by S. A. Cosby
Ike deepened his voice and stretched out his enunciation. Mya called it his “talking to rich white people voice.” He used it when he had to arrange a bid on a huge, ostentatious estate or condominium down by the river.
“Hello, I’m Jason Krueger and I’m an associate of Tariq Matthews. You may know him better as Mr. Get Down? Well, a few months ago your firm handled a party for us at Mr. Matthews’s home, and he was so impressed he’d like to hire you again for an upcoming event. However, he is very pressed for time and he would like to discuss the menu with one of your associates. Today, if that’s at all possible,” Ike said.
Buddy Lee covered his mouth with his forearm and stifled a laugh.
“Oh my, today? We are really swamped. Could we possibly do it tomorrow? I’d be more than willing to drive out there myself,” Carrie said. Ike took a deep breath and let out a long and hopefully frustrated sounding sigh.
“Tomorrow is fine, I suppose. Could you make it around one? And do you still have the address?” Ike said. Ike could hear the hollow sound of plastic keys clicking.
“Yes, we do,” Carrie said.
“Could you read it back to me, please? I want to make sure you have it correct,” Ike said.
“Of course: 2359 Lafayette Lane, Richmond, Virginia, correct?” Carrie asked.
“You got it,” Ike said. He hit end.
“That was almost too easy,” Buddy Lee said.
“The hard part comes next. Trying to get to him,” Ike said.
“What’s our play if this don’t work?” Buddy Lee asked.
“I got another idea but it’s some DEFCON-5 type shit. Let’s try this first,” Ike said.
Ten minutes later they were in Buddy Lee’s truck heading down the highway.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Buddy Lee turned down Lafayette Lane and eased to a stop. There was a guardhouse in the middle of a two-lane driveway that led into a larger subdivision. Actually, “subdivision” was a bit of a misnomer. Buddy Lee could see beyond the guardhouse there were only six houses visible. Each one had a back- and front yard the size of half a football field.
“Flying buttresses,” Ike said.
“What?” Buddy Lee said.
“The third house on the left. The big-ass one. It’s got flying buttresses.”
“What the fuck are flying buttresses?” Buddy Lee asked.
“Don’t worry about it. Here comes the guard,” Ike said. A large burly Black man was shuffling toward the truck with a clipboard in one hand and walkie-talkie in the other. Ike thought one of the worst things you could give a man was a clipboard. He’d been at the mercy of men with clipboards. They could keep you out of a gated community or put you on a bus to prison. Give a man a clipboard and watch his true nature come out. The guard knocked on Buddy Lee’s window. Buddy Lee cranked it down.
“Hello, sir, who are you here to see today?” the guard said. Buddy Lee gave him his best good-ol’-boy smile.
“Yes, sir, we are here to talk with Mr. Matthews. We are … here to pick up some furniture he’s donating to the DAV,” Buddy Lee said.
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Buddy Lee Jenkins.” The guard checked his clipboard.
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t see that name listed here,” the guard said.
“Call him and tell him we want to talk to him about Tangerine and we ain’t leaving until we do,” Ike said. The guard parted his lips, then thought better of it. Instead he spoke into his walkie. After some static tinged back and forth, the guard pointed to the third house on the right.
“Mr. Mathews says come on down,” the guard said.
Ike spied a silver BMW in the rearview mirror, driven by a woman with the most severe I-want-to-speak-with-the-manager haircut he’d ever seen. She zipped by them doing at least thirty miles per hour, like she had some dalmatians in the trunk that she needed to make into a coat.
“Thank you, hoss,” Buddy Lee said. As he drove past the guardhouse the burly man waved.
“I’m surprised that worked,” Buddy Lee said.
“Talking about Tangerine got his attention,” Ike said.
“Yeah, he bit on that like a big mouth bass,” Buddy Lee said. A cough racked his body and forced him to lean on the steering wheel with his hand over his mouth.
“Hey, you okay?” Ike asked.
Buddy Lee nodded as he coughed again. He leaned back and rooted around in his drink holder for a napkin. He wiped his hand, then his mouth.
Ike noticed a pinkish sputum on the napkin. He could lie all he wanted, but Ike knew Buddy Lee was far from okay.
“Gotta quit smoking,” Buddy Lee said.
“I ain’t notice you smoking,” Ike said.
“Shit, maybe I should start,” Buddy Lee said.
* * *
They drove down the sinuous road that wound through the community. Ike noticed each of the homes had a low boundary wall made out of brick or exposed river stone and bifurcated by a black wrought-iron gate. Each lawn was manicured within an inch of its life. Red maples were planted in the middle of the road at regular twenty-foot intervals. Buddy Lee turned down the driveway of the third house and stopped at the gate. Ike heard an insectile buzzer sound, and the black gates opened like butterfly wings. They went through the gates, and Ike felt a trickle of ice water slip down his back as the gates closed. The sound of the lock engaging gave him flashbacks.
Buddy Lee followed the exposed aggregate roadway until his truck was in the far right curve of the circular driveway. A chopped-and-dropped Mercedes-Benz SUV was parked at the bottom of a set of massive steps that led up to the front door of the mansion. Buddy Lee put the car in park and killed the engine.
Four walking appliances in black blazers came down the steps of the mansion with the flying buttresses, accompanied by a short dark-skinned brother with elaborately braided cornrows. He wore a bright-lime-green tracksuit and a gold Afro-pick pendant on a long chain. Ike thought the pendant weighed more than the man wearing it.
Buddy Lee and Ike climbed out of the truck and stood side by side in front of the quintet. Ike thought they looked like they had all been transported from the set of an unimaginative rap video.
“Pat ’em down,” the brother with the cornrows said.
Ike and Buddy Lee raised their arms. Getting frisked was an acceptable indignity if this got them closer to finding Tangerine. One of the behemoths patted them both down. He pulled Buddy Lee’s knife out of his pocket.
“That’s for apple coring,” Buddy Lee said. The man, who was obviously a part of Tariq’s security detail, held the knife up to his face.
“This thing’s a goddamn antique,” he said before pocketing it.
“That knife belonged to my grandfather. I’ll thank you to put it back in my hand,” Buddy Lee said.
“You’ll get it back before you leave,” the bodyguard said.
No one spoke for what felt like minutes. Ike decided to jump in the deep end.
“Do you know a girl named Tangerine? We’re trying to find her. She might know who killed our sons,” Ike said. The man in the tracksuit, who Ike assumed was Tariq, didn’t seem to register his question. He pulled a small joint out of his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. The security guard closest to him lit it for him with a gold cigarette lighter. Tariq took a long drag, held it, and let the smoke flow out his nostrils. Buddy Lee jumped into the conversation.
“We ain’t looking to jam her up. We just want to know what happened,” Buddy Lee said. Tariq still kept his cards close to the vest.
“Look, somebody stood over my son and pumped two bullets in his head. I just want to find out who did it, and I … we … think Tangerine can help.”
Nothing.
“Do you speak English?” Buddy Lee said. He didn’t try to hide his frustration. Tariq took another long puff on the joint. He plucked it from his lips and used it as a pointer as he talked.
“Here’s the deal, Salt and Pepper. You gonna stop trying to find Tangerine. You g
onna go back home and leave this the fuck alone. You gonna leave Tangy alone. This is a onetime, nonnegotiable offer. You are gonna accept the terms of this agreement, or I’m gonna have my fellas here fold you up, put you in an envelope, and mail you back to wherever the fuck you came from,” Tariq said.
Buddy Lee caught Ike’s eye. Ike stared back. After a few seconds he turned his attention back to Tariq.
“I told you we don’t want to hurt her. We just wanna talk,” Ike said. He pronounced each word with a measured caution. The four security guards had taken positions at his eleven, one, five, and eight o’clock. The air around them was charged like a thunderstorm was approaching. Tariq was still standing near the stone-carved front steps.
“You don’t listen too well, do you, fam?” Tariq said. He made a shooting gesture with his joint.
“Well, shit,” Buddy Lee whispered.
The guards advanced on them. Two for Buddy Lee, two for Ike. The pair that locked on Ike came at him with short, precise movements. Their punches were specific and targeted and full of bad intentions. Ike took a kidney shot from one of the bodyguards, a light-skinned brother with a flattop, which nearly made his legs buckle. Ike trapped the man’s right arm with his left and jammed his thumb into the man’s Adam’s apple.
The light-skinned man stumbled backward grabbing his throat, just as his partner, a brother with a mini-Afro, clocked Ike on the side of the head with a fist roughly the size of a Smithfield ham. Ike tried to tuck his chin into his chest but he still got the brunt of the blow. As he tried to steady himself, Mini-Afro executed a spinning heel kick that should have violated the laws of physics for a man his size.
It caught Ike in the solar plexus, and he felt a spasm ripple through his midsection like he’d been tased. He fell back against the truck. Light-Skinned had recovered somewhat and was advancing on him from the left. Acting purely on instinct honed from hundreds of throwdowns, inside and on the street, Ike grabbed the passenger door, opened it with deft fingers, and slammed it into Light-Skinned. The bottom of the door caught him in the shin, and he immediately dropped to one knee like he was about to propose.
Mini-Afro caught Ike in the chin with a two-piece combo. Black stars twinkled in front of Ike’s eyes. Grunting, he launched himself at Mini-Afro. They collided like a pair of mountain goats. Ike hooked the other man’s leg with his own as he executed a tangled pirouette. They fell to the ground in a twisted conflagration of arms and legs and fists. Light-Skinned was back to his feet, and this time he was holding a collapsible baton.
Ike ended up on top of Mini-Afro. Ike hit him with a right cross, then a right elbow strike. Mini-Afro’s nose flattened against his face like a jellyfish. Blood flowed unfettered from both his nostrils and into his mouth. Ike doubled up on him. Two fast brutal punches that closed the man’s left eye like a curtain. Then Ike’s world exploded in a nuclear flash of white light and searing pain so intense he thought he was going to vomit.
Light-Skinned reared back and struck him in the back with the baton again. Ike sloughed off Mini-Afro like an old coat. Light-Skinned stepped on his partner’s kneecap in his haste to get to Ike. Ike saw the big man bearing down on him with a long black baton. It resembled the ones favored by the corrections officers in Coldwater.
Ike was flat on his back. He could feel the heat from the asphalt through his T-shirt. The pain in his neck was like a pair of pliers pinching his second and third vertebrae.
Light-Skinned was almost on top of him. Instead of kicking up at the man’s face, which is what Light-Skinned was probably expecting, Ike kicked at the side of his knee with everything he had left.
He didn’t hear the crack he was hoping for, but he did hear a pitiful baying howl. Light-Skinned fell against the side of the truck. The baton dropped from his hand as he tried to grab on to the truck to keep himself from falling to the ground.
Ike got to his feet. In one swift motion he kicked Mini-Afro in the kidney and then headbutted Light-Skinned above the left eye. The move hurt him almost as much as it did Light-Skinned, but it served its purpose. Light-Skinned slid down the quarter panel of Buddy Lee’s truck. His face left a red streak on the rusted metal. Ike moved to help Buddy Lee but stopped in his tracks when he saw the gun.
Buddy Lee was getting his ass kicked.
It wasn’t a complete shock, in all honesty. The moment he saw the two monsters run at him with the grace of gazelles, he knew he was in for a beating. Men that big shouldn’t be able to move that fast, and when they could, it meant they were well-trained and skilled. Which meant he was going to get his ass handed to him.
Buddy Lee decided to go out swinging. It was the only way he knew.
The first monster that approached him had a mustache so full it was a like a cat had taken up residence on his upper lip. The other grizzly bear was so cockeyed Buddy Lee figured he could see around a corner without turning his damn head.
Buddy Lee went at them like a windmill on legs. He swung on Cockeyed while he kicked at Cat Stache. He caught Cockeyed just below the left eye. Buddy Lee felt his foot connect with Cat Stache’s right knee. He might as well have been throwing beans at a tank. Cockeyed slammed him in the stomach and doubled him over. Cat Stache grabbed Buddy Lee’s arms and made him stand upright. Cockeyed started peppering him with lefts and rights like it was his new favorite hobby. Buddy Lee knew that he was going to be pissing blood for a week. Cockeyed grabbed him by the chin and forced him to look at him.
“You gonna learn today, old man,” Cockeye said.
I’m a quick study, you son of a bitch, Buddy Lee thought. In an effort to demoralize Buddy Lee, Cockeyed had gotten within striking distance of Buddy Lee’s right foot. Buddy Lee kicked the man as hard as he could, right in the nuts.
Cockeyed’s legs slammed shut at the knees as he bent over and cupped his balls. The shock of seeing his partner fall to the ground unnerved Cat Stache to such an extent he eased his grip on Buddy Lee’s arms. Buddy Lee took the opportunity to ram the back of his head into Cat Stache’s mouth. He thought he could feel the man’s lips flatten against his teeth. Buddy Lee spun around and gave Cat Stache a left hook right behind his right ear. The man fell against the hood of the truck.
That was when he saw the gun.
It was a huge semiautomatic in a shoulder rig that dangled against Cat Stache’s right side. Buddy Lee had always had fast hands. His daddy had taught him how to lift wallets and watches before he taught him to ride a bike. All the bodyguards were probably packing, but they had taken Ike and Buddy Lee lightly. They saw a couple of old geezers who were in need of an attitude adjustment. They probably figured they could handle the two of them without even wrinkling their coats.
Everyone makes mistakes, Buddy Lee thought.
He slipped his hand inside Cat Stache’s blazer and relieved him of his gun. Buddy Lee spun on Cockeyed and Tariq and Cat Stache, who was now Red Stache because of all the blood coming out of his mouth.
“Back your raggedy asses up!” Buddy Lee said. He moved toward the driver’s side of his truck while keeping his eye on Tariq and his private army. Ike moved toward the passenger’s side. He stood behind the open door, half in and half out of the truck. Mini-Afro was back up and he had his gun in his hand, pointing it at Buddy Lee.
“Drop the fucking gun!” Mini-Afro yelled.
“Suck my crooked red dick, Barry White. I ain’t dropping shit,” Buddy Lee said. His chest was on fire, but he used every ounce of his will to push the pain aside.
“We just wanted to talk,” Ike said. Buddy Lee had moved all the way to the driver’s side of the truck.
Tariq’s guards gathered around their employer like a phalanx. He spoke from behind the safety of their broad shoulders. Smiling, he took a long toke on his joint. Ike realized he was enjoying this.
“Give it up, fam. You ain’t about this life. Tangerine is off-limits to you. Drop that gun, gramps, before you really get hurt,” Tariq said.
“Why don’t you come out from behind yo
ur boys and we’ll see who’s about that life and who’s still sucking on their mama’s titty,” Buddy Lee said. Tariq’s smile faltered.
“I live in a real nice neighborhood with some real nice white people. You probably got about two minutes to get out of here before the cops show up. They look out for us high-rolling taxpayers,” Tariq said.
“You talk to Tangerine, you tell her we need to talk to her. Our boys tried to help her and they got killed. She owes us that,” Ike said.
“Toss him my knife,” Buddy Lee said. Cockeyed, who had taken the knife off of Buddy Lee, blanched.
“Put the gun down and you get your knife,” he said. Buddy Lee aimed at his forehead.
“I know your boy got a bead on me, but hear me when I tell you this: there’ll be two of us dead if you don’t hand over that knife,” Buddy Lee said. There was a flatness to his voice that Ike had never heard. He realized Buddy Lee was fully prepared to die over that jackknife. The bodyguard must have realized it, too, because he pulled it out his pocket and tossed it to Ike. Ike in turn threw it on the seat.
“I’m keeping your gun,” Buddy Lee said.
They both climbed in the truck. Buddy Lee fired it up and mashed the pedal to the floor. The security guard missed getting run over by a frog’s hair.
TWENTY-NINE
Buddy Lee had hopped on the interstate and taken them out of Richmond. He took the first exit after they had cleared the city limits and pulled into a gas station. He’d barely shut off the truck when he opened the door and vomited. It looked like a child had spilled a can of red-and-green finger paint on the ground.
“I think that fella turned my liver sideways,” he said when he was done. Ike wound down the window and checked his face in the side mirror. There was blood on his face. His chin was swelling like a puffer fish’s. He touched the back of his head. The baton had reopened the wound the kid had given him with the chair.
“Yeah, they fucked us up pretty good,” Ike said.
“Tried,” Buddy Lee said.