by Joe Ide
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2021 by Joe Ide
Cover design by Kapo Ng
Cover art by Sam Chung @ A-Men Project
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ISBN 978-0-316-53104-7
E3-20210112-NF-DA-ORI
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One: Rush Creek
Chapter Two: Broke Will Be Good for You
Chapter Three: Queen Booty Booty
Chapter Four: Blue Hill
Chapter Five: Eyes Like a Komodo Dragon
Chapter Six: Are You My Dog?
Chapter Seven: Where’s My Samitch, Bitch?
Chapter Eight: Rock Climbing
Chapter Nine: Welcome to the Ghet-toe, Honey
Chapter Ten: The Stark
Chapter Eleven: Flying Free
Chapter Twelve: Dumb and Dumber 5
Chapter Thirteen: Stealth Dog
Chapter Fourteen: Bona Fides
Chapter Fifteen: Come and Get Me
Chapter Sixteen: Lebron
Chapter Seventeen: Peter Oh Who?
Chapter Eighteen: I Am Not Him
Chapter Nineteen: EX
Chapter Twenty: Side Heading
Chapter Twenty-One: Be Cool, Isaiah
Chapter Twenty-Two: The Blackula of East Long Beach
Chapter Twenty-Three: I Will Kill the Judge with My Shoe
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Ballsack of the Universe
Chapter Twenty-Five: Puff Adder
Chapter Twenty-Six: Magic Trick
Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Sweet Life
Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Itch
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Get to the Living Room
Chapter Thirty: Witches’ Tree
Chapter Thirty-One: Go Faster, Isaiah
Acknowledgments
Discover More
About the Author
Also by Joe Ide
To Thierno Diallo
for rescuing me from myself
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I to my perils
Of cheat and charmer
Came clad in armor
By stars benign
Hope lies to mortals
And most believe her
But Man’s deceiver
Was never mine.
The thoughts of others
Were light and fleeting,
Of lovers’ meeting
Or luck or fame.
But mine were of trouble,
And mine were steady,
So I was ready
When trouble came.
A. E. Housman
Prologue
Land Park was an upscale neighborhood in Sacramento. It was a serene area, lush, mature trees, green spaces and a jewel of a lake. The houses were expensive, with wide lawns, manicured gardens, luxury cars in the driveways. Nobody was at home at 344 Laurel Drive, a charming two-story traditional. The owner of the house, Dr. Greg Crocker, was an MD who’d made a career out of writing Oxy, fentanyl and Dilaudid prescriptions to anyone who claimed to have pain. Crocker and several cooperating pharmacists illegally dispensed thousands of pills. They were busted in a sting operation. Crocker served sixty months of a seventy-two-month sentence and was currently on parole. At the moment, he was doing his community service time at the free clinic over in Placer. His wife, Lulu, who wore her Fendi tobacco and black 100 percent mink coat whenever the temperature dropped below sixty degrees, was reduced to hawking overpriced makeup at Macy’s. The house was up for sale.
Harrison Pearce had informed Crowe about all this and much more. Pearce had been there several times on unannounced visits. He knew the layout of the house and the alarm code, and he’d given Crowe a key to the back door. As part of his restitution, Crocker paid the state a high seven-figure fine, lost most of his possessions, and had to sell the house. But hidden away were Lulu’s Fendi, a real Chagall, a seven-hundred-year-old samurai sword, a 1919 D Walking Liberty half-dollar worth nearly two hundred grand and a stamp collection worth double that. Crowe found them all, he was good at that. He wouldn’t tell Pearce about the haul. This time he’d keep everything. He kicked the door down from the outside, setting off the alarm and left.
The California Department of Probation and Parole was housed in a beige, featureless office building near the Capitol State Building. Crowe sat in reception, thinking, this is the last time. Crowe was on parole, not probation. People got the two mixed up. Probation was part of a sentence, an alternative to jail time. Serving, say, ninety days of supervised freedom for a first-time B&E instead of thirty days in jail. Parole was early release, a privilege that came with conditions because you were still the property of the California Department of Corrections. Things like regular meetings, urine tests, mandatory employment, an ankle monitor, restricted movement, no intoxicants or guns, and no hanging around with your fellow felons. Break the conditions, and you served out the rest of your sentence plus a little extra for being stupid.
Harrison Pearce was a devious, pockmarked, midlife asshole who wore short-sleeve white shirts and cheap ties. He had a creepy, self-satisfied smirk, like he’d peeked through a hole and saw you boning your aunt. That Crowe was a suspected serial killer amused him.
“I’ve seen all types of criminals,” Pearce said. Whenever he talked to Crowe he leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head, his feet up on the desk. “And you’re not the type.”
“Then what type am I?” Crowe asked.
“An ordinary thug. AMSAK is smart, clever, thinks ahead, and that’s definitely not you.” Pearce gave Crowe info about rich parolees like the Crockers. Crowe would break in and steal the valuables. Pearce would sell the loot and give Crowe a commission, never more than a few hundred dollars. If Crowe didn’t play along, he’d go back to the joint.
“The Crocker job is done,” Crowe said as he sat down.
“Good. I want to talk about the next job. Should be a good one.”
“Hold on. I want to talk about something else.”
Pearce huffed. “Sorry, my friend. I set the agenda here and I said we’re going to talk about—” It took a moment for Pearce to recognize his own voice. Crowe had his phone out and was playing a taped conve
rsation.
“I’m running the show, okay?” Pearce said on the recording. “You get what I pay you and nothing more, is that understood?” There were more clips of Pearce specifying names and dates and giving instructions about who to rob, how and when. Pearce put his feet down and cleared his throat. He shook his head sympathetically, like this was a big mistake.
“That was not a smart thing to do, my friend. I’ve dealt with a lot of jokers like you who think they can—”
“Shut up,” Crowe growled. “And if you call me friend again, I’ll tie you to that chair and beat you to death.” Pearce was the color of cornstarch.
“You’re the one who committed the robberies,” Pearce said, his voice rising. “Turn me in and you’ll get charged with all of them.”
“I was under duress. You weren’t. You’re a trusted employee of the government. If this comes out your whole life will turn to shit. Do I have to tell you about what happens to assholes like you in the joint?”
Pearce started to push back but deflated. “No, I guess you don’t.” Circles of sweat had appeared under his armpits. His tie looked too tight and his shirt looked too big.
Crowe said, “To the outside world, we’re exactly the way we are. Case officer and parolee. The terms of parole are the same on paper but now on I do what I want. As for the robberies? Starting today, you’re doing them.”
“What?” Pearce said. He looked like he’d swallowed a spider or a spoiled egg.
“I’ll sell the loot myself to the people I know,” Crowe went on. “You might get a cut. It depends on how I feel.” Crowe stood, put his arms in a Y and stretched. “I’m going out of town for a few days, and if for some reason somebody calls about me, you’re going to say what?”
“That you’re a model citizen,” Pearce said, staring off. “The best parolee ever.”
Crowe moved to the door.
“Come to my house and take this monitor off me—my friend. And do it fucking today.”
Chapter One
Rush Creek
Isaiah drove north on Interstate 5, out of LA, through the brown, brushy foothills of Southern California, housing developments on either side, their Spanish tile roofs like a field of umber Lego. Flocks of people moved out here despite the two-hour commute to LA. Nothing like affordable housing for 650 grand, but your own home was one of the few freedoms left in modern life. Twenty-five-hundred square feet to do anything you wanted.
Isaiah turned off the eight-lane 5 onto the two-lane 395, the towns smaller and farther apart, the foothills flattening into scrubby, monotonous desert. He’d been chased out of LA by a multitude of gangs and there was a bounty on his head. There were other reasons he’d fled too. He was exhausted, mentally and physically. His soul was bleeding. He didn’t want to be IQ anymore. He didn’t want to see any more suffering, injustice and cruelty. He didn’t want to hear any more victims sobbing and grieving or be around any more gangsters, killers, sociopaths and lunatics. He didn’t want to be someone who sought out the cesspool, swam in it, made a living from it and nearly drowned in the shit and stink and filth of it. He was done. There had to be something else for him somewhere. He got text messages and voice mails from Dodson, Deronda, TK, Mrs. Marquez, a number of ex-clients but not the one he wanted. He’d get back to them at some point. He also got threats from Manzo, Hugo, Ponlok and a variety of other haters and would-be bounty hunters.
The 395 gradually ascended, through Lone Pine, Independence, Big Pine and Bishop. Grace’s car performed well. The ’68 Mustang GT was over forty years old, but she’d lovingly restored it in memory of her dad. This would be the last car he’d ever own. He got another call from Dodson, and this time he picked up.
“Where the fuck are you, son?” Dodson demanded. “You got every G’d-up muthafucka in America lookin’ for your ass. You better be hidin’ up on Jupiter ’cuz there ain’t no place around here where you won’t get your damn throat cut. Are you listening to me?” Before Isaiah could answer Dodson went on. “And you know what else? Manzo knows me and you is tight so I got muthafuckas following my ass around. I hope them goddamn Cambodians don’t remember me. That’s all I need, buncha’ crazy niggas from TEC on my trail. You fuckin’ up my future, Isaiah. What if I want to go to Cambodia someday? You ever think of that? I’d have to get off the goddamn tour bus and walk my ass to the Philippines.”
“The Philippines are islands,” Isaiah said. He knew this was Dodson’s way of caring about him.
“You don’t think I know that? I can read a goddamn map and by the—”
“Would you shut up for a second? I’m on the road now, somewhere between Bishop and Lake Crowley.”
“That’s smart. Not too many gangstas are into fresh air. Where’re you going?”
“I don’t know. I’m making it up as I go along.”
“You gonna do the PI thing?”
“Not in this lifetime. I’m done with it,” Isaiah said. “Too much evil. Too much death.”
“I hear you,” Dodson said. “I was wondering when you was gonna get tired of dealing with criminals every day. You got potential, son. All kinds of other shit you could do that don’t involve getting killed going to the supermarket.”
“Have you heard from Grace?”
“No. Want me to reach out?” Dodson said. Isaiah thought a moment. Dodson could relay news to him, but news would be nothing but chest pain.
“No, that’s okay.”
“You coming back?” Dodson asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Ease on down the road, Q.”
“I’ll try.”
He drove on, climbing into the Sierra Nevadas. There were pine forests, spectacular views and cool, sweet-smelling air. It was a revelation. There were actually places in the world that weren’t all dirty streets, traffic noise and tall, ugly buildings. He could see blue sky and the chop on Lake Crowley and green ranchland dotted with cows and horses and sheep. He thought about Grace all the time. It went beyond missing her into some other category of loss and pain. They’d parted by mutual heart-wrenching consent. If they were together, she’d be risking her life, and she wasn’t going to live on the road. She was an artist. She needed a place where she could paint in peace and privacy.
Isaiah took a detour off the highway and around the June Lake Loop. He stopped at the roadside and walked down to Rush Creek. He was astounded. It was the kind of thing you see on postcards. Fresh, clear water flowing and riffling over mossy stones, sunlight shimmering off reeded pools and shadowed with overhanging trees, birds darting through the branches. A weathered picnic bench listed on the bank, inviting you to sit, read, fish or do nothing at all. He chose the latter. He sat down and did nothing. Isaiah. Did nothing. There was no one around, not even a passing car. The quiet and utter peace were dumbfounding.
For the first few minutes, he was tense, waiting for a guy with headphones to appear and tell him he was in the middle of a movie set. It didn’t happen. He watched water spiders skate in the shallows, swallows skimming and spiraling through a scattering of golden dust motes. After a while, he felt funny—well, not funny exactly. He felt—relaxed. He’d almost forgotten the word. He tested it, sitting there a long time, but the feeling persisted. His shoulders eased, his neck and back uncoiled. And then, with no warning or premeditation, he smiled, big and wide with a laugh behind it.
“I’ll be,” he said.
He got a room at the Aspen Lodge, a gradual feeling of dread bearing down on him as he walked through the door. He’d been okay until now, distracted by the newness of things. The flashbacks came in rapid succession, like a slideshow created just to terrorize him. He remembered Chinese gangsters beating him to the ground and Clarence Novelle hugging his dead girlfriend. He remembered the screams of the dying in the industrial zone and a white nationalist named Jenn shooting her boyfriend with an assault rifle. He remembered Flaco, a ten-year-old with a bullet hole in his skull, and a girl named Bridgette who’d been whipped by her pimp and his broth
er’s murderer, Seb Habimana, slashing at him with a cane made from a human tibia. He saw his brother, lying broken on the asphalt. He saw himself hung in a stress position wearing a hood soaked in hot sauce and knowing he was going to die. He saw himself hog-tied by the Starks and a Cambodian gangster named Guda, pushing his head underwater, and Gahigi, a refugee from the Rwanda genocide, aiming a gun at him and the giant pit bull named Goliath with its jaws at his throat—and knowing he was going to die.
He had PTSD. It had changed him, distorted him like a funhouse mirror, but nothing about it was fun. He was alternately depressed and anxious, he couldn’t take frustration, his temper was a land mine. He’d always told people who had the condition that they should seek help, that they couldn’t get through it alone. Yet here he was, going through it alone.
He was groggy but hit the road anyway, continuing on 395 to Indian Hills, climbing a windy mountain road to South Lake Tahoe, a ski village and gambling mecca. Randomly, he took the 185 north into Pumas County, drove for a few hours, he wasn’t keeping track. He reached a bridge that went over the Coronado River into Coronado Springs. It was a quaint, charming town. A main street of shops and brick office buildings, a Spanish-style city hall with a fountain and a courtyard. That seemed a good enough reason to stop, rest up, experiment with this relaxation thing. He got a clean, pleasant room with a kitchen at the Woodside Motor Lodge. He did his laundry, bought some groceries and scouted around.
Trim, nicely kept neighborhoods radiated from the town’s center, dwindling to scruffy houses, trailers and isolated commercial buildings, a lone shopping mall at its edge. Coronado Springs was neither big nor small, affluent nor depressed, with just enough traffic to know you were in the twenty-first century. The great outdoors was a short walk away. Everyone had a forest in their backyard.
Isaiah had four thousand dollars in a rainy-day account, a few hundred in cash and a credit card in his wallet. He phoned Tudor and told him to sell the house. He’d take less for cash and a quick sale. Tudor made it easy and bought the house himself. He always had an eye for a bargain. Isaiah didn’t worry about having too little money. He worried about not having cash when he needed it. He kept an emergency fund in his shoe. Under the left sole, there were three damp one-hundred-dollar bills.