Wrecked

by Joe Ide

  Porkpie got off the wall, hobbled into a room, and came back dragging two metal chairs. He sat down on one and put his injured leg on the other. Even better, Dodson thought. The guy got out his phone and sent a text. “Where the fuck are you assholes?” he said. His hands were busy. Dodson took off, slower than he remembered, the baton ready to whop this bitch into dreamland. He couldn’t believe how fast the man got out his gun and shot him. BLAM! The bullet caught him in the shoulder. He twisted around and crashed to the floor. The pain was a branding iron, searing his pain center so black he couldn’t cry out. Now Porkpie was standing over him. It reminded Dodson of robbing Junior and Booze Lewis, being in the exact same position, seconds away from death.

  “What happened, Slick?” Porkpie said. “Things didn’t work out?” Dodson couldn’t talk, growling through his clenched teeth. “Let me think now,” Porkpie went on. “Given the situation and given that you’re a witness and you’ve seen my face, I’d say you’re expendable. What do you think?” His grim smile was fading into something that resembled despair. He looked like he was about to either apologize or walk away. He aimed at Dodson’s head. “So long, homeboy.” BLAM! And just like the robbery, Dodson thought he was dead. But it was Porkpie who cried out, staggered, and went sprawling. Grace appeared, a gun in her hand, a wisp of blue smoke curling out of the barrel.

  “You okay?” she said.

  “Do I look okay?” Dodson said. “Cherise is gonna kill me.”

  Porkpie was lying on the floor in an expanding tide of blood. Nothing to be done about that now. Grace took off her chambray shirt and folded it up. She pressed it hard against Dodson’s shoulder. “Keep it there. Keep pressure on it.” She texted Isaiah. Where are you? Are you OK? No answer. She gave Dodson Porkpie’s gun. “I’m going to find Isaiah.” She ran off.

  “Where the fuck you going?” Dodson shouted after her. “I need a goddamn ambulance!”

  Isaiah heard a gunshot and headed toward the sound. He saw a blood trail. Footprints went into the mess hall and came out again. One set was very large. A lot of the blood was smeared around, prints on top of each other, obscuring the individual tread marks. Isaiah had a lot of skills, but he was no expert at reading footprints. He couldn’t tell if everyone who had gone in had come out again. Was somebody still in there, wounded or dead? He went through the mess hall and into the kitchen. The blood trail led into the cooler. His phone buzzed. A text from Grace. Where are you? Are you OK? Gunshots exploded at very close range. BLAM BLAM BLAM. He dived to the floor, his hands over his head.

  Grace heard the three gunshots and knew they were coming from the kitchen. She ran down the hall and stumbled to a stop. The tall woman had collapsed in a heap like she was dead. Her mouth was open, her eyes rolled back in her head. Grace raced past her and into the kitchen’s rear entrance, where she’d come out before. She heard voices. She crept forward and peeked around the corner. Isaiah was in the narrow aisle. His back was to her, his hands were up. Over his shoulder, she caught a glimpse of Walczak. He was almost unrecognizable. His eyes were nearly swollen shut, two knots on his head like budding antlers. His nose was bulbous, purple and off-center, a mixture of what looked like blood and egg whites oozing from it. His upper lip was torn in half, his mouth more like a gash, the white teeth like maggots squirming around in a puddle of red muck.

  “You fucked up…everything,” Walczak said in gasps. “And now…I’m going to kill you.” Isaiah didn’t beg or ask for mercy. He just stood there. Walczak went on. “Aren’t you gonna…say something before…you die?”

  “What I said before,” Isaiah said, his voice not even shaking. “Why don’t you do mankind a favor and go somewhere and die?”

  “I wish…we were back…at Abu Ghraib.” Blood bubbled through Walczak’s lips. “Oh my…God…I would…take my time with you.”

  Grace was in a panic. She couldn’t get a shot. Her only option was to run up behind Isaiah and try to shoot past him, which was likely to get them both killed.

  “I’m not…gonna kill you…right away,” Walczak said. “Your…kneecaps first? What do you…think? Maybe one…in the gut? Oh, I know. In the…crotch. Yeah, that hurts…believe me. He tried to smile but it was too painful. “Naah, fuck it. I’m just gonna kill you.”

  Grace could see Walczak’s shoulder, he was raising the gun. Go now, Grace! Go now! Suddenly, there was a whoosh and a flash and Walczak let loose a screech so loud and primordial it didn’t seem possible a human being had made it. Grace shouldered Isaiah aside. Walczak was staggering around, flailing and banging into the counter and stoves. He was on fire. And there, behind him, stood Sarah with the flamethrower, blue flames still licking out of the barrel.

  “This is for all of us,” she said. “This is for everybody.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kind and Wonderful Isaiah

  Chester’s deadline had passed. He called and texted Dodson a dozen times but got no response. He was furious. That filthy toad of a lawyer wanted his retainer right now and the landlord had tacked a THREE-DAY NOTICE TO VACATE on the shop’s front door. Chester yanked the Dane axe off the wall but decided not to destroy another custom-made display. Instead, he went outside into the alley and hacked viciously at a telephone pole until his neighbor, Mr. Gonzalez, came out and said, “The fuck you doing, ese? Why don’t you go to the park and cut down a tree?”

  Very well then, Chester thought. He would do as he’d promised and tell Junior about the robbery. His crew would have no compunction about killing Dodson and his cohorts. Chester was facing utter and complete destruction, but at least he’d have the satisfaction of destroying them too. He was thinking about how to do it. Email? Text? No. He’d be more personal, more direct. He’d knock on Junior’s door and tell him face-to-face. Egg him on. Remind him of his injuries, urge him to show no mercy, to exact his revenge in blood and more blood. He was straightening his tie and putting on his coat when the front door was kicked opened and Junior, who looked remarkably like a pug, stormed in, his angry crew of thugs right behind him.

  “My goodness!” Chester exclaimed.

  “Well, I hope you’ve contrived yourself to be deregulated,” Junior said, “because your ass is on the docket.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Chester said. One of the crew, probably the overly muscled fellow, punched Chester in the face, the pain blowing up like a grenade. He felt cartilage crunching, his eyes detonating, blood spurting from his nose as he fell into a display and slid to the floor. He thought he’d gone blind but the toupee had slid over his face.

  “See here now!” he shouted. Someone kicked him in the stomach and he couldn’t breathe. “Wait—” he wheezed. But he was kicked again. And again. Junior stood over him.

  “You thought you could recapitulate my premises and not forfeit the residue?” he said. “You must have misplaced your corpuscles if you thought that was substantiated.”

  Chester thought his hearing was impaired. “I beg your pardon?”

  The thugs were ransacking the shop. Smashing, upturning, looting. “Wait, stop, please!” Chester said. “Why are you doing this?” The muscleman took over the conversation, perhaps to save time.

  “This your card?” He held up Chester’s business card.

  “Why yes, yes it is.”

  Muscleman showed him a penknife. “You make this knife?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s a Babbitt, that’s my emblem on the handle.”

  “What was they doin’ in Junior’s crib?”

  “I have no idea. Many people have my card and…” Chester had only sold three of those penknives. One to Sylvia, one to a collector in Chicago, and one to…that girl! She’d asked for his card too.

  Muscleman kicked him again. “I said, what was they doin’ in Junior’s crib?”

  “There was a girl,” Chester gasped. “She came in here one day and—”

  “So some girl put this shit in Junior’s crib? Now why the fuck would she do that?”

  “You was the one in
my constabulary,” Junior said. “You absconded with my economic feasibility.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You broke into Junior’s house and stole his money,” Muscleman said.

  “That’s not true! I don’t even know where Junior lives! We’ve never met. We’ve never even spoken, and how would I know anything about Junior’s money or where he keeps it? How would I know Junior had money at all? I’m not part of your world. Look at me. Do I seem like the sort who would break into someone’s house? My God, man, I wear a bow tie!”

  That gave them pause. They looked questioningly at each other. One of the thugs entered from the back of the shop. He tossed something to Junior.

  “Check this out,” he said. It was Junior’s platinum lighter, his initials engraved on it. “It was back there with the tools and shit.”

  “This is my asset,” Junior said. “I reacquired this ornamentation from a store we robbed in Lynwood.”

  “What you got to say now?” Muscleman said.

  “I’ve been set up!” Chester shouted. “It was Dodson and Deronda and—”

  “Deronda?” Junior said. “You talkin’ ’bout that girl who erupted my gonads?”

  “I’m afraid I know nothing about your gonads, sir. Deronda was part of the conspiracy that robbed you. IQ was the mastermind!”

  “Isaiah?” Muscleman said. “He’s the one that found this shit in Junior’s house.”

  “No no, wait, you’re confusing the two robberies. I’m talking about the one that happened a long time ago, when Junior and Booze Lewis were shot.”

  “How you know about that?” Muscleman said.

  “Okay, let me start at the beginning. My now-deceased wife, Sylvia, was a voodoo priestess, and one Christmas she took me to a party at her cousin’s house—”

  “Shut your orifice,” Junior said. “Talkin’ all that nomenclature.” He went over and took the Dane axe off the wall.

  “Damn, Junior,” Muscleman said, “you not gonna cut his head off, are you?”

  “No, not in the present tense.” Junior took a practice swing with the axe. “All right, Chester. Select the digitation you find most inadvisable.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Muscleman smiled. “Which finger do you want to lose?”

  Laquez was at the bar waiting for Seb to get off the phone. Seb was sitting in his booth sipping tea like the punk-ass motherfucker he was. Laquez had started to sit down, but Seb gave him that look, like he was garbage, like he stank too much to be in the same room. Seb was still talking. He had that fucked-up smile on his face, the one where he was bullshitting and trying to convince somebody he wasn’t. Seb was skimming, probably out of Manzo’s account because that was who he was talking to. That was some dangerous shit right there. Manzo would kill you, wash his hands, and go home and play with his kids. Seb got off the phone, took his cane off the table, and got up.

  “Seb?” Laquez said. Seb was pissed and went right past him. Laquez got off the stool and followed him. “Seb, we was supposed to have that talk?”

  “Later. I’m busy.”

  “Come on, Seb, it’s important. Leastways it is to me.”

  Seb stopped and took one of them big deep breaths, like he was doing you a big favor just breathing the same air. “Yes? Get on with it.”

  “It’s about that five thousand dollars. The money you got from them people who came about the girl?”

  “Yes, yes, what about it?”

  “I’m the one who found her,” Laquez said. “That money is mine. I mean, I’ll give you like a finder’s fee, but that’s it.”

  “A finder’s fee?” Seb nodded, like he was taking it seriously. “And how much were you considering?”

  “Ten percent. All you did was make a phone call.”

  “That’s very generous of you,” Seb said, still with that sincere look.

  “Well, can I get the money now? I got bills to pay just like you.”

  “Of course.” Seb lashed out with the cane. Laquez staggered back, holding his face, blood running from a cut on his cheekbone. “Finder’s fee?” Seb said. He was trembling and his eyes were red. “You’re going to give me a finder’s fee? You filthy rat. You’re fortunate to be working for me at all.”

  “Damn, Seb,” Laquez said, starting to cry. He touched the wound and looked at the blood on his hand. “Why you gotta be that way? I ain’t never done nothing to you.”

  “You’re an idiot, Laquez. You’re useless and stupid and I wonder why I ever—” Laquez took the gun out of his belt and shot Seb twice. The first bullet went through his throat. The second broke the cane in half.

  Carter Samuels didn’t want to explain to his superiors why he’d been driving around the industrial zone in El Segundo in the middle of the night and how he could hear someone scream through cinder block walls so Isaiah took him to Elena’s house. Carter had ugly bruises and his jaw was swollen. There was nothing Elena could do except give him ice and ibuprofen. Carter called his wife and told her he’d been in a fight. It was nothing serious, he told her, he’d be home as soon as the paperwork was done. You know the bureaucracy. If you’re not filling out forms something is wrong.

  Dodson went to the emergency room and explained to the police he’d been shot in a drive-by. One of the detectives knew Isaiah and when Dodson told him they were partners he said, “With Isaiah? Does he know about it?”

  The hardest part of the whole experience was waiting for Cherise to arrive. What would he say? That he’d nearly been shot to death at TK’s wrecking yard? That he’d been running around chasing bad guys with a goddamn slingshot? That payment for risking his life amounted to one half of a fucked-up painting? Every time he turned around, he was asking himself the same question. Now what? He’d been useful to Isaiah, he felt good about that. Bridgette, Carter, Grace, Sarah, Arthur. That was something to be proud of, and thus far in his life, that hadn’t happened too often. But the shit that went down with Walczak had him worrying about his family and that was unacceptable. He could dissolve the partnership with Isaiah, but what came after that was no man’s land. There was nothing in his old life he wanted to repeat and nothing in his new life but a pinch of hope and unlikely possibilities. He didn’t know where he was going or what he would do. He just didn’t know.

  Cherise was horrified. “Oh my God.” She rushed over to the gurney, kissed Dodson’s hand, and held it to her tearful face. “Oh my baby. Oh my sweet baby.”

  “I’m all right. I’m okay.” Dodson tried to prepare himself for what was coming next. The worst part of all. Worse than the wrecking yard, worse than getting shot.

  “I thought so,” Gloria said as she stepped into the room, her opinion of him an undeniable reality. “You were a useless bum before and now you’re a useless bum with a bullet hole in you.” She puffed herself up and folded her arms across her bosom. “Maybe now my headstrong daughter will listen to me for a change. I told her this would happen.”

  “Mama,” Cherise said. “Could you do this another time?”

  “I told her I told her I told her,” Gloria said, relentless. “Do not marry that worthless hooligan. He will bring you nothing but misery and shame.”

  Dodson didn’t reply. Maybe, he thought, she was right.

  Nothing about what happened at the training facility showed up on the news. There was an article in Businessweek about Walczak temporarily stepping down as CEO of WSSI due to health issues. Another article appeared in the Long Beach Press-Telegram about a veteran who’d served in Iraq named Antonio Jimenez. He hanged himself on a playground chin-up bar.

  Sarah anonymously released the Abu Ghraib pictures. The networks and cable stations ran them on a loop. Some of the images may be disturbing and are not suitable for children. The board of directors ousted Walczak and there was a clamor for his arrest.

  After leaving the training facility, Arthur was taken to the emergency room. Sarah sat at his bedside and explained what had happened.

  “After Gr
ace left the room, I was so angry at myself. I hadn’t done anything for my daughter in ten years, and now I’d let her go running off with a gun.” At that point, she told Arthur, he was semiconscious. She had kissed him on the forehead, gotten up, and seen the flamethrower where Grace had dropped it on the floor. “I picked it up and pulled the trigger but nothing happened,” Sarah said. Then she saw the second trigger and pulled them at the same time. “There was a whooshing sound and a flame came out but not very far.” She left and wandered around aimlessly, feeling out of her depth and stupid. She found the tall woman on the floor and heard the three gunshots. “They were coming from the kitchen,” she said. She went through the mess hall and heard voices. “The door was open and there was Walczak, holding a gun on Isaiah.” She cringed as if she was seeing it happen all over again. “That’s when I shot him. That’s when I shot him and watched him burn.”

  Arthur had to stay in the hospital three days. Grace and Sarah had long weepy conversations full of hugs and love. Deronda flew up to Reno and drove Grace’s car back. When Arthur was released he insisted on leaving right away. They went to CarMax, bought a Ford Expedition, and left for New Mexico.

  Isaiah and Grace sat in the backyard on lawn chairs, drinking beers and reading the paper, hardly speaking, sometimes holding hands. They took Ruffin to the beach and watched him bound around in the breakers. They played chess. Isaiah beat her three times in seventeen moves and she quit. She cooked him dinner, which was almost as bad as her coffee. They sat on the sofa and watched a nature program on his laptop, her head resting on his shoulder. But somehow Isaiah knew, even after they’d washed the dishes together and stopped to make out, their soapy hands all over each other, and even after they fell on the bed and made love three times and even after he awoke the next morning and smelled coffee and toasted bread—even then he knew she was leaving.