Smoke

by Joe Ide

  “I don’t know why you fightin’ it,” Dodson went on. “Y’all gonna be together sooner or later. Why not sooner? It’s like Cherise and me. You’d have to kill both of us to keep us apart.” Grace closed her eyes, took a breath and opened them again.

  “Give me some room, Dodson. I’m going to paint now.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Dumb and Dumber 5

  It was a little after ten at night. Deronda walked into the Dolphin courtyard, dragging her feet, pretending to be tired like everybody else in the place. Tired of your shitty job, tired of fighting with your old man, tired of your kids, tired of being broke, tired of struggling for every fucking thing you needed to live a decent life.

  She’d dressed down for the occasion. Old hoodie, old skinny jeans and old Converse All-Stars. She went up to the second floor and picked a spot on the railing, near Sandra’s apartment. She lit a joint. Something called Train Wreck she’d bought from Raphael. The smell was strong, like a skunk got shot in the ass with Michael Stokeley’s Mossberg. She puffed but didn’t inhale. She didn’t want to be high.

  People passing through the courtyard glanced at her, expressionless. She could have been chewing gum. She saw the bloodstains on the cement where Jerome had been cut. Grace had told her what happened. And there was the boy in the jumper, doing little hops and talking to himself. The jumper was stained and too small for him. There was something sticky on his face, lint in his hair. That could be Janeel, Deronda thought. One more accidental, overlooked child who might as well call up Vacaville and make his reservation now. It took less than five minutes for Sandra to open her door, the smell of weed an aphrodisiac.

  “Who are you?” Sandra said, warily.

  “Who are you?” Deronda said, without turning around.

  “Ain’t no need for attitude,” Sandra said, apologetically. “I was just askin’.” She came out on the walkway, leaned against the railing. She sneezed, found a tissue in the sleeve of her too-big sweater and wiped her nose.

  “You live here?”

  “Visiting my cousin, Jerome,” Deronda said. “A fool if there ever was one.”

  “You know he got cut up, right?”

  “Yeah, and everybody in the family is wondering why it took so long.” Without looking, Deronda held out the joint. Sandra took it, her hand shaking.

  “Thanks, that’s real nice of you.” She sucked in a monumental hit, held it and blew it out again.

  “What’s your name?” Deronda said.

  “Sandra. You?”

  “Tiana,” Deronda said. She didn’t want her name getting back to Bobby. They took turns with the joint. Deronda took a sidelong glance. A junkie, no doubt. Heavy-lidded eyes, gaunt cheeks, it was seventy-five degrees and the girl’s wearing a sweater and hugging herself. Antsy too, shifting her weight around like her clothes had hair in them. She sneezed a second time. Her nose was running, and there was a light sheen of sweat on her face. That’s how it goes, Deronda thought, hot-cold, hot-cold.

  “Where you from?” Sandra said.

  “Lawndale.”

  “Is it nice there?”

  “Not the part I’m from. Ain’t no better than here.”

  “You got a job or something?” Sandra asked.

  “Stripper,” Deronda answered.

  Sandra smiled. “Yeah? Where?”

  “The Kandy Kane. Man, it’s fucked up over there. Offstage fees is high, extras in the VIP rooms, dressing room ain’t never clean and too many gawkers, cheap-ass muthafuckas. I hate them table dances, didn’t you? Trying to balance yourself in them heels, a nigga lookin’ up at your business and eatin’ pizza at the same time.”

  “I worked at the Wild Child, over in Carson?” Sandra said. She smiled, looking back in time. “Yeah, I was fine too. I wasn’t nothing like this. I had me some titties, girl, and I could daaaance. Did all kinds of pole tricks too. Muthafuckas at the tip rail be hollerin’ jack, throwin’ that money at me, niggas wouldn’t even sit down!” She laughed. Deronda laughed too, remembering the feeling. They were silent a few moments, the memories fading into the fucked-up present.

  “Damn, I’m bored,” Deronda said. “I don’t know nobody and got nowhere to go. You got somethin’ goin’ on?”

  “I wish I could help you, but I got something to do.”

  “Yeah, it’s cool. Maybe I’ll see you around.” She gave Sandra the joint. “Keep it.” She went down the stairs and crossed the courtyard. She glanced back. Sandra was holding the joint, puzzled, as if she’d never gotten something free before.

  “Nice meeting you, Tiana,” she said.

  “Yeah. You too.”

  Deronda went to the car, a junker she’d borrowed from TK. No chance she was parking her Lexus around here. She’d hoped to get more personal with Sandra and talk about Bobby James, but there was no way in. She was banking on Sandra’s habit; the chills, the restlessness, the sneezing, the sweat, were all signs it was “nighttime,” what the addicts call withdrawal.

  It was right after high school. Deronda had been living with Dodson in Isaiah’s apartment. Isaiah was weird now, but even more back then, obsessed with finding his brother’s killer and ignoring everything else. Isaiah and Dodson had their run as the Battering Ram Bandits, then a whole bunch of other shit happened, and Dodson kicked her to the curb.

  As a parting gift, he gave her five thousand dollars and sent her on her way. That hurt. It would’ve almost been better if he’d given her nothing. Almost. She loved Dodson, at least she thought so at the time. To this day, she felt a little twinge when she saw him with Cherise. The breakup taught her a lesson though. Love wasn’t heaven. Love was Training Day. Love toughened your ass up for the shit to come.

  Her reaction to the breakup was to party and go through boyfriends like regular meals. They were a blur, but Melvin Mitchell was a standout and not in a good way. He looked and acted normal, but he was a dedicated junkie. Heroin was always around. Deronda dibbed and dabbed. She snorted lines, chased the dragon around the block, and at Melvin’s insistence, she shot up three times. That was her limit. Then it was four. Then five. Maybe more. She lost track. Then Melvin was arrested and there was no more dope. He was the one who scored. She had no idea from who or where. No big deal, she thought. She didn’t need dope to live. What was all this addiction bullshit about anyway? And then she got the chills and the sweats and the runny nose and everything ached and she couldn’t stand being in her own skin. You were nothing but want, nothing but need. There was no discussion. You weren’t thinking about quitting or other drugs or if it was worth the risk hitting the street and looking for a dealer. You were fucking starving. That was what it was like; famine in Africa and you were one of those ashy, drawn-out faces with horses’ teeth and bones showing through your skin. It was survival, son. You see a rat, you eat the rat. All you had to do was find the rat in the first fucking place and you were cool.

  Deronda went out and scored, not as hard as she thought. Long Beach was the biggest port on the West Coast and heroin was smuggled in by the megaton. Cooking was a problem. Melvin had done all that rigmarole, tying off your arm, doing the filter and the spoon, heating the shit up, et cetera fucking et cetera. He even did the injecting. It wasn’t something you could practice, and it was hard to do when your hands were shaking. She fucked up a vein or two before she actually fixed. The shot knocked her out. Like out. Maybe she took too much, she didn’t know.

  Nona woke her up, they were roommates then. She was groggy, half-conscious. Two other girls were there too. Her cousin, Sheila, and Nona’s sister, Katrice. They weren’t sympathetic or even worried. They were pissed off. They screamed at her, telling her she was a stupid bitch and what the fuck was wrong with her and did she want to die and they would kill Melvin as soon as he got out of County. Nona picked up the tiny envelope and shook it. There was a little bit left. “I’m flushing this down the toilet.”

  “The fuck you are,” Deronda said. She got up off the couch and Nona hit her. Hit. Her. W
ith a closed fist. And then all three girls beat on her until she was crying and curled up on the floor. Then they took her clothes off, stuck her in a cold shower, dried her off, dressed her in a housecoat and put her to bed. It was a cold but brief turkey. One of the girls stayed with her 24/7. Mostly Nona. Brought her soup and saltines, the only things she could keep down, rolled her joints, took her to the bathroom to throw up. Love Nona. Love that girl to death.

  Deronda sat in the car, wishing she hadn’t given the joint to Sandra. It was a chilly night for LA. She wanted to turn on the heat, but a parked car with no lights and the engine running was asking for some shit to happen.

  Sandra came out of the Dolphin in the same baggy sweater, looking frantic and talking on her phone. She hurried south and turned onto Argento. Deronda got out of the car and followed her. There were bad parts of East Long Beach and there were really bad parts, and this was one of them. There was only one streetlight every two or three blocks, the street itself a fucked-up stretch of burglar bars, security gates, gang graffiti and overflowing dumpsters, more trash and broken glass than asphalt. Sandra arrived at a loading dock, lit by a yellow floodlight. A couple of junkies were camped out there, two zombies with sores on their faces, clothes so dirty they could walk around by themselves. They mumbled and shrugged and shook their heads. Sandra cursed and hurried away. She met another junkie in front of a liquor store who had no answers either. She stamped her foot, turned in a circle and covered her face with her hands. She cried for a minute and got on the phone again.

  “Come on, Luis, pick up. It’s Sandra,” she said. “Please pick up. PLEASE!” Luis didn’t pick up. Deronda followed her to a building that was almost identical to the Dolphin, except there was no fountain. Sandra disappeared through the vestibule, and by the time Deronda caught up, Sandra wasn’t there. No way to tell which apartment she’d gone in. Deronda waited. Like music in a movie, an argument faded up. A man and a woman. First-floor apartment, on the other side of the courtyard. Deronda got closer. The woman was Sandra. The man was screaming. She was hysterical. Pleading, explaining, crying.

  “I’m sorry,” Sandra sobbed. “I’m really sorry, but I couldn’t think of nobody else.”

  “So you come to me?” the man said. “You already owe me money, you stupid fucking puta!”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please, please, Luis. Gimme a dime bag—shit gimme a deuce, that’s all. I’ll bring you the money tomorrow. I swear I will!”

  “No, you won’t, you fucking liar!”

  “Come on, Luis, I’ll suck your dick. I’ll do it real good!”

  “Get out!”

  “Please, Luis! It’s only a deuce!” There was a sound Deronda knew well. Knuckles hitting flesh and bone. Sandra screamed. Furniture was being thrown aside. He was chasing her. Deronda pounded on the door.

  “Sandra? Sandra, are you all right? Come on outta there!” A moment later, the door swung open. Luis was a short, fierce motherfucker in boxer shorts; bald, meth eyes, muscled up and pouring sweat.

  He leaned into Deronda and shouted in her face, “Who the fuck are you?” He was rocking his head from side to side, fists bunched up.

  “I’m her friend,” Deronda said.

  “Oh, you’re her friend? Her friend?” he screamed, spit flying out of his mouth. “Her fucking FRIIEEENDD?” Deronda didn’t move, kept her face calm, her shoulders relaxed, her hands stuck in her front pockets. If you don’t want to get hit, don’t look hostile and don’t look like you’re expecting it. One more lesson she’d learned the hard way.

  “How much does Sandra owe you?” she said.

  “Sixty!” Sandra blurted out.

  “Seventy-five or she stays here with me,” Luis said.

  Deronda brought some folded cash out of her back pocket. “This is a hundred and thirty, something like that. Here. Take it. Give her a twenty-dollar bag, and we’ll get the fuck outta here.”

  Deronda refused to let Sandra fix in the car, and they drove back to the Dolphin. Sandra had her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms inside her sweater. She was shivering like she’d just been rescued from an ice floe.

  “You always carry that much cash?” she said.

  “I do if I had a good night at the strip club,” Deronda said.

  “I ’preciate what you did, but was you following me?”

  “No,” Deronda said. “I was gonna get something to eat and I saw you go in there, thought I’d holla at you.” That was enough curiosity for Sandra. She closed her eyes, bowed her head and breathed in slow deep breaths.

  Sandra hustled into her apartment. Twenty dollars bought you a sandy-colored pebble of Mexican brown. Heroin was getting more popular these days. Kids were afraid of meth and crack, and opioids were too expensive. As soon as Sandra got out her works, she went from a sweaty malaria victim to somebody working an assembly line. Quickly, efficiently, she prepared the fix. Deronda turned away, she didn’t watch Sandra search for a vein, desperately inspecting her arms, hands, feet. Melvin had a friend who shot up in his groin, hit the femoral artery and died a minute later. Melvin had another friend who shot up in the neck and lost his ability to speak. As the heroin was heated, there was that nasty vinegar smell mixed with the musty air. Deronda wanted to leave.

  Sandra was mumbling, “Please, please, please, please.” Please what? Deronda wondered. Please work faster? Please be good dope? Please not be mixed with fentanyl and kill me? Deronda turned around. Sandra was leaning back on the sofa, her eyes closed, her body relaxed. She wasn’t high, really. For a junkie like her, it was about not being sick.

  Deronda looked around and was sorry she did. Imagine being someplace where there was no order of any kind. Shit piled around you without regard to what it was or where it should be or whether it was washed, unwashed or needed to be refrigerated. And there in the middle of it was a soul so lost, so ravaged, so hopelessly messed up you wanted to cry. Deronda couldn’t stand it anymore. “Sandra? I’m gonna leave you my number, okay? You want to get together, call me.” Deronda got a pen out of her bag, wrote her number and the name Tiana on a napkin. She turned for the door. She saw a shadow move past the front window. Then a knock and a voice.

  “Sandra? Open up. It’s me. Bobby.”

  “Oh, shit,” Deronda whispered.

  “Sandra,” Bobby said. “Don’t make me stand out here.”

  It was a studio apartment, like Spoon’s. There was a galley kitchen separated from the living room by a short counter. Hide behind it? No, Bobby might want a drink. The bathroom? No, Bobby might take a piss. The closet had no door and there was no room under the bed.

  “Sandra,” Bobby said, knocking louder. “Hurry up, will you?” Sandra opened her eyes extra wide and blinked a few times, her head reeling like a drunk waking up in a chair. Deronda was scared. She’d just bought heroin for Bobby’s drug-addicted, prostitute girlfriend. That wouldn’t sound too good in court. She had to do something.

  “Goddammit,” Bobby yelled. “Open the fucking door!” Sandra got up and let him in. “Christ. What took you so long?”

  “I went as fast as I could,” she said. “And don’t be startin’ up on me. I don’t want to hear that shit no more.”

  Deronda couldn’t see anything. She was standing behind the curtains. They weren’t floor length, her calves down to her shoes exposed. It was like Dumb and Dumber 5 starring a black girl from the hood. In her favor, it was dark, the only light coming from the TV. Her best camouflage was probably the mess. Why would a pair of Converse All-Stars be any more noticeable than all the other shit piled everywhere?

  It sounded like Bobby had a shopping bag. He set it down somewhere. “Have you been seeing johns?”

  “No. And even if I did it wouldn’t be none of your damn business.”

  “Well, don’t, that’s what the money is for. Do you want something to eat?” He started emptying the bag.

  “No, I ain’t hungry. Did you bring the dope?”

  Bobby groaned. “Can’t you clea
n this place up? I’ll pay someone to do it.”

  “No, I told you fifty times already, I don’t want nobody messing with my stuff. I don’t even know why you come here. You say the same things every time.”

  “I’ve gotta stop this,” Bobby said, mostly to himself. “It’s ridiculous. I don’t know why I do it.”

  “You do it cuz you lovvvve me,” Sandra said, mockingly.

  “No, I don’t love this you,” Bobby said. “I love the other one. The one that was beautiful and smart and—”

  “Don’t be talkin’ ’bout all that. The only one you got is the one sittin’ here. You don’t like it you can take your love and get the hell out my apartment.”

  “And if I do, you’ll die,” Bobby replied.

  “Most likely.” Sandra was disdainful, skeptical, like when you’re challenging somebody to put up or shut up. “What y’all gonna do then? Come to the funeral? Throw some dirt on my grave?”

  “I can’t deal when you’re like this,” Bobby said, a tremble in his voice.

  “You don’t have to deal with nothin’,” Sandra said. “You can take your ass back to your office and go fuck yourself.”

  If there was room for Deronda to shake her head, she would have. Here’s a miserable-ass junkie, deep in need and messed up beyond measure, telling her baby daddy to go fuck himself. Goes to show you. Your pride might be gone forever, but you’d fake it when you had to.

  “Christ!” Bobby shouted. “Can’t we get some air in here?” He charged over to the window. Deronda was behind the left curtain. Shit, I’m so busted! Bobby grabbed the right one and yanked it open. He was two feet away. If he looked sideways, she was done. Your mommy messed up, Janeel. She’s very, very sorry.

  “Close that!” Sandra snapped. “That window don’t open no way.” Bobby cursed, closed the curtain and moved away. Deronda took a deep silent breath and tried to generate some moisture in her mouth.

  “Wait a minute,” Sandra said. “What happened to Tiana? She was here a minute ago.”