Read Online The Replacements by David Putnam - Free Book Online Page A

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?”
    â€œCorner 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.
    â€œHey, 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.
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    I turned, the decision made to play it out. “Walter Shiftly. Why, have I done something wrong, Officer?”
    â€œIt’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