Wrecked

by Joe Ide

  “Well?” the Latino man said.

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “LIAR!” He leapt across the table and slapped Isaiah so viciously his head went back and forth like a door slammed shut so hard it opened again. The shock was as bright as an exploding sun, the pain sizzling like a third-degree burn. It hurt but he’d been hit harder with a closed fist. Hold on for Grace. Hold on for Grace.

  “I swear to God, I don’t know!” he yelled.

  “Tell us right now, motherfucker.” The black guy came off the wall and stood over him like a looming tornado. “Or I’ll put you in so much pain you’ll beg me to slit your fuckin’ throat.”

  “You think we’re messing around?” the tall woman said. She slipped the baton over his neck and yanked it under his chin. He grrrred and tried to pull it off but she was strong and had the leverage. His head was swelling, his throat buckling, he couldn’t breathe. He kicked away from the chair and she dragged him backward, the baton getting tighter, the blood cut off from his brain, his eyes about to mushroom out of his head. He was going to pass out.

  “Enough,” the Latino guy said. The woman loosened the baton and let Isaiah fall to the floor, holding his throat and gasping. The black guy lifted him by his armpits and sat him down in the chair again.

  “You getting the picture?” the Latino guy said.

  Time to give them something, Isaiah thought. It was hard to speak. His throat was scuffed, his neck was sore. “After you chased us, we went to my house,” he said. Porkpie was watching him closely, looking for signs he was lying. Isaiah cautioned himself. Don’t close your eyes, don’t touch your face, don’t pause. “We stayed there awhile, talking,” he went on. Keep your head still, blink normally, look left. “And they decided the safe thing was to get out of town, so they took off. The whole point was to hide, so why would they tell me?” His inquisitors feigned weariness and disappointment, and Isaiah knew they were going to torture him no matter what he told them.

  “Okay,” the Latino guy said. “Don’t say we didn’t give you a chance.”

  They took him into the stairwell and handcuffed him to the railing. His wrists were behind him and raised above his waist so he had to stand up or dislocate his shoulders. They left him there. He couldn’t tell how much time went by. There was nothing in the world but his pain and helplessness. He couldn’t stand up anymore but as soon as he bent his knees, the pain in his shoulders doubled, tripled, and he thought he heard his muscles tearing. For Grace for Grace for Grace for Grace, but even his mantra receded in the torment. He cried out, “Please! Please, untie me! Please!” He’d never begged before. It was its own kind of torture. He hung there in the quiet and the smell of dank cement. He screamed, “PLEASE HELP ME! PLEASE!” But no one came. He fell into a stupor, his body daggered with pain. Time crawled by, half dead, barely moving. The pain blotted out thought, emotions, memory. Self. He screamed and screamed until he couldn’t hear himself anymore, moaning now, mouth open and drooling. When the black man and the tall woman appeared, he sobbed with relief. She grinned.

  “What do you say, Sneaks? Ready yet?”

  Isaiah wanted to answer but his mouth was so dry he couldn’t open it. They dragged him back up the stairs and through the office, deliberately banging him into chairs and tables. They threw him into the supply closet again and put a hood over his head that was soaked in hot sauce. He screamed, his eyes blistering, every breath a flame down his throat. He writhed and choked, trying to shake the hood off, but it enclosed him, encased him, a coffin full of mustard gas. He thought he was going to die. The men were yelling, but he could barely hear them. Where are they? Where are they, motherfucker! Over and over and over again. The tall woman kicked him with her cowboy boots, the pointed toes digging deep.

  “What do you say, Mr. IQ? Feel like talkin’ now?” she said. The others began stomping him, going for his groin, his hands, his head. One of them was taking it easy, pulling back on his kicks a little. Was it Porkpie? Why would he do that? Isaiah covered up and they kicked his thighs and back.

  “PLEASE STOP! PLEEEASE!” he screamed.

  The only thing holding him together was the thought of the crew working on Grace. Beating her, assaulting her, breaking her fingers, breaking her art. He was disintegrating, his rational mind a formless smear, nothing but the need for the pain to stop. He would tell them everything. He would give up Grace. He couldn’t take it anymore—and then, miraculously, they stopped, everyone breathing hard. The black guy put his huge boot on Isaiah’s throat.

  “For the last time, asshole, where are they?” he said. Isaiah moaned. TELL THEM EVERYTHING! He opened his mouth but couldn’t shape the words. He vomited.

  “I need another beer,” the woman said.

  They removed the furniture and put on some hate rock so loud it became part of the pain. They left him alone again. The air conditioning was turned up high, it was freezing. They were letting him stew. Letting him think about the next round, the dread building until it overwhelmed him. He passed out.

  When he awoke, he was still curled up on the floor, shivering, the hate rock filling every part of him that wasn’t wracked with hurt. They weren’t there and that gave him a moment’s relief. Have they gone? Please, tell me they’re gone. But they came back. The thought of more pain made him hysterical. He began twisting and writhing and babbling incoherently. He couldn’t remember what they wanted to know. The Latino was talking on the phone. The black guy took off the hood and taunted him, the woman poured her beer on the floor. He opened his mouth and tried to catch some of the drops. They asked him again about Grace and Sarah and when he wouldn’t answer the black guy got fed up.

  “Then enough of this bullshit,” the black guy said. He hauled Isaiah up and slammed him against the wall. “You think this is bad, asshole? This is nothing. This is a day at the beach. This is Disneyland!” The black guy put his massive hand around Isaiah’s jaw and squeezed so hard Isaiah thought his gums would snap. “NOW START TALKING MOTHERFUCKER OR I SWEAR TO GOD I’LL CUT YOUR GODDAMN DICK OFF AND HANG IT AROUND YOUR NECK!” The same massive hand gripped Isaiah’s forehead like a grapefruit and banged it into the wall. “DO YOU HEAR ME? DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME?” Isaiah couldn’t hear him anymore. There was only his hot breath and his bloodshot eyes and his teeth bared like a carnivore and the pure, unadulterated hatred. Isaiah had reached a kind of resigned calmness, like there was nothing more they could do except kill him and that would be a relief. From somewhere not in his conscious mind, he decided he’d given them enough of his dignity. No more begging or cowering or crying. No more fear. Death was death. He looked at the black guy blankly, even while his head was thumping against the drywall and the pain was everything.

  Porkpie appeared at the door. “Hold it, hold it, Hawk. You’re gonna kill the guy.”

  The black man stepped back. Isaiah fell to the floor and felt a small measure of victory. Then he thought of revenge.

  “Fuck it,” the Latino guy said. He said to the woman, “Owens, find a table where we can lay him down. Did somebody bring a bucket?”

  “It’s in the van.”

  “Get it. Fill it with water. And see if you can find a towel too.” The black guy let Isaiah go and he slumped to the floor. “You gotta admit. The guy’s pretty tough.”

  “What’s this asshole’s name again?”

  “Isaiah. They call him IQ.”

  The black guy and the woman left. The Latino guy’s phone buzzed. “Yeah?” He listened a moment and ran out of the room.

  Chapter Ten

  Boom Boom

  The team got numerous calls about the flyer. All of the callers were obvious liars, throwing in some detail they thought might apply to a white girl. I seen her at the store, buying some kind of fresh vegetables. Yeah, she was driving one of them ’lectric cars, don’t even have to put gas in it. She was at that bar over on Vernon, had some kinda blue martini with an umbrella in it. The African man who called was polite, calm, and obviously edu
cated. He knew things they hadn’t put in the flyer, like the pocket watch tattoo and the shirt Grace was wearing. What convinced them was that he’d seen her with Isaiah. He said he’d met them at a bar in Long Beach.

  “This better not be bullshit,” Jimenez told him.

  “I can assure you, it is not,” the African man replied.

  Seb sat in his booth, waiting. He thought about Isaiah and his white girlfriend and he hoped the men who had put up the flyer would hurt them very badly. Seb had been in love with a woman named Sarita. He had followed her here from another continent. She was his dream woman and proof he was worthy of love. She was the bridge between a small-time criminal and a man with stature and respectability who could hold his head up anywhere. Isaiah had robbed him of all of that. Seb felt it like his missing leg; something not there but throbbing with pain. Five thousand dollars would be very useful right about now. Business had dropped off precipitously. He simply didn’t care anymore, and money-laundering was not an enterprise where one could afford to be lax. He didn’t attend to his clients the way he should have. They complained they couldn’t reach him, a serious charge when you’re holding a felon’s illegal cash, and some of the account totals were less than what they should be. Clients with guns came to collect, and Seb took money from other accounts to pay them. He had become slovenly, shaving less often, not wearing a tie, his mortgage payments six months behind. And who was the cause of this? Isaiah. That intolerable busybody, that insignificant pest had destroyed everything. He would pay, Seb had vowed. He would pay dearly.

  Four men and a woman entered the bar and strode down the aisle. They looked like a slow-motion shot of the bad guys on their way to the showdown, coming right at you, frightening and determined.

  “Good afternoon,” Seb said pleasantly. “I’m pleased you could make it. Would you like something to drink?” They stopped at the booth, looked at him, sizing him up, a small man in an old-fashioned suit, smoking an English cigarette, a fancy tea set arranged in a grid in front of him. He heard the woman mutter, He’s a faggot.

  “No, we don’t want a drink,” the white man in the tennis sweater said. “Where’s the girl?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to see the money first.” Seb knew he had the upper hand. These people were frustrated. Whatever the reason, the girl was important to them. The white man threw a thick envelope down on the table.

  “We have the money, asshole,” he said. “Where is she?”

  “While I am sure you are men of honor,” Seb replied, “we are unknown to each other. I would like to see the money, please.”

  The black man pulled a gun. “Tell us motherfucker and tell us right now!”

  Seb replied calmly, “Come now, there is no need for that. The situation, as I see it, is this. You want assurance that I am telling the truth and I want assurance that you will not take your money back.”

  “Three seconds, motherfucker.” The black man grabbed Seb’s wrist, turned it over, and stuck the gun barrel into his palm.

  “He’ll do it, ese,” the Latino guy said. “No shit.”

  With his off hand, Seb took a sip of tea. “I was hoping we would discuss this in a reasonable fashion.” The black man knocked the cup out of his hand, the delicate porcelain shattering against the wall.

  “One,” the black man said. Seb dusted the debris off his coat.

  “It is unfortunate that all too frequently we must resort to violence. Let us be reasonable.”

  “Two.”

  “You are making an unwise choice,” Seb said. “The resulting bloodshed would hardly be worth it.” Seb was looking past them. They turned their heads. Sahid, the bartender, was aiming an AK-47 at them, a prostitute named Millie was doing the same with an Uzi. Laquez came out of the hallway with his bulging eyes and stupid grin. He was aiming two pistols sideways like an idiot.

  “Whassup, muthafuckas?” he said cheerfully.

  Seb removed his hand from the black man’s grip. “How about this? One of you will verify that the girl is where I say she is. Then he will call you. When you are satisfied the young lady you seek is at the location, I will keep the five thousand dollars and you can do what you will. In the meantime, you will disarm and stay here as my guests. Are you quite certain you won’t have a drink?”

  Isaiah had lost consciousness again and when he woke up, he was alone. He didn’t hear voices. He put his ear to the floor and didn’t feel any footsteps. The hate rock and the air conditioner were off. They’d forgotten to put the hood back on and the door was open. They’d left in a hurry, which meant they had located Grace. He had to call her, warn her, but it was impossible. He was bleeding from the nose and ears, his swollen eyes were like looking through a windshield hit by a flying bird. Blood from the earlier beatings had caked, new blood sheeting over it, adding thickness and shine. A cracked rib pierced his organs. He was sure his arms had separated from his shoulders, the nerves and ligaments dangling loose. His brain had become a separate entity; a power station run amuck, sending crackling jolts of pain to every receptor cell in his body.

  He had to sit up. He leaned against the wall and gave it a try, twisting around, lifting himself. He thought his body would explode, his guts splattering on the walls. He made sounds he’d never made before. But he was sitting up. His head was bowed, his breath like a death rattle, blood and drool dripping onto his naked thighs.

  He knew how to get out of a zip tie. First, he had to bring his wrists underneath him so they were between his knees. He had long arms and that made it easier than it might have been. It was excruciating but he did it. Now he had to slip his wrists under his feet so they’d be in front of him. Oh motherfucking shit that hurt. He paused to let the pain dissipate from extreme to less extreme. He thought he would pass out again. Standing up was next. He got on his knees first and leaned against the wall. Then he got his feet underneath him and pushed himself up, his shoulder sliding up the wall. He was standing up but so unsteadily he nearly fell down again. He breathed and drooled and tried to catch his breath. He urged himself to stay conscious.

  Now the zip tie. The first part was counterintuitive. He grabbed the tag end of the tie with his teeth and pulled it even tighter until the strap was cutting into his wrists. Theoretically, if you put your wrists over your head, puffed out your chest, and brought your wrists down into your midriff with enough force, you wouldn’t break the strap, but you would snap the tiny locking pin inside the housing. Theoretically. He waited until the pain subsided some. He took more deep breaths but they hurt too. Then he raised his wrists as high as they would go and brought them down with everything he had. He nearly blacked out and would have toppled over if he hadn’t leaned into the wall. But the locking pin had broken. His hands were free. The pain came in huge spasms. He grunted in time with the spasms and vomited again. He staggered to the door. He saw his clothes and cell phone strewn on the floor. He took two steps toward them. Then his knees gave out, his vision went black, and that was the end of the world.

  Dodson was early for his meeting with Isaiah. He drove into the wrecking yard and saw a white girl working under the hood of a smashed-up Civic. “Are you Grace?”

  “Who are you?” she replied warily. She had a socket wrench in her hand and gripped it tighter.

  “Juanell Dodson. I’m Isaiah’s partner.”

  “I didn’t know he had one.”

  “Would you mind doing something with that dog so I can get out of the car?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Grace said.

  TK came out of the warehouse. “It’s okay,” he said. “It ain’t nobody but Dodson.”

  “Go on, Ruff,” she said, and the dog trotted into the warehouse like he was glad to get away from the riffraff.

  “How you doin’, Dodson? How’s the baby?” TK said.

  “Baby’s doing fine,” Dodson said as he got out of the car. “Cherise sends her love.”

  “Tell her I send it back.”

  “So you’re really Isaia
h’s partner?” Grace said.

  “Yes, I am.”

  TK was incredulous. “Wait a second. Did you say his partner?”

  “That’s right. We work together now.”

  “Well, good for you, boy,” TK said, nodding and smiling. “I thought you was still dealin’ crack.” That got a look from Grace.

  “No, I’m not dealing crack. I gave that up a long time ago.”

  TK took his cap off and scratched his head. “And then—what was it? You was running some kinda Ponzi scheme, weren’t you?” He chuckled. “Yeah, half the neighborhood was after your hide.”

  “I gave that up too,” Dodson said, hardly moving his lips. Grace was looking at him like a new species of insect.

  “And there was something else you was up to,” TK said.

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  The old man snapped his fingers. “I remember! You was sellin’ counterfeit Gucci handbags out the trunk of your car!”

  “I’m legit now, aight?” Dodson said irritably.

  “So what is it you actually do for Isaiah? You some kind of secretary?”

  Richter watched the wrecking yard with binoculars. He saw Grace and called Walczak.

  “She’s here.”

  “Anybody with her?”

  “An old man and some homeboy.”

  “Are they armed?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  “We’re on our way.”

  The team arrived in a van and a rental car. Jimenez turned on the TSJ vehicle-based military jammer they used for protecting convoys from IEDs. It would prevent anyone from calling in or out of the yard but the radios would still work.

  Jimenez nodded. “Let’s go.”

  The sun was fierce and they’d moved into the shade of the warehouse. Dodson and TK were arguing about whether or not Dodson was Isaiah’s secretary. Grace was hunched down, giving Ruffin a bowl of fresh water. They heard engines at full throttle and saw a van and another car speeding through the gate. Grace stood up. “They’re here for me,” she said.