Razorblade Tears

by S. A. Cosby

  “Part of the job,” Ike said.

  They got out of the truck and started walking down the sidewalk a few feet until they stopped in front of a building with a flashing LED sign in the door. The sign said ESSENTIAL EVENTS BAKERY.

  “You sure this the place?” Ike asked.

  “Yeah. Fairly sure. The last time I talked to Derek he mentioned he was up for a promotion at his job. I asked him where he worked. He didn’t want to tell me at first. I guess he thought I’d come down here and embarrass him. Ask them to make me a titty cake or something.”

  “A titty cake?” Ike said.

  “Told ya it’s been a few lonely years,” Buddy Lee said. Ike felt a smile trying to crawl across his face, but he pushed it away.

  “Hey, before we go in here, I guess I should say thanks for having my back over there earlier,” Ike said. Buddy Lee shrugged.

  “I know you don’t particularly like me. And to be honest you’re kind of an asshole. But we in it to win it now,” Buddy Lee said.

  “Yeah, I guess so. You think they know anything about what happened?” Ike asked.

  “Fuck if I know. But where else we gonna go?” Buddy Lee responded.

  Essential Events Bakery was housed in a cavernous building with high ceilings and multiple skylights tinted a light green. It gave the interior a vibrant verdant hue. Ike could taste sugar in the air and smell bread baking. His mouth began to water like a Pavlovian dog’s. Several tables were set up throughout the building with a multitude of displays. Six-tier wedding cakes, flower-shaped loaves of bread, cupcake towers, skewers of beef and chicken arranged in interlocking levels like a puzzle. There was a cornucopia of epicurean designs and delights. Buddy Lee walked up to one of the cakes and extended his finger.

  “It’s covered in polyurethane,” a young man said. He was standing behind a counter with a cash register and more examples of the artistry Essential Events was capable of creating. Behind him a blackboard listed the daily specials in bright-red chalk.

  “Damn that icing look good,” Buddy Lee said. The young man smiled. He had a wide grin with huge teeth that were as white as his pale skin. His light-blond hair was tied up in a short bun on top of his head like a sumo wrestler’s topknot.

  “It is. But these are just for display. See anything you like?” The young man asked. Buddy Lee walked over to the counter. He smiled back at the man.

  “Well, to be honest, we’re not here to buy any cakes. I’m Buddy Lee Jenkins,” Buddy Lee said as he held out his hand.

  “I’m Brandon Painter,” Brandon said as he shook Buddy Lee’s hand. Buddy Lee had felt a firmer grip from his grandmother on her deathbed.

  “Nice to meet you, Brandon. That big ol’ bear back there is Ike Randolph.”

  “Are you guys looking for cake for a special occasion? Are we celebrating an anniversary?” Brandon said with a smile. Buddy Lee frowned.

  “Say what?” he asked. Brandon smiled again.

  “Hey, it’s all good, man. We ain’t like that baker in Colorado. We’ll make a cake or set out a spread for anyone. You two make a nice couple,” Brandon said. Buddy Lee glanced back over his shoulder at Ike. Ike glowered back at Buddy Lee.

  “Nah, son, you got it mixed up. We ain’t … like that. My son is … was Derek Jenkins. He was with Ike’s son, Isiah,” Buddy Lee said.

  “Oh my God. You’re Derek’s dad. I don’t know why I didn’t put it together. Oh my God, I’m so sorry. We miss him so much,” Brandon said. His voice cracked as he spoke.

  “Yeah, so do I. Hey, so we’re kinda looking into what happened. The cops seem to think things have gone cold. You know how that is, right? They couldn’t find their ass with a flashlight and two hands. Did Derek say anything to you about anybody threatening him? Maybe some crazy disgruntled customer or something?” Buddy Lee asked.

  “Uh, nah, he never said anything to me,” Brandon said.

  “How about something personal? Did he say he had beef with anybody? Maybe another caterer?”

  “No way. This ain’t like the mafia. No one kills anyone because they can make a better buttercream frosting.”

  “Well, did he say anything strange in the weeks before it happened?”

  Brandon shook his head. “I don’t really know anything.”

  “Yeah. Ya know, when the cops told us Derek and Isiah’s friends wasn’t talking, I didn’t believe it. But here you are lying to my face,” Buddy Lee said. Ike heard a hard edge in his tone. Like steel striking steel.

  “What? I’m not lying. I don’t know anything.” Brandon said. His hands flopped around on the counter like dying trout.

  “Yeah, you do. You know what a tell is, Brandon?”

  “A tell?”

  “It’s something you do that tells me you’re lying. Everybody got one, and everybody’s is different. Now you? Yours is just a little thing. You wanna know what it is?” Buddy Lee asked. He walked closer to the counter and grabbed Brandon’s convulsing hands.

  “I’ve asked three times about Derek and what you know. And all three times you tug at your earlobe before you answer. That’s your tell, Brandon. It tells me you know something and you lying about it. Now, if you really miss Derek and you was really his friend, you’ll tell me what you know,” Buddy Lee said. Ike noticed the edge had gone out of his tone. Now he sounded comforting, like a priest. Or a good cop getting a confession.

  “I told you I don’t know anything,” Brandon said. He snatched his hands away from Buddy Lee. “I think y’all should go. I got a lot to do, and the boss will be here soon.”

  Buddy Lee stepped back from the counter. He turned, brushed past Ike, and went to one of the display tables.

  “You guys need to go,” Brandon said. His hands started dancing again.

  Buddy Lee stared back at Brandon. Using one hand he tipped the display table over. The six-tier model cake splattered across the floor. The chunks of chemically treated confection looked like huge pieces of candle wax.

  “What the hell are you doing?!” Brandon wailed.

  “You know something, Brandon. Tell me,” Buddy Lee said. Brandon came from behind the counter. Ike stepped between him and Buddy Lee. He put his hand on the young man’s chest and stopped his forward momentum cold. Ike could feel his heart fluttering in his chest like the wings of a hummingbird. Buddy Lee walked over to another table of displays. Using both hands this time, he flipped the table over. Six different styles of cupcakes spilled across the floor as the table clattered and the legs folded in on themselves.

  “Jesus! Stop!” Brandon howled. Buddy Lee came striding over to him and grabbed him by the front of his T-shirt. Ike stepped back out of the way.

  “You want me to start on you? You gonna look worse than them cakes if you don’t tell me what you know. Just tell me what you know, Brandon. Help me. Help me make this fucking thing right,” Buddy Lee said.

  “I’m scared,” Brandon said. He dropped his head until his chin was nearly touching Buddy Lee’s hands. Buddy Lee let go of his shirt and put both hands on his shoulders.

  “I know you are. I know. But what you tell me ain’t going nowhere.”

  Brandon mumbled something into his chest.

  “What?” Buddy Lee asked.

  “I said, Derek met a girl. Some girl at an event we did for some guy who had a recording studio. He told me the girl was seeing some guy who was a big deal. The guy was married and the girl wanted to tell the world what was going on. Derek was real upset about it. Said the guy was a major-league hypocrite and asshole. He said he was gonna get Isiah to publish her story. A couple of weeks later he was dead,” Brandon said.

  Ike felt like he’d been punched in the gut with a sledgehammer.

  “Who was the girl?” Buddy Lee asked. Brandon shrugged.

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say her name. He just said she was at the party and they started talking.”

  “Which party? Who threw it?” Ike asked. Brandon raised his head and looked at Ike with eyes as wide as a start
led deer.

  “I don’t know. I just the run the counter. I don’t go out on jobs. And Derek didn’t say who; he just said what the guy did. That’s all I know, I swear. When the cops came around I was too scared to say anything,” Brandon said. His voice dropped to barely a whisper. Buddy Lee clapped him on the face a few times.

  “Okay. That’s good, Brandon. That’s real good,” Buddy Lee said. He gestured toward the door with his head. Ike started to walk out.

  “Brandon, if anybody ask, some kids came in, tore up the shop, and left. You got me?” Buddy Lee said.

  “Yeah. Sure,” Brandon said.

  * * *

  Ike merged back into traffic and headed for the interstate. The afternoon traffic was slow and steady. The light from the setting sun bounced off the parked cars that lined the sidewalk.

  “That was pretty slick back there with that ‘tell’ thing. I never had a name for it. I mean, I know how to read the room. I can tell when somebody about to go off. You notice how they standing or where they put their hands. Shit like that. Was you on the grift, back in the day?” Ike said.

  “I did a little bit of everything. My old man was on the grift. My uncles were outlaws. Only my mama tried to walk the straight and narrow. She was Jesus all day. I think what I learned from my daddy done come in handy more times than what my mama taught me,” Buddy Lee said.

  “It’s almost six. What you think we should do? How we gonna find this girl?” Ike asked. Buddy Lee scratched at his chin.

  “I was thinking about that as soon as he said it. What do you think about going by the boys’ house? Take a look around. We might be able to find out who this guy was that owned the music studio,” Buddy Lee said.

  “Might find out who this girl was, too. Alright. I got Isiah’s keys. Did they give you Derek’s stuff at the funeral home?” Ike said. Buddy Lee bit at one of his fingernails. He didn’t speak until Ike had hit the on-ramp.

  “They tried to. I was in bad place at the wake. I didn’t want it. I don’t know, I guess I was kinda mad at Derek because he was dead. And if I didn’t take his stuff, then it wasn’t real. I was pretty drunk that day, too,” Buddy Lee said. Ike let a breath whistle through his lips.

  “Yeah. I know what you mean. It was like they weren’t real. Laying there like mannequins. I think I killed a whole bottle of rum that night.”

  “Hey, there’s only room on this team for one alcoholic,” Buddy Lee said.

  Ike’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the screen. It was Mya.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey. Where you at? I called the shop and they said you weren’t coming in today.”

  “Just had a few things to take care of. What’s up?”

  “I just left the cemetery. They said Isiah’s headstone got damaged. Did they call you?” Ike checked his mirror and changed lanes.

  “Yeah, I was gonna tell you when I got home. The guy said they gonna replace it.”

  “Jesus, what the fuck are they doing up there?” Mya asked.

  “It was an accident. They gonna fix it.”

  “Arianna got down on her knees at the grave today. I asked her what she was doing. She said she was saying hi to her daddies,” Mya said. Ike didn’t say anything. He could feel the silence between them slowly strangling him.

  “I nearly lost it, Ike. I wanted to lay on top of that grave and stay there all day,” Mya said.

  “It hurts,” Ike said.

  “And it ain’t never gonna get any better, is it?” Mya asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ike said. Mya’s breathing got heavy. Her weeping began to fill his ears.

  “I guess I’ll see you when you get home,” she said between sobs. The line went dead.

  “Everything alright?” Buddy Lee asked.

  “No,” Ike said as he put the phone back in his pocket.

  ELEVEN

  Grayson pulled up to the clubhouse in a cloud of dust. The ride from the Southside to Sandston had been miserable. It felt like he’d been stuck in the armpit of a goddamn orangutan. He climbed off the bike and strapped his helmet to the handlebars.

  The clubhouse was an old two-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch. Tommy “Big Boss” Harris, the club president before Grayson, who was now serving twenty to life, had built an enormous three-car garage behind the clubhouse for brothers to work on their rides, break in fresh tail, and handle club business. A row of bikes was parked off to the left of the main building. Muscular examples of American steel and ingenuity. Iron horses for the new outlaws.

  Two brothers were hanging out on the porch. Dome, the vice president, was leaning against one of the columns that supported the roof of the porch. Gremlin, the club mechanic and sergeant at arms, was lounging in a leather recliner that was parked in the corner of the porch. The beat of a southern rock song exploded out the open front door. The smell of weed followed it, accompanied by a woman’s high laugh.

  When they saw Grayson approaching, Dome straightened up and Gremlin rose out of his seat.

  “Hey, Grayson.”

  “What’s up, brother?” Gremlin said.

  “Them jigs been down yet?” Grayson asked. Dome and Gremlin exchanged furtive glances.

  “Yeah, they came down. They didn’t wanna buy the MAC-10s, though,” Dome said.

  “Why the fuck not?” Grayson asked.

  Dome shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “They said their boss guy said they were too hot. Couldn’t move them. Said you and the boss was gonna talk about it.”

  “And y’all just let him walk away like that?” Grayson asked.

  Dome licked his lips. “Uh. I mean, he paid us for the rest of the stuff.”

  “Took all the handguns,” Gremlin chimed in. Grayson put his left foot on the bottom step of the porch. He motioned for Dome to bend forward. The taller man hesitated, then did as he was asked. Grayson grabbed the hoop dangling from Dome’s right ear and twisted it until the lobe looked like a piece of braided rope. Dome squealed as Grayson whispered in his ear.

  “Don’t you ever, as long as you got breath in your lungs, ever let somebody short us on a deal. They asked for MAC-10s, they take the MAC-10s. This ain’t motherfucking Burger King. You got people out here thinking we soft-ass punks. What does that patch on your back say?” Grayson asked.

  “Rare Breed!” Dome howled.

  “You think we punks? You think we some gangbangers on the corner moving shit out the back of a broke-down Impala?” Grayson gave the hoop another quarter turn.

  “NO!” Dome screamed.

  “Don’t you ever let anybody walk away from here with some of our money. You’re supposed to be the fucking vice president. You better start acting like it,” Grayson said.

  “Okay, okay!” Dome wheezed.

  “Find another customer for them MAC-10s.” Grayson let go of Dome’s ear. “Tell Andy and Oscar I want to talk to them at the table,” Grayson said. He headed for the garage. Dome rubbed his ear. His fingers came away red.

  “You need some alcohol or something?” Gremlin asked.

  “Just go get the fucking prospects,” Dome said.

  * * *

  Grayson was sitting at the head of the table when the prospects came shuffling in. A string of sickly yellow lights cast weak shadows throughout the garage and across the table. The club’s emblem, a wolf’s head covered in iron plating, was painted in the center of the table where the club voted on official business. Andy and Oscar stopped at the foot of the table. Grayson didn’t ask them to sit.

  “You both want your patches, don’t ya?” Grayson asked. The two men nodded. Oscar nodded so hard his hair fell into his face. Andy was tall and lean like a sapling. Oscar was as wide as a walking refrigerator. Grayson thought they resembled the number 10. They both wore denim cuts with the chapter location on the bottom.

  “I’m looking for a girl calls herself Tangerine. Been trying to find her for a few months. There was this punk-ass reporter who was talking to her u
ntil he got himself killed. I need y’all to go over to his place. You’ll probably have to bust in. Look around, see if you can find anything about Tangerine. If you do find something, I’ll speed up patching you in.”

  “We gotta break in the place?” Oscar asked.

  “Did I fucking stutter? Did you not just hear me say you gonna have to break in the place? What the fuck is wrong with you?” Grayson said. He punctuated each sentence by slamming his fist into the table.

  “Don’t worry, we got it. We ain’t gonna let you down,” Andy said.

  “You better not,” Grayson said. He stood and extended his fist. Andy and Oscar extended theirs. The three men bumped knuckles.

  “We make them bleed for the Breed,” Andy said.

  “We make them bleed for the Breed,” Oscar said.

  “Damn right you do,” Grayson said.

  TWELVE

  Ike parallel-parked his truck between a bright-pink scooter and a car that was so small he could have probably picked it up with one hand. A streetlamp with a busted bulb towered over them.

  “This my first time here,” Buddy Lee said.

  “I came here once for the housewarming. Right after it … happened, Mya was talking about us coming over and cleaning the place up. Two months later and all we did was talk,” Ike said.

  The housewarming. Another night that ended in yelling and slammed doors. He opened his door and Buddy Lee soon followed. Civilly engineered oak trees dotted the sidewalk at twenty-foot intervals. They chased the streetlamps down the sidewalk. Bike racks popped up every few feet like iron hedges. Ike and Buddy Lee walked side by side as they headed to the town house.

  “Things up here done changed a lot,” Ike said.

  “Oh yeah?” Buddy Lee said.

  “Back in the day there used to be this ol’ boy who ran a lot of product through this part of town. I used to run with a crew back home who bought from him. When we used to ride through here to re-up, every other building was a crack house. Base heads wandering up and down the street like zombies. Offering to have their girl suck your dick for a ten-dollar rock. If times got really tight, they’d offer to do it themselves. I come through one time doing a favor for that ol’ boy. Sprayed this whole street up with an AK, then carried my ass back to Red Hill.”