The Replacements (8 page)

I didn't answer and watched Mack go into the Quick Stop with my Sno Balls in one hand. He went to the coffee kiosk, poured a cup, and walked back by the clerk, whose lips moved as he commented. Mack said something in return and stuck his hip up to make sure the clerk saw his sheriff's star clipped to his belt. Just like Mack, he didn't want to pay for the coffee. Mack stood out in front by the door, eating my Sno Balls and drinking free, steaming coffee.

“Ask that dude what this dude's name is, he knows him,” said the tall police officer in the driver's seat.

The short cop got out. “Hey, man, what's this guy's name? He won't tell us.”

Mack spoke around marshmallow cake covered in pink coconut. “That there is Leon Byron Johnson.”

I let out a long breath and relaxed. That wasn't my real name. The tall cop mistook my relief for guilt. “Yeah, that's his name.”

“Thanks, man, we owe you,” said the short cop. He got back in and started typing the new information into the computer.

Mack sauntered over to the open window of the driver. “You take the 10 Freeway all the way into Los Angeles. It's about fifty miles, get off at Grand, hang a left and—”

The short cop had the valise on his lap, trying to open the latch. “Wait, hold up. What are you talking about?”

Mack pasted on a confused expression. “You fellas got yourself a federal fugitive. He has to be taken forthwith to appear before a federal magistrate. You're kidding, right? You really didn't know that? Well, you can't book him in just any jail. Get your watch commander to clear it and make a run to LA, no problem.” Mack started to walk off.

The driver jumped out. “Hey, hey. You shittin' me?”

“Call the jail if you don't believe it.”

The short cop muttered, “Bullshit, we are not going to LA, not this late in the shift.” He jumped out. “Hey, you want him? You're the one who actually ID'd him. We didn't. He's really your arrest.”

“Really? You boys'll give him to me, just like that?”

I sat in the backseat as it all played out, stunned at Mack's arrogance and bravado.
Mack, you son of a bitch. You better not overplay your silly little game
.

“I've been up all night on a surveillance. Just stopped in for some coffee to keep me awake on the ride home,” said Mack.

The tall cop turned to his partner. “I don't want to give up a federal fugitive arrest. We don't get them very often.”

The short one replied, loud enough only for his partner and not Mack to hear. “We get off in an hour, and I'm taking my wife and kids and my boat to Silverwood Lake. I'm not going all the way into LA. Fifty miles there and fifty back, that's a hundred miles. No way. And on top of that, who knows how long we'll be there booking this mope in?” He left his open door and came around to where his partner stood talking to Mack, their words too low to hear.

Mack shook his head, playing it to the hilt. He spoke louder than the others, loud enough for me to hear. “But I just came from LA, I don't want to drive all the way back there.” He leaned over to the side and smiled at me. The two blue suits talked to him some more. The short one, talking fast using his hands, took some money from his uniform shirt pocket and handed it to Mack.

“Okay, I'll run him in, but you guys are going to owe me,” said Mack.

The two cops came over, opened the back door. I slid out. They took off their cuffs and put on the ones Mack handed them. They escorted me over to Mack's Thunderbird and slid me into the front seat. Mack stood by the open front door, sipping his coffee, and whispered, “You can thank me later for saving your ass.”

“Don't let them look in my valise.”

Mack threw down the coffee. “Shit.” He walked fast over to the cop car. “Hey, what about his bag?”

The short cop had the valise out of the car on the hood, trying to jimmy the latch with a double-edged knife. Mack made it to his side and took hold of the handle. “I got this.”

“Wait a minute,” the short cop said. “What if there's a couple of kilos of coke in there? This is our bust, and if there's dope we can book him in our jail.”

Mack didn't let go of the handle and stared down at the shorter man. “This isn't
Let's Make a Deal
. You only get to see what's behind door number one if you take the body with it. And you said you don't want to make the trip. So make your choice.”

The short cop hesitated, then shoved the bag toward Mack. “See you guys,” said Mack. He walked back to the car unrushed and got in. The two cops stood and watched. They had to be wondering if they'd made a mistake. Mack started up, dropped the handcuff keys in my lap, put it in drive, and pulled out onto the street.

I didn't like the feel of steel on my wrists, not one bit, and fumbled to get them off. Mack took my last Sno Ball sitting on
the dash and bit into the soft cake. He laughed with his mouth open. “Man, Bruno, you should have seen the look on your face when I told those two blue-bellies you had a murder warrant. I thought I'd pee my—”

I reached over and shoved the Sno Ball in his face. He wasn't ready for the move. The car swerved and his head jerked around to look at me, flecks of coconut clung to his cheeks. I laughed. “Now that's funny.”

He didn't miss a beat. He laughed louder and playfully backhanded my shoulder.

I said, “Leon Byron Johnson—LBJ—you really thought hard on that one.”

“Hey, it was an impromptu thing.” Now he laughed so hard that we swerved inside the lane.

The mirth died a natural death as the serious business at hand sauntered in and smothered us both. The thought of those two kids in the hands of a freak. We drove into the night, down Waterman, to westbound on the I-10, the San Bernardino Freeway.

Mack said, “I hope you don't have something I'm going to regret in that grip of yours.”

“Does it matter? Your ass is already hung out a country mile for aiding and abetting a fugitive.”

He shook his head. “Nope, I never ran you for warrants. I don't know that you're wanted. You're just an informant that Chief Wicks asked me to work with.”

“Really? That's your defense? We get caught, you're going to burn along with all the rest of us chickens.”

“Yeah, you're probably right.”

“You have any line at all on Jonas Mabry? Has he been in contact other than that note?”

“Sorry, not yet. You have any ideas on where we can start to look while we wait for him to make contact?”

Outside the car the dark freeway zipped by. We were passing through Colton. “I've got a couple of ideas. My mind's mushy right now. I need a couple hours' sleep.”

“You didn't sleep on the plane?”

I didn't answer. Who could sleep? I didn't know what I'd find when I walked off the plane. And even if I'd made it that far, how long could I possibly keep moving around SoCal, where there were thirty- to forty thousand cops?

“I have us a room at The Fontana Valley Suites,” said Mack.

“I hope it's a nice place. I'm not up for some fleabag with a swayed mattress and bed bugs.”

“It's on the county's dime, so you know it's not going to be a five-star joint.”

“County's dime? Are you crazy? You don't want a record of me anywhere around you. If you have the county pay for it, it goes on the expense account report.”

He took his eyes from the road for a second, long enough to pick off some larger chunks of Sno Ball from his shirt and stick them in his mouth. “‘In for a penny, in for a pound,' my Aunt Millie used to say.”

“You fall down and hit your head or something? You nuts?”

He put on the turn signal and changed lanes right over to the off ramp exiting at Citrus. At the bottom of the ramp he turned right and then left at the first light to Valley Boulevard. He made a left turn into The Fontana Valley Suites' parking lot. Dirty and dented cars predicted the décor I'd find in the room.

“Okay,” he said, “I need you to follow my lead.”

“Follow your lead? We're just going for a quick nap, right? It's four o'clock in the damn morning. What's going on, Mack?”

“Take it easy, big man. I got a handle on this. Here, put on this ball cap and these glasses.”

I hated the Dodgers and he knew it. The glasses were stylish and clear. I checked the mirror behind the fold-down visor. The props did change my appearance. I looked a little like a stockbroker out for a weekend pretending to be a sports fan.

Mack pulled in and parked next to a black Toyota Camry with an Asian male sitting in the driver's seat. Mack shut off the T-Bird. “Come on, you can have a couple hours, then you're going
to have to work some of this magic Wicks is talking about until Jonas contacts us.”

Mack knew how I worked. I'd met him on the Ruben the Cuban murder investigation nine months ago. In fact, when he and I finally ran Ruben down, Ruben threw a can of gas on Mack and was about to light him off, turn Mack into chicken flambé, when I'd intervened. Mack would have been a piece of shriveled-up charcoal.

We got out. Mack went up to the driver's window of the Toyota. The window whirled down. Mack turned to me. “Leon, I'd like you to meet Special Agent Wu with the FBI.”

FBI, really? My knees wobbled. I was too old and tired for this kind of bullshit. What the hell was Mack doing? Every FBI agent had to have seen my ugly mug on a wanted poster at one time or another. I put on my best game face, smiled, and reached out and shook Wu's hand proffered through the window. “Nice to meet you,” said Wu.

“Likewise,” I said, and kicked the back of Mack's leg.

“Ouch. Man, what was that for?”

“Sorry, didn't see you there.”

Wu got out, stretched. “I see you guys have worked together before. So, Leon, you're just joining this investigation?”

Mack bent over, rubbed his leg. “No, he's been off with an injury,” he said through clenched teeth. “You know the type. They get a hangnail and they take two weeks' sick.”

Wu looked at me then at Mack, and nodded as if he did know the type.

“He's not here for the Karl Drago thing. He's jumpin' into the Sandy Williams and Elena Cortez snatch.”

“Well, good luck with that. I heard tomorrow, or the day after at the latest, you guys don't get any results, we're comin' in to take it over.”

Mack turned, walked away, and said over his shoulder, “You can have it, Wu. Catch ya later.”

I hurried to catch up. “What the hell's going on here?”

Mack chuckled. “We've been working this Karl Drago thing, and we hadn't been set up here for eight hours when some mope
burglarized one of the FBI cars, took a gun and a laptop with high priority info. They had to splinter off two agents on the down low just to chase down the—”

“No, you know what I'm talking about. Who's Karl Drago?”

He stopped at the motel room door marked 126, raised his hand as though poised to knock, and continued on as if he hadn't heard me. “To chase down the crooks who took their shit. Real embarrassing.” He knocked on the door. “You know the FBI, they won't get burned again, so now they're taking turns watching their own cars in the parking lot. Your hard-earned tax dollars at work. Well, not yours, not anymore.” He smiled.

“Who's Karl Drago?”

“I'm on the Violent Crimes Team, remember? The team was set up on Drago when all this other shit went down, the first kidnapping, then the second. They pulled me off Drago to work the kidnapping. I'm just using this as a home base because the room's already paid for.”

“With the FBI in the next room? Are you crazy?”

The motel room door opened. A woman in denim pants and a long-sleeve blue shirt with a Glock in a black nylon shoulder holster smiled back. A gold FBI badge hung from a chain around her neck. She turned and walked back around a large screen. The screen, aluminum frame with black material, blocked anyone in the parking lot's view into the motel room. Mack stepped around it. Like the rabbit going down the hole, I followed.

All the furniture in the room had been moved, stacked, and shoved into one corner. Computer monitors sat on tables set up in a U-configuration. One computer screen, divided into a quad, depicted four different images: a car in a parking lot, a motel room door—not The Valley Suites at street view—the inside of a motel room, and a bed with someone sleeping in it. A large someone with just a sheet covering him. Two other computer screens showed maps with two little red dots, both on Valley Boulevard. As far as I could tell, the location was right down the street from where we stood. This had to be the Karl Drago thing he was talking about.

A black agent sat in a chair next to the woman who let us in. Both looked bored to death.

“Hey, you guys,” said Mack, “this is Leon Johnson, the guy I told you about. Leon, this is Mary St. John, you can call her Mary Beth, and Willard Godfrey. You can call him Will, but he doesn't like it, prefers Willard, like the rat in the movie.”

I shook their hands.

“If he's not part of this operation, then he shouldn't be in here,” said Mary. “And if he is going to stay, he needs to have some ID displayed.”

Mack reached into his pocket and pulled out a Los Angeles County Sheriff's badge already on a chain, and hung it around my neck. Heavy emotions welled up in me, clogged my throat. For two and a half decades, the sheriff's star had defined who I was, how I lived. For the briefest of seconds I was ready to forsake all else to get the star back, to wear the uniform again for real. Then the urge quelled as I remembered my family waiting for me. And most of all, the look in Marie's eyes when I'd left.

Mack was going way out on a limb to run with me as I impersonated something I wasn't.

Mack said, “Come on, Leon, I can tell when we're not wanted.”