Smoke

by Joe Ide

  “A serial killer.”

  “I’m not surprised by that either. It was only a question of time before you got mixed up with one of them crazy muthafuckas. How many of them are there?”

  “Just the one.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. I thought you might say a family of ’em or a serial killer basketball team, something like that. And while I’m thinkin’ on it, did it ever occur to you to leave wherever it is you’re at? Unless you’re tied to a radiator with a ball gag in your mouth, get your ass outta—shit, what am I thinking? You are tied to a radiator with a ball gag in your mouth.”

  “In a way, yeah.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Have you talked to Grace?” Dodson asked.

  “You know I can’t.”

  “I don’t know that at all. You gave up too soon and you know it. The both of you did. You broke up because you wanted to.”

  “That’s not true,” Isaiah protested. “Why would I want to do that?” Dodson had lost patience with his two friends. They needed each other like he needed Cherise.

  “You and Grace been alone your whole lives. It’s what you know. It’s what you’re comfortable with. You like it that way—no, let me finish. Are you telling me, the great IQ with his freakishly large brain couldn’t think of any other way to deal with his problems than leaving town? Don’t even try to explain. You know you can’t bullshit me.” Getting on Isaiah’s case was making Dodson feel better, but he didn’t know why.

  “Good luck tomorrow,” Isaiah said.

  “Change the subject if you want to, but the girl’s waiting for you to call. I know she is.”

  “I have to go.”

  “Ease on down the road, Q.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Chapter Nine

  Welcome to the Ghet-toe, Honey

  Deronda was shorthanded. She was working with Grace cleaning the food trucks; scouring the cutting boards, wiping down every surface, mopping, loading pots, pans and utensils into her car to be taken home and washed. Deronda didn’t mind doing this kind of work. The sweating and the back pain reminded her to keep her head straight and keep her ego in check. If you’re from the hood, there’s only one thing you know for certain. No matter how good your shit is, life can snatch it away from you in less than a blink. It reminded her of a nature program she’d watched with Janeel. The episode was about a green lizard that hunted with its tongue. There you were, a happy little cricket sipping nectar out of a rosebud, minding your own business, and flick, just like that the lizard’s stomach acid was reducing you to a wing and an eyeball.

  Deronda’s boyfriend, Robert, was an analyst at a tech company. You couldn’t hide anything from him. Give Robert the name of a pygmy in the rainforest and two days later he’d have a dossier on the little guy. What hut he was born in, which cologne he preferred, how many goats he traded for his ol’ lady and whether he liked his eggs over easy or sunny-side up. She’d asked him to dig up something on Bobby James, but he’d come up dry. The worst thing Robert could find was that Bobby had been arrested at a political rally for failing to disperse. There had to be some dirt on him somewhere, Deronda thought, and if it wasn’t on the internet, you had to go to the source.

  For the third night in a row, Deronda and Grace sat in Grace’s car, waiting for Bobby James to come out of his house. Who knows? Maybe he liked to flash truck drivers or poison cats. It was a desperate, futile thing to do. They’d been there for a couple of hours already, restless, ready to pack it in.

  “We should go,” Deronda said. “You should be painting.”

  “I don’t have the light and this is more important,” Grace said. Her eyes widened. “There he is!” Bobby emerged from the house, got in his dusty blue Prius and drove away. They followed him south on Long Beach Boulevard, turning east on Coast Avenue. A two-lane street and dark. The streetlights were far apart. Bobby approached the intersection of Coast and West Lantana, a notorious drug corner. Three young guys were out there, servicing their customers.

  “He’s not gonna stop, is he?” Deronda said eagerly. Bobby stopped. One of the guys looked in the passenger-side window, there was a brief exchange, and something changed hands. “Oh, my muthafuckin’ God,” Deronda said, delighted. “Bobby James just bought some heroin!” Grace laughed and they bumped fists.

  Bobby drove on, leading them to an address on Morrel. “The heart of darkness,” Deronda said. “The police send robots in there.” Three dying palm trees marked the entrance to a crumbling two-story apartment building, THE DOLPHIN in wrought-iron script hung over the vestibule. All the apartments faced the cement courtyard, empty except for a mangled bicycle and a washing machine with no door. They looked like casualties. At the center was a fountain filled with cement and assorted trash. Bobby had already disappeared into one of the apartments. Deronda and Grace stayed in the lightless vestibule. “So Bobby buys heroin and then he comes here for what?” Grace said. “Is he trading drugs for sex?”

  “Let’s hope so,” Deronda said.

  “How do we find out which apartment Bobby visits?” Grace said. “Wait until he comes out?” Deronda shook her head.

  “It’s dangerous, not for me, but for you.”

  “Should I wait in the car?”

  “You know what?” Deronda said. “I know that dude.” A man was sauntering up the street. He was wearing an orange velour tracksuit, a gold rope chain too thick to be real gold, and a leather Kangol cap.

  “Who is he?”

  “Spenser Witherspoon. They call him Spoon.” Deronda gave him a big smile. “Whassup, Spoon? How you been livin’, son?”

  “I been livin’ how I been livin’,” Spoon replied warily. Apparently, he wasn’t used to people being glad to see him. “Is that you, Deronda?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. You still a pimp?”

  “Why does everybody call me that?” Spoon said indignantly. “For your information, I’m a personal manager.”

  “I’m sorry, Spoon,” Deronda said quickly. “My mistake.”

  “Do you happen to be in need of my services? I have an opening in my organization that would be perfect for your royal bootiness.”

  “Not today, Spoon,” Deronda said. “You ever seen this dude?” She got out her phone. She showed him a photo from a Wells Fargo brochure. “His name is Bobby James. He’s trying to take my baby away.”

  “Yeah, I seen him around,” Spoon said. “Muthafucka lucky nobody’s robbed him yet.”

  “Who does he come here to see?” Deronda asked. Spoon hesitated, frowned, seemingly thoughtful. He wants something in return, she thought. “You heard about my food trucks?” she said.

  “Hell, yes!” Spoon said enthusiastically. “I been to the one in the Vons parking lot. Sheeit. I’d throw my mama out the window for a three piece and some collard greens.”

  “Tell you what,” Deronda said. “Tell me who Bobby visits and I’ll serve you up our Happy as a Muthafucka Meal. Whole chicken, collard greens, yams, a drink, mac and cheese and a double peach cobbler.”

  “Now you speaking words I understand,” Spoon said, rubbing his palms together. “Good thing you don’t want me to kill that muthafucka or he’d be dead right now.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s a ho named Sandra somethin’. She’s strung out. I don’t know how she’s making it. She ain’t on the stroll. She used to be a porn star. Called herself Wanda Wonder Lips. She was one of my favorites, but you can’t even recognize her now. She looks like a tree fell on her and she had to crawl her ass out. She’s in 207.”

  “Thank you, Spoon.”

  Grace said, “Okay, so Bobby’s girlfriend is a junkie and a prostitute, but we can’t tell that to a judge. We need evidence.”

  “Like what?” Deronda said. Grace had no answer.

  “May I offer a suggestion?” Spoon said. “What you need is some pictures, like the two of ’em buck nekkid and Sandra got a needle in her arm.”
>
  “You know what? That’s not a bad idea,” Grace said.

  Deronda had to get home. The babysitter was threatening to leave. Grace said she’d stay and take pictures.

  “Forget it. I told you it’s dangerous,” Deronda said.

  “It sho’ the fuck is,” Spoon agreed. He smiled. “May I offer another suggestion? Y’all could take pictures from my apartment. You could see Sandra’s place real good from my living room. However—” Spoon wanted another Happy as a Muthafucka Meal as compensation.

  “Take care of my homegirl, Spoon,” Deronda said. “Anything happens to her I’m coming back here with Michael Stokeley.”

  Spoon reacted with alarm. “Don’t bring that crazy muthafucka nowhere near me. You might as well bring some wild dogs in here and let ’em eat my ass to death.”

  Deronda left. Grace readied herself. She was going into a pimp’s apartment. Spoon opened the door. The place was dark, lit only by the TV. One of those survival shows was on, the kind where they give you spaghetti if you hit a coconut with a spear. She waited for her eyes to adjust. The room was close, warm, and smelled heavily of weed, alcohol and fabric softener. She wanted to open a window.

  “Let’s have a cocktail,” Spoon said. “You ever heard of Parks Punch?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Grace said.

  “Well, you’re in for a treat. Please, make yourself comfortable.” Spoon went into the galley kitchen and started getting things out of the fridge. The room came into clearer view. It was a studio, cramped and messy, a bed in the center of the room. Two women wearing housecoats were sitting on the sofa, watching the TV. One of them was large, like three beanbag chairs stacked on top of each other. The other looked anorexic. Thankfully, she wasn’t suffering from the condition, eating big handfuls of Doritos from a family-size bag and drinking a Big Gulp as big as a wine barrel.

  “Hello,” Grace said. “I’m Grace.”

  “Mary,” said the big one, her eyes never leaving the TV.

  “Vivian,” said the skinny one, her eyes never leaving the TV. Grace looked for somewhere to sit, but there was only the bed and the sofa. No chance she was sitting on the bed, with its twisted sheets, squished pillows and stained comforter.

  “You want to sit down?” Mary said.

  “If you don’t mind,” Grace said.

  “Sorry. Ain’t no room.”

  Spoon came back with a red plastic cup and a dubiously washed water glass. “You gonna love this.” He handed her the glass. Only the best for company. Grace noticed Spoon had a large garish ring on every finger and several bracelets on his wrists. She wondered how he washed his face. She took a sip of the drink and paused as flavors so grotesque filled her mouth she wanted to borrow Spoon’s toothbrush.

  “What’s in this?”

  “Vodka, Crystal Light lemonade powder, margarita mix and Coca-Cola,” Spoon said. “It’s good, ain’t it?”

  “Excellent.” She looked around for a planter to dump it in, but there were no plants except a bag of weed on the coffee table. She opened the drapes as if that might clear the taste out of her mouth. Sandra’s apartment was directly across the courtyard. Spoon said he had business and left. As soon as the door closed, Grace poured the Parks Punch down the sink. She stayed by the window, her phone at the ready. She thought about Isaiah. What he was doing, whether he was safe, if he’d found another girlfriend, if he’d found another life. She was on the verge of tears, something that happened a lot these days.

  The residents of the Dolphin came and went. Black and Latino rap fought for dominance. There were cooking smells. A little boy in a jumper pedaled around the courtyard on a tricycle. Why isn’t he in bed? Grace wondered. It was nearly ten o’clock. Three teenage girls in tight jeans and tank tops went past Spoon’s window.

  “No shit?” one girl said. “Treyvon shot the muthafucka? For what?”

  “Fool was Crip Violator,” the second girl said. “Shouldn’t have been where he was at.”

  “Where’s Treyvon now?”

  “At the police station, where you think?”

  A couple walked through the courtyard, a woman in a thin dress and flip-flops, the man, limping, oil splotches on his coveralls and no shirt. They were sullen, like they were mad at each other. A loud argument broke out in 212. A drunken man came wobbling out backward with his hands up.

  “Hey, come on, Carmen, don’t be like that.” A beer bottle went whistling past his head, shattering in the courtyard. “Okay, okay, I’m going, okay? I’m fucking going.”

  A cluster of gangstas emerged from a downstairs apartment, talking loud and laughing. White T-shirts, bling, expensive sneakers, sinewy arms, veins like subterranean tunnels, their brown skin nearly black with tats. There was a feral, unbound quality to their swagger. They were scary, Grace thought, but that was the point. The little boy in the jumper came running around a corner and nearly ran into them. He stopped, looked up, awed and terrified.

  “The fuck you lookin’ at?” a gangsta said.

  “Don’t just stand there, nigga,” a second gangsta said. “Get the fuck out the way.” The boy turned and ran. The gangstas laughed and disappeared into the vestibule.

  A minute later, a middle-aged man in a hoodie hurried up the steps, knocked on the door of a neighboring apartment. “Nicky, you in there?” he said. His voice was husky and furtive. “Nicky? You holding? Come on, man. I’m dying out here. Nicky? Don’t fuck around.” He cursed, hurried down the stairs, crossing the courtyard, passing an old man shuffling along. Layers of filthy clothing. No shoes, rags tied around his feet. He was having a heated conversation with himself.

  “No, sir, no, sir, that is not what happened!” he said, adamantly shaking his head. “You wrong, you wrong, you wrong. That’s not even close to the—why should I go?” He stopped, incensed, hands on his hips. “I’m staying right on this spot, you hear me? And I—am—not—moo—ving!” The little boy in the jumper returned. He had his arms out like wings and was flying around the courtyard. “Don’t do that,” the old man snapped. “That’s crazy behavior!”

  A couple of young men sat down on the edge of the fountain. They were in their twenties, athletic-looking, ubiquitous white T-shirts and baggy shorts. They passed a forty-ounce Miller back and forth and argued about Kyrie Irving, whoever that was. Two women came through the vestibule, probably hookers given how they were dressed, one of them holding her high heels like a briefcase. They were sharing a joint. They looked bone weary.

  “Park it over here, baby,” one of the young men said. “I got somethin’ good to show you.”

  “I already parked it there, Jerome,” one of the hookers replied. “And there wasn’t shit to see.” The man’s friend and the other hooker laughed.

  “You can’t play it off like that,” Jerome protested. “You don’t remember you was hollerin’ and digging your nails in my back?”

  “That’s what I do when I’m tryin’ escape somewhere,” the hooker said. More laughter.

  “Gimme a hit off that tree,” Jerome said, serious now, not liking her comebacks.

  “You better get your own tree, you broke-ass bitch.”

  Jerome raised his voice. “What’d you say?” The courtyard went still. The words and tone were a signal. Some shit was about to happen.

  “I said,” the hooker replied, “you better get your own tree, you broke-ass bitch.”

  “Damn, man,” Jerome’s friend said, falsetto. “You gonna let that ho talk to you like that? That’s disrespectful.”

  Jerome stood up, jaw clenched, forehead furrowed. People were coming out of their apartments to watch.

  Mary said, “Come on, I want to see this.” They went outside on the walkway. Jerome was in the hooker’s face, head cocked to one side, his fists curled.

  “Say that again, bitch,” he snarled.

  “I already said it twice. You deaf as well as stupid? Now get the fuck outta my way.” Smiles and chuckles around the iron railing. They were playing to the crowd. Nothing
to do now but watch the fight.

  The hooker tried brushing past Jerome, but quick as a hand clap, he slapped her hard, the sound harsh and ugly. Grace turned away, her hand over her mouth. Violence is gut-wrenching no matter what the degree. There were oooh shits and laughter from the crowd.

  “Yeah,” Jerome said, nodding, “You ain’t so roughshod now, are you, bitch?”

  The other hooker said, “Damn, Jerome, why you wanna do that?”

  At first, Grace thought the first hooker was crying, but it was a cover. She slipped her hand inside her beltline and whirled around with a box cutter. She slashed Jerome across the chest. “OH, SHIT!” he screamed. He staggered back, looking down at himself, hands clamped over his wound, a bloodstain expanding around it. The crowd was startled, shocked; some were even laughing but no one was surprised.

  The hooker paced back and forth. “Uh-huh! Uh-huh!” She shouted. “Whatchoo got to say now, nigga? Come on and hit me again!”

  The crowd was lit. Ooh shit, go on, Lucida! Cut that muthafucka to death! That’s what you get, Jerome, you punk-ass bitch!! I hope that nigga bleeds out, I swear to God I do. Hey, Jerome, you got health insurance? Hey, Jerome, can I have your TV?

  Grace looked at their faces. People were watching like it was nothing more than a close playoff game. No horror. No disgust. A few of the women were nodding with satisfaction as if Jerome, and anybody like Jerome, deserved to have his chest split open with a box cutter.

  The hooker and her friend had disappeared. There was terror in Jerome’s eyes, his mouth open, hands still over his wound, his clothes a mess of blood. He fell to his knees. “I need help. Somebody help me.” He sat back on his haunches and keeled over onto his side. A couple of people said they called 911. Jerome’s friend took off his T-shirt and held it against his wound saying, “Hold on, J, hang in there, man.”

  The crowd was drifting away, Jerome’s life or death not entertaining enough to keep their attention.