by S. A. Cosby
“I’d like to. You know where we can find her?” Buddy Lee asked.
“I just told you she floats in and out.”
“Anybody around here might know her?” Ike asked.
“I guess you have to ask them,” Tex said. Ike leaned forward over the bar. He stuck his chest out and cocked his head to the right.
“Hey, we got a problem?” Ike asked. Tex pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek.
“Ya know, I have a friend who comes in here sometimes. He’s a lawyer. He’s about your age. He’s gay, Black, and cool as fuck. You know what he told me once? He said some Black people hate gay people more than they hate racists. He told me growing up Black and gay in a small town out in the country was like being trapped between a lion and an alligator. Rednecks on one side and homophobic Black folk on the other. He said the only way you don’t get fucked with growing up Black and gay was if you could do hair or lead a choir. He couldn’t do neither so he got out of town. I didn’t really believe him. I couldn’t believe it was that bad. But every day a guy like you proves him right,” Tex said.
“Oh, so you think it’s easier being Black than being gay? I tell you what, you go somewhere don’t nobody have to know you gay unless you tell them. I’m Black everywhere. I can’t hide that shit,” Ike said. Tex pulled his towel out and twisted it with both hands.
“Yeah, you can’t hide that you’re Black. But the fact that you think I should hide who I am proves my point. Like Dr. King said: an injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere,” Tex said. Ike sucked his teeth and sat back onto his stool.
“You guys let me know if you want anything else,” Tex said. He turned and walked to the other end of the bar.
“Damn, he dropped the Martin Luther King card on your ass. I think he won that round, Grasshopper,” Buddy Lee said.
Ike didn’t respond.
“I’m fucking around. I don’t think he knows shit. But I bet you some of these folks do,” Buddy Lee said as he gestured to the patrons scattered around the bar.
“Uh-huh,” Ike said. He grabbed his water and chugged it down in one big gulp. He slammed his empty glass down on the bar.
Ike felt like a vise was squeezing his rib cage. The two young white men who had been holding hands were now dancing in slow languid circles with their arms draped around each other’s neck. One of the brothers at the end of the bar was stroking his friend’s cheek. They had made their martinis disappear like a magic trick. The three women on the love seat were playfully pulling at each other’s hair.
“Think we should split up? Maybe we’ll be less intimidating that way,” Buddy Lee said.
“Yeah, I guess. We can work like when you in the yard trying to pick grapes,” Ike said. Buddy Lee chuckled.
“I ain’t heard that in a while. We used to call it ‘getting pony express’ up in Red Onion. I don’t know why we just didn’t call it gossip.”
“I need to stop talking like a convict. I fall back into that shit too damn easy,” Ike said.
“I still have nightmares about Red Onion. I be dreaming I’m still inside. I’m out, but I’ve never stopped feeling like a convict,” Buddy Lee said.
“I heard Red Onion is a dungeon,” Ike said.
Buddy Lee gazed lovingly at the bottle of Jack Daniel’s sitting by itself like an exalted king on the glass shelf. “It is that. It’d make the devil find religion,” he said. He got Tex’s attention and pantomimed taking a shot. Tex dropped off his shot without a word. Buddy Lee downed it in one gulp.
“Hey, what’d I say about drinking?” Ike asked.
“I got it, okay? I’ll take the girls on the couch. You wanna start on this side?” Buddy Lee said. His face became flushed as the whiskey hit the bottom of his stomach.
“Go ahead,” Ike said. Buddy Lee slid off the stool and made for the love seats and beanbag section of the bar. Ike took a deep breath. He spun around on the stool and took stock of the room. He had a choice between the brothers at the end of the bar, the two men still slow-dancing, or the clean-cut older guys in the booth. Using a purely demographic equation, he decided to hit the brothers first.
“Hey, excuse me,” Ike said. The larger of the two was about Ike’s size with a luxuriant beard that covered most of his face. He took his attention away from his companion just long enough for Ike to see the irritation in his face.
“Yes?”
“Hey, um … I’m looking for this girl—”
“I think you in the wrong place,” the bearded man’s companion said. He was clean-shaven with a tight fade.
“Nah, it’s not like that,” Ike said.
“What can we do for you?” the bearded man asked. Ike could see he was going from irritated to angry. Ike forced himself to calm down and speak clearly.
“I’m looking for a girl named Tangerine. She used to hang out here sometimes. I think she a friend of my son’s. I just want to talk to her.”
“About what?” Fade asked.
“What?”
“What do you want to talk to her about? Are you some ex-boyfriend trying to track her down?” Fade asked.
“Huh? No, I need to talk to her about my son,” Ike said.
“Is your son her ex?” Bearded Man asked.
“Look, my son is fucking dead and she might be able to help me find out who killed him. Now can we cut the shit? Do you know her or not?” Ike said. Bearded Man and Mini-Afro spun around on their stools until all he saw was the back of their heads.
“We don’t know her, man,” Bearded Man said. He and his companion turned their backs on him. Ike took a deep breath so violently his nose burned.
Ike felt like he was rooted to the floor. His skin was tingling all over like he had stepped on a live wire. The real estate between him and the two men seemed to fill with dangerously charged energy. They had turned their backs on him. Inside that was a sign of disrespect so egregious it might get you sent to the farm just on general principles. Ike’s right hand was a fist before he realized he had curled his fingers. He stared down at it, and through a sheer force of will he made himself unfurl his fist. He had to be smart. He didn’t need the cops throwing him in a deep dark hole. At least not until he finished this.
“Thanks.” Ike choked the word out and walked away. The two white men slow-dancing were gone. They must have slipped out while he was interrogating the brothers. That left the guys in the booth. They were laughing over another round of shots. Ike walked over and stood next to the booth.
“Hey, how ya guys doing?” Ike asked. He tried to look friendly.
“Hey there,” one of the men said. The other men stopped laughing but kept smiling.
“Hey, I’m Ike Randolph. My son was Isiah Randolph,” Ike said. All the smiles faltered.
“Oh my. I’m sorry. I’m Jeff,” the man closest to Ike said. He held out his hand. Ike shook it and was surprised by its firmness.
“I’m Ralph.”
“I’m Sal.”
“Chris.”
Ike nodded to the other three men.
They don’t look gay, Ike thought. As soon as the idea entered his head it seemed like he could hear Isiah’s voice. How exactly did someone look gay? Did he expect them to have tattoos carved into their foreheads that declared their sexuality?
“I guess you guys knew Isiah?” Ike asked.
“He and Derek were regulars here. He did an article on my organization. Derek used to work for Chris at his restaurant,” Jeff said.
“Small world, ain’t it?” Ike said.
“The world is made up of a bunch of smaller worlds,” Jeff said.
“What’s your organization?” Ike asked.
“I run a nonprofit technical school in the East End for at-risk gay youth. We teach them industrial arts. I’m a welder by trade and a wannabe artist,” Jeff said.
“You’re being too modest,” Ralph said. He put his hand on top of Jeff’s. Ike studied the picture of Judy Garland at an anonymous cabaret club. Her deep-set eyes a
nd come-hither pout were frozen forever in black-and-white.
“That’s good. You get a lot of kids out there?” Ike asked. The four men shared a long moment of silence before Jeff spoke.
“Lots of kids end up on the streets when they come out. Not all of them, but a lot. They show up with black eyes and missing teeth. There are parents who think they can beat the gay away. Or they show up crying and terrified because their mom or dad or their pastor told them they were going to burn in hell for eternity,” Jeff said. Ike studied his boots. He was one of those parents. He definitely thought he could “man up” the gay out of Isiah. Might as well tried to make him a bird and tossed him off the roof. Isiah wasn’t going to ever change. He was what he was until the day he died.
“And now he’s in the ground,” Ike mumbled.
“I’m sorry, what?” Jeff asked.
“Um, nothing. I was just saying that’s fucked up,” Ike said.
“Yeah, it is,” Jeff said.
“Me and Derek’s dad, we were just asking around, trying to see if anyone knew anything about what happened. We’re not trying to put anybody in a spot. We just wanna find out what happened to our boys,” Ike said. Could these men hear the desperation in his voice? He heard it and it made him feel frail. Finding out who had killed Isiah and Derek was the life raft that he clung to in a vain attempt to keep from falling apart. It was barely working. The ragged edges of his mind might unravel at any moment, and God help whoever was around when that happened.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think any of us know anything that can help. I wish we could,” Jeff said.
“They were such a happy couple,” Sal said.
“They had what I’m looking for,” Chris said.
“You’ve got to stop being a ho if you want a husband,” Ralph said. Chris stuck his tongue out at him and rolled his eyes.
“Ah, did any of you know a woman by the name of Tangerine?” Ike asked. Jeff’s right cheek twitched.
That’s a tell, Ike thought.
“I knew a girl by that name once,” Jeff said. Ike thought he was choosing his words carefully. His eyes darted from left to right, and that cheek was nearly oscillating now.
“Oh yeah? Did she ever come by the school?” Ike asked.
“She used to crash there a lot,” Ralph offered. Jeff moved his hand from under Ralph’s, then put his hand on Ralph’s forearm. A quiet gesture, but Ike read it as an admonishment.
“Tangerine didn’t, uh … take to the industrial arts. She’s a free spirit,” Jeff said.
“That’s one word for it,” Chris said. Sal elbowed him.
“What? I’m just saying what we’re all thinking,” Chris said.
“She’s a party girl?” Ike asked. Jeff’s shoulders slumped.
“Tangerine can be a bit of a diva, that’s all,” Jeff said. An idea popped up in Ike’s mind.
“We heard she met Derek at a big fancy party for a music guy,” Ike said.
“That girl ain’t never seen a scene that she didn’t want to be seen at,” Chris said. Jeff frowned at him but Chris didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t care.
“Are you talking about Mr. Get Down’s party?” Ralph asked.
“I don’t know. Who’s Mr. Get Down?” Ike asked.
“He’s a producer. Real name is Tariq Matthews. Mainly hip-hop and trance. He lives out in the West End. Huge house with god-awful flying buttresses like something out of a James Whale movie,” Ralph said. He paused, apparently hoping for a laugh.
“God, am I that old that I’m the only one who knows who James Whale is? Anyway, Tariq is a hometown hero. I taught him in the ninth grade. The year after he graduated he produced a record that went to number one in fifteen countries. Derek was in here a week before the party talking about how his company was gonna do the food for Mr. Get Down’s thirtieth. God, I really am old,” Ralph said. He laid his head on Jeff’s shoulder.
“Is that her kind of scene?” Ike asked. Chris started to answer but Jeff cut him off.
“Here’s the thing. Tangy is … a complicated girl. She’s young and beautiful and she’s finding herself. That kind of beauty and youth can get you some haters,” Jeff said, staring squarely at Chris.
“Tangerine isn’t even her real name,” Chris said. Ralph jumped into the conversation.
“Don’t be bitchy, Chris,” Ralph said. Chris crossed his arms.
“Got any idea where she might be?” Ike asked.
“You think Tangy is involved with what happened to Isiah and Derek?” Jeff asked. Ike hesitated.
“Isiah was supposed to meet her here for an interview. The day before the meet, him and Derek got shot in front of that wine bar celebrating their anniversary,” Ike said. Saying out loud that his boy had been shot made the sharp edges of Ike’s heart grate against each other.
“Tangy’s been gone since before that happened. She might be anywhere,” Jeff said. As if on cue, his right cheek began to twitch. Ike gave him the hard eyes. The scary eyes. The murder eyes.
Jeff seemed to be a really nice guy. He dedicated his life to helping gay kids. He had a nice group of friends. None of that stopped him from lying to Ike’s face. Jeff knew exactly where Tangerine was and how to find her. Ike could feel it in his guts.
Tangerine was the woman who sounded so afraid on that answering machine. Was she afraid because she knew Isiah had a hit on him? Did she set him up? Ike didn’t know. All he really knew was that nice guy Jeff was sitting here lying to him like he was big dumb black-ass country son of a bitch. Jeff with his frosted gray tips and deliberately groomed five-o’clock shadow. Nice guy Jeff, who cared more about protecting some party girl than he cared about Ike’s dead son, had a case of the city-mouse syndrome. A lot of folks that lived in Richmond liked to imagine they were smarter and more sophisticated than the people that lived in the counties. Even if most of the counties were only thirty miles past the huge illuminated RICHMOND sign that sat above the exit that took you out of the city.
Ike wondered how long it would take to get the truth out of him if he jammed his thumb into his eye and popped it like hard-boiled egg.
Jeff blinked hard. Perhaps he saw something in Ike’s face that told him his eyeball was in danger of ending up on Garland’s hardwood floor.
“Seriously, I don’t know where she is. But…” Jeff said.
“But what?” Ike asked, still giving Jeff the death stare.
“If she was at that party, it probably wasn’t her first time hanging out with Mr. Get Down. He might know where she is. That’s all I’m saying,” Jeff said. “The Man That Got Away” started pumping through Garland’s sound system over a trip-hop beat. Ike relaxed.
“Thanks,” he said. He turned and went back to the bar.
“Can I have another water? And let me settle up for me and my friend,” Ike said. Tex came over and tossed a receipt and a pen in front of Ike. Had he really called Buddy Lee his friend? He didn’t know if that was an accurate description of what they were. They’d killed a man together, so they were more than acquaintances, but he didn’t think they were quite friends. Ike signed the receipt, leaving a sizable tip, and wrapped it around his debit card. A tall thin Black man stumbled up to the bar next to him. The man stroked his bushy gray goatee as he struggled to straddle the barstool.
“Hey,” Gray Goatee said.
“Hey,” Ike said without turning his head.
“How you doing?” Gray Goatee slurred.
“I’m alright, man,” Ike said. He searched for Tex but he was taking a large drink order from a group of blue-, pink-, and green-haired androgynous white kids that had just wandered into the bar.
“All these little young bucks up in here. Too damn young, too damn crazy,” Gray Goatee said. His words fell out of his mouth like marbles rolling off the edge of a table.
“Uh-huh.” Ike said.
“I’m Angelo,” the man with the gray goatee said. Ike didn’t respond. He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back and fort
h on the balls of his feet.
“They fun, but what’s the point? A couple hours of groaning and moaning for what? So they can just leave in the morning after pissing all over your toilet seat,” Angelo said. He listed to his left before grabbing the rail on the edge of the bar and righting himself. Ike took a step to the right away from him.
“You with somebody?” Angelo asked.
“I’m just paying my tab, man,” Ike said. He spoke through pursed lips, turning the sentence into one long word.
“Sure, sure, you probably with somebody. You too fine not to be,” Angelo said.
“Hey Tex! Get my tab, man!” Ike yelled.
“You going? Hey wait, let me buy you a drink. Don’t go yet. Let me get you a drink,” Angelo said. He reached out and put his hand on Ike’s forearm.
“Get your fucking hands off me, man,” Ike said. The two brothers at the other end of the bar picked up their drinks and moved to the beanbags. The thunder in Ike’s voice promised a storm that they wanted no part of at all. Angelo’s radar didn’t seem to be attuned to the changing weather.
“Hey now, don’t be like that. I just want to get to know you,” he slurred. He moved his hand up Ike’s arm toward his coconut-sized biceps.
“I told you, get the fuck off me!” Ike snatched Angelo by the front of his shirt. The barstool went skittering across the floor as Ike slammed Angelo against the far wall. A picture of Judy Garland in a top hat and tails fell from the wall. It bounced off Ike’s head but he hardly noticed. Angelo’s eyes rolled around in their sockets as Ike cinched in his grip and lifted him off his feet.
“I’m sorry!” Angelo said over and over.
Ike pulled him off the wall only to slam him against it again twice as hard. Angelo tried to pry Ike’s hands from around his neck, but he might as well have been trying to untie the Gordian knot.
“I told you, don’t fucking touch me!” Ike yelled. He held Angelo in place with his left hand while cocking back his right. The group of emo kids that had just entered the bar pulled out their cell phones and started yelling at him as they began recording the confrontation.
Seconds before he unloaded his hammer of a right, he felt strong hands gripping his shoulders and powerful arms wrapping around his waist. Ike felt himself being pulled off balance. He let go of Angelo and pawed at his attackers.