Wrecked

by Joe Ide

  “Yes, they are. And that’s in our favor.” Arthur explained that because the photos were so hideous it was unlikely Walczak would add anyone else to the team. That meant they were only dealing with the five of them and not WSSI’s 17,000 employees. “We’ve got to pick them off one by one,” Arthur said. “And they’ll probably use drones.”

  Hours before Walczak’s team got to the mall, Arthur hired a laborer to take an identical suitcase and sit in the rotunda at a specified time. Arthur said his sister needed it and he couldn’t wait for her. He showed the guy that the suitcase was empty and paid him twenty dollars. He said his sister would pay him twenty more, thinking he wasn’t really cheating the guy. He’d get a free suitcase.

  Walczak was told to arrive at the mall’s south entrance, which was on a one-way street. He would probably stay put, otherwise he’d have to park several blocks away or in the garage, where he’d be stuck. There would be a second vehicle and maybe a third, but the lack of parking would present them with the same problem and they’d be temporarily out of the picture. Because Sarah had asked for a specific model of suitcase, Walczak would think they were going to make a switch, and that would make foot pursuit a priority. One or more of the team would leave the vehicles and watch from inside the mall. When Sarah instructed the guy with the suitcase to leave the mall and get into a cab, that would—should leave them behind. In the meantime, Walczak wouldn’t have the option of making a U-turn. He’d be facing the wrong way and the other vehicle or vehicles would have to play catch-up. When the cab reached the hospital parking garage, the guy with the suitcase would—should be alone. Which, amazingly enough, happened. When Sarah was hiding in the junker and Porkpie came walking up the ramp by himself, it seemed like a miracle.

  Once Porkpie put the suitcase in the Buick’s trunk, she drove up a couple of floors and parked next to Arthur’s brown Volvo. She peeled off the coveralls she was wearing over her clothes while Arthur removed the money from the suitcase, eliminating the GPS tracker that was no doubt hidden inside. Arthur had specifically wanted hundred-dollar bills instead of twenties. They made a smaller package. Two minutes and twelve seconds later, they crossed the walkway into the hospital. He kissed her and told her he loved her, and they went their separate ways.

  Walczak’s techs diligently watched the drones’ live feed but neither they nor Jimenez in the Denny’s across the street picked up on the woman with her hair tucked under a mousy brown wig coming out of the hospital’s main entrance. She was wearing blue scrubs, reading glasses with no lenses in them, and a prosthetic around her waist that made her look fat. Her thin lips were thickened with lipstick, her pale skin darkened with spray-on tan, a stethoscope around her neck, and lifts in her shoes. She was also walking amid a crowd of other people in blue scrubs who were leaving for the day, something they always did at five o’clock in the afternoon. At the exact same moment she appeared, so did a short, pale, blond woman wearing a cap and dark glasses whom Arthur had hired to carry a suitcase, walk fast, and get on the bus. He gave her a hundred bucks and told her they were shooting an independent movie.

  Hawkins was in his car parked across the street from the hospital’s second entrance, but neither he nor the techs noticed the clean-shaven man in blue scrubs who was carrying a medical bag and wore a fake nose and a girdle to hide his paunch; his wild hair cut short and darkened with dyed eyebrows to match. He was also walking amid a crowd of other people in blue scrubs who were leaving for the day, something they always did at five o’clock in the afternoon. At the exact same moment he appeared, so did a rotund black man wearing a false white beard and wig and carrying a large backpack whom Arthur had hired to walk fast and get on the bus. He gave him a hundred bucks and told him they were shooting an independent movie. And neither the drones, the techs, nor Walczak’s team saw Sarah and Arthur meet up at the Motel 6 in Burbank or drink a bottle of Veuve Clicquot as they danced around the room throwing the money into the air.

  Arthur wanted to be sure they were in the clear, so he decided to wait a few days before he gave up the passwords. Walczak was getting what he wanted so there was no need for him to pursue Grace. But no contact with her. Not yet. Wait until things cool down. They left the brown Volvo in the parking garage and found a near-new Chevy Tahoe on Craigslist. They bought it for cash and hit the road at sunrise, Arthur singing “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” so loud she tried to make him hum. They stopped in Fresno for supplies. Camping equipment, bicycles, food, water, sunscreen, a new bikini for Sarah.

  “I can’t wait to see you in that,” Arthur said as they got back on the highway.

  “The view isn’t as good as it used to be but I think you’ll be impressed.”

  “I already am. We’ll hit Reno sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

  She was giddy. “I can’t believe it. After all these years. Finally!”

  “Life begins today, my love,” but in the dark files of Arthur’s accumulated wisdom, he knew Walczak wasn’t done.

  Bad, bad Leroy Brown, baddest man in the whole damn town…

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Battering Ram Bandits

  Dodson and Deronda went to the storage locker where the teenage Battering Ram Bandits had made their plans, stored their stolen goods, and fought each other for control. There was nothing much there. Boxes of old records, tools, scrap lumber, and networks of dusty cobwebs.

  “Dang, this place is nasty,” Deronda said.

  “There it is,” Dodson said. The battering ram was leaning against a wall. The dark metal was rusted in places and crusted with oxidation. It looked like an abandoned torpedo.

  “I seen the police knock down doors with them things,” Deronda said.

  “Swing it right and you can knock down a house. You gotta help me, you know,” Dodson said.

  “Help you? Uh-uh, not gonna happen.” She folded her arms across her chest as if that made it final. “Last time I swung something was when I tried to hit my brother-in-law with a meat mallet.”

  “You got anything happening today?”

  “I gotta get back to the food truck. My daddy’s covering for me.”

  “Then tell him you’ll be late. You gonna be busy for a while.”

  “Busy doin’ what?” she said.

  “Practicin’.”

  They found a condemned building with broken windows and streamers of yellow caution tape flapping around. Dodson snipped through the chain link fence with a bolt cutter and they went around to the back, Deronda stepping gingerly through the chunks of cement, broken glass, and coils of moldy dog shit. “I hate this already,” she said.

  They reached a fire exit. The door was hefty and sheathed in metal. “Okay,” Dodson said. “Take your end of this thing. No, not like that, you not lifting weights. Pick it up sideways.” Grudgingly, she obliged him, taking hold of the front handle while he held on to the back. “We’re gonna swing it back and forth,” he went on, “get a rhythm, like you’re on a swing at the playground. When we got it up to speed, we swing extra hard and we hit it right there.” He indicated the dead bolt. “Okay, hold on tight now. We’re gonna do a few warm-up swings, then I’m gonna say one, two, three, and on three we do it. You got that?”

  “Yeah, I got it,” she said, sulking. “This ain’t exactly rocket science.” They took some warm-up swings. “Dang, this thing is hurtin’ my back.”

  “Shut up, goddammit. Here we go. One…two…THREE!”

  Deronda swung but let go of the handle, the momentum ripping the ram out of Dodson’s hands. The ram banged into the door and dropped to the ground with a clank. Deronda hopped away like the thing was on fire.

  “The fuck you doing, girl?” Dodson said. “You supposed to hold on to it!”

  “It’s too heavy.”

  “Too heavy my narrow black ass. I seen you throw a bowling ball at Lamar Wiggens and knock him down like a tenpin.”

  She stamped her foot. “See, I knew this would happen. I broke a nail.” She held it up like she’d lost a f
inger.

  “Michael Stokely’s gonna break every bone in your body if we don’t make this happen. Now pick the goddamn thing up and let’s do it again.”

  Four tries, two arguments, and another broken nail later, they finally managed to knock the door down. “See?” he said. “This shit works if you do it right.” Deronda was sweaty and scowling.

  “I gotta go pick up my son from day care.”

  “Since when does day care let out at ten-thirty in the morning? Pick your end up. We gotta find another door.”

  Grace entered Royal Custom Cutlery with an earnest, curious look on her face. An interested buyer. Chester Babbitt smiled broadly. “Good afternoon!” The volume and depth of his voice were startling. She was more excited than afraid. She liked being part of this. She liked helping Isaiah.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, trying not to react to his weirdness. A bow tie? Jesus. Are those his teeth?

  “And how may I help you today, young lady?”

  “Just a penknife. My dad says Babbitt knives are the best in the world. He could never afford one so I want to get him one for his birthday.”

  Chester beamed. “Well, that’s very kind of him. Please, come this way and let’s see what we can find.”

  As he led her to a display case she said wonderingly, “Your shop is amazing. Did you make all of these yourself?” Stop looking at me like that.

  “I did indeed,” he said with feigned humility.

  “That’s incredible!” She hated being girly-silly but it was part of the plan. With too much ceremony, Chester opened a display case and brought out a velvet-covered tray arrayed with five pocketknives in various sizes.

  “How much is the little one?”

  “One ninety-five,” he said, as if he could hardly believe it was so inexpensive.

  “Wow. That’s a lot.”

  “Would a twenty percent discount help?” He smiled magnanimously.

  “Oh, that would be great!” she squealed. Stop looking at me like that! Chester put the knife in a monogrammed box and the box in a velvet monogrammed bag. “That’s beautiful,” she said. “Do you have a card?”

  “Of course, take several.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Babbitt. My dad will be thrilled!”

  “The pleasure was all mine.” He bowed. “Do come back anytime.”

  She left the shop happy. She could hardly wait to tell Isaiah.

  Chester closed up and thought about the girl. He should have gotten her name. She was a tasty little thing. If she returned maybe he’d take a nibble. Sadly, she was a mere distraction from the matters at hand. Chester had sent multiple texts to Dodson. Do not disappoint me, Mr. Dodson. The consequences will be severe. I am expecting good news and only good news. Think of your family. Dodson and his friends could not fail. They wouldn’t be allowed to fail. Collection agents were calling. His landlord was starting eviction proceedings. His first court appearance was next week and the lawyer was demanding his retainer. Chester was well aware Dodson might hold back some of the money. It was a given. But Chester had a bottom line. A hundred thousand dollars. Any less and he’d tell Junior about the robbery anyway. It would serve them right. Why should they get to be happy?

  Grace drove over to Cherokee’s parents’ place. They let her use the garage. She was pretty sure Isaiah wouldn’t follow her anymore. She parked and went in. She liked working late. It felt private and intimate, which was how it should be. She rolled back the cover until the front end of the car was exposed. It thrilled her every time but it made her sad and remorseful too, sometimes to the point of tears. The car was only a collection of metal parts but it meant much more than that. The fun, the closeness, the fantasy that something inanimate could give you attitude and coolness and you’d be a badass too. Grace didn’t believe in heaven but she did believe in presence; that when a loved one passed, they left an essence within you that needed honoring and celebration or it would die and evanesce forever. The intake manifold was heavy. She fitted it into place and went to work.

  It was quiet at Elena’s house. Isaiah was pleased with Grace’s mission to the knife shop, but they had a ways to go before all the pieces of the plan were in place. He hadn’t told Dodson and Deronda about it. No need raising their expectations. Now he was in bed trying to gather himself. The torture had lasted less than a day, but it had affected him more than he’d anticipated. He had a hyped sense of danger now, like he had to be vigilant all the time. He was afraid.

  The memory searches with Grace were going slowly, and unlike TV detectives, Isaiah needed time to consider, assemble, and formulate. It was like looking at the stars. At first, they seemed random, scattered helter-skelter by the Big Bang. Only when your mind connected that star to this one and this one to that one could you say, That’s a bear, that’s Gemini, that looks like a soup ladle. At the moment, all he had were stars.

  He got a call from Dodson. Junior was at a club and looked like he’d be there awhile. Isaiah put on his shoes and walked in measured steps down the hall. Grace was coming the other way. She smelled like motor oil.

  “What’s going on?” she said.

  “Junior’s at a club. I’ve got to go help Dodson.”

  “I want to go,” she said. “I owe him. I nearly got him killed.”

  “No, not a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  She tipped her head sideways and looked at him thoughtfully. “So it’s not too dangerous for you, Dodson, and Deronda, but it’s too dangerous for the white girl?” He started to reply, but the words evaporated as soon as they hit the air. People had given him dirty looks before but nothing like the withering pale green laser beams burning a hole through his skull. He swallowed hard. “Yeah, sure, come along,” he said. “We could use the help.”

  For the first time since Dodson bought the car, the stereo was off. He and Deronda were waiting for Isaiah in the parking lot at Shop ’n Save. Dodson didn’t get scared too often but he was scared now. He’d rather get a beatdown from Michael Stokely than put his family at risk but that was what he’d done. He hoped that goes-around-comes-around shit wasn’t true. God had a long list of crimes he could punish him for. Another first. Deronda was sitting there quietly, not bitching or accusing or talking shit about somebody. She was probably thinking about little Janeel. How he’d be affected if she was badly hurt or dead. There was no one to take care of him but her father, who was pushing seventy. Chester called.

  “Hello, Mr. Dodson,” he said, that Dane axe in the big voice. “Are we making progress?”

  “Yes, we are,” Dodson said. “Isaiah has come up with a plan and we’re about to get to it right now.”

  “I hope you’re not lying to me.”

  “That’s the straight-up truth. I want to get this over with same as you.” The call ended.

  “Was that him?” Deronda said.

  “Uh-huh,” Dodson said.

  “Is he as crazy as they say?”

  “No. That boy is off the crazy scale altogether.”

  “We gotta do this, Dodson,” she said, her eyes on her child’s future. “Failure is not an option.”

  Isaiah and Grace arrived in the Audi. Deronda was incensed. “What’s she doing here?” she said.

  “She came to help,” Isaiah replied, without much behind it.

  Dodson was pissed too. “Help how?” he said like Grace wasn’t there. “She gonna paint Junior’s living room? The bitch almost got me killed!”

  “What you shoulda brought is a couple of bloodhounds instead of Barbie Doll here,” Deronda said.

  Before Isaiah could go to her defense, Grace said evenly, “You’re looking for Junior’s money, aren’t you? I’m another pair of eyes. Do you really want to pass that up?” Dodson and Deronda looked at each other, conceding with their silence.

  “What’s happening with Junior?” Isaiah said.

  “He’s still at the club,” Deronda answered. “My sister’s watching him. She�
��ll text you if he leaves. I gave her your number.”

  “The fuck we waitin’ for?” Dodson said. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  They drove to Junior’s place in the Audi, Grace behind the wheel.

  “You let her drive your car?” Deronda said. “She must be your girlfriend.”

  “No, she’s not,” Isaiah said.

  “No, I’m not,” Grace said at the same time.

  “When we get there,” Isaiah said hastily, “check for seams in the drywall, loose tiles, floorboards, and hatches in the ceiling. Does Junior have kids?”

  “I hope not,” Deronda replied. “That’s all the world needs is more Juniors.”

  “I mean did you see a kids’ room in the house?”

  “No. Why?”

  “It’s a thing they do these days. A stuffed animal. Under the baby’s mattress. When we get there, Dodson, take the kitchen. Grace, take the bedroom. There’s probably a closet in the hallway. Deronda, take that.”

  “Why does she get the bedroom and I get the closet?” Deronda said.

  “She’s an artist. She sees things.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll look around.”

  Junior used to live in a condo in Bluff Park until Isaiah shot him and Michael Stokely in the hallway outside Junior’s door. Since then, Junior had declared Caucasian neighborhoods too dangerous and had returned to the hood and the house where he was raised. Grace parked in the alley and they piled out of the car. Isaiah went into the trunk and equipped everybody with a screwdriver, a box cutter, and a small flashlight. They crept across the backyard like a herd of cats, Dodson and Deronda carrying the battering ram. The back door looked more invincible than it had in the photos, the grid of security bars thicker and more solid. Only the lock plate and the Medeco dead bolt were exposed.