Wrecked

by Joe Ide

  But now Dodson was stalling so Chester called the wretched little termite in for a meeting. Chester looked around at his creations, each its own sun, reflecting his artistry, his mastery of the craft. He could hardly stand to sell them. The knives weren’t his children exactly, but they were extensions of him, pieces of his genius the public was privileged to buy. Sometimes he refused a sale because the buyer didn’t appreciate how fortunate he was to own a Babbitt, or the guy wanted something to have around or was the kind of reprobate who would toss the knife into a tackle box with his bobbers and cheese bait.

  The shop was Chester’s world. His blood and guts. His very soul. And now this murder case threatened to take it all away. He’d have to sell his inventory on the cheap, close the store, lose the condo, lose everything. He’d be nothing again, like he’d been all his life. The weirdo who wore a bow tie, had a knife collection and no friends. If Dodson and his crew didn’t succeed in robbing Junior, he would go berserk, like the time he beat a man nearly to death and cut off his pinkie finger with the same knife the man was trying to steal. When Chester knew he was going to prison he had his canines sharpened. Nobody wants a blow job from a man with fangs. He spent twenty-eight months in Folsom locked up twenty-three hours a day. “Never again,” he said.

  Dodson drove over to the knife shop, thinking about what he would say. He had only served a bullet at Vacaville, but he’d met more than a few crazy motherfuckers like Chester. Most of them were cell warriors; mad killas out on the yard but cowards face-to-face. Time to give this boy a ho check, Dodson thought. See how woke he was. See if he had some spine. He entered the shop. The air conditioning was off and it was hot. He felt claustrophobic this time, like he’d walked into a mouthful of silver fillings.

  “Hello, Mr. Dodson!” Chester boomed. “What a pleasure seeing you again! I hope you bear good tidings.”

  “I don’t,” Dodson said, belligerent.

  Chester turned somber. “I see.”

  “This shit is impossible, Chester. We don’t know where Junior keeps his money and he’s not gonna tell us.”

  “What does Isaiah say?”

  “He doesn’t know what to do either. None of us hang with Junior and his money could be anywhere.” Dodson sat on a stool, unwrapped a cherry sucker, and put it in his mouth. “You a dippy muthafucka, you know that? You was in the joint, wasn’t you? I bet you was netted up in there too. Kept you in the ding wing with the rest of the lame ducks.” Chester reacted indignantly to the prison slang. He’d definitely done some time, Dodson thought, probably for biting somebody with those coyote teeth.

  Chester started pacing around with his hands behind his back. “This is very disappointing, Mr. Dodson. Very disappointing indeed.”

  “That’s too bad, Chester, ’cause I ain’t doing this shit and neither is anybody else. You need to face reality, son. None of us got no real money so unless you come up with a two-hundred-and-fifty-month payment plan you shit out of luck.” Dodson let the sucker click around in his mouth. Chester was getting pouty like a spoiled rich kid used to getting his way.

  “Those funds must be obtained!” Chester said. “I will accept no excuses!”

  “You need to exit that bus,” Dodson said. “It ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  “Yes it is!” He actually stamped his foot.

  “The fuck are you, six years old?” Dodson got off the stool and stepped in close enough to see the underside of Chester’s chin. “Look here, Chester. You and your knives don’t scare me. I’m a homegrown nigga, I’m gangsta to the bone. I took down muthafuckas worse than you with my left hand. You want to tussle with me you better have something better than a shank in your hand.”

  Chester’s pout had turned to anger. His face was shiny, his eyes were overcast and thin as razor cuts. “I find myself in a predicament, Mr. Dodson,” Chester said. “I’m backed into a corner, and as such, I have nothing to lose.” Chester moved to one of the displays and reverently selected an axe. It was like an oversize tomahawk with a broad, evil-looking blade. “This is a Dane axe. The Vikings used them to great effect when they were destroying villages and setting fire to the villagers.” Dodson backed up a few steps, calculating how fast he could get to the door.

  Chester launched himself into a martial arts demonstration, his movements precise and surprisingly graceful, grunting from the effort, the clownish figure transformed into a trained warrior. He slashed, thrust, decapitated, and disemboweled, stabbing and bashing with the butt of the handle and spinning it like a pinwheel. “I realize…I may seem…ridiculous,” he said between breaths,“but appearances…can…be…deceiving.…But I…do not…accept…your…excuses, sir.…I…do…not…accept them…at…all!” Chester’s bow tie was coming loose, sweat dripping off his nose; the hairpiece was tipped sideways. “You…will…comply…Mr. Dodson…do…you…hear me?…You have…no…other…option!” Chester was getting more frenzied, the canines glazed with spit, the eyes leaving tails of light like a comet. “Those…who have…under…estimated me…have met…with consequences…they did not…anticipate!” Dodson’s bluster had turned into horror. Chester hadn’t been in the ding wing. They kept him in ad seg with the serial killers that stabbed you fifty-seven times before they ate your lips off. Chester stopped and panted like a werewolf. “I will not cease…Mister…Dodson.…I…will…give…you…no reprieve…until I…have…destroyed…your life AS YOU ARE DESTROYING MINE!” He swung the axe, slamming it down on a display case, the glass exploding, the blade cutting through the metal frame and cleaving through the shelves right down to the floor. “NOW GET OUT OF MY SHOP! GET OUT OF MY KINGDOM!” Dodson fled, running to his car and driving away so fast he sheared the side mirror off the car in front of him. As soon as he was a safe distance away, he called Isaiah and set up a meeting at the wrecking yard.

  “What’s this about?” Isaiah said. “I thought you weren’t talking to me anymore.”

  “I didn’t think so either,” Dodson said. “But a lot of things have changed.”

  Grace was working in the warehouse when two kids came meandering in. They were arguing and didn’t see her at first.

  “That’s what you get for making fun of my look-see,” the girl said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” the boy replied. “I suppose Greg doesn’t worry about his personal safety. He’s too busy polishing his swimming trophies.”

  “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

  “Oh please. Why would I be jealous of someone who spends half his life underwater?”

  Grace liked them immediately. They were different, oddballs, which she definitely related to. “Hi. I’m Grace. Isaiah’s friend.”

  “Gilberto Cervantes.” He shook her hand vigorously. He was dressed like an attorney on his day off. A pink polo shirt, khaki slacks, and polished cordovan loafers. “A pleasure to meet you,” he went on. “As they say, any friend of Isaiah’s.” Grace tried not to stare. The kid had tassels on his shoes.

  “Hi, I’m Phaedra,” the girl said. “Phaedra Harris.” She smiled with all the confidence of a motivational speaker. She was dressed casually, but her handbag cost more than three weeks of groceries.

  “What can I do for you?” Grace said. “TK isn’t here, but I can help you if there’s something you need.”

  “We’re meeting Isaiah,” Phaedra said.

  They sat around the rickety card table. Gilberto had his own fancy water bottle and sipped from that. Phaedra tasted TK’s coffee and grimaced. “I don’t mean to be rude, but what is this?”

  “She’s a coffee snob,” Gilberto said, rolling his eyes.

  “Says the kid with the three-stage filter in his water bottle.”

  “What are you guys doing for Isaiah?” Grace asked.

  Gilberto lowered his voice and smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

  “We’ve been watching someone for him,” Phaedra said.

  “Don’t you believe in confidentiality? Really, Phaedra.”

  “Ignore
him. He’s fussy. I put a fingerprint on his briefcase.”

  Grace could hardly keep from laughing. The kids were cute, but as much as they tried not to be, they were still kids.

  “If I may ask,” Gilberto said, “is your relationship with Isaiah personal or professional?”

  “For God’s sake, Gilberto,” Phaedra said.

  “He’s helping me,” Grace said.

  Gilberto nodded sagely. “Ah, a client. Say no more.”

  Isaiah parked the Audi and hurried into the warehouse. He was relieved when he saw Grace. She looked like she was enjoying herself. You had to be a kid or a dog, he thought. “Hi. Sorry I’m late.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve made some new friends,” she said.

  “What’s happening with Vicente?” he asked the kids.

  “First let me say—” Gilberto began.

  Phaedra broke in. “I saw luggage. Two loaded suitcases, a duffel bag, a child’s backpack, and a box full of toys. Vicente is leaving town.”

  “You went inside his house?” Isaiah said.

  Gilbert frowned. “Yes, she did, Mr. Quintabe. I urged her not to, but she insisted and I accompanied her for protection purposes only.”

  Isaiah was angry. “You broke your word, and if something had happened to you, it would have been my responsibility. Didn’t you get that?”

  “I’m sorry, Isaiah,” Phaedra said. “I lost my head. It’s inexcusable.” She was terribly embarrassed. Gilberto looked at her, indignant and pitiless.

  “What are you going to do, sir?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. I have to think about this, but you’re done now, and I appreciate your help.”

  “It was very nice meeting you, Grace,” Phaedra said.

  “Same here,” Gilberto agreed, as if he really had to think about it. “We’ll invoice you, sir, and I hope you’ve learned your lesson, Phaedra.”

  “Yes, I have learned a lesson,” she replied. “The next time I need help I’ll call Greg.” Grace and Isaiah watched them, still bickering as they left the yard.

  “He really likes her, doesn’t he?” Grace said.

  “Likes her? How can you tell?”

  “He doesn’t know how to express it, so he…” her voice trailed off, “…does what he knows how to do.” An excruciating moment went by, the kind where you don’t know what to do with your face.

  “I have to go,” Isaiah said. “Another case.” He hurried away. She thought about him. He could have met the kids at the house but he’d met them here instead. She knew why, but she wanted him to say it. I came here to see you.

  Isaiah drove to Josefina’s house. He parked the car and waited. He heard music from inside. A while later, Vicente showed up with a little girl and a bag of groceries. Josefina met them at the door. She didn’t acknowledge the girl, who quickly slid past her. She kissed Vicente and took the bag of groceries and closed the door. What now? Isaiah thought. There was no way to strong-arm Vicente or sneak the child out. “God, I’m stupid,” he said aloud. He could figure out complicated problems and resolve complicated situations, but sometimes he was so busy being clever he didn’t see the obvious.

  He made a call and a short while later, Manzo, three Locos, and the girl’s mother showed up. They rang the bell. When Josefina opened the door, they barged past her into the house. There was a loud argument. Fifteen minutes later, everybody came out again, the girl in her mother’s arms. At last he’d accomplished something, but he was still wired up.

  He thought he’d keep his semiregular Wednesday appointment with Ari, his Krav Maga instructor. Physical exhaustion might do him some good. Maybe he’d get some sleep.

  If it was exhaustion he wanted, Ari delivered. Punch after punch, kick after kick, combination after combination, until Isaiah was all sweat and burning thighs.

  He was getting back into his car when they came at him from all directions.

  “Get this, muthafucka,” the black guy said. Isaiah got in a few punches but they Tasered him and the next thing he knew he was hooded, his hands were zip-tied, and he was lying in the back of a van.

  “Finally,” Walczak said. “Good job, guys.” He raised his hand to high-five but nobody responded. He pretended he was scratching his head.

  “How’d you know he’d be here?” Jimenez said.

  “One of my sources,” Richter said, with a lazy look at Walczak. “She told me he works out on Wednesdays and he comes in all sweaty. The gym couldn’t be too far away and this place was right around the corner.”

  “Very cool.”

  “You guys take care of this,” Walczak said. “I’ve got to go back to the office.”

  Jimenez grinned. “This is the part you’re good at.”

  “Fuck you, Jimenez.”

  Judging from the turns and the cruising times, Isaiah figured they took the 710 to the 405 and then to the 5. After that, he lost track.

  “You’re in big trouble, Sneaky Pete,” the black guy said. “You want to make this easy on yourself? Tell us where they are.”

  “I don’t know where they are,” Isaiah said. “They went off on their own.”

  “Then why were you evadin’ us, asshole?” the tall woman said. “You think we’re stupid?”

  “I’m afraid of you. Who wouldn’t be?” These guys were from Abu Ghraib and Isaiah had a pretty clear idea of what they were capable of. It scared him. Really scared him.

  It took over an hour but they finally got where they were going. They hauled him out of the van and dragged him up some stairs, and when they reached the landing, the black guy beat him up, more terrifying with the hood on because you couldn’t see the punches coming. You could tell he was enjoying it, saying, Ooh shit, how did that feel, Sneaky? Watch out now, here comes another one. Why you makin’ all that noise? That wasn’t even a hard one. When he was done, Isaiah was bleeding, groaning, and lying on the floor.

  “That’s just a taste,” the black guy said. “The real shit ain’t even started yet.”

  When they took off the hood, he was in a large supply closet, stripped of everything but a table and two chairs. No distractions, no escape, nothing to do but ponder your fucked-up situation. He knew they would try to humiliate him and establish control so he wasn’t surprised when they made him take off his clothes and stand there naked. It was humiliating. He felt so vulnerable he wanted to confess. He didn’t cover his genitals. He wouldn’t give them that. He was thirsty. He hadn’t had a drink in hours. The Latino man and Porkpie were seated at the table. The black guy was leaning against a wall with the tall woman.

  “Pretty disappointing there, Sneaky,” the black guy said. “You might have to turn in your black card.” The tall woman laughed, harsh and braying. The Latino man kept Isaiah waiting, leaning back, his hands behind his head, looking at him like he was a stain or something floating in the toilet bowl. Porkpie was sitting next to him.

  “How you doing, sport?” he said. He was going through Isaiah’s wallet, examining each item as if it was a smoking gun. License, credit card, Vons Club Card, a receipt, Social Security card. He held them up to the light like they might be counterfeit. A small thing but it felt like a violation. Isaiah knew what to do. Accept the situation. Being outraged and making demands was useless. He had to convince them he was beaten, but at the same time staying alert and looking for a way out.

  “Sit down,” the Latino guy commanded. Isaiah carefully took a seat across from him. “Tell us where Grace and Sarah are and it’s over,” the Latino man said. “Simple as that.”

  “I don’t know where they are. Really, I don’t,” Isaiah said.

  The Latino guy was glaring like he’d been insulted. “Keep that shit up, okay? And I swear to God you’ll be fucking sorry.” The tall woman was prowling around behind him, smacking her palm with a police baton. He understood they had complete control over his body. What he had to do was keep his mind from coming apart. That’s what they wanted. To break him down.

  “Are you thirsty?” the Latino g
uy said. Isaiah didn’t respond. They were trying to condition him, get him used to answering questions. “Are you thirsty?” he asked again. Another pause. “Answer my question. Are you thirsty?”

  “Yes, I’m thirsty.”

  The Latino guy put a bottle of water on the table. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Go ahead, drink.” Isaiah took the bottle and gulped. Never turn down food or water. “That’s enough,” the Latino guy said. “Put the bottle down.” Another control technique. He tells you to do something and you do it, get you in the habit. His tone got harsher. “Where’s Sarah and Grace?” The Latino man’s bulging arms were covered with tats. Gang signs, lurid women with gigantic breasts, and snarling creatures aiming guns.

  “I’m telling you, I don’t know,” Isaiah said.

  “Liar. You’re a fucking liar.”

  The woman was standing behind him, still slapping that baton against her palm. She poked him with it, fucked with his ears.

  “Why are you being an asshole?” the black guy said. “You could be home right now, listening to your record collection and hanging out with Dodson.”

  Porkpie found a small photo booth snapshot of Marcus and a young Isaiah, grinning and goofing around. “Your brother, right? Marcus? This is the dumb fuck walked into the street and got hit by a car. What a stupid way to go.” He held Isaiah’s gaze as he folded the picture around his finger, squeezed it in half, then in quarters, and dropped it on the floor. It’s only a picture. Keep your cool.

  “Good thing he’s your only family,” Porkpie added. “Nobody complaining when they find your body.” Porkpie was telling him they knew everything about him, that they owned him.

  The Latino guy was leaning back—no, coiling, getting his feet under him, ready to launch himself. Here it comes, Isaiah thought.