by S. A. Cosby
“So, you still wanna trade places?”
Buddy Lee swallowed hard and turned his head to toward the window, but he didn’t say a word.
“That’s what I thought. Green don’t matter if it’s in a Black hand,” Ike said. They drove on with the dulcet sounds of D’Angelo having replaced the Good Reverend swimming through the cab.
Ike hit the interstate and headed for Richmond. Fifty minutes later he took the downtown exit and guided the truck through an off-ramp so sharp it could slice bread. He checked the rearview mirror and merged onto Blue Springs Drive. Traffic was a mess, but the dually bullied its way down the road. Ike hated driving in the city. The narrow streets made him feel like he was a rat in a maze.
The GPS said they were two hundred feet from their destination. Ike saw a plain brown five-story building up ahead on the right in the middle of a copse of oak trees. Richmond city planners were trapped between their affections for the natural scenery of Central Virginia and their lust for urban expansion. The R. C. Johnson Building sat at the nexus of those two competing sensibilities.
Ike pulled into the parking lot and shut off the truck. The engine let out a death rattle, then was silent. Ike hopped out and Buddy Lee followed him. The heavy glass doors of the office building squealed when they opened them. The lobby was a time capsule from the eighties. Alabaster models with electric neon lips stared at them from portraits on both walls. Chairs designed with strange geometry were scattered throughout the lobby area. A black pegboard with white letters served as the directory.
“The Rainbow Review is on the third floor,” Ike said.
“Yeah, that sounds pretty gay,” Buddy Lee said. Ike cut his eyes sideways at him.
“What?” Buddy Lee said. Ike shook his head and made a beeline for the elevator. Buddy Lee rolled his eyes and followed him.
The offices of The Rainbow Review were the smallest suites in the building. There were six desks crammed into a space meant for four. A huge personal computer and a laptop adorned each desk. Each desk was manned by a pair of intense-looking young men and women. Everyone was typing on keyboards or talking on their cell phones or doing both simultaneously. Buddy Lee and Ike walked up to the desk closest to the door. A redheaded bearded man and a dreadlocked Black woman had put their heads together and were conferring about an image on her tablet. The man raised his head.
“Do we need to move our cars again?”
“What?” Ike said.
“You guys are from the lawn-care company, right?” the bearded man asked. Ike sighed. He was still wearing his work gear. Randolph Lawn Maintenance was emblazoned over the pocket of the shirt.
“Can we do it a little later? We’re kind of busy here,” the woman with the dreadlocks said.
“Hey, Redbeard, we ain’t the lawn crew,” Buddy Lee said. That got Redbeard’s attention.
“Excuse me?” Redbeard asked.
“You heard him,” Ike said. Redbeard’s face started to match his hair.
“Just what do you want?” he said.
“Are you the boss here?” Buddy Lee asked. The man ignored him, but the woman with the dreads responded.
“No, he isn’t. I’m Amelia Watkins. I’m the managing editor. What can I do for you gentlemen?” Amelia said. She was studying their faces, but Buddy Lee noticed her left hand was under the desk.
“Before you pull that heater, we ain’t here for no trouble,” he said. Amelia pursed her lips.
“So you say. It’s a dangerous time to be a journalist. Especially if you work for a nonprofit that focuses on the LGBTQ community,” she said. Her voice was deep and vibrant. It made Buddy Lee think of a blues singer he’d heard in Austin years ago.
“I’m Ike Randolph. This here is Buddy Lee Jenkins,” Ike said. Amelia stood and walked around her desk. She was nearly as tall as Ike, but slim and toned. Her dreads fell to the small of her back.
“You’re Isiah’s father.”
“Yes, I am. And Buddy is Derek’s father. Is there someplace we can talk?”
“Sure, let’s go downstairs to the coffee shop.”
Amelia took her coffee black and she drank it fast. Buddy Lee wished he had some whiskey to pour in his cup. Ike didn’t get anything. Amelia crumpled the coffee cup and tossed it in the wastebasket four feet away. It swished through the air and into the wastebasket. Nothing but net.
“You play ball?” Ike asked.
“Isn’t that just too clichéd? The lesbian plays basketball. But yeah, I like to play. I went to college on a scholarship.”
“Isiah could ball,” Ike said.
“Yeah, he had a wicked outside shot.”
“I could never figure out how he could be that way and be so good at sports,” Ike said.
Amelia laughed but it was bereft of mirth. “You think because he was gay he should have been knitting scarves?”
Ike drummed his fingers on the table. “I don’t know. I never could … I didn’t understand why he was like that. It caused problems between us.”
“I know. He told me,” Amelia said.
“He did?” Ike asked.
“We traded coming-out stories when he first came on board. You and my dad would have gotten along famously. You both think our sexuality is something that has to be explained. It isn’t. It’s just who we are. It wasn’t Isiah being gay that caused problems between the two of you. It was how you dealt with it or didn’t deal with it that caused the problems,” Amelia said.
Ike blinked hard. “It … it wasn’t that simple.”
Amelia shrugged. “If you say so. At least you still spoke to Isiah. My dad hasn’t talked to me since my junior year in high school,” Amelia said.
“No offense, but we ain’t here for a therapy session. We want to ask you about a death threat his boy got last year,” Buddy Lee said. Ike stared daggers at him, but Buddy Lee just shrugged.
“Oh yes, the Blue Anarchists,” Amelia said.
“The what?” Buddy Lee said.
“The Blue Anarchists. A bunch of extreme progressives who favor throwing bottles and Molotov cocktails over constructive discourse. I think they are just a bunch of overprivileged hipster assholes jumping on the next subversive bandwagon. Back when I was in school they would have been goths,” Amelia said.
“Don’t sound like you took them too serious.” Ike said. Amelia opened her hands and shimmied her shoulders.
“They were pissed because Isiah wrote a piece calling them out on their transphobia and bullshit rhetoric. We all thought it was just them blowing off some steam, but we reported it anyway. Better safe than sorry,” Amelia said.
“So you don’t think they could have done it?” Buddy Lee asked.
“My gut says no, but who knows? People are crazy these days. We’re working on a piece right now about Isiah and Derek and all the queer people who have been murdered so far this year.”
“There’s a lot of that going on?” Buddy Lee asked.
“Murders of gay and bisexual men are up four hundred percent since last year. It seems like somebody made hatred hip again,” Amelia said.
“Where do these Blue Anarchists hang out?” Ike asked. Amelia motioned for the waitress. A young Asian woman brought her another cup.
“Their headquarters are a head shop in Glen Allen. I can give you the address. Listen, I’m pretty sure they’re just a bunch of spoiled kids,” Amelia said.
“How’d you get their address?” Ike asked.
“They mailed Isiah their threat. These kids are all about keeping it vintage,” Amelia said.
“Well, we just want to talk to them. We’re kinda looking into what happened to our boys. The cops seem to think the trail’s gone cold. They say you and the rest of their friends won’t talk to them. I can’t say I blame you. I hate those fuckers,” Buddy Lee said. Amelia squeezed herself. Ike noticed the striations in her arms and shoulders when she did. It wasn’t an unappealing sight.
“It isn’t that we won’t talk to them. Speaking for myself, I don’t
know anything.”
“Isiah didn’t tell you about any kind of story he was working on?” Ike asked.
“No. Typically our stories aren’t the kind that can get you killed. Being Black and gay usually does a pretty good job of that,” Amelia said. Buddy Lee studied the ceiling tiles.
“Do you think it was a random hate crime?” Ike asked. Amelia sipped her coffee. She took a long time to answer.
“No. I don’t know what it was about, but I don’t think it was random,” she said finally.
“Alright. I guess we better get that address.”
“Hey, don’t hurt those kids, okay?” Amelia asked. Ike cocked his head to the right.
“What makes you think we would hurt them?”
“I can see your tattoos,” Amelia said.
“Well ma’am, you ain’t got nothing to worry about. We just two old men asking questions about what happened to our boys. We’re as harmless as a couple of old hound dogs sitting on a porch,” Buddy Lee said. Amelia laughed. This time it filled her eyes with light.
“You are too much,” she said.
“Darling, you have no idea,” Buddy Lee said. Ike shook his head and let out a sigh.
NINE
Ike started up the truck and backed out of his parking space. Buddy Lee studied the scrap of paper in his hand.
“You think that girl is all the way gay?” Buddy Lee asked.
“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Ike said.
“Hey, I’m just wondering,” Buddy Lee said. Ike slammed on the brakes.
“We out here trying to find out who killed our children, and you flirting with a lesbian. Are you taking this seriously? Are you really?” Ike said.
“Did you forget I’m the one who came to you? You think I ain’t taking it seriously? I ain’t you, Ike. I don’t have nobody waiting for me back at my fancy two-bedroom trailer. Derek’s mom left me a long time ago, and there ain’t been nobody serious in my bed since. Just some good-time girls here and there. She turned her back on me and Derek and married some big-shot judge. So, excuse me if I ain’t a fucking monk. But don’t you ever ask me if I’m serious about this again. I mean that,” Buddy Lee said.
“Fine,” Ike said before putting the truck in gear.
The headquarters of the Blue Anarchists of RVA was located in a brand-new strip mall on Staples Mill Road. Ike parked the truck and shut it off.
“I think Amelia was right,” Buddy Lee said.
“I’m sure she could tell you she pissed honey and lemonade, and you’d believe that, too,” Ike said as they got out the truck. A sign above the door of the shop said TIME AND THYME UNIQUE GIFTS. The place smelled like incense and peppermint and something Ike couldn’t put his finger on exactly. A mixture of hair grease and roses. The walls were covered with posters of bands and cartoon characters he didn’t recognize. There were shelves and shelves of bongs, pipes, and cannabis accessories. The shop also had a few shelves dedicated to comic-book miniatures and collectibles. A raspy voice filtered through the store’s sound system sang about a lost love and a winding sheet and dark skies.
Three narrow-looking white kids sat behind a glass display case that served as the sales counter. A bearded guy, a clean-shaven guy who was sporting a monocle, and a girl who looked like she had just stopped wearing light-up shoes a week ago.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I hope so. We want to talk to somebody from the Blue Anarchists,” Ike said. The three kids exchanged furtive glances. Finally, the bearded kid stood up from his stool.
“We are all Blue Anarchists. I’m Bryce, this is Terry, and this is Madison. We aren’t the only members, by the way. Our numbers are growing every day as more people wake up from the coma of forced patriotism and imperial subjugation,” Bryce said. Buddy Lee thought he looked awfully proud of himself.
“You been practicing that for a while, ain’t ya?” Buddy Lee said.
“It’s our manifesto,” Bryce said.
“I’m not here for your manifesto. I want to ask you about Isiah Randolph and Derek Jenkins,” Ike said. He had his arms crossed over his chest.
“Who?” Terry, the one with the monocle, asked. Ike stepped forward. Bryce sat back down on his stool.
“Isiah Randolph. You sent him a death threat last year for a report on your pep club,” Ike said. Bryce stood back up defiantly.
“Oh, you mean the guy who tried to ruin our reputation? It wasn’t a death threat. It was a redress of grievances for his vitriolic comments,” Bryce said.
“Jesus, you got any change for them ten-dollar words?” Buddy Lee asked.
“He’s dead. He was my son and he’s dead, and I wanna know whether or not your little punk-ass crew had anything to do with it,” Ike said. A chime went off and a couple walked in the store. They must have felt something in the air, because they turned around and walked out.
“Look, I’m sorry your son is dead, but we didn’t have anything to do with that. But I’m not surprised. He was just a tool of the corporate industrial complex. People are waking up, man. They aren’t going to stand by and let the media lapdogs create a false narrative of what is going on in the world. Get woke, man,” Bryce said. Ike cocked his head to the left. Buddy Lee watched his hands clench and unclench like bear traps opening and closing.
“What did you say about my son?” Ike asked. Bryce ran his tongue over his upper lip.
“I’m just saying—”
Ike’s arm shot out as quick as a cobra. He grabbed Bryce by his beard and in one brutal movement yanked his head down until his forehead slammed into the glass counter. Ike grabbed Bryce’s right hand with his left and twisted Bryce’s arm until it felt like it might snap. Terry jumped up off his stool, but Buddy Lee pulled out his jackknife and flicked the blade open.
“Slow your roll, Panama Jack,” he said as he pointed the knife at Terry’s chest.
Ike bent forward until his mouth was inches from Bryce’s ear.
“I’m going to ask you some questions about what you know about my son. Every time I don’t like an answer I’m gonna break one of your fingers,” he said. Madison began to cry.
“Hush, baby girl. We ain’t gonna hurt you. We just wanna ask some questions,” Buddy Lee said as he flashed the girl a smile. She cried harder.
“Now, did you have anything to do with what happened to our boys?” Ike asked.
“Oh my God, I’m bleeding!” Bryce mumbled against the top of the display desk.
“I don’t like that answer.” Ike said. He grabbed Bryce’s pinky with his left hand. Holding the younger man down with his right hand, he pulled on the pinky with a brutal backward motion. A wet snap. Madison slipped from her stool and quietly vomited on the floor.
“Let’s try this again. Do you know who killed my boy?” Ike asked. He didn’t recognize his own voice. He realized Ike Randolph was taking a back seat to the action. This was Riot speaking.
“Jesus, fuck no. We … just … we just wrote him a nasty letter,” Bryce cried. Buddy Lee heard the pitter-patter of water hitting the laminated floor.
“Ike. I think he telling the truth. He just pissed himself,” Buddy Lee said.
“You know how many suspect motherfuckers I’ve seen piss themselves when they got caught?” Ike said.
“Yeah, but man, look at him. He couldn’t bust a grape in a fruit fight,” Buddy Lee said. Ike did what Buddy Lee suggested. Blood had pooled around Bryce’s forehead. It was also spilling across the countertop onto the floor. Ike could see one of his eyes. It rolled around in his socket like a ball bearing. Ike wanted to let him go, but Riot wanted to break a few more of his fingers on general principles. Amelia was right. These kids weren’t killers. They were just a bunch of overly idealistic children. Somewhere a mother or a father was mildly disappointed in them. Ike took a deep breath and let it out through his teeth.
He pushed Bryce off the top of the display case. The young man fell into his stool before sliding to the floor clutching his right arm.
Madison went to his side. Her mouth was stained with orange and red vomit. Ike took a step back from the counter.
“If I find out you lying, I’m coming back and breaking the rest of your fingers,” Ike said. He turned his back on them and walked out of the shop.
“Y’all should probably keep this to yourself. Just saying. Might be healthier that way,” Buddy Lee said. He folded the jackknife and put it in his back pocket.
Ike had the truck running when he hopped in. He had barely closed the passenger door before Ike was mashing the gas pedal to the floor and backing out of the strip mall’s parking lot. He executed a three-point turn and crossed the grass-covered median. Once they were a few miles from the Time and Thyme, Buddy Lee let out a whoop.
“What the hell was that for?” Ike said.
“Shit, man, it feels good to be doing something. We not just sitting in the dark crying anymore. We doing something for our boys. For a minute I didn’t feel like a piece-of-shit father,” Buddy Lee said.
“We didn’t find out anything. It was a waste of time,” Ike said.
“Maybe. But it felt good slapping those punk asses around, didn’t it? Shit, we did what their parents should’ve done a long time ago. Blue Fucking Anarchists. What the hell is that?” Buddy Lee said.
“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” Ike said.
“You didn’t?” Buddy Lee said.
Ike didn’t answer.
TEN
“I think that’s it over there,” Buddy Lee said. Ike pulled the truck up to the sidewalk and parallel-parked it with surprising ease.
“You know how to wheel this thing, don’t you?” Buddy Lee asked.