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?
CHAPTER TWELVE
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?”
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.”