I LOOKED AT them and then back at Derek Sams. That’s when I noticed that in my blind rage, with one hand I had unintentionally lifted him by his neck until his feet dangled free above the ground. I eased him back till his feet touched before I inadvertently strangled the devil pup. I kept a hold of his scruff and jerked a couple of times to let him know I wasn’t done with him.
The fattest of the three gangsters, the leader and mouthpiece, said, “Let him go. He’s with us. If you’re messin’ with him, you’re messin’ with us. Understand?”
I held on and turned to face them the rest of the way, surprised at the declaration that Derek had joined the Crips, and at the same time not surprised at all.
I let go of the back of his neck. “Don’t sweat it, I’m his dad.” Derek opened his mouth to refute the accusation. I C-clamped his throat with my left hand choking off his words. His good eye bulged a little.
The leader looked me up and down. “I know you from somewhere, don’t I? Where you from?”
I was wearing the blue bandana around my head, indicating that I belonged to some other Crip set. Asking where I was from was like asking what set I claimed.
I swept the bandana off my head. The gang member next to the leader startled and jumped back. “Dat’s Bruno Johnson.”
The leader smirked. “That ain’t no Bruno Johnson. He’s dead. And look, his shirt says ‘Karl.’”
Shortly after I’d left the street to work in the court, an unsubstantiated rumor went around that I’d met my untimely demise at the hand of a punk named Rodney Simpkins, a big-time gangster that I had tangled with in the past. I’d let the rumor flourish. I wore the tan and green uniform in court, which somehow, to the criminals, changed my appearance just enough to be unrecognizable. It standardized me and made me just another pig in their eyes, a robot of the system, like all the other uniforms.
“No. No. Don’t make dat mistake. Dat right there is Bruno The Bad Boy Johnson. Ax poo-butt if it ain’t. Go on, ax him.”
The leader nodded to Derek. “Ease up on my boy—let’s see what he has to say.”
I let go of Derek. He slumped over coughing and choking.
I took the opportunity to break down the Raven .25. I tossed the parts out into the street and stuck the barrel in my pocket to discard somewhere else.
Derek recovered enough to point at me and nod. He choked and sputtered. “It’s him. He’s Bruno Johnson. Do something. Don’t let him treat me like this.”
The leader straightened up a little. He let his hand slowly wander up to his waistband, where it disappeared under his jersey. “What are you doin’ with our poo-butt? You do that to his face?”
I again took hold of Derek by the throat and eased him in front of me. “Let me see your hands, all of you.”
The gangster that recognized me turned and took off full tilt down the street. The other one instinctively moved away from his leader, a street tactic. It was harder to hit targets when they weren’t so bunched up. He moved his hand behind to his back waistband.
The leader shook his head and looked down the street in the direction his fellow gang member had fled. “Mmm-mmm. Later on, me and dat boy’s gonna have words.”
I said, “If you two so much as twitch, I’ll drop you both. You understand? And I won’t lose a minute’s sleep over it.”
The leader looked back at me. He kept his hand on his gun under his shirt and said, “You didn’t answer the question. What you want with my boy?”
“He’s been messin’ around with my daughter. Now he’s got to pay for it.”
The second gangster muttered, “Dumbass.”
The leader smiled, showing off several front teeth capped with gold. One had the letter “G.” “Boy, I hear dat. Fuckin’ around wit’ Bruno The Bad Boy Johnson’s daughter, whatta fool. What are you gonna do wit’ him?”
“What do you think I’m gonna do with him?”
The leader slowly brought his hand out from under his jersey. “I think you gonna make him pay the price. Dat’s what I think.”
“You got a problem with that?”
“No. No. We don’t need no fool who’s stupid enough to go ’round stickin’ his little—”
“Don’t. Don’t even say it.”
“I hear ya, big man. Be on your way wit’ ya. Havin’ Bruno Johnson out front of my sto’ ain’t good for bidness.”
I let go of Derek’s throat and again grabbed him by the scruff. I backed up on the sidewalk, bringing him along.
Derek didn’t like that he’d been so easily thrown to the curb by his gang. “Hey. Hey. Don’t let him do this. Help. Help me.”
I whispered, “Shut up or I’ll tell them where I found you today, over in Piru territory at a rock house run by the Bloods.” Derek stiffened. He knew they would snatch him right out of my hands and do him dirty for collaborating with the enemy. He decided to shut up.
The leader shook his head, opened the door to his pager store, and with the other one following along, disappeared inside.
I continued to back up until we passed the edge of the strip center and entered the shadows cast by the building in the open field. I spun him around and shoved so hard he almost fell face-first. I caught up to him as he recovered from his stumble and shoved him again. I fought the rising rage, grit my teeth, and clenched my fists. I wanted to pull the blackjack from my back pocket and teach him how the cow ate the cabbage, a term Dad often used. The thought of Dad backed me down a little. If I carried through with what I intended, a long drive out to the Mojave Desert and a lonely drive back, how could I ever look Dad in the eye?
We made it to my truck. I pushed him up against the front wheel well and handcuffed his hands behind his back. He said nothing. I turned him around. The sodium vapor streetlight on his red hair gave it a yellowish tint and made it surreal, clown-like. The swollen side of his face looked right out of a low-budget horror movie. His green eye glared at me. “Whatta ya gonna do to me?”
“What do you think I should do to you? What do you think you deserve? You came to my house tonight. You took my little girl for a ride. You had a gun.” I grabbed the front of his shirt. “You little punk, you had a gun. You put her in danger and for what? Put yourself in my place. What would you do if you were me?”
An LAPD cruiser came down the street.
Derek smirked. “Now what’s you going to do, old man? You’re about to go to jail your own self.”
The passenger cop put the spotlight on us. Blinding, turning everything white. I put one hand up to shield my eyes; the other I put on Derek’s chest and pinned him against the truck. After a moment, I took my arm down and slowly reached around to my back pocket. I pulled out my wallet flat badge. Derek squirmed and tried to see around me as the patrol car rolled up and stopped. I flipped them my badge. The sheriff’s star glinted in the spotlight. “Sheriff’s Violent Crimes Team, code four.”
“Help,” Derek yelled. “He’s going to kill me. He’s kidnapping me. You have to help me.”
The patrol car moved forward, coming a little closer to the passenger’s open window. I smiled at the officer and said nothing, just shrugged and shook my head.
The patrolman smiled and asked, “You want us to transport him for you?”
“Hey? Hey?”
I grabbed a hand full of Derek’s jersey, shook him a little, and said to the patrolman, “No, thanks, I got it. You have enough problems with that pager store across the street where I just nabbed this guy.”
“You took him out of Big G’s? By yourself?”
I said nothing.
Derek struggled and tried to break away. “No. No. Wait. He’s going to kill me. Really. You have to believe me.”
I smiled again and shrugged. “Seems everyone I arrest nowadays says the same thing.”
“I know what you mean, buddy. Good luck, and hey, keep your head down.”
“Thanks. You boys take it easy.”
The passenger gave a salute as they drove by.
Derek sighed. His shoulders slumped. “Ah, man, that ain’t right.”