by Joe Ide
He walked to the end of the block, turned onto a side street. His car was parked farther up. He reached the alley behind the building and saw a silver BMW M5 near the fire exit, a beast of a car, over 500 horsepower, a man in the driver’s seat. His face was obscured by the reflection off the windshield. What was somebody in a seventy-thousand-dollar car doing back here at this time of night? A drug deal? Ping ping.
Isaiah was instinctively drawn to anything remotely criminal, and he turned into the alley and walked right past the car. The driver was white, expensive haircut, manicured nails, a polo shirt with the Versace logo, a Rolex Yacht-Master on his wrist. He was also wearing the same kind of earbud as the Latino man. They were hooked up. Ping ping ping.
The guy gave Isaiah a hard look and Isaiah kept walking. Why was a private security team staking out a dump like the Edgemont? Who could possibly be of interest to them? If it was a criminal matter or terrorism, they would be law enforcement. Was this about Grace’s mother and the murder warrant? He restrained himself from running and reached the other end of the alley. As soon as he made the turn, he sprinted around the block, slowing as he approached the front of the building again. The Jeep was still parked across the street. He hurried inside, patting his pockets like he’d forgotten his wallet. He glanced around the lobby making mental notes and bounded up the fire stairs three at a time.
It was eleven-fifteen, the area nearly deserted. “Let’s go,” Jimenez said. He alerted Walczak and they got out of the Jeep. Jimenez, Hawkins, Owens, and Richter crossed the street and entered the Edgemont. Owens was semidrunk so Jimenez told her to stay in the lobby. The others took the elevator to the fourth floor and moved quickly down the hall, pulling on their ski masks. They had Tasers, Mace, duct tape, zip ties, handcuffs, and Glocks. Subduing two women, or two men for that matter, wouldn’t be a problem. Then they’d be hustled down the fire stairs and thrown in Walczak’s SUV.
When they reached Grace’s apartment, Hawk got into position and Jimenez gave him the nod. Hawk shouldered through the flimsy door like it was cardboard. He grinned.
“Trick or treat.”
It frightened her when Isaiah banged on her door. “We have to go. Now,” he said. She didn’t know why she trusted him but here she was, chasing him down the fire stairs. For some reason, he’d picked up her umbrella as they left the apartment. They reached the lobby level and stopped.
“What’s happening?” she said.
“Some people are after you—no questions, we’ll talk about it later.” He gave her the umbrella. “Have you ever done any acting?”
“What are you talking about?”
“They’re looking for a girl in her twenties.”
They went through the door and into the lobby. Isaiah held her arm like he was helping her walk. She was bent over, shoulders hunched, wearing Isaiah’s hoodie, drawn tight around her face. With a trembling hand she used the umbrella like a cane and hobbled along beside him. Who were they running from? she wondered. What the hell was this about? She took a quick glance. A woman leaning back against a wall with her eyes half closed. She was tall, wearing a flannel shirt and cowboy boots. Isaiah clutched Grace’s arm a little tighter. “Easy does it, Mrs. Mayfield.”
They crossed the lobby, passing within ten feet of the woman. Grace could see her boots and feel her eyes crawling over her. Isaiah turned and ushered Grace into a hallway that led to a side entrance. She wondered how he knew it was there. She raised her head a little and saw a red exit sign glowing like a beacon. They were almost out.
The girl’s apartment was empty, everybody snapping on latex gloves. “Toss the place,” Walczak said. “See if there’s anything that connects her to Sarah.”
“I think we know that,” Hawkins said.
“What’s your problem, Hawkins?” Hawkins was about to tell him when Richter came out of the bathroom.
“The girl is here by herself. No Sarah.”
“How do you know?” Walczak said.
“No extra towels, and look around. No luggage, clothes and shoes all the same size.” Richter went over and opened the fridge. There were bottles of water, a six pack of Heineken, some wilted vegetables, and a jar of mayonnaise. “Nothing here for guests,” he said. “Yeah, she’s alone.” The others were looking at him like he’d spoken in Swahili. “What?” he said. “I did this for a living.” The electric kettle whistled. “Shit. She must have just left.”
Walczak spoke into his collar mike. “Owens? Have you seen anybody?”
“Negative.”
“Are you sure? You’ve seen nobody at all?”
“I saw a black guy and an old lady.”
Isaiah and Grace were almost at the end of the hall when they heard the tall woman shout, “Hey, you! Stop!” They burst through the exit door and onto the side street. Isaiah pulled on Grace’s sleeve. “Come on. My car is this way.”
“No!” She turned in the other direction. He couldn’t do anything but follow her. Ahead of them, three men with guns came around the corner. Isaiah looked back. The tall woman was coming after them, a gun by her side, and the BMW was swinging out of the alley. They were no match for three armed men, but if they wanted Grace it was unlikely they’d shoot her. Their best chance was to go right at the lone woman. If Isaiah could distract her long enough, maybe Grace could get past the BMW and escape. He grabbed her by the sleeve again and pulled hard. “Grace, wait, we have to go back!”
Grace stopped. “Get in.” The GTI was parked at the curb.
“Let me drive,” he said. He had skills behind the wheel. Grace ignored him and got in the driver’s seat.
“Get in,” she said. She started the engine. The three men were closing fast, aiming their guns with two-handed grips.
“Halt right there!” the Latino man shouted.
Most people would have freaked out and stopped, but Grace slammed the car into gear, tromped on the gas, and drove right at them. They scattered, cursing and shouting. Isaiah glanced at the rearview mirror. The BMW was catching up fast. The GTI was no match for pure speed, but the GTI was lighter, more maneuverable. They might get away if they stayed on the side streets and made a lot of turns.
“Take a right here,” he said. Again, she ignored him, went straight, and turned left onto Magnolia, a big wide street. “What are you doing?” he said. The BMW made the turn and was fast closing the distance. Grace spun the wheel, made a slick downshift, the rear end sliding around. She floored it, tires screeching as she turned into an alley. “At the end, go left on Seminole,” Isaiah said. She turned right. Was she deliberately defying him? “Okay, there’s a parking lot up here,” he said. “You can cross it and—”
“I live in this neighborhood,” she snapped. “Will you please shut up?” She drove like a professional, rowing expertly through the gears, drifting, double-clutching, matching engine speed with RPMs to keep the car balanced through the turns. Two minutes later, they were free and clear. She slowed down and drove at the speed limit.
“Suggestion?” Isaiah said humbly.
“What?”
“Maybe go to my place?”
The team reassembled at Jimenez’s car. “Goddammit, Owens!” Walczak exclaimed. “How did they get by you?”
She looked at her boots. “Wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t expecting a black guy and I thought the girl was an old lady.”
“That and you’re loaded,” Hawkins said.
“I ain’t even close to loaded,” she replied, reeling a little.
“Well, the girl’s on notice now,” Walczak said. “We’ll never find her, and if she’s in touch with Sarah, we’ll never find her either.”
“So we go after the black guy,” Owens said, like it was just as well.
“Yeah,” Jimenez said. “That should be easy. There’s only four or five of them in Long Beach.”
“Six,” Hawkins said.
Richter was distracted, smoking and scanning the surrounding area. What the fuck was he doing now? Walczak thought. Since when
did this dull, lazy asshole who spent most of his time with a burrito in his mouth get so goddamn smart?
“What are you looking for?” Walczak said. “Mexican food?” Richter didn’t answer and kept looking around. “What is it, Richter?” Walczak demanded.
Richter smiled and nodded. “We’re not out of it yet.”
Chapter Four
Enchantée
The address in the note turned out to be a small shop Dodson had driven past many times before. The sign said ROYAL CUSTOM CUTLERY. There was an impressive display of knives in the window, all different kinds. There was no dust, dead flies, or chipped paint, like in every other shop on the block. A buzzer sounded and the door clicked open. Dodson didn’t know what he was expecting but it wasn’t this dude.
“Mr. Dodson, how good of you to come!” the man said in a booming, James Earl Jones kind of voice. He was of mixed race; white and something else darker.
He was not young and shaped like an avocado. He had a shiny face, a merry wink in his eyes, and a jet-black toupee that sat on his head like a nesting raven. “Would you like a refreshment? I have a variety of beverages. Water, soft drinks, coffee or tea.” A jolly motherfucker, Dodson thought, but it was forced. There was something behind it that wasn’t jolly at all. He was dressed like someone from another decade. A brown suit with really wide lapels and wide legs, a yellow polka-dot bow tie, and two-tone shoes with little perforations on the toe box.
Over the years, Dodson had learned to never enter a confrontation on the defensive. If you came in weak, you’d be playing catch-up for the rest of the conversation. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“I, sir, am Chester C. Babbitt,” Chester said, ever so pleased to be asked. “A purveyor of custom cutlery since 1998.” He swept his arm over the shop. “I daresay there isn’t an aficionado anywhere in the world, assuming he is serious, of course, who doesn’t have a Babbitt in his collection.” There were glass cases full of knives, all neatly labeled. Pocketknives, lockbacks, bowies, Japanese and American tantos, kukris and ka-bars. There were knives for butchering, carving, slicing, cleaving, skinning, and killing. There was also an array of axes, scimitars, sabers, and samurai swords. Anything with a cutting blade. Dodson was no expert but they were beautifully made, the handles crafted from exotic woods, mother-of-pearl, polished bone, brass, and steel.
“May I call you Juanell?” Chester said.
“No you may not.”
“Fine, fine, no problem.” Chester waved a hand like he was about to sing “Que Sera, Sera.”
“What’s this about?” Dodson said.
“Yes, I see, get right to it. Very good, Mr. Dodson. Rest assured, I understand the value of time. I can’t remember who said it and I’m paraphrasing here—yesterday’s the past, tomorrow’s the future, but today is a gift. That’s why it’s called the present.” He smiled winningly but Dodson just stared at him.
“Start talking, Chester, or I’m out the door.”
“As you wish, as you wish.” Chester inhaled deeply, his chest expanding a couple of inches. He began pacing and nodding, his hands clenched behind him like he was summing up the prosecution’s case. “I happen to have knowledge of an incident that took place some years ago. You were living in an apartment with Isaiah Quintabe and your girlfriend, Deronda Simmons. Quite a young lady, if I do say so myself. Her hindquarters are quite famous around here, almost a tourist attraction.” He waited for Dodson to laugh but got nothing. Chester picked up a throwing knife off the counter. It was made from a single piece of metal, the blade shaped like a spearhead, the handle with holes in it to reduce weight. The black finish made it seem more lethal. Chester turned it round and round in his fingers like a cheerleading baton. He went on. “It seems that the three of you, as it were, conspired to rob a drug dealer named Junior, and, at some point, the operation took a—wrong turn, shall we say? To make a long story short, you had to be rescued by Isaiah, and, in the process, he shot Junior and his bodyguard Booze Lewis, severely wounding both men. Are you with me so far?”
“Keep talking,” Dodson said.
“Unfortunately or fortunately, depending upon one’s point of view, this leaves you and your friends in a somewhat vulnerable position, if you catch my meaning.”
Dodson hated being jerked around, somebody trying to make him sweat.
“Look, muthafucka,” he said. “You think you scaring me? I don’t scare, you feel me?” He walked up to Chester, the twirling knife between them. “You gonna come at me, come at me, or you and your bow tie can go fuck yourselves.”
Chester went so still it was like he’d been paused on a DVR. The wink in his eyes had gone, sweat trickling down his temples. His smile had turned into a talon. “All right, Mr. Dodson, let us talk terms.” Only now did Dodson notice that Chester’s canines were sharpened into dagger points. This muthafucka is crazy.
Ten minutes later, Dodson came stumbling out of the shop. As the door closed, he heard the throwing knife thunk into the wood. Shaken, he thought about screaming, but he was too cool to scream. He walked back to his car. He’d been in trouble many times before but nothing like this. What if Cherise found out? What if Gloria found out? She’d ride him like the number 9 bus.
But how did Chester know about the robbery in the first place? Dodson hadn’t said anything to anybody and Isaiah was rock-solid. Dodson made a growling sound, his head about to detonate. “I’m gonna kill that bitch.”
He called and said he was coming over. “Let me check my calendar,” Deronda said. “I might be at a stockholders’ meeting or getting some rims put on my car.” Her new place was near the East Village, a high-rise, gleaming white with frosted windows and a fountain out in front. He rang the buzzer.
“Yes?” she said through the speaker.
“The hell you talking ’bout, yes? It’s me, goddammit.”
“You know what? I think I recognize your voice. You sound like that moron who sold his half of the business just before it went global.”
“Let me in, girl, ’fore I climb up on your balcony and beat you to death.” Dodson rode the elevator, looking at himself in a mirror etched with wood nymphs and climbing vines. The worry and lack of sleep were weighing his whole body down. He looked like a piece of raw liver hung on a hook. Deronda’s apartment was on the seventeenth floor. He knocked, waited, knocked again, waited, and just as he was about to ram his fist through the peephole, the door opened.
“Enchantée,” Deronda said, with a mocking grin. She jangled with gold jewelry, her pink dressing gown long and flowing. She wore strapless heels, fluffs of pink feathers on them. Tony Montana had apparently decorated the living room; everything white, gold, shiny, or fringed. A bottle of Dom was in an ice bucket set on a coffee table that looked like a dragon. She poured herself a glass and took a sip. “Ahh, life is good, ain’t it?” she said. “Oh, wait, I’m sorry. Your life ain’t shit, is it?” She flounced down on the sofa and crossed her legs. “Now how can I help you today? Don’t be shy. Are you lookin’ for a job? I happen to have an opening for a dishwasher and I believe with your experience you might be a perfect fit. If you’re interested, call my niece, Belinda. She’s my new assistant.”
Dodson suppressed the urge to strangle her. He handed her Chester’s note. “What’s this?” she said, eyes wide like a child was giving her a present. “Your curriculum visa? I hope there’s no criminality on it. It might disqualify you from further advancement.” She read the note and spilled her champagne. “Oh my muthafuckin’ God.”
“Who did you tell?” Dodson said.
“Nobody!” Deronda said, shrugging with both shoulders. “Why would I?”
“You know I didn’t say anything and Isaiah wouldn’t either. Spill it, girl, this shit is important.” Dodson put his high beams on her until she withered in the heat.
She cringed. “I might have told Nona.”
“Nona? That bitch got a mouth big as a damn bathtub and you told her?”
“Keep your voice down, Janee
l is asleep,” Deronda said. “See, here’s what happened. We was in Vegas for a bachelorette party. Lisa was gonna marry Lester DuPont, why I couldn’t tell you. Why would you hook up with somebody who drives a jalopy and can’t take you nowhere unless he got a coupon?” Dodson made a growling sound. “Okay, okay,” Deronda said. “We was partyin’, see. We went to a couple of clubs, then we came back to the suite, right? So me and Nona was in the Jacuzzi—we was talkin’, tippin’ Hennessy, doin’ our thing, and then Marlene came in with this fat-ass joint and we—”
“I swear to God, I’m gonna strangle you with my bare hands.”
“Okay, okay. So me and Nona got to reminiscing, talkin’ ’bout all the crazy shit we done, and the story about the robbery just kind of slipped out. I told her how we planned it and how the shit went wrong and how Isaiah shot Junior and Booze Lewis.” Her voice got small. “I told her everything.”
Dodson walked away three steps and came back. “I can’t believe you did that. If I wasn’t so terrified I’d throw you out the window.”
“Who gave you the note?” she asked.