Razorblade Tears

by S. A. Cosby

  “She real nice with that thing. So if I was you, I’d back my ass up to the door. Then I’ll let your boy here go. Trust me, you don’t wanna test her,” Ike lied. He didn’t know if Jazzy could hit the broadside of a barn. Right now, that didn’t matter. All that mattered was if these peckerwoods believed she was a markswoman.

  Dome licked his lips. No one spoke for what seemed like hours. Then Dome lowered his pipe and stuck it back in his waistband.

  “Y’all back up,” he said.

  Ike watched as Dome and the other three bikers shuffled backward toward the door. Once the four of them were out of striking distance, he bent down and whispered in the blond man’s ear.

  “I’m gonna let you up, but if you even raise your eyebrows funny, I’m gonna open you up like the first deer of hunting season, you feel me?”

  “You let me up and you don’t kill me, you know how this ends, right?” Grayson said. He spoke as loud as he could with the side of his mouth pressed against the Formica.

  “I know you trying to save face with your boys, but if I ever see you around here again, there won’t be enough left of you to put in a Ziploc bag. Word is bond. I don’t sell no wolf tickets,” Ike whispered. Grayson didn’t respond. Ike pulled the machete away and took a step back and to his left. Grayson stood and put his hand against his neck. He bore a hole into Ike, and Ike gave it right back to him.

  “You better call some of your gangster buddies, BG. Get you some silverbacks up here. Oh yeah, I seen your ink. You gonna need all them porch monkeys to back you up. We’re the Rare Breed, motherfucker. We gonna burn this goddamn place to the ground and then piss on the fucking ashes. Then I’m personally taking a shit right in your bitch’s goddamn mouth and make you watch,” Grayson said. Ike heard Jazzy inhale sharply when the blond biker mentioned her, but she didn’t flinch.

  Grayson took his hand away from his neck and flung it toward the floor. Drops of blood flew from his palm and fingertips and splattered across the concrete.

  “Blood for blood, nigger,” he said. He put his stained hand to his lips and blew a kiss at Jazzy. Ike pointed at the door with the machete.

  “You need to do more walking and less talking,” Ike said. The blond biker smiled. Jazzy pulled back the hammer on her .38.

  “See you soon,” Grayson said.

  He turned his back on Ike and Jazzy and walked out the door. His fellow club members followed him. Dome stopped and gave Ike a reproachful shake of the head before he, too, exited the store. Once he heard their bikes fire up he put down his machete. He could hear Jazzy making a wet keening sound. The gun in her hand began to tremble.

  “Jazz, give me that gun,” Ike said. Jazzy didn’t acknowledge him, so Ike gently plucked the pistol from her hand and eased the hammer forward before shoving it in his pocket. Jazzy stood next to him with her arm still outstretched.

  “Jazzy, they’re gone.”

  “They coming back, ain’t they?”

  “I don’t know,” Ike lied.

  “I think I’m gonna throw up,” Jazzy said before running to the back. Ike went to the front door and locked it. He closed his eyes and put his hand against the cool metal surface to steady himself. There was a moment last night between him and Buddy Lee unrolling the rug but before they grabbed the hacksaws that he thought that might be it. He thought maybe they could grind that boy up and it would fill the festering black hole in their hearts. For an instant he thought they could just tell themselves he was the one who had killed their sons. Let that be the end of it. Let them go back to what was left of their empty lives with the knowledge they had evened the scales.

  That was bullshit. He knew that now.

  There was no turning back. There was no path that led anywhere except down a long road as dark as your first night in hell and paved all along the way with bad intentions. They could call what they were seeking justice, but that didn’t make it true. It was unquenchable, implacable vengeance. And life, inside the graybar and out, had taught him that vengeance came with consequences.

  Those bikers would be back. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe in a few days. But they would be back. They’d come roaring through town strapped and looking for a war. He needed to be ready. He didn’t know how and he didn’t know why, but he knew they were tied up with what had happened to Isiah and Derek. He knew it in his bones.

  They’d come back looking for a war. He was going to give them a fucking massacre.

  TWENTY

  If there was one thing Buddy Lee had learned throughout his various stints in and out of jail, prison, county lockup, and drunk-tank holding cells, it was that you never, ever volunteered any information to a cop. It didn’t matter if you were guilty or not; you didn’t give them anything. They would tell you what they wanted or what they suspected you of soon enough. They were getting paid to ask questions; you didn’t get paid to answer them.

  He sat back against the couch, crossed his legs, and waited for LaPlata to tell him why he was here interrupting the nap Buddy Lee desperately needed.

  Buddy Lee thought, It ain’t about that kid. If that was it, I’d be in bracelets by now.

  LaPlata pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through a few screens. When he found what he was searching for, he put the phone on the coffee table made from milk crates that sat between them. Buddy Lee looked at the phone. There was a picture of a bearded man with a huge black eye. His mouth was swollen, too. His lips looked like sausages. The background behind the man was the muted puke green that Buddy Lee knew so well. The picture was obviously taken in a police station.

  “That is Mr. Bryce Thomason. He came down to the police station this morning and told us an interesting story. He said two old guys came in his head shop and beat the shit out of him while asking questions about the murders of their sons. Bryce also has some broken fingers. He won’t be vaping with that hand for a while,” LaPlata said. Buddy Lee raised his head.

  “Yeah, somebody fucked that boy up good. But, ya know, he look like he got a smart goddamned mouth, so I ain’t surprised. Huh, and here I was thinking you might have some news about the case,” Buddy Lee said. LaPlata placed his hands on his knees.

  “Let’s me be real honest with you, Mr. Jenkins. Off the record. I get it. You had a rough relationship with your son because he was gay and you couldn’t handle it. Now he’s been killed and you can’t fix things with him so you wanna fix the people who did it, because you don’t think we’re moving fast enough. I understand how you feel. But here’s the thing. We can’t have private citizens running around trying to get retribution. That’s how people like Bryce here get hurt. That’s how I end up having to arrest you and drag you downtown. I don’t want to do that, Mr. Jenkins, but I will. People can’t take the law into their own hands. That’s how we get anarchy. And by the look of the bruises on your face, you’ve engaged in some anarchy recently.”

  “You really believe that, don’t you?” Buddy Lee asked.

  “Yes, I do.”

  Buddy Lee scratched at his chin. “You keep saying you understand. You got kids, Detective LaPlata?”

  “I got a boy and a girl, and before you ask, yes, if someone hurt them I’d want to find the bastards and kill them slow, but I wouldn’t, because I’d trust my fellow officers to find the people who did it and handle it the right way,” LaPlata said.

  “See that’s where we are different. You saying that because it ain’t happened to you, and I swear to God I hope it never does. But until you sitting on this side of the table, I’d appreciate it if you stop saying you understand. Now I’m no lawyer, but I’m thinking if you had more than the word of that boy—what you say his name was, Bryson?”

  “Bryce,” LaPlata said.

  “Yeah, Bryce. I’m thinking if you had, say, some videos of who beat his fucking teeth in, well, you’d be arresting me right now. But you ain’t because you don’t. Now if you don’t mind, I’m pretty damn tired and I’d like to get some sleep.”

  “Hey, Mr. Jenkins. I�
��m sincerely sorry for your loss. I don’t know how it feels, but I can imagine. Because if someone hurt my kids, I’d lose my fucking mind. But let’s make sure we got one thing straight. I’m giving you an out here. This is your onetime stay-out-of-jail-free card. Yeah, it’s your and Mr. Randolph’s word against Bryce, who is, in fact, a little shit. His two associates can’t seem to remember who came in and put the hurting on him. So I’m letting this one slide. I’ve driven sixty miles outside of my jurisdiction to give you a warning. Next time, if there is a next time, I’m hauling you downtown, and I’ll get the judge to set a bail just high enough it’ll keep you in jail until we finish our investigation. We clear about that?” LaPlata asked.

  “Like I said, Officer, I’m about to be dead to the world, so if you could excuse me. I’ve got a big night ahead of me laying here thinking about my boy and how I can’t never fix things with him,” Buddy Lee said. A white-hot rage flamed in his chest like a shattered hurricane lamp. This fucking cop with his crisp white shirt and his pleated pants with a crease sharp enough to slice bread wanted talk to him about loss? This pretty boy who didn’t look like he would know what hard times were if they came up and spit in his goddamn face? This preppy-looking son of a bitch who probably never missed a Christmas with his family and played touch football every Thanksgiving like a goddamned Kennedy? This guy who had nice middle-class sex with his wife every other Friday night? Who never had to tell his spoiled brat of a daughter they didn’t have enough money for the doll baby she wanted? Who probably lived in a nice two-story on the north side of the Cap City with his goddamned living breathing son wanted to tell him about loss? About how he couldn’t fix things with Derek? Fuck him. Fuck him and his happy Norman Rockwell bullshit life. Buddy Lee was acquainted with loss in ways Det. LaPlata could never even conceive, let alone survive.

  Buddy Lee ran his thumbs back and forth over the calluses on his forefingers. LaPlata stood and almost reflexively dusted off his backside.

  “Stay out of this, Mr. Jenkins. My partner is headed over to Mr. Randolph’s right now to tell him the same thing. Let us do our job. You can’t change what happened but you can control what happens next.”

  You have no idea, hoss, Buddy Lee thought.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Ike pulled into his driveway just as the setting sun danced over the tips of the cypress trees in his backyard. He cut off his truck and went into the house. He closed the door behind him and locked it. They lived in a cul-de-sac off a side road. If someone followed him, he’d be able to see them coming, but he didn’t want to make it easy for them to get inside the house. Vacuous voices chattered incessantly from the television in the living room. Mya was sitting on the couch. The smoke from her cigarette flowed up from her ashtray like a will-o’-the-wisp.

  Ike hung his keys on the combo chalkboard / key rack on the wall and went to the kitchen. He heard Mya get to her feet and follow him. He grabbed the rum from the cabinet and poured himself a shot in a heavy cut-crystal glass. The rum burned all the way down to his stomach. He knew Mya would be standing near the broom closet with her arms crossed over her narrow chest. He knew the look that would be etched on her face. He started to pour himself another shot, then stopped. He put the glass in the sink and turned to face his wife. Her arms were indeed crossed over her chest as she glowered at him.

  “You staying out all night now?” she asked.

  “Something came up,” Ike said.

  “Oh, something came up? That made your phone stop working?”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

  “You’re sorry. Okay. Where the hell were you? You know that detective came by earlier looking for you. I thought he might have some news about Isiah’s case, but he said he needed to talk to you personally. You got any idea what the hell that’s about?”

  The mention of the detective sent a shiver through his spine but it quickly dissipated. If he was looking to jam him up about the kid they’d turned into fertilizer, he would have come by the shop with a pair of handcuffs. Especially since Ike had a prior for manslaughter.

  That’s what they called it, anyway, Ike thought.

  He gave up on the glass and took a swig of rum straight from the bottle. Mya crossed the distance between them like a gazelle. She snatched the bottle from his grip and slammed it down on the kitchen table. A few drops escaped the long neck of the bottle and splattered onto the table, then dripped off the edge.

  “We ain’t starting this, Ike.”

  “Starting what? What is it you think I’m doing?”

  Mya rubbed her hands together, then held them out in front of her. As she spoke, her hands trembled.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think you are cheating on me. We are way too old for that kind of petty shit, I hope. But you can’t be running these streets drinking all night and sleeping it off at the shop because of…” She trailed off into a sob.

  “I wasn’t drinking. Not last night. And Red Hill ain’t got no real streets. Just a lot of roads that don’t go nowhere,” Ike said in a hushed tone.

  “I can’t take it, Ike. I don’t want to get a call about them finding your body after your truck done run off the road because you drunk. I’m barely holding on as it is. If it wasn’t for Arianna, I wouldn’t even get out of bed in the morning. She’s the only thing that matters now, and I can’t do this by myself. I can’t raise her alone, Ike. I did that with Isiah and I just ain’t got the strength anymore,” Mya said. Tears ran down her face. Ike started to put his arms around her but she flinched. He stopped.

  “I know. I know it was hard when I went away. You raised him right while I was locked up. You made him a better man than I’ll ever be. But this ain’t the same thing. It ain’t nothing like it was before. And Arianna ain’t the only thing that matters now. Don’t we matter just a little bit? What we had, you and me, don’t that matter to you at all?” He didn’t intend to speak about them in the past tense, but the words flew out of his mouth like hornets riled from their nest. Mya didn’t seem to notice.

  “You know it does.”

  “Sometimes I can’t tell,” Ike said. Mya wiped her face.

  “How can you say that to me? I love you, Ike. I’ve loved you for longer than I can remember. But our boy is dead. And I can’t wrap my mind around that. I keep trying and trying and then I look at Arianna and I see so much of Isiah in her till I almost can’t stand it. It hurts so bad, Ike. It’s like I ain’t got no room in my heart for nothing but hurt. Is that why you didn’t come home? You can’t stand looking at hurt anymore? Is that how it’s gonna be? Like it’s one night. Then a couple. Then you don’t come home for weeks. Then one day you gone. Is that what this is, Ike? You testing the waters on your way out the door?” Mya said.

  Ike picked up the bottle again and took a long sip. It seemed like Mya had cried so much her eyes were permanently bloodshot. Those eyes haunted him. Rimmed in red and empty as an abandoned church, they made him feel helpless. Every night her soft whimpering cries tore pieces out of his soul as they slept back-to-back in a bed that seemed to widen until it felt like they were barely in the same room. She was right. He was tired of seeing her hurt. He couldn’t stand to see the pain that twisted her face into a sorrowful mask. Her pain, her sorrow, his powerlessness. He was sick of it all. He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. He was facing the back door as Mya stood behind him.

  “Last night me and Buddy Lee starting handling things,” he said. It came out in one breath. One long exhalation that gathered up all the frailty and ineffectualness and misery and mourning that filled him like the stuffing in a scarecrow and scattered it into the ether.

  Mya stretched out her hand in tentative increments until it touched the firm swell of his shoulder. It lay there warm and comforting like a child’s favorite blanket. Like the blanket that had been wrapped around their son when they brought him home from the hospital. Ike let out a sigh. She hadn’t touched him like that since Isiah … since they had gotten the news about Isiah.
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  The quiet between them changed from something hard and full of broken edges to something softer but still fragile. Ike folded his wide paw of a hand around Mya’s. Over the last few months, death had carved a valley between them as deep as grief and as wide as heartbreak. Now another man’s death had bridged that gap, if only for a moment.

  “Good,” Mya said. Her voice was hushed and conspiratorial.

  “Grammy. I hungry, Grammy,” a small voice said. Ike twisted himself around in the chair. Arianna stood at the threshold to the kitchen. Her braids had worked themselves loose. Her hair stood up on her head in wild corkscrews. Ike studied her small tawny face. He wasn’t sure how exactly Isiah and Derek had brought this little girl into the world. He knew it involved surrogates and eggs and sperm from both of them but he wasn’t sure how it all worked. All he knew was that the lawyer for Isiah and Derek’s estates had said that Isiah was her biological father, but she had called both of them Daddy. He had never studied her face the way Mya had. He’d refused to. Not in a conscious way but with a seemingly instinctual avoidance. The whole thing was just something he didn’t care to think about. Now he had no choice. The girl standing in front of him now had Isiah’s eyes, which meant she had Ike’s eyes. The slight off-center positioning of her nose was a Randolph family trait. She was lighter, of course, because her mother had been a white woman who was a friend of Isiah and Derek’s, but the Randolph DNA was strong. Stronger that his inability to see past his own hang-ups. If he closed his eyes a bit, she was Isiah at two years old, holding up his arms and squealing “Up, Daddy, up!” as he waited for Ike to grab him and spin him around the room like a living carousel.

  Ike turned away and stared down at the table. He felt nauseous. An avalanche of memories washed over him and buried him under the weight of all of his mistakes. So many mistakes.

  “Come here, baby girl. You wanna go to McDonald’s?” Mya asked. Arianna squealed in delight.