Smoke

by Joe Ide

  Grace and Deronda were on a slope, hidden in a copse of trees. They saw Gilberto entering the park, carrying a briefcase and looking around distastefully. Stylistically, he had discarded his tax attorney look for Ralph Lauren casual. A three-button herringbone sport coat, an off-white shirt under an orange cable-knit sweater, chinos, deck shoes and zany-colored socks.

  “Oh, my muthafuckin’ God,” Deronda said, “He might as well wear a sign that says, will somebody please kick my ass and take my money?”

  “Thank you so much for coming,” Grace said as Gilberto approached. “It’s very nice of you to take the time.” She’d had to beg, plead and use Isaiah’s name before he agreed.

  “I’ve never been to this park and now I see why,” he said. He looked like he smelled a dead fish in his pocket.

  “Gilberto Cervantes, this is Deronda Simmons.”

  They shook hands, their fingers barely touching. They were two completely different species, Grace thought. Like a penguin meeting a kangaroo.

  “I’m sorry this is happening to you, Deronda,” Gilberto said. “This Bobby James character is an absolute scoundrel! I haven’t been so outraged since the Pizza King was nominated for the Federal Reserve Board.”

  Deronda looked at Grace. “It’s a long story,” Grace said.

  Gilberto eyed the drone skeptically. “I see. A Phantom 4 Professional Quadcopter. A decent unit, I suppose.” He fussed with it awhile and put the app on the iPad he carried in his briefcase.

  “I appreciate you doing this, Gilbert,” Deronda said.

  Gilberto stiffened. “It’s Gilberto. Never Gilbert.”

  Gilberto turned out to be Charles Lindbergh, Chuck Yeager and that guy who landed a jet on the Hudson River all rolled into one. What’s that, you say? You want a tracking shot of that dog chasing a tennis ball? No problem. Excuse me? You want a close-up of that empty wine bottle so you can read the label? No sweat. Say again? You want to hover over that bald guy and count the freckles on his head? You got it. Gilberto handled the drone like his own personal falcon. It did everything but kill a pigeon, land on a treetop and eat the thing for lunch.

  “They’re here!” Deronda said. Bobby and Sandra entered the park and walked leisurely along the path. He had on a polo shirt and jeans. She was wearing frayed shorts, a faded tank top and flip-flops. They were holding hands, talking, animated, smiling and laughing. They looked like they were in love.

  “I’m seeing it but I ain’t believin’ it,” Deronda said.

  “Is that the miscreant?” Gilberto said. “He looks like my father’s golf caddy.”

  Gilberto had the drone hovering high overhead. Grace and Deronda were watching Gilberto’s iPad, the shots clearer than Deronda’s HDTV. You could see the chipped red polish on Sandra’s toenails and the hole in her shorts.

  “You know, I never thought they’d be all lovey-dovey like that,” Deronda said. It struck Grace too. Somehow, it seemed wrong. The assistant manager at Wells Fargo and a drug-addicted prostitute holding hands?

  The couple sat down on a bench. Bobby whispered in Sandra’s ear. She smiled. He kissed her on the cheek. Deronda was astonished. “Did you get a shot of that?”

  “Try not to insult me,” Gilberto said. “Technologically, this is no more difficult than feeding a goldfish.”

  Grace didn’t like it. Sandra’s smile looked fake. She was anxious, a bead of sweat trickling down her temple, hands scratching her thighs. Grace didn’t know much about it, but Sandra seemed like she needed a fix. “She looks like she’s in withdrawal,” she said.

  “Who gives a shit?” Deronda replied.

  “I’ve never seen two such unsavory individuals in my life,” Gilberto complained. “I only hope I don’t catch something.”

  “How? From the camera?”

  “Germs travel on air currents just like pollen,” Gilberto replied, “or that annoying leaf in Forrest Gump.”

  Bobby had a fold of cash in his hand. He slipped it to Sandra and she stuffed it in her pocket. The shot was so vivid you could see the dial on Bobby’s watch. He kissed her hand.

  “I can’t stand it,” Deronda said. “This is too good.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Grace said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Why would Bobby do that?” Grace said. “If he was going to give her money, he could have done it at her apartment or in his car or anywhere. Instead he does it in a public park? It makes no sense.”

  “Don’t matter,” Deronda said. “It makes sense to Bobby.”

  “And he kisses her hand? Peter O’Toole in a movie, maybe, but Bobby James?”

  “Peter oh who?”

  “I think Bobby knows we’re here,” Grace said.

  “Will you stop raining on my damn parade? I got Bobby by the balls, and you know what I do with balls.” Deronda was referencing a tussle she had with a drug dealer named Junior. He tried to push her head into his lap, and she gave his nuts a crank like she was opening the hatch on a submarine.

  Deronda’s wary, streetwise self had abandoned her. You couldn’t blame her, Grace thought. Janeel was everything. Her friend was ecstatic, walking in circles and woo-hooing. Bobby and Sandra left the park, but Gilberto kept the drone on them. As soon as they were on the street, everything changed. Bobby dropped Sandra’s hand, scowled and sucked in a big breath, like whew, I’m glad that’s over. Sandra was wheedling him, desperate, tugging on his sleeve.

  This is wrong, Grace thought. Very wrong. Gilberto stopped shooting and put the drone back in its case. Deronda was trying to thank him, but he was saying things like, “Yes, yes, that’s all well and good,” and “It was nothing, and I’m not kidding.”

  “I’ll be leaving now,” Gilberto said.

  “Can I give you a lift?” Deronda said.

  “What kind of car do you drive?”

  “A Lexus.”

  “Then I agree.”

  They walked toward the exit. Grace looked back at the bench where Bobby gave Sandra the cash. She felt a growing dread. She wished Isaiah was here.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I Am Not Him

  Grace was tired. If she wasn’t working at the food truck, she spent every minute prepping for her art show. The gallery owner wanted seventeen of the twenty paintings Grace had showed her. The gallery owner wanted five more. Usually, Grace painted at a leisurely pace. She didn’t want to force it, letting her art unfold in its own time. But she was on a time clock now. A whole different thing. Art as a business. She had to hurry without hurrying, and how the hell do you do that? Deronda told her to skip work, but she wouldn’t. It wasn’t right. She’d freeloaded off her friend Cherokee for weeks at a time and felt really horrible about it. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, do that again.

  She left work and headed home, taking the route she always did. There was a four-way stop at Waverly. She braked, waited for her turn to cross. She saw the Stark sitting on a bus bench not ten feet from the car. He was staring at her, unblinking, smiling, amused and threatening. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, a spiked dog collar around his neck. This asshole was nuts.

  She stared back, a stone-faced fuck you. A horn honked behind her. The Stark waved bye-bye and she drove on. It was freaky, seeing him like that, and what was the dog collar all about? Obviously, he was pissed because Stokeley had made a fool of him. Let him be pissed, Grace thought. Fuck him.

  Later on, she was shopping at Vons, pushing her cart, getting things on a list. She was in the produce section picking out some apples when she saw him again, leaning against a display, piles of potatoes and onions behind him. He was smiling that smile and still wearing the dog collar. “Hello, Grace. What’s for dinner?”

  She said, “This, motherfucker.” She picked up an apple and threw it at him, hard. It hit him in the chest, but he didn’t wince, didn’t stop smiling, like he didn’t even feel it. He leaned down, picked up the apple and took a big bite, looking at her while he chomped.

  “Mmm, good,” he said. She tr
ied to look bored and moved on.

  She stayed in the market, shopping as usual, not giving him anything. This was some kind of stalking campaign, she thought. This guy didn’t want to get physical so he was taking his revenge by intimidating her. Good luck with that. It was unnerving, but she’d never let it show. She kept the collapsible baton on the coffee table just like Isaiah did. She took it to work too. She thought about telling Deronda, but she had her hands full with Bobby James.

  The encounters with the Stark continued. At the food truck, he’d stand off a ways, eating a taco, that same look in his eyes. He’d smile and give her a little wave. At night, she’d see him parked across the street. She wished Ruffin was an actual guard dog. She bought some things at Rite Aid, and when she got back to her car there was a dead sparrow on the seat. This is movie stuff, she thought, but it was getting to her. She was starting to feel afraid.

  When she saw the Stark, it was harder and harder to maintain her composure. He had to be following her, she thought. She took different routes to and from work. She made sharp turns and kept her eye on the rearview mirror, but she never saw him. She came home one evening and Ruffin had a ribbon tied around his neck and a Christmas tag dangling on a string. It said, TOO BAD IF HE GOT RUN OVER. She went inside, infuriated. Threaten the dog? Threaten the dog? It was time to hit back. But what could she do? Call the cops? Get a restraining order? She didn’t even know the Stark’s name. She didn’t know what to do.

  The Stark was really screwing things up. She couldn’t sleep her usual five hours a night. She was anxious and too distracted to focus on her painting. This was her first show. Her chance. She had to get rid of this guy, do something devious and intimidating. She was capable but didn’t have the energy, especially alone. She smiled. Why not leave it to an expert?

  “Dodson,” she said.

  She invited him over to the house. Deronda and Janeel were out. She told him about the Stark, popping up everywhere wearing a dog collar. “This guy is shredding my nerves. I can hardly function.” Dodson thought a moment.

  “Did you say he wears a dog collar?”

  “Yes, the spiky kind they put on an attack dog.”

  After she described him, Dodson said, “That dude ain’t no Stark. That’s Skip Hanson.” He told her about Skip and his pit bulls and why he hated Isaiah.

  “He’s really a hitman?” she said.

  “He’s good at it too. You say he’s not following you?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  “Then how does he know where you’re gonna be?”

  She thought a moment and said, “Grace, you’re a stupid cow.” They went outside. She crawled under the Jeep with a flashlight. “There it is. A GPS unit.” Skip had been tracking her. He knew her every move. “I’m going to remove it,” she said.

  “No, leave it there,” Dodson said. She slid out from under the car.

  “Why? If it’s there he’ll know where I am.”

  “Yeah,” Dodson said with a smile. “But we’ll know where he is too.”

  Dusk. The day’s last light glimmered faintly through the trees. Grace sat on a bench pretending to read something on her phone. When it was dark, she got up and left the park. She could feel Skip following her, gleeful, eager to scare her to death. She wore earbuds, but there was no music. She walked a ways and turned down a side street. Would Skip make his move? No, not yet. There were a few pedestrians and an occasional car. She walked two more blocks, approaching a patchy lot where swap meets were held and kids played soccer. She was wearing jeans and a dark blue hoodie. She tried to walk normally, her right hand down by her side. She crossed the field, reaching the darkest part. Okay, Grace. Wait for it. It was quiet, and then she heard him coming. He was behind her, running full out, his footsteps getting louder.

  Skip followed her from the park. She didn’t take her car. What was that about? She walked at a normal pace, no hurry, nothing was going to happen to her, right? She was Isaiah’s girl, she was invincible. No, you’re not, Skip thought. But why was she making herself a target? Was she stupid? Then it came to him. She thought he’d given up!

  Ha! What a joke. He’d never give up. He was excited, adrenaline pumping, body tensed and ready for violence. He felt good, like he did in the old days when he killed people for a living. He would come up behind her, get her in a chokehold, drag her someplace, slap her around and threaten to rape her. Maybe feel her up a bit and put the gun to her head, tell her he was going to shoot her on the count of three unless she gave up Q Fuck. Then make her take her clothes off and leave her there crying like the cunt she was. The police? The bitch didn’t even know his name. She thought he was somebody named Stark. He grinned. She was crossing the lot. Nobody around, the only light from the surrounding buildings. He was twenty yards behind her. The bitch wouldn’t hear him, she had on earbuds.

  He took a deep breath, leaned forward and started to sprint. Faster and faster, sneakers flying over the ground, her silhouette getting bigger and bigger. He was six feet away when she turned to face him. She did something with her hand. He heard a snick and she raised something over her head. THWACK! Something whipped him across the shoulder.

  “MOTHERFUCKER!” he screamed. He spun around, holding himself. THWACK! She whipped him across the thigh. THWACK!

  “OH, FUCK!” he yodeled. Across the elbow. “FUCKING SHIT!”

  It was a goddamn police baton. The gun was in the back of his pants. He reached for it, but she kept hitting him, backing him up, his forearms raised to protect his head. THWACK! THWACK! He was getting her timing down. Fuck it. Fuck the pain. She raised the baton to strike him again. He caught her wrist and twisted the baton away. She yelped in pain.

  “I’m gonna beat you to death,” Skip snarled. He reared back with the baton, but somebody punched him hard on the cheekbone, then another to the stomach. Wheezing, hurt and in agony, Skip staggered back into a wall. Someone appeared beside Grace. Whoever it was reached around and took the gun. How the hell did he know it was there? Skip’s eyes had adjusted to the dark. It was a black guy.

  “I hope your punk-ass learned a lesson,” the black guy said.

  “Who are you?” Skip said.

  “Isaiah’s homeboy. You don’t remember me, Magnus?” He held his phone up to his face. Skip opened his mouth and gawked.

  “You’re him! You came to my place with Isaiah!”

  “Uh-huh,” the black guy said. “I was there, and I saw all them dogs you bossed around like slaves and your fucked-up house way the hell out in the middle of nothin’ and I seen that hibachi where you cooked burgers for your nonexistent gun club.”

  Grace huffed and shook her head. She’s laughing at you, Skip. This fucking bitch is laughing at you! The black guy went on.

  “Be sensible, Skip. Grace can’t give up Isaiah because she doesn’t know where he is. Think about it. The less she knows, the safer he’ll be. You get that, don’t you?” Skip was in too much pain to speak. “My work here is done,” the black guy said. “You?”

  Grace leaned in close and said, “The word is out, Magnus. Everybody in the hood is on the lookout for you. Remember the guy who stuck the shotgun under your chin? Him too. Stay the fuck away from me.” And the two of them walked away.

  Grace and Dodson crossed the street. Dodson ejected the magazine from Skip’s gun, popped the shell out of the chamber, then tossed everything into the gutter. He and Grace got in the car. They grinned at each other and bumped fists. “You are amazing, Dodson,” she said.

  “Yes, I am,” he replied with a hustler’s smile. “But don’t tell nobody.”

  Skip stayed leaning against the wall, letting his breathing level out and the pain go down some. He limped to the park to get his car. He stopped at the liquor store to buy a bag of ice and a fifth of Jose Cuervo. The man behind the counter said, “I hope you won the fight.”

  Skip got back to the motel. He took a couple of Vicodin and iced himself down. The black guy was right. If bad people were after Isaiah
, he wouldn’t tell Grace where he was. It wouldn’t make sense. Everything Skip had done was for nothing. He filled a Styrofoam cup with tequila and drank it in three gulps. Bile came surging up his throat like an oil gusher. He choked, stumbled into the bathroom and vomited green slime into the sink. Groaning, he went back and sat on the bed. He was beat to shit, defeated, sapped of energy, red welts throbbing all over his body. Was it worth it? he thought. Was all this time, energy and bullshit really worth it? If he’d been picked up packing a gun, it was a return trip to Vacaville. What was he doing anyway? Fuck Isaiah. That shit was in the past. He should be rebuilding Blue Hill and getting in touch with his connections. He should start working again and getting his shit together—but those thoughts lasted less than a lit match. Fuck no. FUCK NO!

  Humiliation and loneliness had been a way of life for Skip. As a kid, he’d always been on the edges, a pathetic outcast peeking over the fence at the fun. Magnus Vestergard, the loser with the stupid name. It was an image of himself he hated and tried not to remember. Memories were nothing but pain. Sometimes it would come to him, the realization that everything he did, then and now, was a way of saying, I am not him. I am not Magnus Vestergard. But Isaiah smashed that image over his head and let the mess drip down his face. He’d never give up. Fuck the risk, fuck Blue Hill, fuck everything. He would either put Isaiah and that bitch in the ground or stick a gun in his mouth and leave his brains splattered all over this shitty little room.

  Chapter Nineteen