The Replacements (7 page)

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.

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. My 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.

“What's your name?”

I turned, the decision made to play it out. “Walter Shiftly. Why, have I done something wrong, Officer?”

“It's kind of late to be out sitting in front of a store.”

I flashed my best smile. “Or early, depending, I guess. I couldn't sleep and thought I'd get me something to eat before work.” I held up the unopened Sno Ball two-to-a-pack and the coffee cup.

Both stood in good interrogation stances ready for anything. “That your bag?” asked the short one.

I glanced over at the bag. Ten thousand in cash in this neighborhood said dope dealer. “Nope, that bag was sittin' right there when I walked up.” The words sounded stupid even to me as they spewed out uncontrolled. Nothing else I could have said.

The tall one scoffed. “Right, you hear that, partner? He sat
right down next to that bag, didn't open it, and didn't take it with him. I'm calling bullshit on this one.”

The short one moved over to the bag. “If this isn't yours, then you wouldn't mind me looking in it, would you?”

I looked from one to the other as I took in a deep breath, preparing to bolt. I only hoped these two weren't crazy enough to shoot me in the back.

At the street, a dark green Ford Thunderbird bounced into the parking lot at high speed, drove over, and stopped beside the cop. Out stepped John Mack.

He stood six feet with 190 pounds of muscle. He wore his hair in a flattop, and the tattoo on a thick bicep that peeked out from under his t-shirt sleeve read: “BMF.”

“I'm a detective with the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department,” said Mack. “Congratulations, boys, you got him, you really got him. Cuff him before he gets away. He's got a federal fugitive warrant for 187.”

The two cops jumped me and took me to the ground. They slammed me down on the dirty, hard concrete and wrestled my hands behind my back. The coffee cup broke open. Hot wetness burned my legs. John Mack walked up, his feet inches away. Had this whole thing been a conspiracy between Mack and Barbara Wicks to get me back into the States to throw me in prison for the rest of my life?

Once cuffed, the two cops manhandled me to my feet and shuffle-dragged me to the back door of the black-and-white. “No shit, a federal fugitive wanted for murder—excellent!” said the tall one.

They tossed me in the backseat like a sack of potatoes and then got in the front. This wasn't my first time in the backseat and I hated it just the same, the confinement, the inability to make simple choices. Through the black metal screen that separated the back from the front, the short passenger cop asked, “What's your name?”