I came back and lifted Sonny Taylor. He’d almost died overdosing on some meth his mom had left out on the living room coffee table. I’d found him in a closet where his mom had left him while she went out foraging for dope money.
Little Marvin Kelso was so light in my arms, so young to be a victim of abuse. Even though there was a court order keep-away, his mom, Julie Kelso, had snuck the molesting slime ball suspect back into her house.
Wally Kim, a Korean kid, lost his mother, a prostitute who died of an overdose, and left him without relatives to care for him. And half-Mex-half-white five-year-old Randy Lugo came to our attention after his fifth visit to Killer King hospital for a broken bone.
I carried them all into their bedrooms and tucked them in. Alfred was conspicuous by his absence. I missed him dearly.
In the six months we’d had the kids, I treasured every minute I had with them. We wrestled on the floor, tossed a ball in the house, and played silly games. It didn’t matter what we did so much, what mattered was the laughing, giggling, and cheering. And the hugs. It wasn’t complicated. They hungered for attention and love. For me, maybe they partially filled Alfred’s empty place, but I’d come to love them as my own. I gave all I had and wished I’d had more time to give. I couldn’t imagine letting anything bad ever happen to them again. I wouldn’t allow it. These kids’ lives and security were more important than any petty crime I might commit to keep them safe.
I lingered a little longer with Alonzo, my grandson, Alfred’s twin, and watched him sleep. The gentle rise and fall of his chest, the baby softness of his pudgy cheeks, his pure innocence, he was pure vulnerability.
I left Dad asleep in the chair and went into the kitchen. From my pocket, I took out the wad of bills, that if caught with, I couldn’t explain and would violate my parole. I peeled off twenty hundreds from the roll of two hundred and fifty bills, 25K, and laid them on the table. Two grand would be more than enough to last him until I could make it back the following week. I started for the back door, stopped, went back, and added another ten one hundred dollar bills. The money was important but not more than my dad’s peace of mind.
I had my hand on the doorknob when the old man’s voice from around the corner reached out, “Chantal called, said it was real important.”
Dad had been so proud when I joined the Sheriff’s Department, even more proud when I was promoted to detective on the Violent Crimes Team, working the South Central Los Angeles area, making the ghetto safer by putting away the violent predators. He told all his friends over and over, told everyone on his mail route, as well.
I’d been out of the joint now six months, had seen him on many occasions in those six months, and still I felt overwhelming guilt for having let him down. He’d lived by a code of honor with a strong work ethic like I’ve never seen in anyone else. He never missed a day in forty years as a mail carrier for the post office. He never backed down from what was right.
The worst part of it, after it was all said and done, I was nothing more than a common street thug, now an ex-con on the dodge trying to keep from going back.
I let go of the doorknob and went back into the living room. He had his teeth back in and smiled broadly, his brown eyes clouded with cataracts. He was always happy to see me, even from behind the thick glass wall in visiting.
“I got your message at the tree and came over directly. I put some cash on the table out there and didn’t want to wake you. Sorry it took so long to get over here. Thing … things have been a little out of control.”
“You touch my kids, you’re going to wake me. You should know that.”
I got down on one knee, put my hand on his. “I know, Dad. I’m sorry, but we’re almost through it.”
I’d taken off the apron in the hospital and thrown it away, but some of the blood had soaked through to the dark work shirt and left unmistakable blotches. His eyes scanned my swollen eye, the bandaged hands. His palsied hand came up involuntarily to touch my face but stopped short. “I know you would’ve come sooner if you could’ve. I didn’t want to give you the emergency signal but … but I was worried about Alonzo, his asthma medicine is running low, and Alonzo, he wants to see you something fierce. I know it’s not fair to you with what you got going on, but it kills me to see him so sad.”
“It’s okay. You did right. I left you enough to last you through.”
I fought a lump rising in my throat and tried not to think about Alonzo or I’d probably tear up again. “Did Chantal say what it was about?”
“Yeah, something about a guy named Ben something.”
I sat back on my heels. “Ben Drury?”
“Yeah, I think that’s it.”
“I have to go.” I got up and kissed him on his forehead. Ben Drury meant bad news, the worst. Chantal wouldn’t have risked calling unless Ben meant to make a home call. I had to roll fast. Parole agents didn’t make home calls on Sunday. Something was up.
“I talked to Marie tonight, she said she was going to have some meds dropped off tomorrow, okay?”
He nodded.
“She’ll check over Alonzo. And, I think I forgot to take the Gatorade bottle down. Can you have Toby do that for me, old man, right away so I’ll know the next time?”
His hands were crippled up with arthritis. He patted my arm with a weathered claw, “You take care, son, you hear?”
“I always do, Dad. I wish I could stay longer. I have to go.”
He closed his eyes and nodded. I started for the back door and then switched direction, went down the hall to the bedroom. I stroked Alonzo’s soft hair and kissed his forehead one more time. In his sleep he mumbled the name, “Alfred,” his brother. Alonzo was small for a three-year old, so vulnerable in such a violent world. The clock ticked in the back of my brain. I had to go. Soon it would be over. Then I’d make it up to him.
I grabbed a cookie from the cookie jar on the kitchen counter on the way out, stopped at the door, and looked back at Dad, Alonzo’s great-grandfather, who stood at the entrance of the living room. “Tell Alonzo, no matter what, I’ll come see him tonight. Okay?”
“I shouldn’t tell him that if there’s any chance at all you won’t make it. It’ll break his little heart.”
For a second, I thought about Ben Drury, calculated the odds, then said, “You go ahead and tell him.”
Chapter Five
On the porch I gave Junior the cookie and patted his head. There was nothing else to do but run for it. Taxis didn’t come into the ghetto when it was dark, not this far south. I had to make it back to Killer King, the farthest place a cab would venture down from Imperial Highway, and only if the money was right. Short of carjacking, a taxi was the only way I was going to get to Chantal’s in time.
Five blocks west and thirteen long blocks north. I couldn’t run the whole thing and had to walk-run, my face and hands throbbed, my old body yelled that the brain had gone off line into the red zone and threatened a full meltdown.
At Killer King I used the pay phone out front, hoping Marie wouldn’t come out for a smoke and see me. She didn’t know about Chantal. She knew about the apartment, but not about Chantal. Marie wouldn’t understand. I paced in the shadows waiting as the sun broke on the horizon. I wasn’t going to make it.
According to my parole officer, I was supposed to be home in bed on Sunday mornings. I was labeled High Risk because of my commitment charge. Drury had my work schedule, my entire life schedule. He had the ability to drop in on me at anytime. Until now, Ben had been cool and always called first, a professional courtesy only extended from parole agent to ex-cop.
The situation now called for a serious two-step shuffle, lie to him about how my job was going, and hope Mr. Cho wasn’t mad enough to call him to rat me out. Then hope Ben didn’t find out for two more weeks. That’s all I needed was two more weeks.