by Joe Ide
Janeel was still the engine of her life. He was in a private kindergarten and at the top of his class. At least that’s what Deronda thought. He was the best-looking by far. By comparison, the other kids looked like Beanie Babies or apple head dolls. Janeel definitely had the most style. A low fade, Kendrick Lamar T-shirt, neon-green Nike 720s, size 2C, and Armani Junior distressed jeans. Deronda believed he was the smartest kid there but it was hard to tell when the class was playing with alphabet blocks. The teacher didn’t appreciate Janeel singing “Let’s Get It On,” while the other kids were singing “I’m a Little Teapot.” Let her complain, Deronda thought. She’d get hip to it sooner or later.
Janeel was also Deronda’s biggest problem. She was driving home from work one night and got a call from a stranger named Bobby James. Years back, when she was president of the American Hoes for Freedom Association, she’d had sex with him in a bathroom stall at an underground club in Compton. She might never have heard from him again. But then an article about her and the food truck business appeared in LA Magazine. There was a photo of her and Janeel. Bobby said they looked like twins. He also knew a lot of details about that night in the bathroom stall. He claimed to be Janeel’s father, but worse than that? He wanted custody.
When she ended the call, she nearly drove into a fire hydrant. This bitch-ass, no-conscience motherfucker wants custody? Of her baby? He had no idea of the trouble he’d started or the trouble he was in. She’d burn up the food trucks and move to Zimbabwe before she’d let that happen. Her first thought was having Bobby killed.
Deronda had recently made friends with Michael Stokeley, former enforcer of the Crip Violators and the scariest muthafucka in the hood. Stokeley’s weapon of choice was a sawed-off Mossberg riot gun. Dodson said you could point that thing up at the sky and still hit the nigga you was aiming at. Stokeley’s aunt, Odeal Woodson, had fallen into a depression after her husband died. She had been a lively, capable woman who was always cheerful and ready to help. She was active in the church, volunteered at the food bank and was a docent at the hospital. Now she was wasting away in an old folks’ home. Reverend Arnall visited Odeal, saw her situation and called Deronda. Deronda gave Odeal a job at one of the food trucks. At the time, she had no idea Odeal and Stokeley were related. Almost overnight, the seventy-five-year-old dispirited senior citizen became a happy clam. Doing something useful and getting a paycheck did wonders for her health and spirit. She was one of Deronda’s best workers.
One afternoon, Stokeley stopped Deronda on the street. He didn’t have a shirt on. He looked like Popeye’s forearms had taken over the rest of his body, assuming Popeye had four or five bullet wounds and jailhouse tats everywhere but the bottom of his feet. Deronda started fumbling in her bag for money, but Stokeley said, “Naw, naw, it ain’t about that. Y’all helped my auntie out. She was the only one in my life that treated me good. You need something, you need anything, hit me up.” Maybe she’d ask Stokeley to fire the Mossberg into Bobby’s forehead and that sorry motherfucker could take custody of his tombstone. She seriously considered the idea for an hour or so until she stopped at a bar, had a double Royal Crown Reserve, no ice.
When she got home, Grace said Janeel was asleep. Deronda looked at the little miracle for a long time and thanked him like she did every day. If it wasn’t for him, she wouldn’t have worked so hard, fought so hard and struggled so hard to elevate herself from Miss Ho of the Universe to a successful businesswoman. Bobby James, she decided, wasn’t gonna get shit.
Deronda was sitting in a booth at the Coffee Cup, waiting for him. Bobby was fifteen minutes late. He was trying to make her sweat, but that wasn’t happening. She could just see him. One more street thug with his baggy shorts, white T-shirt, a cap with a C on it, a gold chain or two and DMX’s attitude. Yes, muthafucka, let’s get up in front of a judge and see what’s what. You can explain how you got your GED in San Quentin makin’ twenty cents an hour stamping out license plates, and I’ll drive my fleet of food trucks through the courtroom and show him my bank statements. The judge ain’t giving you custody of an apple pie.
There was almost nothing about Bobby on the internet except some old stuff from high school and family pictures. No social media either. A wise move, Deronda thought. What was he going to post? Pictures of his bong collection? Cellblock D’s ten-year reunion? An instructional video on how to make a shank out of a plastic cup? Bring it to me, homeboy. Deronda’s got something for you.
A man sat down across from her and smiled. “Who are you?” she said.
“I’m Bobby James.”
“You are?”
Bobby was wearing a dark gray business suit, a white shirt and a red tie. His hair was short, his nails were clean, and he looked a little like Drake. If Deronda didn’t have a boyfriend, she might have let Bobby buy her a drink. He had some game; cool, confident, relaxed, his arm draped along the top of the booth.
“Are you surprised?” he said.
“Nigga, please,” Deronda scoffed. “You couldn’t surprise me if you had a gun, a roll of duct tape and the key to my house.” But she was surprised. Very surprised.
“I’ve cleaned myself up since the last time I saw you. I have a degree in finance, I work at Wells Fargo and by the way? I don’t have a criminal record.”
“Well good for you. Now what the fuck do you want?”
“I want joint custody.”
“Joint custody, my big brown ass,” Deronda said with a snort. “You can’t show up after all this time and ask for custody.”
“That’s because I lost track of you,” Bobby replied. “I barely knew your name and after that night, I never saw you again. What was I supposed to do? Go back to that bathroom and wait for you? I had no idea I had a son until I saw that article in LA Magazine.”
“How do you know he’s your son? You can’t tell no resemblance with a four-year-old child. You better have some DNA in your wallet.”
Bobby yawned and covered his mouth with his hand. “I’m taking you to court. I’m Janeel’s natural father, and a paternity test will prove that. My brother-in-law is an attorney and we’ll be serving you with papers very soon.”
“Serve ’em on up,” Deronda retorted. “I hope those papers are as soft as Charmin.” Something was wrong, she thought, something was underneath. Bobby had no idea Janeel was his son. This wasn’t his main play. He had a hole card. Deronda sighed wearily. “Look, I’m busy. Could we cut to the chase? What is it you want, Bobby James?”
“I told you what I want. Joint custody.”
“You said that. But what do you want?” She met his smug gaze with a steely one.
“Half the business,” he said.
“Only half?” She laughed. “You have lost your fucked-up mind, Bobby James. I’m not giving you half a baloney sandwich let alone half of a business you had nothing to do with.”
“If we go to court, things will come out that could ruin your reputation.” Bobby went into his briefcase and found a thick file folder. He brought out two photographs. The first was an ad for a chain of hamburger restaurants. The centerpiece was a giant triple-decker burger dripping burger juice. Deronda was standing next to it looking back over her shoulder. She was grinning seductively, her world-famous behind gleaming and split down the middle by a Day-Glo-pink bikini. The caption said:
THE BIG MEATY BURGER
LA’s Juiciest
You Know You Want Some
Before Deronda could reply, Bobby shoved another photo at her. It was an ad for a strip joint called the Kandy Kane. It said QUEEN BOOTY BOOTY APPEARING THIS WEEKEND! The picture showed her wearing a thong with her hands over her tits, eager men throwing dollar bills at her.
Deronda waved her hand dismissively. “Ain’t no judge gonna care about shit that happened ten or twelve years ago. Ruin my reputation with who? People who eat fried chicken?”
Bobby’s gaze got steely too. “No. I mean ruin your reputation with Janeel.” Deronda went still. She felt like a drain had ope
ned and emptied out her insides. “Want to see more?” he said. He gave her more photos. Snapshots, freeze frames and old social media. Deronda, posing with some gangstas, everybody wearing colors and throwing up signs. Deronda in a tiny dress, bleary-eyed, holding a joint in one hand and a bottle of Chivas in the other. Deronda passed out on the floor, her dress hiked up to her panties, I’M A WHORE and GOOD PUSSY HERE written on her face with a Sharpie. A shot of her fighting with another girl, wild-eyed and snarling, throwing a haymaker, her blouse torn. Deronda naked from the waist up, two handguns held across her chest like she was pledging allegiance to the NRA. On her twenty-first birthday she’d been arrested for DUI. Her mugshot was pitiful, like she’d been caught sleeping in a landfill. There were more but Deronda stopped looking.
“Be hard on a kid,” Bobby said with mock sadness. “Learning these kinds of things about his mother. It might permanently damage the relationship, maybe even cause a break.” He made a frown that was actually a smile. “I just had a terrible thought. What if things like this were circulated around the neighborhood? I don’t even like to think about it. Kids can be so cruel. The poor boy would never hear the end of it.” Bobby picked up the Kandy Kane ad, looked at it and sighed. “Queen Booty Booty. They’d stick this on his lunchbox, his locker, your front door and probably on the food trucks too. Sometimes you wish there was no such thing as Facebook. This will follow him forever and could even ruin his life. What a shame. What a tragedy.”
A sudden calm had come over Deronda. An acceptance. War had been declared so stop fussing and arm yourself.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” he said.
In a quiet, even voice, Deronda said, “I’m gonna fuck you up, Bobby James.”
He raised his eyebrows and smirked. “Are you threatening me with bodily harm?”
In the same voice, she said, “I’m gonna come down on you so hard they’ll have to go frackin’ just to find your ass. You go public with any of this, and I won’t do nothin’ with my food trucks except run your ass over.”
“Is that so?” he said, stifling a yawn.
“You think you know me but you don’t,” she said in a casual way. “I will fight for my son in ways a scalawag like you can’t even imagine.” Her eyes narrowed into razor blades, her voice got low and ugly. “Here’s my lifetime guarantee, muthafucka. If my shit comes apart, I’ll pop you like a tick on a broke-dick dog. You’ll have a dedicated enemy forever. Are you hearing me, Bobby James? I’m talkin’ forever. You won’t go nowhere, do anything or be with somebody without these eyes in your rearview mirror. I’d think on that if I was you.” A spark of fear flashed across Bobby’s face but he covered it with a smile.
He slid the file over to her. “You can keep this. See you in court.”
Chapter Four
Blue Hill
Magnus Vestergard, aka Skip Hanson, had just been released from the Solano State Correctional Facility for Men, located in the nowhere town of Vacaville, California. He’d been sentenced to six years for assault with a deadly weapon. “Good conduct” knocked it down to five years and 1.2 months. As he took his first steps outside the prison walls, he didn’t revel in his freedom, lust for a Quarter Pounder or even a woman. The anger he’d been holding back made his blood congeal and his head spin with hate.
The prison bus took him to Sacramento. From there he took the train to Union Station in LA. Then another bus to Bus Stop G in Long Beach. He got off, hefted on his backpack and walked to the Crest Motel on Long Beach Boulevard, stopping once for beer, Cheez-Its and Neapolitan ice cream. The room reminded him of his prison cell except it smelled of Lysol and roach powder instead of bleach and human stink. He took a shower and lay on the bed naked, content with being clean. He ate his snacks, watched TV and rested until the next day. He bought a junker from an old man at a wrecking yard. A Nissan Rogue with a bashed-in side, a missing fender and a bent frame. The old man said it ran fine, just keep your hand on the steering wheel.
Skip took interconnecting freeways through Downey, Rancho Cucamonga, Hesperia and Victorville. He was in the desert now, everything familiar. The brown brush, brown foothills and billboards for strip clubs. He opened the window and breathed in the smells of dirt and sage. He was starting to get excited but it didn’t offset the dread. He reached Fergus. A one-block town with two gas stations, a motel and a diner. He was afraid it wouldn’t be there, the dirt road and the sign that said MUNICIPAL LANDFILL 6 MILES. He drove slowly, gravel clattering against the undercarriage, dust clouding the windshield. He wanted to hurry. At the same time, he hoped he’d never get there.
He came around a bend and there it was. The wooden sign nailed to a dead tree, partially hidden by a layer of crud. BLUE HILL PIT BULLS in dripping white letters. Skip couldn’t pay the property taxes and the state had claimed the place. But the state had no interest in a rectangle of dried-out acreage no different than the desert around it. Time, weather, and vandals had beaten the house into a ruin. The front door was missing, all the windows busted out.
Skip got out of the car and went inside. Everything was either broken, smashed or missing. Skip wondered if cobwebs could be used for something useful, knitted into scarves or fermented into alcohol. He bypassed the other rooms and went through the hall to the back door.
He stood on the stoop and looked at what had once been his private world, his kingdom. The pit bulls he’d bred here were his disciples, his children, and the only things he’d ever loved that loved him back. There was the exercise yard with a high chain-link fence he’d built himself. One side was flopped over, nearly touching the ground, the other three leaning in different directions. He remembered the dogs playing, sleeping, scrapping, digging holes, mewling and yapping, eager for his company. For his touch.
He went into the barn. He ducked his way through a jungle of cobwebs and looked up at the hole in the roof. The shelves were broken, wallboards missing, the floor a mess of stagnant water and muck. The kennels were wrecked, gates missing, the wood full of termites and stained with water damage. He’d made these himself too. He walked past them, remembering the dogs who had lived in them. Atilla, Butch, Reaper, Warrior, fifteen in all, counting Goliath.
Goliath’s kennel was at the end and twice as big as the others. Goliath. His champion. Skip’s monument to himself. It took years of breeding to create him, a pit bull as big as a Shetland pony and vicious enough to eat the pony and still be hungry. He loved that dog most of all. It was the only thing that could make him cry.
Skip saw a gleam of something under the dirt and dried dog shit. It was Goliath’s spiked collar, rusted and oxidized. He wrapped it around his neck and left the barn. He walked north into the desert. It was cooling off, the smells gaining density, the air crisper. The sun was going down, the light changing the brown hills blue. Skip had hunted here with his dogs, moving through the brush like fanged commandos scaring up birds and critters, Skip blasting them to shit with an assault rifle, the dogs fighting over the remains.
Skip arrived at the boulder shaped like a turtle. He went left and saw the flat rocks he used as stepping-stones so he wouldn’t leave footprints. For old times’ sake, he hopped from one to the other until he reached the special pile of boulders. There was no reason for anyone to have moved them, but he was surprised they were still there. The tangle of thorny acacia branches that guarded the hollow were gone.
Risking a rattlesnake bite, Skip got down on his belly, put his hand in the hollow and reached as far as he could. He grabbed the waterproof trunk by a side handle and dragged it out. Nobody but the dogs knew anything about his arsenal. He opened the trunk and laughed. There were guns wrapped in heavy plastic and metal boxes that held ammo, everything as before. Underneath the sniper rifle was seven thousand dollars in a Ziploc bag. Money he’d saved from his hitman jobs. He chose his favorite firearm. The Colt Delta Elite. It shot a 10mm FBI load that had a flatter trajectory and longer range than a 9mm. That’s all he needed for now.
He went back t
o his car, got in and sat there a moment. It was dark now, the house held in the headlight beams. With the door missing and the windows gone, it looked hollow and bleached, like a skull left in the sand. The wind whipped Skip’s anger into a dust devil that swirled and hissed through the dry brush. He’d come back here one day. He’d come back and rebuild the place and get new dogs and everything would be the same.
He returned to the motel, put the gun in the wastebasket and covered it with fast-food wrappers. They didn’t clean the rooms here until you left. He scrubbed the dog collar with a toilet brush until it was shiny again. He put the collar on and looked at himself in the mirror. He’d always looked boyish but not anymore. Like loss, prison sped up your birthdays. He hated that too. One day you wake up and everything you’d ever done in your life was right there on your face. All your fuckups, hard times and humiliation, drawn in lines and creases and the light that was no longer in your eyes.
Skip knew he wouldn’t live to old age. It was one of the reasons he was always anxious, always antsy, always in a hurry to get it done before death did him in. The dog collar was like a necklace of Goliath’s teeth. Skip ran his fingers over the tips and thought about Isaiah. He’d lost five years of his life because of Q Fuck. He’d kill that bastard slowly and look at him while he did it. He’d leave the collar around his head like Jesus and his crown of thorns, hung limp and bleeding on the cross.
Chapter Five
Eyes Like a Komodo Dragon
What would you do first?” Dickie asked.
“If I got released?” Billy said. “I’d get back to my investigation. Who knows what’s happened by now?”
“I don’t know what I’d do,” Dickie said ruefully. “It’s a nightmare out there.”