. I pulled in behind it. He’d beat me to yet another location. It sparked a hard pang to be with him on this hunt instead of trailing in his wake of carnage. If I’d been with him now, as in the past with these types of situations, we would have had a chance to glean the information without violence. I tended to use words instead of force, but at the same time realized the need for both. Something Wicks didn’t understand. In his world, he was a hammer and everyone else was a nail.

  I still craved his comradery.

  We were far more effective working together. During this manhunt, for reasons I couldn’t fathom, Wicks was more out of control. He had never taken an informant along while making contact. It was wrong for two reasons. First, the informant was burned, because the contact would know who ratted him out. And second, he had no one watching his back. He had to watch the informant—Derek Sams in this case, whom he couldn’t trust—and the contact. Tactically it came out all kinds of wrong.

  I got out and eased the car door shut as a muffled shriek came from inside the office. I pulled the .357 and held it by my leg. The front glass door had mini blinds, so I couldn’t see in. I pulled the door open and entered fast.

  Wicks yelled, “I said leave her alone.”

  Derek Sams had his back to me as he forced a woman up against the customer counter. He had a hand full of the woman’s dress and bunched-up bra underneath tugging hard at her breasts. The woman was pale as white paint and about to collapse under the onslaught of the sexual battery. Sams didn’t see or hear me come in; his sexual depravity had him by the throat.

  I stepped over and pistol-whipped him across the back of the head. Maybe a little too hard. He collapsed to the floor the same as if I flipped off a light switch. The frightened woman slid down the front of the counter to the floor and scrambled away on all fours, tearing up her pantyhose on the rough tile grout. She reached up to the doorknob to a side exit, opened it, and crawled out into the shop. I should’ve consoled her, but rage ruled the day.

  Three men in dark blue work jumpsuits stood out in the bays. All of them were scared and ready to bolt. When they saw the woman crawl out, they fled out to the sidewalk and down the street.

  Back in the office, Wicks stood on the other side of the counter with a hand filled with the dress shirt and tie of the manager, who had a nameplate pinned to his shirt that said, “Manager/Owner Joseph Morgan.”

  Wicks, looking over his shoulder, had seen me neutralize Sams. “Ah, man, why’d you go and do that? Now I’m gonna have to kiss his ass all over again. I hate tellin’ that little puke I’m sorry. Good to see you, Bruno.”

  I leaned over and patted Sams down for weapons.

  “You’re wastin’ your time,” Wicks said. “He’s not strapped.”

  I found a Raven .25 auto in his sock and held it up for Wicks to see.

  “That little son of a bitch. I patted him down, I swear I did, Bruno.” Wicks still had not let go of Manager Joe.

  I tossed Wicks the Raven. He caught it with one hand and shoved it in his suit coat pocket. “Mr. Body Shop here was about to tell me where to find La Vonn. Weren’t you?” He turned his attention back to Manager Joe.

  “I already told you everything I know.”

  I said, “You mean about La Vonn Lofton?”

  “His last name is Lofton?” Wicks said. He shook Manager Joe some more. “How come you didn’t tell me his last name?”

  “Robby, ease up on him, he’s just a businessman trying to get along.”

  Wicks shifted his grip and grabbed onto the man’s tie. “That right?” he said to me. “Come and have a look-see.” He led his captive into the back office, dragging him along by the tie.

  I stepped over an unconscious Sams spread out on the floor like a rag doll. The memory of that chunk I gave to his head, the way it vibrated through my hand and up my arm, gave me a twinge of satisfaction. I fought the urge to expand on that wonderful sensation with a boot to his face, something I’d regret not doing later. Instead, I followed my ex-boss, partner, and friend into the back room. I passed the door to the work area where the woman had fled, and closed it. The woman had recovered her running legs and was no longer in sight. Someone was going to call the police. We didn’t have much time. If we stayed, we’d be stuck for hours explaining and filling out reports.

  In the back office, Wicks stood by a large polished desk, still holding Manager Joe by the tie, his face going red and bloating.

  “You better ease off him or he’s going choke out.”

  “Never mind him; come on over here and take a gander at this.”

  I came around the desk. A small safe stood open and held a couple stacks of cash and some Ziploc bags that had to contain several ounces of rock coke. Maybe nobody would call the police.

  “What we got here,” Wicks said, “is a midlevel operation. That’s why Deacon and Lofton hung out at this place as muscle. I was just discussing a trade with John Q.” He shook Joe Manager by the tie again. “He gives me La Vonn Lofton and I give him a walk on all that’s happened today inside his fine establishment. You think that’s a fair deal, Bruno?”

  “More than fair. The dope alone is five to seven in the joint, and if you throw in the money laundering, which I’m sure he’s doing through this less-than-legitimate Chamber of Commerce–awarded business, well, I think he’s gonna get another ten years from the feds.”

  Wicks shook Manager Joe. “See? Didn’t I tell you almost exactly the same thing word for word?”

  The man tried to talk and couldn’t; the tie was cinched too tight. “You better ease up or this whole thing is going to get real difficult to explain.”

  Wicks let go. The man struggled to get his tie loosened. He put both hands on the desk to support his shaking knees and took in large chest-fulls of air. The red in his face started to fade.

  Wicks’ tone turned serious. “Now, tell me where to find Lofton.”

  I said, “You mean Billy Butterworth.”

  The man’s head whipped around.

  Wicks punched him in the stomach. “What’s this you say? Did you lie to me about Lofton’s real name, again?” Wicks pulled his cuffs from his belt and cuffed the man behind his back.

  The man sputtered and coughed. “Wait. Don’t, please don’t. I’ll tell you everything I know; I promise I will.”

  Wicks grabbed him by the arm and started to haul him out.

  “No. No, please don’t. I’ll tell you the truth this time, I swear.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Give him one more chance.”

  “Yes. Yes, like he said, one more chance, please?”

  Wicks stopped. “Spill it.”

  “Okay. The last address I had for Lofton—”<
br />
  Wicks jerked the man’s arm.

  “Okay, okay, it’s apparently Butterworth,” Manager Joe said. “I swear I didn’t know his real name was Butterworth. Lofton, Butterworth, or whatever his real name is—he lives at the La Sierra Apartments on Lakewood Boulevard, number 102. He’s got some rock there, more than I got, and a lot of money, a lot more than I have. He’s the guy I cop from.”

  Wicks grabbed the man by the throat and shoved him up against the wall. “We just came from there, and guess what?”

  “That’s the only address I have, I swear. That’s all I got on him is that address. You have to believe me.”

  “You haven’t told the truth since I walked in here, so why should I believe you?”

  “Wait. Okay, okay, there is something else. It’s not much, but I heard something on the street. I don’t know if it’s true or not.”

  “What? This better be good.”

  “I heard from someone that Lofton was seen going into a high-dollar fence over in Lakewood, a place called TransWorld Logistics.”

  “So?”

  “This TransWorld is buying up anything and everything on the street and paying top dollar. Everybody from miles around has gone to this place one time or another. Everybody’s talking about it. All the other fences are getting mad as hell about it. Check there for Lofton. Check out this TransWorld place. You won’t regret it. If he’s not there, they can tell you where to find him. Those guys are a much bigger fish than I am.”

  My heart took off at a run. The man just fed Wicks a giant bone, one Wicks would never let go. He’d go to TransWorld with the intent of tearing it down to the ground. He’d screw everything up for sure.

  Wicks turned to me. “What do you think, Bruno? You think he’s telling it straight this time?”

  “No, but do we have a choice? Let him go. Let’s get out of here.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  WICKS SAID, “YEAH, you’re right.”

  I took hold of Joe Manager and escorted him through the side door that led into the shop area and the three repair bays.