Blue Line Run
by Michael Paul Gonzalez

Los Angeles, 1990
Rio put the suitcase in my hands and told me to run. So I did. It wasn’t much to look at, shiny titanium, all rounded edges and no scuffs. There was a weird-looking lock on the side, half a pair of handcuffs attached to the handle, and on top, some small marks that looked like rust. Or maybe blood.

They knew I’d pulled off a couple other jobs like this in the past. Stealth. Get in, get out, leave no traces. Last week, I broke into a high security area to get some electronics, and the authorities still have no clue they’ve been jacked. I made a killing selling that stuff. After finishing fencing the last of it yesterday, I told myself I’d be done with jobs like this. I was doing this to prove a point, to impress the right people, and I don’t think it worked. No more. I wanted to go legit. But you do these kinds of things, you get a reputation, and trouble finds you no matter where you go.

Rio told me the suitcase belonged to Mr. Valdez, and he’s a pretty big deal in this neighborhood. I’d heard rumors about the kind of stuff he had, so even as I was running, I was thinking… how could I turn this to my benefit? If I could somehow take the contents of this briefcase and market them on my own… trade, barter, direct selling… the possibilities were endless. Problem was, the Jackson brothers saw us making the handoff, and they instantly knew they wanted whatever this was. They’ve been ten feet behind me for a couple of blocks now.

Keep my feet pounding pavement. Hopping fences, jumping curbs, tracing alleys and side streets. I made it to the corner of King and Leimert, right by the liquor store, when they took me down. I heard Marcus shout, saw him moving to cut me off from the left side, trying to wedge me between him and the building. I picked up speed. If I could hurdle the dumpster, use it to get over the fence, I thought I’d be clear. Marcus was pretty husky. He’d have never made it. I shouldn’t have put it past him to use strategy. As soon as I made my cut towards the dumpster, his brother James sprang out and pinned me to the wall.

Marcus comes huffing up to me and he gets right in my face, “You’re sharing that shit, right?” Which I knew meant that he wanted me to get the case open, give him what was inside, and then take the heat for stealing the thing. He was twice my size, and James was all muscle. I could get out of this. Rio trusted me with the case, and I’d get him his share. I owed him that. Anything I gave him, I’d figure out how to steal it back so I could get what I needed. Money or favors.

“There’s nothing in here,” I try, holding the case up. “It’s empty.”

“Bullshit it’s empty!” James says, jamming me back against the wall.

Marcus tries to pull the case from my hand, but I’ve got a death grip on it. I jerk it back and swing it forward, clipping him on the chin. He’s stunned, drops to one knee. James gets a handful of my hair and pins me back against the dumpster. And then, miracle of miracles, I see my salvation.

“You better leave me alone,” I say.

“Or what?” James barks.

“Or I’ll tell my Dad.”

Both James and Marcus burst into laughter, but only for a second. As soon as they hear the car door slam, the wallet chain jingling as he walks, I see the fear of God wash over them. And on this summer day, with the sun ringing him in light, all we can see are his broad shoulders, his muscular arms, his tattoos. Right here, at this moment, he is God. Big as the Jacksons are, tough as they think they are, they back down right away. They’re gone before he needs to say anything.

“Get in the car, son,” he says as he wraps his hand around mine, the one holding the suitcase. He pretty much lifts me off the ground, like I’m just another useless thing dangling from the case handle.

He doesn’t look at me. Just wedges me into the passenger seat, carries the case around to his side, and starts driving. He’s clutching the case tight to his chest.

“I’ve been looking for this all God-damned-day. What did you think was in here?”

“Rio told me there were some… uhh…” I feel the heat washing over my face. “Some Playboys. And maybe other stuff. I thought I could sell them or trade them or something. Maybe get some CDs since you’re always broke…”

“Sixth grade and you’re already hustling.”

“I learned from the best.”

“So you did all this because you thought Mr. Valdez had some girly magazines inside his briefcase?” Dad says, leaning back. I nod. “And Rio Valdez gave this to you?”

I nod. That smirk on his face, I can’t tell if it means he’s secretly pleased with me or getting ready to smack me, or both. I’ve gotten out of tighter squeezes than this. I decide to play it innocent and harmless.

“Am I in trouble?”

He drums his fingers on the suitcase for a second. “We’re all in trouble. I got a call from Mr. Valdez a little bit ago asking me where this was. He says whoever has it is dead.” He holds a hand in front of me, the other half of the handcuffs dangling like bad jewelry. “Do you know what I went through to get this to him?”

He just got back from jail a month ago, and he swore to me he was working a real job. He told me he was done doing bad stuff. It was my fault, somehow. I know that if I had been better, if I hadn’t started stealing, maybe he woulda kept his job too. I had to fix this.

“Just tell Mr. Valdez I took it,” I say. “How mad could he get?”

“He knows you ‘took’ it, son, that’s the point!”

And then it hits me. Rio’s dad set this up. Which means he used Rio to set me up, and in turn, he used me to set my dad up.

“What are we gonna do?”

“You, you’re going Downtown. You’re gonna hop the train to Long Beach and get this to Uncle Charlie.”

“What about you?”

“I’m gonna have to make a lot of noise around the neighborhood and hope it’s enough that Valdez’s guys pay attention to me and stop looking for this.”

“But you’ll come pick me up tonight, right?”

“Just worry about getting to Uncle Charlie’s, okay?”

He spends the rest of the trip giving me details, people to watch out for, colors to avoid. Don’t make eye contact. Hide the suitcase, but don’t let it out of my sight. Trust nobody. Talk to nobody, even if I get lost and need help, figure it out on my own. We’re at the train station now, Seventh Street, walking past homeless people, some weird ladies in bad clothes. Everything’s hot and dirty here. He’s pulling me along through the station, towards the cars.

And I ask him, “This is it, right? This is the last time you get in trouble?”
He sighs, almost crumples. “Yeah… this is it.”

“Don’t go back to jail. Please don’t go back to jail.” I swore I wasn’t gonna cry, but I can’t help it.

He squeezes my shoulders. “Those doors open, you run, don’t walk, run to the taxis. Not the buses, you got it? You don’t stop moving until you’re inside Charlie’s house, okay?”

I nod, too scared to make a sound.

“I love you, son.”

He nudges me forward and I dream-walk onto the train. The doors close, and I watch him grow smaller and smaller on the platform, the car populated by monsters in disguise, each waiting until I was far enough away from him to unmask and spring on me. But I’d get through this, because he told me he loved me. That’s the first time I remember hearing it, what I’d been chasing after my whole life, trying to impress him with grades, with sports, and when he started going to jail, with stealing. Anything to make him notice, to make him proud. I had it. Right then I had it and it slipped away. I pray that tonight he’ll pick me up, and we’re both gonna run together, somewhere, anywhere, but together.