Smoke

by Joe Ide

  “No, not forever,” Deronda said. “Only ’til he’s eighteen. Don’t worry, Bobby, the time will go by so fast you’ll wish you could keep him around forever.” Something sticky seemed to be holding Bobby’s mouth closed. He finally got it open.

  “What if I say fine, let’s do it?” he said. Bobby and the attorney were nodding at each other, smiling with their eyes wide, a feeble attempt to encourage each other.

  “Go on and do it,” Deronda said. “And you know what’s gonna happen? You’ll take care of Janeel for what, I don’t know—”

  “Two hours, tops,” Grace said.

  “By that time, you will have sewn your lips together so you can’t scream anymore,” Deronda said. “Then you’ll thank your lucky stars you brought him back before you put a rag in his mouth and stuffed him in the garbage disposal. Whichever way you go, life as you know it is long fuckin’ gone.” The courtroom doors opened. She grinned and said, “Well, Bobby James. Do you have the nuts or don’t you?”

  Bobby agreed to withdraw all rights and obligations to Janeel and to have no contact with him. The judge was notified and the agreement was accepted. “The court is adjourned,” she said. Grace had her hand over her mouth, face wet with tears, joyful.

  Dodson and Deronda exchanged a long hug. “You a bad muthafucka, Dodson,” she said.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Dodson said. “I know what I am.”

  Grace hugged him too. “You’re the greatest, Dodson. You truly are.” She thought he was choking up, but he turned his head away.

  “I don’t know how I’m gonna pay you back,” Deronda said.

  “Well that hug ain’t gonna do it,” Dodson said. “I think a fee would be appropriate.” The attorney was packing up his briefcase. “How much do you charge?” Dodson asked.

  “Seven fifty an hour,” the attorney said.

  “How long did it take me to wrap this up?” Dodson said.

  “Well, there was last night, and I’m assuming you thought about it at home,” Grace said. “And there was this morning too.”

  “Put it all together and you’ve got what? Three hours?”

  “Call it four,” Deronda said. “Come by and I’ll write you a check.” She paused a moment, looked at him quizzically. “Can I ask you something, Dodson?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The fuck happened to your hair?”

  Bobby was still seated at the plaintiff’s table. He’d developed an intense interest in something scratched into the wooden surface. It said, I WILL KILL THE JUDGE WITH MY SHOE. Bobby had been staring at it since the hearing ended. “I’m not done yet, Deronda,” he said. He looked at her, venom spewing out of his eyes. “Not even close.” He got up and left the courtroom.

  “I think he means it,” Grace said. “What if he spreads that stuff around anyway?” Deronda exchanged a knowing glance with Dodson.

  “What?” Grace said.

  It was nearly eight by the time Bobby got home from work. He had to stay late because of the hearing. He crossed the lawn with his head down, his eyes burning up the dandelions. “That bitch. That fucking bitch!” He was going to punish her, starting now. He’d make a thousand copies of the material he’d collected. Everybody in Long Beach and beyond would see her for the ho she was. Janeel only had his mother to blame.

  Bobby fumbled with his keys, cursed and opened the door. The lights were on. He always turned them off when he left. Puzzled, he blinked and looked around. Was he in the right house? Two men were lounging around the living room watching Bobby’s TV and drinking Bobby’s beer. They had on wifebeaters, gold chains and big shorts. One of them was missing his left hand, a large set of pliers in its place. The second man had a patch over one eye. His other eye was apparently wild and appeared to be looking out of the window.

  “Uh, excuse me, but this is my house,” Bobby said. No reaction. “Hello? I said this is my house. You don’t belong here.” Still no reaction. “Did you hear me? I said—”

  A third man came in from the kitchen, eating an immense sandwich with ingredients from Bobby’s fridge. He had mayonnaise on his mouth. He was bigger than the others and a terrifying sight, right out of a documentary about Pelican Bay; giant muscles, a welted scar on his angry face, fists like small cars. The mayonnaise looked like ghost blood.

  “You know who I am?” the man said. He sounded like he had nails in his throat. Bobby stared. He was starting to look familiar, from somewhere in the past. Yes, it was coming into focus. Bobby saw the man as a teenager, beating the shit out of somebody with a tire iron. He saw the teenager punch the biology teacher in the chest so hard, dust puffed out of the man’s suit. The teacher crashed into the terrarium and three tarantulas skittered across the linoleum, everyone running for the door. Bobby saw the teenager grab a screaming meter maid by her weave and sling her into a hedge. He saw the teenager pick up a mini fridge and hurl it into the window of a moving car. It was Michael Stokeley.

  “Oh shit,” Bobby said. Suddenly, he felt weak, his lips were quivering.

  “You know who I am?” Stokeley repeated.

  “Y-y-yes, I do. You’re Michael Stokeley.”

  “Then you know I don’t play.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Bobby whimpered. “But could I ask what you’re doing here?”

  “No, you can’t,” Stokeley said.

  “Of course, sure, sorry I asked.” Stokeley looked at the others. They groaned wearily, finished their beers and reluctantly got to their feet. They were like a herd of something, bison or delivery trucks. They bum-rushed Bobby out of the door, threw him in the trunk of a car and drove off. Bobby knew how to open a trunk from the inside, but it seemed safer where he was.

  Twenty suffocating minutes later, the car stopped and Stokeley yanked him out of the trunk. They were in what looked like a wrecking yard; stacks of crushed cars, broken glass on the ground, the smell of oil and rust, a crane looming against the night sky. Stokeley held Bobby up by the collar and frog-marched him around a mountain of tires, the crew following behind. It was very dark. Bobby was so scared his throat had closed. They stopped.

  “That’s it,” Stokeley said, nodding at something decisively.

  What’s it? Bobby wondered. The thing they’ll use to kill you with?

  The crew stuck him in the driver’s seat of an old station wagon and duct-taped his hands to the steering wheel. “I already have a car,” Bobby said. Nobody laughed. The crew pushed the station wagon deeper into the yard, through a chain-link gate and into a metal container of some kind. It was closed on three sides and big enough to house the station wagon. Bobby’s window looked out onto a small clearing, lit by a single floodlight. Stokeley and the crew were standing there, passing a joint around. With them was an old man, the white girl from court, and Deronda. Fucking Deronda. This was her doing.

  “Deronda? What is this?” Bobby said, outraged. “You know this is kidnapping, don’t you?”

  She didn’t answer. The old man had some kind of control box, a heavy extension cord coming out of it. He turned it on, whatever it was. Bobby heard a loud buzzing and the rumble of a diesel engine. He felt the box move around him, clanking, grinding, metal banging into metal. Something seized the entire car. The roof began buckling, the windows cracking. A hot blade of panic cut through Bobby’s heart. He was in a car crusher. He screamed but couldn’t hear himself over the noise.

  The group watched as the roof closed down on him, the B pillars snapped, the tires exploded and the doors crumpled. “Help me! Help me!” Bobby screamed. Everybody was smiling and chuckling, as if getting pulverized in a car crusher was a skit on Saturday Night Live. The roof touched the top of Bobby’s head. He had to angle it sideways so it wouldn’t break his neck. Oh God, oh God, I’m gonna die in a goddamn car crusher! The windows were squashed, he couldn’t see out of them anymore. He smelled the godawful release of a giant fart. That goddamn Deronda. She’s actually murdering you! Was she that evil? That insane? “HELP ME! SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP
MEEE!” Bobby couldn’t move his neck anymore. He felt the ligaments straining. Oh God, oh God, I’m going to fucking die I’m going to fucking die! The crusher stopped, the engine sputtering as it wound down.

  It was quiet; the only sounds were creaking metal and tinkling glass. Sweat and grime greased Bobby’s face. His legs were cramping, his neck ached. He heard someone approach the passenger side.

  “Hello? Hello?” Bobby shouted. “Please, please get me out of here!”

  “Here’s my last word,” Stokeley said. “If what you have on Deronda shows up anywhere? I mean anywhere, your shit is over. Even if you didn’t do it, you’ll be right back where you are, ’cept there won’t be no car. You feel me?”

  “Yes! Yes! I feel you! I feel you all over!” Bobby shouted. “I feel you everywhere! Oh, God, please let me out of here!”

  “I’m sorry about Sandra,” Deronda said, “but you fuck with a mama and her baby? Mess with that connection in the least kinda way? Shit will fall on you heavy as the Long Beach Freeway. TK will give you some water and let you out in the morning.”

  “The morning?” Bobby cried. “The morning? Are you out of your mind? I’ll be dead by then!”

  “Maybe, but I doubt it,” Deronda said. “You take care now.” Bobby heard them walk away. He screamed and screamed until his voice abandoned him and his lungs had collapsed. He fell into a dark, futile silence. He’d never felt despair before, such overpowering fear. Well, he thought, at least you survived, Bobby James.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Ballsack of the Universe

  Sureños gangs did business with the Hells Angels. Drugs and guns. Each had conduits to buyers the other didn’t have. Isaiah’s wanted poster had been circulated. Ned and Cherry saw it on a blog. Cherry called the number and talked to Manzo, leader of the Locos. Isaiah had betrayed him, Manzo said. It was personal. The gang leader wanted him back “by any means necessary.” Manzo told Cherry that a Locos affiliate gang was coming over from Clarkson on the Nevada side. CTA 13, the Clarktown Asesinos 13, would dispatch members to bring the money and take Isaiah back to LA.

  Isaiah learned all this on the drive to Ned and Cherry’s house. They took him into the backyard at gunpoint and shoved him into a dilapidated one-car garage. The garage had double doors that were locked on the outside with a chain and a padlock. The place was full of motorcycle parts. Everything was cobwebby and rusted. An engine block, wheels, tires, a battered car seat, tools, an acetylene torch, a car jack, miscellaneous junk. Ned and Cherry debated whether to duct-tape Isaiah’s hands behind or in front of him.

  “The back is more secure. It’s obvious,” Cherry said.

  “Are you going to hand-feed him? Hold his dick when he pisses?” Ned said. They duct-taped his hands in the front. They left him alone. Isaiah sat on the car seat. The garage was hot and close, the gasoline and oil smells were nauseating. There was a small gap between the doors. He put his face next to it and breathed in the fresh air. The garage was made from solid wood planks and two-by-four crossbeams. No chance you could kick your way out. There was one window on a side wall, but it was caged in with burglar bars.

  Grace dominated Isaiah’s thoughts. He had to stop her before she left for Coronado Springs. Cherry had taken his phone away and stomped on it. Even if he escaped, he’d be on foot, wandering around in the mountains with no way to communicate and twenty miles away from town. Ned and Cherry had left the Mustang in the woods. Ned wanted to take it, but Cherry said it was too flashy and Cannon might know the car. They’d come back for it later.

  Someone was opening the padlock, the chain clanking. “Get away from the door,” Cherry said. “Sit down and don’t move.” Isaiah did as he was told. Cherry came in with a gun, a bottle of water and a Snickers bar. She tossed the last two in his lap. She looked smug and confident.

  “The Asesinos are on their way.”

  “The deal will never happen,” Isaiah scoffed. “They aren’t coming here with twenty-five grand.”

  “Oh yeah? Why’s that? Manzo said he wants you bad.” Cherry leaned back against the wall, crossed her ankles, gun by her side.

  “How would that work? Manzo sends the Asesinos twenty-five thousand dollars by Western Union? Even if he could he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t trust a Nevada gang to pay him back. The alternative is the Asesinos putting up the money themselves and trusting Manzo will give them a refund. Come on, Cherry, you know neither of those things are gonna happen.” Isaiah’s plan depended on what Cherry did after she left the garage.

  Cherry stirred, uncrossed her ankles. “Those gangs are tight. They’re not going to start a war.”

  “They start wars with each other all the time,” Isaiah replied. “When I was leaving LA, the Westside Locos were warring with Azusa 13, Temple Street with Puente, 18th Street with 38th Street.” It wasn’t true but it sounded true. “Who did you talk to in the Asesinos?”

  “Shot caller. Del Rio,” Cherry said.

  “When are they supposed to get here?”

  “He said they’d leave right away.”

  Isaiah laughed. “So Del Rio gets off the phone, goes into his sock drawer, finds twenty-five K in cash and then jumps in his car so he can hand-deliver it to you?” Cherry pursed her lips and looked at the floor. Isaiah continued. “If the Asesinos are from Clarkson, they’re probably a small set. Fifteen, twenty guys, most of them teenagers. They wouldn’t have that much cash if they sold everything they owned.”

  “Okay, so what are you saying?” Cherry said, on defense now.

  “I’m saying they’re coming here to kidnap me, shoot you in the process and collect the reward themselves.” Cherry thought about it, grim-faced, her aging eyes seeing how it would play out.

  “You think you’re smart, don’t you?”

  “I am smart, and so are you,” Isaiah said. Cherry stood away from the wall, looked at him a moment. She went outside, put the chain and padlock back on the doors and left.

  The bastard was right, Cherry thought. She kicked herself for being so naïve. What now? They could leave, which meant the Asesinos would trash the house and take Ned’s bike. It wasn’t running, and they didn’t have a trailer. If they stayed, they’d have a firefight on their hands. She found Ned where he always was, doing what he always did. He put down the beer.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  “We need reinforcements.”

  Isaiah heard the rumbling of motorcycles. Three bikers pulled into the yard, Hells Angels emblems on their helmets and clothes. Two of them looked like brothers. They were driving traditional choppers. The big guy was driving a vintage, full-dress Electra Glide. Gleaming red and white paint, full windshield, whitewalls, lots of chrome and color-coordinated saddlebags. A bike meant for cruising. They parked next to Ned and Cherry’s bikes. The couple came out of the house and passed around beers. The group talked awhile. They had guns. They sat around drinking more beer, loading magazines and taking aim at imaginary gangsters.

  It was an eight-hour drive from Clarkson to Coronado Springs. About seven hours had gone by since Cherry had talked to Del Rio. The Asesinos would be here in an hour, give or take. Cherry had a brief argument with Ned that ended with her saying, “You are one useless asshole.” She and the new arrivals went in the house. Ned, not embarrassed at all, stayed on the back stoop and popped open another beer.

  Isaiah looked through the tools and found a hacksaw. He clamped it into the table vise, blade side up. He put a hand on either side of the blade and sawed through the tape. He paused for a drink and the candy bar. He peeked through the doors again; Ned was still there. There was nothing more to be done until he left. Isaiah sat down on the car seat and waited.

  Cherry and Jesse were on the front porch, waiting for the Asesinos to arrive. On their side of the railing, a protective wall had been jerry-rigged. An old file cabinet on its side, the drawers filled with dirt. There were stacks of cinder blocks and firewood, the hood of an old car, an oak tabletop and a half dozen sandbags.
Blankets were draped over to hide the barricade. Jesse was even and quiet like he always was. If he trimmed the mountain man beard and took off the red bandanna and the rings, he’d look like your jolly uncle. But nothing about Jesse was jolly. When somebody needed a beatdown, Jesse volunteered. If there was a shooting, he was the prime suspect. If there was a bar fight, he started it. Cherry knew he was in love with her and would do anything to protect her. “Thanks for doing this, Jess.”

  His eyes were on the road. “No problem.” Jesse’s favorite weapons were his matching Heckler and Koch .45s. He was proud of them, all oiled up and shiny. Cherry didn’t care about brands, calibers or anything else. Who cared about whether a gun was a .44, a .55 or made by Mongolians? If the guy you were shooting at was dead it was a great gun.

  The Waylon brothers, Solo and Reems, were inside, watching through the windows, the space underneath them reinforced like the porch. They were reliable, tough as prison barbells and veterans of gang wars and shoot-outs.

  “Where the fuck is Ned?” Reems said.

  “Rear guard, unless he fell asleep,” Solo answered.

  Predictably, they heard a million-watt amp pumping out rap music. Cherry hated that shit no matter who it was coming from. If she met Kid Rock, she’d beat him to death with his golf clubs. “It’s them,” she said.

  Isaiah watched Ned. He was still on the stoop, almost inert, like doing nothing was his career.

  “Go inside,” Isaiah hissed, but Ned yawned and opened another beer. He didn’t look like he’d get off his butt any time soon. Actually, it didn’t matter. Isaiah hadn’t figured out how to escape. The chain and lock on the door were inaccessible. The hand tools were useless. There was the acetylene torch but the fuel tank was empty. There was no way to make another opening. He had to use the one that was there. The window and those damn burglar bars. Come on, Isaiah, focus. Grace is coming.