The Ruthless

by David Putnam

  “Dad, what’s going on? Where are you? Are you still at home?”

  “Bruno! Oh, my dear Lord.”

  “Dad, what’s the matter? Talk to me.”

  He continued to gulp and sputter, unable to put words together about what had happened.

  “Dad, listen to me. Calm down and take some deep breaths.”

  “Okay. Okay.” His loud breathing came over the phone.

  “That’s good. Now tell me where you are and I’ll be there in two minutes, I promise. Are you at home?”

  “What? No. I’m … I’m not at home.”

  “You’re doing fine, Dad. Keep breathing. Deep breaths. Now tell me where you are.”

  “I don’t know. I’m … I’m on Central, I think.”

  “Central? I’m on Central. Where on Central? What’s the cross street? Describe it.” I stepped out further to the edge—one foot on the curb, one in the street—and looked north and then south not seeing anything, wanting to see him close by, close enough to help.

  “What’s the cross street with Central?”

  “The cross street?” He knew what I was talking about; he’d been a postman for forty years. He couldn’t get his mind in gear.

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “Guess.”

  “The Seventies … I’m somewhere close to the Seventies. Yes, that’s right.”

  “I’m coming, Dad. I’m coming.”

  I pivoted and took off running full out. Junior stayed with me, barking at people on the sidewalk to move them out of the way.

  One block.

  Two blocks.

  From the middle of the third block, south of Seventy-Ninth and across the street, I spotted my blue Ford Ranger parked crooked. It was two more blocks north. I poured it on. Junior yelped. “I see my truck, Dad,” I yelled breathlessly into the phone. “I’ll be there in two minutes. Two minutes, Dad.”

  I cut across the street in front of headlights and misjudged the speed of the car coming south. Brakes squealed. I leapt in the air a second before impact, crashed onto the hood and bounced up onto the windshield, which caved in and knocked all the wind out of me. Bright lights of pain flashed behind my eyes. My rib cage crunched. At the same instant, I heard the second bump. Junior let out a howl.

  I rolled off the car onto the street and down on my knees. A second car screeched to stop just short of running me over, its headlights bright in my eyes, the heat from the engine like a wild beast huffing in my face.

  I looked back. Junior lay on his side in front of the first car, his legs still running going nowhere, a low whine coming from deep in his chest.

  “Ah, man, I’m sorry, my friend.”

  No time. Had to get to Dad.

  “I’ll be back, boy, I’ll be right back. Hold on.”

  I got up and stumble-ran. Half a block to go. My ribs ached something fierce. A couple of them were broken. I held my arm tucked tight. It hurt to breathe.

  A group of blacks, seven or eight of them, all wearing gangbanger attire, stood close to a door cracked open to the business as they tried to peer in through the windows. The Ford Ranger sat in the street, right in front of that door with its tail end sticking out in northbound traffic. I recognized the fat gangbanger, a leader of a Crips clique, Mr. G or Big G or something like that. He owned and ran a pager/cell phone store. They turned and saw me coming on fast. One of the bangers next to the leader said, “Hey, hey, that’s Bruno the Bad Boy Johnson.”

  I reached under my work shirt to pull out the .357.

  Gone.

  It had to be back in the street where the car hit me.

  I yelled at them, “Get the hell outta here. Go on. Move.”

  They scattered, all of them running except for the fat one. He strolled. They wouldn’t go far, and it wouldn’t take them long to come back.

  I grabbed the door to the pager store and swung it open.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  DAD STOOD IN the center of the small store in front of the customer counter. His shoulders were slumped. He looked up when I came in. A deep sadness hung heavy in his eyes, his sallow cheeks wet with tears. “Bruno, what have I done? Dear Lord, what have I done?”

  The air smelled of gunpowder. Dad held a gun loose in his hands, a gun I recognized, the .38 Colt taken from our house the day Olivia died. The one I recovered on the counter at TW during the deal with Leo from Sparkle Plenty. The one I had put back in the wall hide at the house.

  On the floor at Dad’s feet lay a dead black man. Underneath him a widening puddle of dark maroon blood grew outward on the scuffed white tile. I recognized him even from the back.

  Derek Sams.

  Dad had shot Derek.

  Oddly, the back of Derek’s pants were pulled down enough to reveal both buttocks.

  I held out my hand and walked toward Dad. I whispered, “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” I relieved him of the gun and put my arm around him. He latched onto me and buried his face in my chest. His whole body shook as he wept.

  The door to the pager store opened. A man stuck his head in and saw the deadly tableau: the dead man on the floor, the gun in my hand. The dark maroon pool of blood. His eyes went wide. “Holy shit.” His head popped back out the door, then popped right back in. He said, “I don’t want any part of this mess, mister, but your dog’s bad hurt. I’m taking him to the vet while you deal with all this.”

  “Thank you.” He popped back out.

  “Dad, what happened here?”

  “Junior’s hurt?” he asked, his words trailing off.

  “Dad, what happened here? We don’t have much time.”

  “It’s not him.”

  “What?”

  “I asked Derek to show me his butt. He laughed and jumped around. He laughed at me. It was like a cackle. A crazy man’s cackle.”

  “Dad?”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a jaggedly torn swatch of denim, one stained brown with dried blood. It looked like the rear pocket from a pair of pants. “It wasn’t him, and I shot him.”

  “Dad, what are you talking about?” He was delirious and on the razor edge of going into shock.

  “After you left, he drove by again to gloat—the son of a buck. This time I followed him. I don’t know why.”

  But I knew. I shouldn’t have told him what Derek had done to poor little Albert.

  “I followed him here and”—he again held up the swatch of blood-dried denim—“it’s not him.” He pointed to Derek’s ass. “I didn’t want to believe he’d have anything to do with what happened to Olivia. I wanted to believe he had some good in him even if only a bit, and that deep down he really loved her.”

  He paused. I let him tell it.

  “The day I found Olivia, I found this on the floor in the house. I didn’t want to believe someone had purposely done that to Olivia, and at the same time, I didn’t want to believe she’d do that to herself. I didn’t know what to do. I did know I shouldn’t show it to you. I knew what you’d do. I kept it to myself until you told me what Derek had done. Then I believed—no, I was sure he’d done it. He killed Olivia. She wouldn’t do that horrible thing to herself.”

  He paused as he thought about it, stepping back from the edge of shock. “That day I found Olivia, Junior was there and bit whoever tried to hurt her. That’s what I now believe. So when Derek came by again for the third time tonight … I grabbed this gun. I knew where you hid it in the wall and I followed him. It didn’t make a lot of sense to blame Derek for Olivia. I know it didn’t. Derek was in jail. Least I thought he was. But the bad guys get out all the time, right? For bail. To go to funerals and whatnot. I just knew he’d done it and had to find out for sure. Now look what I did.”

  I pulled Dad back into a hug. “Ah, Dad.” I held him tight. My heart ached for him. His entire world had to shift in order for him to pick up a gun.

  “Come on,” I said. “We have to get out of here.”

  “No. Don’t you see, it wasn’t Derek. It
must’ve somehow been something unrelated. A burglar or someone who came into the house. I found Junior out front that day and this piece of pants pocket in the house. I have to atone for my actions, what I did here. I was wrong, Son. Dead wrong and I’ll have to pay for it.”

  “No, you don’t. You have nothing to atone for, not after what he’s done. You owe nothing to anyone. Had you not taken care of this problem the way you did, the law would have.”

  His whole body turned calm as he must’ve reconciled what needed to be done. He’d let the court decide his fate. And he’d go to prison. I wasn’t going to let that happen even if I had to throw him over my shoulder and carry him out.

  “Dad, truth caught up to Derek. That’s all that happened here. You have to see that.”

  “I can’t be judge and executioner. It’s wrong.” He swayed on his feet and his eyelids fluttered. The stress had been too much for him. I had to get him out of there with little steps. I knelt down and felt Derek’s neck. Nothing. He was gone.

  “He’s still alive, Dad. We have to call paramedics.” I took out my cell and pretended to dial. I spoke to no one and asked for help. I closed the flip phone. “Come on, we have to move the truck so the paramedics can get in here and you need to sit down.”

  Little steps.

  He nodded. I took him by the arm and escorted him out. I got him in the truck and closed the door. I held up my finger. “I’ll be right back.”

  I stepped into the pager store as I wiped Dad’s fingerprints from the gun and made sure mine were on it. I got down on one knee while holding my aching ribs. I shot Derek in the back and tossed the gun down on top of him. I dipped my fingers in the pool of blood on the floor and smeared it on my shirt.

  Outside, Dad had opened the door and was trying to get out. “Ah, Son, what have you gone and done?” He’d heard the shot.

  “I let the lion out to feed, nothing more.”

  I eased him back in. “I finished what needed to be finished. Now we have to get out of here before the police show up.”

  He sat staring straight ahead. I ran around, got in, and pulled away as a black-and-white LAPD car did a U-turn and stopped in the spot we’d vacated. They had to have seen the truck and the plate.

  Dad had turned catatonic.

  “I’m going to drop you at home.”

  He didn’t answer. We weren’t far away, only minutes.

  “He was alive,” I said. “You’re not the one who killed him, I did. You don’t have to atone for it. I do—and I will. Dad, are you listening?”

  He continued to look straight ahead. “What have we done?”

  “You haven’t done a thing. I did it. You understand? I did it. I pulled the trigger; you didn’t.”

  I came to a red signal and stopped; the streetlight cast eerie shadows on his face.

  “There’s no reason for the both of us to go to prison. Dad, you hear what I’m saying?”

  Small steps.

  “Dad, Junior is hurt.”

  His head slowly turned to look at me.

  “Junior’s hurt? He’s Olivia’s dog.”

  “That’s right. He was hit by a car. He needs you. I’m going to drop you at home. Can you call around and find out what vet the guy took him to and then go and be with him?”

  “Yes, of course.” He turned and watched out the windshield.

  I wanted to ask him more about what happened the day he found Olivia. If he hid the swatch of bloodied denim, what else had happened that he had not told me? He wasn’t ready to talk about it, and I didn’t have much time. LAPD would be coming for me.

  I pulled up and stopped in front of our house. “When they come, don’t say a thing to the police. Promise me, Dad. I know a good attorney. We’ll get through this.”

  He got out. “I know we will. We always do, don’t we?” He said it in a monotone steeped in sarcasm. “Where are you going?”

  I had to give him something to cling to. “Listen. All this time … the times you found me in that bar, I’ve been working undercover. I never gave up my badge. I’m sorry, I wasn’t allowed to tell you.”

  A small glimmer of light returned to his eyes. He reached in and put his hand on my arm and squeezed.

  “I have one more thing I have to do, Dad.” What I left unsaid was, Before I give up my badge for good. “I’ll be back soon, I promise. Take good care of Junior.”

  “I will.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  I OPENED THE flip phone and dialed Wicks’ cell while I drove obeying the speed laws, headed to Norwalk.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Where are you?”

  “Why?”

  “You want me to guess?”

  “You think you’re so smart, go ahead.”

  “You’re sitting down the street from Harry and Sons in Norwalk watching the front door.”

  Long pause. “So, what if I am? I’m not going to burn your precious gun deal if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m just keeping an eye on things.”

  “I’m not worried. You got eyes on Johnny Sin?”

  “He pulled up driving a plumbing truck seventeen minutes ago. He’s dressed like a plumber. Looks like he’s got some blood on his shirt. He went inside. Why?”

  “I’m burned. Johnny knows who I am. The gun deal’s a no-go. I’m coming to you.”

  “Now you’re talkin’, buddy boy. What’s your ETA?”

  “Ten. Don’t you do anything until I get there.”

  “What if he tries to go mobile?”

  “Let’s hope that he doesn’t. It’s still an hour and a half before he makes the call to me. But if he does try to leave, I know you’ll figure something out.” I closed the flip phone.

  I drove slumped over, taking small breaths to avoid the sharp rib pain. I dialed James Barlow Jr. He picked up on the first ring.

  “This is Johnson. Get rolling. Set up out of view, Firestone and the 605 Freeway. The location is going to be Harry and Sons Oil to Nuts. I’ll give you the word when to roll in.”

  “Right. How much time do we have?”

  “You should’ve been there ten minutes ago.”

  “Don’t go without us. You hear me? Don’t you go without us.”

  I closed the flip phone.

  I still wasn’t thinking straight, not about what lay ahead. Dad had shot a human being. The idea that an emotion so powerful overcame his moral resolve and allowed him to pull the trigger tilted my world out of balance. That whole scene, the way he described it, kept popping into my head and shoving out all else. Derek, jumping around in front of Dad, cackling like a fool. Dad thinking Derek had something to do with Olivia’s death—Dad knowing Derek had a direct hand in Albert’s death after what I’d just told him.

  I went over everything I’d done at the scene in the cell phone store. I had it covered. But I still needed to make the narrative I’d created real. To do that I had to say it over and over in my head until it became natural: “I ran Derek Sams down and shot him. I cornered Derek Sams and gunned him. I shot Derek Sams in the back.” It had to be real even to me. That’s the way it would be from now on. There wasn’t anyone else to say different. Not a soul.

  And Derek did his part to make it real. He’d taken out a restraining order saying I was dangerous. He’d given a deposition that I’d been the one to crush his fingers. All of that worked in my favor.

  I left fingerprints at the scene and I had Derek’s blood on my shirt. What could go wrong?

  When committing crimes on the fly, something always goes wrong. You can’t think of everything.

  Dad could go wrong. He could and would have a moral crisis and try to take the blame. But I had the evidence stacked in my favor, and if Dad tried to take the blame, I could easily say he was just trying to cover for his son. Nobody would believe him. I hated to do it to him but there wasn’t any other option.

  I ran Derek Sams down and shot him in the back. I ran Derek Sams down and—

  I found Wicks’ Ford Taurus park
ed in the shadows of a business closed for the day. I wouldn’t have seen him had I not been looking for him and known he’d be in a position of advantage watching Harry and Sons. I parked around the corner and crept up on foot. I knocked lightly on his trunk so he wouldn’t shoot me and came up on the passenger side. He had his interior dome light disabled. I crawled into the dark, stifling a pain-filled grunt and eased the door closed. “Any movement?”

  Wicks leaned forward over the steering wheel looking through binoculars as he spoke. “Yeah, buddy boy, it’s Christmas come early. We hit the jackpot.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He brought the binos down and faced me, but it was too dark to see his eyes. “Guess who just showed up?”

  “I’m not in the mood for games. Tell me.”

  “Henry Bogardus.”

  “You’re kidding me?” I took the binos from him and peered down the street at the front and side of Harry and Sons.

  Old Henry Bogardus was on Wicks’ A-list of fugitives. He’d been at the top of the list for three years that I knew of. Whenever Wicks wasn’t working a directed target, he made another try at digging Bogardus out of his hole. Kind of like a hobby fugitive. Bogardus had killed three people—in a garage. Used an acetylene torch. Wicks had talked about him often and made up scenarios of what it would be like when he caught up to him.

  “That’s kinda hard to believe,” I said.

  “It was him, I’m positive. You can’t see him right now. He went inside. He pulled up in that no-account Nissan Sentra parked right there in front of the primary loc. Stepped out in the light. I got a good look at him. It’s Bogardus, all right. Like I said, it’s Christmas come early. He was with another mope I couldn’t identify. Both of them are armed, handguns. What do you want to do? I think we should go knock down their door.”

  I pulled back the binos and turned toward him. “Are you crazy? They have military-grade automatic weapons in there.”

  “What? Are you going soft on me? We hit ’em hard and we hit ’em fast. We do that, we’ll catch ’em with their pants down. We can drive this car right through the front of that shop, it’s all glass. We’d take both those glass doors down. I always wanted to do one that way. Hey, is that blood on your shirt?” He was talking wild now, as he gulped at the adrenaline he craved so much.