Wrecked

by Joe Ide

  “Details?” Spoon said. He looked like thinking was new to him. “Well, I know Isaiah’s at the Coffee Cup almost every day. I shoulda thought of that before I tried to rob the place.”

  “What time?”

  “In the morning, when people usually have they coffee—no, wait. I seen him there at night too. Verna makes soup, sausage rolls, chicken pot pies. Too bad I can’t go in there no more.” Spoon told him about Isaiah’s friends, Juanell Dodson and a girl named Deronda something. “If you don’t know her you’d recognize her. Girl got a booty like she’s towin’ a double-wide.” Spoon was useless after that. Even a few extra kicks didn’t help his memory.

  Richter went to the Coffee Cup. He talked to the lady who ran the place.

  “Why do you want to know about Isaiah?” the lady said.

  Richter told them he was a former client and he owed Isaiah a lot of money. He said he’d lost Isaiah’s address and phone number but knew he hung out here sometimes.

  “The guy really helped me, you know? I really want to pay him back.”

  “He comes in when he comes in,” she said. “I don’t keep track.”

  “Nothing regular, huh?”

  “Sometimes on Wednesdays. Comes in after his workout, all sweaty and such, but that’s hit and miss too.”

  “Please don’t tell him about this,” Richter said. “If I ever catch up with him, I want it to be a surprise.”

  Discouraged, he went outside. He looked and looked again. Right across the street, huddled in a vestibule, were the same two winos who had identified Spoon way back when. He walked over there smiling, trying to look friendly, a hard thing for him to do. They shot him that What are you doing here white man look. Their names were Mo and Dancy. They slept in the park but came over here in the daytime because Verna gave them leftovers and a little money if they cleaned up the parking lot.

  “Do you know Isaiah Quintabe?” Richter said.

  “What you want to know ’bout him for?” Mo said, sticking out his chin.

  He told them the same story he told the old lady. Then he gave them twenty dollars each to sleep in the vestibule instead of the park and to call him if Isaiah showed up. If they did he’d give them twenty more. “Remember. It’s a secret.”

  At a little past midnight, Jimenez, Hawkins, Owens, and Walczak were in a van parked down the block from Isaiah’s house. Walczak wondered how people could live here, stuck in a stucco cracker box with an ugly chain-link fence and no landscaping. The group was dressed exactly like a SWAT team: helmets, face shields, body shields, assault rifles, and Kevlar vests with POLICE stenciled on them.

  “It’s hot in here,” Owens said. “What are we waitin’ for?”

  “Richter,” Walczak said. “He’s got the thermal imaging camera.”

  “Did you know he was like that?” Jimenez said.

  “Like what?”

  “Smarter than you.” The others looked away so they wouldn’t laugh.

  The plan was to go through the front door with a Remington 870 door-breaching shotgun, yelling Police, get on the floor! Which should forestall any neighbors from calling 911. The targets would be Tasered immediately. If they ran out the back, Richter was waiting for them with a .44-caliber handgun and a .32 in the back of his pants. The targets would be subdued and bum-rushed into the van. In and out. Should take two minutes at the most.

  Hawkins knew everyone assumed he’d be the first man in. He was always the first man in. Because of his size people thought he was bulletproof. If he was an actor, he’d be cast like that wobble-eyed bald-headed freak in Friday. He was scary just walking around. He was an all-state linebacker and defensive captain at UC San Diego. His degree was in athletic therapy and kinesiology and he worked as a physical therapist in Lynwood for a while. He hated it and got fired because he intimidated the patients and there were complaints that his massages were more like getting crushed by an avalanche.

  He didn’t know what to do with himself so he joined the army, and being an MP seemed like a natural fit. Not a drunk soldier on earth would fuck with him and who wouldn’t obey his orders? He was smarter than the job but you can’t have everything. He did some bad shit at Abu Ghraib but he didn’t think about it. He could do that, keep things compartmentalized. It was like his mother’s house and the room where his father had died. It was always locked and never talked about. The only thing he couldn’t contain was his anger. He was angry all the time. Road rage was a hobby. Just the other day a guy cut him off and he tailgated the asshole for fifteen minutes, leaning on his horn the whole time. The only reason the guy got away was because he turned into the police station parking lot. Hawkins got into bar fights, ran over crows and stray cats, and scared his neighbors so badly they built a fence out of cinder blocks that was nine feet tall. But mostly he was angry at Walczak. This motherfucker not only gets everybody in deep shit, he comes out of it smelling like a rose in a garden of money. Hawkins worked as a campus security officer at UC San Diego, where people chanted his name every time he made a sack.

  “I’m not going in first,” Hawkins said. “You hear me, Walczak?”

  “Yes, I hear you,” Walczak said, “and nobody said you would. I’ll go in first, okay?”

  “That’s big of you. Ain’t nobody in there with AKs and IEDs.”

  “Then what do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to go fuck yourself.”

  Out of the blue, Owens said, “How’s everything going, Jimenez?”

  He looked at her. “How’s everything going? What kind of question is that?”

  She shrugged. “Just askin’.”

  Richter came through the radio. “There’s two people in the kitchen. One sitting, one standing.”

  “Well, let’s go get this shit over with,” Hawkins said. He looked at Walczak. “Lead the way.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before you took the case?” Dodson said indignantly.

  “Because I don’t have to ask your permission,” Isaiah replied. Dodson was angry. Too angry, he thought, even for the situation.

  “You ain’t asking permission,” Dodson said. “It’s courtesy, not to mention a sign of respect. This is the same shit you did with Carter. Why the hell did you bring me on if all you was gonna do is ignore me? This is bullshit, Isaiah!”

  “What’s the matter with you? Did you have a fight with Cherise?”

  “Whether I did or I didn’t is none of your concern. How much we getting paid?” Isaiah hesitated. “Oh no,” Dodson said. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. A free haircut? A box of cornflakes? Some reindeer pants to go with that sweater?” Isaiah gestured at Grace’s painting propped up on the counter next to the toaster. He hadn’t decided where to put it yet. “What?” Dodson said. “The client’s gonna buy you a new toaster?”

  “The painting.”

  “That?”

  “I like it.”

  “You like it? That ain’t no reason.” Dodson walked away three steps and came back to where he started. “Who’s the client?”

  “Her name’s Grace,” Isaiah said. “She’s an artist.”

  “Nigga, please. Big Earl is a house painter. He ain’t got but one eye, and he could do better than that. We talked about this, Isaiah. We supposed to be making money.”

  “And you’re supposed to bring in big clients. What happened to that?”

  “I told you, I’m working on it.”

  “Well, you better work harder because I’m taking the case,” Isaiah said. His voice had a little too much fuck you in it. Dodson nodded, as if to say, Is that how it is?

  “That’s some low shit right there. That’s wrong and you know it.”

  Isaiah thought about Marcus and how he would have handled this. He made people feel important, that their opinions mattered. It was one of the reasons everybody loved him and why he never seemed to be lonely. Isaiah couldn’t get himself to apologize. Why should he feel sorry for doing what he’d always done?

  “You got a thing for her, do
n’t you?” Dodson said.

  “A thing for—no, I don’t,” Isaiah said lamely. “She’s just a client.”

  “Uh-huh, and you let her pay you with a painting? Who do you think you talking to? I know the fever when I see it.”

  “I don’t have any fever,” Isaiah mumbled.

  “That’s what you said about Sarita and nearly got us killed.” Dodson was almost shouting. Isaiah looked at him directly.

  “Look, I took the case, okay? I can’t go back on my word.”

  “You gave your word to me too,” Dodson replied. Isaiah knew he should apologize but he’d waited too long. “I’m out,” Dodson said, and he walked out of the room.

  “Here we go,” Walczak said. He slid open the door of the van and slammed it shut again. “Abort! Abort!”

  “What? Why?” Richter said from the radio.

  “It’s not Grace.” A second black guy had come out of the house. He got in his car and drove away.

  “Who’s that?” Owens said.

  “Grace must have taken off,” Walczak said.

  Richter said, “Or maybe Isaiah knew we’d find him and hid her someplace.”

  “He couldn’t be that good.”

  “Why?” Jimenez said. “Because then he’d be smarter than you too?”

  “Let’s get the fuck outta here,” Hawkins said.

  Grace’s first thought: this was a bad decision. In the daytime, the wrecking yard was familiar and felt as safe as a playground, but at night it took on a whole different character. Spotlights lit up the yard like an alien landing zone. Around the edges, stacks of crushed cars watched through squashed eyes, the crane a crippled dinosaur looming against the yellow moon. Isaiah appeared out of a shadow.

  “Park around back,” he said. “Behind the warehouse.” He looked wide awake and eager. She thought about leaving but remembered Walczak’s bleached teeth in her rearview mirror, bared and hateful. When she got out of the car, Ruffin came to greet her and then Isaiah led her into the warehouse. There was a loft she’d never noticed before. Grace followed him up the old wooden stairs, gray with age, splinters on the banister. I’m going to sleep up there? I’d rather sleep in my car. A low-wattage bulb hung on a wire, illuminating a cleared space amid the cobwebs, car parts, and miscellaneous junk. It was swept, mopped, and dusted clean. Cleaner than her apartment, she thought. There was a new futon, and bedding still in its packages. A lamp, a boom box, and a small TV were on a folding table; a space heater and a mini-fridge on the floor.

  “I hope it’s okay,” Isaiah said.

  “It’s fine,” she said, a little stunned. “Thank you.” She wanted to say, You did all this for me? She didn’t know what to do and stood there feeling stupid. He seemed to sense she was self-conscious, probably how he felt when he was looking at her paintings.

  “There’s a bathroom next to TK’s office,” he said. “It’s got a shower and everything. Try not to go out. If you need anything, ask TK or call me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Ruffin’s going to stay with you. He’s good company.”

  “Thanks. That’s really nice of you.”

  “I’ve got to talk to TK. You want to talk about the case later?”

  “No, not tonight,” she said. “I’ve got something to do.” He looked like he was going to say something but didn’t. He went down the stairs, Grace thinking he’s too nice, he couldn’t be for real. She took a closer look around. There were CDs for the boom box. A box of tissues. A can of pepper spray. There was also water, energy bars, and fresh fruit in the mini-fridge. There was even a wastebasket, the Rubbermaid sticker still on it. “I don’t believe it,” she said. Obviously, he liked her, and she had to admit, he was attractive—and cool, but not in a street way or a TV way. He had the kind of cool she liked. Quiet, thoughtful, sharp as a box cutter, no flash but you knew he was in the room, and thankfully, not into pop culture. Plain car, no gold chain, no studs in his ears. The CDs were all jazz and classical.

  A stack of clean towels and two shopping bags were on the futon. In one there was a new pair of jeans, a package of T-shirts, a denim jacket, socks, even underwear. Everything in her exact size. It moved her and she nearly started to cry. “Jesus,” she said. The other bag held a toothbrush, toothpaste, a hairbrush, shampoo, conditioner, a shower cap, and a bar of soap—wait, it wasn’t any old soap. It was the soap she used all the time, Dove. She scratched her pocket watch tattoo, something she did when she was confused or anxious. How could he possibly know that? When he was at her place he didn’t go into the bathroom. Was it a coincidence? Lots of people used Dove. Did he recognize the smell? No, that was too much.

  She realized he was taking care of her and she tried to think of the last time that happened. Maybe never. She’d had a few boyfriends who wowed her at first but eventually took off their costumes and revealed their fucked-up selves. There was the overcontrolling musician who’d lost a career-ending finger. She’d always thought that was why he was so good in bed, like he was making up for the lost appendage with a working one. Then there was the writer, brilliant and beautiful. He tried to commit suicide a week after they met but she hooked up with him anyway. He was like a pinball; lights flashing and bells clanging as he ricocheted from mood to mood. He wouldn’t take his meds until he finished his book, which he never worked on because he was high all the time. When he’d drained her of every last giving, loving, maternal instinct she’d ever had, she left. There were others but they were no better.

  “You get the love you think you deserve,” Cherokee told her over and over again, but the insight was only a cluster of words, another homily, useless in everyday life. It reminded Grace of the escargot tongs her mother kept in a drawer with the butter knives and the soup spoons. She had to stay wary of Isaiah. He’d have a litany of issues like everybody else and she had a bunch of her own. No, she’d keep him at a distance. The last thing she needed was another unpredictable man in her life. She wasn’t afraid of him, not in the least. She was afraid of herself.

  Later, she went downstairs. TK and Isaiah were sitting at the rickety card table, talking and doing nothing. He’s waiting for me, she thought.

  “We’re going to order some Thai food,” he said. “Want to eat before you go out?”

  “No thanks. Another time.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask where she was going, and thankfully he didn’t. She drove away and saw him in the rearview mirror, frowning with curiosity. And something else too. What was it? She was trying to decide but he was gone now and she wished she’d driven slower and gotten a better look.

  Sarah sat in the car and watched for Grace every day. She had her schedule down and was almost always treated with a look, however brief. Once, she’d nearly been caught, but fortunately, she’d been shielded by the rain. She’d named her daughter Grace for two reasons. Because it meant kindness and love and because she was a fan of Grace Hartigan, an abstract expressionist who hung out with Jackson Pollock and Elaine de Kooning. Sarah had become a fan of Hartigan when she saw one of her paintings titled Grand Street Brides. It depicted a group of mannequins dressed up in wedding gowns, which was pretty much how she felt about her marriage.

  Tonight, she was at the Eastside Diner; their specialties, shitty coffee and greasy things on buns. If you sat in the corner booth and looked between the telephone pole and the gray car parked at the curb, you had an unobstructed view of the Edgemont. Sometimes, Sarah never saw her daughter at all, but even a brief glimpse created enough fantasies to last her until the next time. A Whole Foods shopping bag set off an entire lifestyle. She eats healthy, of course she does. Nothing but fresh and organic and no gluten, not for my girl. She steams everything, snacks on raw vegetables. Look at her, how slender she is! She takes yoga or Pilates, maybe both. And she runs. In the morning, before I get here. No drugs, no alcohol, not like her mother. Oh, I WISH I could see her paintings!

  Arthur chided her. “Instead of making things up, why don’t you just go talk to her?”

  �
�I can’t.”

  “Why?” Arthur said.

  “Because she has every reason to hate me.” Sarah looked at him, this dear sweet man with a frizz of graying hair, a white beard, and wise, gentle eyes. He was patient and she needed a lot of that. He sighed, shook his head, and went back to reading his book about the NSA.

  Tonight was interesting, Sarah thought. Grace was accompanied by a young man and they went into the building together. Probably not her boyfriend. They were too stiff, too tentative. First date? Grace could do worse. The guy had a nice vibe and he didn’t seem like another artist. Not flakey or smug. She wondered what they were doing up there. Maybe she was cooking for him. Yeah, something like couscous or Indian food, something hip and exotic. They were probably lounging on big pillows and talking about an art review in the New York Times or how he was crowdsourcing his independent movie.

  Arthur signaled for more tea. “It’s like waiting to see Bigfoot.”

  “Just a little longer?” She wanted to see if the young man was spending the night. “It’s too early,” she said.

  “What?” Arthur said.

  “It’s too early in the relationship for sex.”

  “That’s what I think too.”

  “There he is,” Sarah said. The young man came out of the building, turned the corner, and disappeared. She was glad. My girl’s no pushover, she thought. “I guess we can go.”

  “Hallelujah,” Arthur said. They were waiting for the waiter to bring the check when the young man came jogging back, patting his pockets like he’d forgotten something, and ran into the building. There was some movement inside the gray car, parked not twenty feet away. Three men and a woman got out. Sarah immediately recognized them as military; the aggressive attitude, the implacable eyes, the calculated movements. They stood there talking conspiratorially, headlights from a passing car revealing their faces. Sarah was horrified. She knew them. She immediately turned away from the window, swallowed her heart, and hoped against hope they hadn’t seen her. “Oh my God,” she whispered.