HE BROKE FIRST. He blinked, then dropped the bombshell. “They called just before you walked in.”
“Who did? The kidnappers?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say something sooner? What did they say? What do they want?”
“Something that’s impossible to give.”
“What?”
“They want my father busted out of prison.”
They wanted the cocaine Noble ripped off. They wanted Noble out so he could lead them to it. But that didn’t really make sense, not entirely.
Why now?
And why get him out? He could just as easily pass the information on from inside prison without ever having to leave. Unless they wanted him out for some up close and personal get-even time. That could be, but still, why now?
The young Bruno moved away from the coffee table and walked back and forth in the living room, pacing like a caged animal, a young lion. “What they want is impossible. How can I bust my father out of prison? He isn’t in some low mod correctional farm. They keep him in San Q. He’s only down here because of some dumb subpoena a BGF laid on him for a character witness in a jailhouse murder.”
The kid spoke with perfect diction without any of the street seeping in. Sasha did a great job raising him, and yet he could also talk like some kind of criminal who’d been immersed in the life. Maybe he got the criminal stuff by visiting Noble in prison.
“Bruno,” I said, “what kind of work do you do?”
“Why? What does that have to do with anything?”
The stats didn’t fall in his favor. Kids fathered by incarcerated criminals almost always followed in their father’s footsteps. Why wouldn’t they, with a convicted felon for a role model?
Bruno lived in the ghetto, he dressed like a Crip, and he had a gangster’s gun.
“I’m asking, that’s why.”
“I go to school and I’m an intern at Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, Lennox Station.”
I sat down hard, stunned.
“You see what I mean,” he said. “I can’t give them what they want. I can’t bust my father out. I can’t do it, that’s flat-out craziness.”
Marie gripped my hand. She didn’t seem to grasp what he’d just said, or it didn’t have the same impact. She said to Bruno, “Do you know who these people are, the ones who have your children?”
“Sure, I’ve talked to them a couple of times. They won’t negotiate. They won’t give an inch.”
“You know them?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s what I just said. They’ve been waiting for you to get here. I don’t understand why. What can you do about my dad in jail?”
“Me? They told you that? They’re waiting for me?”
The phone rang, a cell that sat on the kitchen table. Bruno headed for the kitchen just a few steps away. “That’s them. They know you’re here. They’re watching the house.”
“Hold it,” I said. “Don’t answer that.”
He picked the phone up, but didn’t answer it. “Why?”
“Where are the police? Noble said that you called the police.”
The phone continued to ring. “That’s right, I did. Then I found out what these people wanted, and why. I knew the police couldn’t do anything, not with these guys. I told the sheriff’s detectives it was all a mistake. I told them that the babies’ mama took the kids and that they were safe in Texas.”
The phone stopped ringing.
“Where’s the kids’ mom?” Marie asked.
Bruno looked away, lowered his tone, “She’s gone.”
“Where?”
“The ghetto took her.”
“I’m sorry.” Marie said.
I got up and walked over to him, held out my hand for the phone.
For a brief moment my eyes tracked to the refrigerator, to the novel on top, and I wondered what the title was, wondered what it would be like to not have the horrible pressure of this problem. To be able to sit down and read for pleasure, in a hammock with our kids playing in the backyard, safe.
He handed me the phone. It rang again. I hit “send” and put it to my ear.
“Nice that you could join us, Bruno The Bad Boy Johnson. Meet us at 913 Prairie Avenue, in one hour.”
“No.” I hung up.
Bruno stood close enough to hear the exchange. He shoved my chest with both hands. “What did you just do? Are you crazy?” He moved back in real close, his eyes wide with anger and fear. “Those are my kids you’re messing with, not yours. You can’t do that, you have no right to.”
I put my hand on him and moved him away. “Take it easy. Now tell me who these people are.”
He stared me down.
The phone rang again.
“Tell me quick,” I said.
“It’s the largest cocaine consortium in South Central Los Angeles, in all of LA, for that matter. It’s the only one. It’s not just one guy like before, it’s a group, run by one guy who kind of acts as the president over all these drug lords or whatever you wanna call them. They run all the coke for all the gangs. They don’t show any favorites. You have the money, they sell you the dope; white, black, or brown. It doesn’t matter to them. They have eyes and ears everywhere, on every street corner. They’re in deep with the cops. It’s hopeless. There’s too much money involved here to do anything other than what they want. That’s why I called the sheriff off. You understand now? They’d know if the cops had their nose in this.”
My nephew Bruno talked with far more maturity than his young age. Life’s lessons came harder and faster when you’re raising children. Especially by yourself in the ghetto when you’re nothing more than a kid yourself.
I answered the phone. The person on the other end yelled and swore and yelled some more. I waited until he calmed down. I said, “I’ll meet you, but at a place of my choosing, not yours. You get to pick the time. I pick the place.”
“You gotta set a balls on ya, I’ll tell ya that much. I heard that about you. Okay, it doesn’t matter, name it.” There was no hint of an accent or where he might be from.
“Okay, thirty minutes.”
“You obviously know where I am. From here, that drive’ll take at least forty-five minutes, probably closer to an hour and ten.” I hung up.
Bruno moved to the table next to the door and scooped up the nine, shoved the magazine back in, and racked the slide. He stuck it in his back waistband under his football jersey. “I’m going with you, so don’t even try and say different.”
I walked up to him and moved in close, inches away from his face. “I wouldn’t try and stop you, not for a minute, but you’re not goin’ carryin’ heavy.” I reached around, put my hand on the gun. He looked at me as he tried to step away. He didn’t try too hard.
“They have my son and daughter.”
“Exactly. You take a gun, you might have to use it. If you don’t have it, you won’t be able to use it.”
“That’s some kind of Three Stooges logic.”
His generation had no idea about the Three Stooges. Noble had always loved them, with their inane comedy. Somehow, through the years, Noble had imparted at least some of his knowledge and experience, even through his prison-visiting window. More of that life that I’d somehow missed.
Bruno held the pressure on the gun a moment longer, then gave it up. I took it from him and, still looking him in the eye, broke the gun down and field-stripped it. I stuck the barrel in my pocket to dispose of later and walked over to the trash can by the refrigerator and threw the rest away. I leaned up to look at the title of the book and couldn’t see it.
“I paid good money for that.”
I turned. “You bought it on the street. That’s a felony. You wanna be a cop?”
He came over to me. “That’s none of your damn business. Come on, let’s go.”
Out front, he automatically got in the back seat. I drove. I didn’t want to take him with us. The situation didn’t need a hot-head. But I knew better than to try and stop him.
I didn’t have near enough time on the drive to Santa Monica to talk and get to know him. Not like I should. I should’ve already known my nephew.
I couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said. They’ve been waiting for you to get here. The words didn’t make any sense. No matter how I tried to fit them into the puzzle, those words just didn’t make any sense.