by Joe Ide
“I get it, okay? When do I get my fifty bucks?”
Signal Hill was east of Long Beach, nothing separating the two hoods but lines on a map. Isaiah took Willow toward the airport and stopped by the Sunshine Cemetery to visit Marcus’s grave. He regretted it. Looking at the headstone brought back terrible memories. Marcus, with his beautiful smile and sterling goodness murdered in the street. His killer, Seb Habimana, was dead but it was no consolation. Isaiah cried for a while and left.
He was feeling faint. He hadn’t eaten anything since the previous night. Beaumont’s death and Grace’s sudden appearance had squelched his appetite. He stopped at a park and forced down an energy bar. Kev’s directions weren’t very specific, but eventually Isaiah found the dirt road that led to the Den. It was an odd area next to the freeway. Drive down the road and whoever was at the other end would see you coming.
Isaiah drove past the road. Immediately adjacent was a grove of trees and past that was a vast parking lot, both surrounded by tall, chain-link fences. Isaiah parked on the street, walked by the empty kiosk and crossed the lot. It seemed to be a storage depot for the city—office trailers, rows of earth movers, cranes and other heavy machinery. A few men in orange hard hats were driving forklifts, taking rolls of rebar and bags of cement into a warehouse. Isaiah made a mental note like he did whenever he was in new surroundings.
He walked through the grove of trees. Grove was something of an overstatement. There were desiccated eucalyptus, exhausted palms and stunted pines. The ground was covered with pine needles and litter, one of those nasty places where you might step on a hypodermic needle or a used condom.
It was a long walk. Isaiah was sweating by the time he reached the opposite tree line. Just across a dirt road was the so-called Den. It was an old, two-story thing with boards missing from the front steps and scabs of paint flaking off the gray wood. Everything in and around the place looked broken.
Mo said the car involved in the drive-by was a black pickup. There were cars around but no black pickup. It was probably hidden somewhere until the heat wore off. A group of Starks had gathered on the front porch, in their teens or twenties, passing around a joint and drinking cans of Coors. Their uniform was the same as every other gang in the country: oversize shorts or jeans, gold chains, tats, shirts and caps with slogans on them. NO JEW WILL REPLACE ME. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN. WHITE SUPREMACY IS REAL.
White supremacy, Isaiah thought. What a joke. In what fields of endeavor did these assholes imagine they were superior? Art? Science? Ending world hunger? These people hadn’t shown their superiority in anything besides burning crosses, wearing pointy hats and inventing new kinds of swastikas. And why were they always complaining about losing jobs to minorities? What jobs and minorities were they talking about? Did they mean they applied for work harvesting crops but were turned down in favor of an undocumented immigrant? Or that they wanted to build airplanes but Boeing overlooked them and hired engineers from India and Korea? Or they had an opportunity to be a bank president but the board of directors chose a fellow Jew? Their problems weren’t because of the niggers, faggots and wetbacks. Their lives were of their own making; they had no one to blame but themselves.
Isaiah used his binoculars and tried to pick out the leader. Could be the guy sitting on the top step. Scrawny, shaved head, mandatory tats and a terrible case of acne. There was something hyena-like about him. The malicious grin, maybe, or the dull, merciless eyes. Next to him was a big guy. Really big. He was shirtless, inked up, bulbous belly, his skin pink from the sun that glinted off his bald head. He looked lethargic but dangerous, like you were in a canoe and a half-submerged hippo was staring directly at you.
The others were seated around them like acolytes. They were the two leaders or maybe leader and second lieutenant. The others listened when the hyena talked and laughed when he laughed. A red-haired woman sat beside him, bored, like I’ve heard this shit a hundred times before. Hyena said something sharply and one of the guys got up immediately and went into the house. That’s him, Isaiah thought, Sidero Bernal. And Kev was right. He didn’t look like his name. A white guy like any other.
Did he shoot Beaumont, or was it one of the others? It didn’t really matter. Isaiah thought about revenge but he knew better now. Revenge, served cold, hot or any other way was a form of self-mutilation that scarred you as much as your victimizer. But these murdering sons of bitches would come to justice. Of that, he was sure.
Chapter Two
Are You Okay, Weiner?
Isaiah took a shower to wash off the smell of racism. He’d just finished dressing when the doorbell rang. Out of habit, he took the collapsible baton off the coffee table and put it in his back pocket. He looked through the peephole and opened the door. On the other side of the security screen stood a man in his forties or early fifties. He wore an electric blue suit, crisp white shirt, gold tie, gold tie clip, gold cufflinks, and fat gold Rolex. A-type, Isaiah thought, struggled early, has money now, and feels the need to show it off.
“Can I help you?” Isaiah said.
“Are you Isaiah?” the man asked in a tone that sounded like are you the garbage man?
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Dwight. I work for Angus Byrne.”
“That’s too bad.”
Dwight smirked. “Sure, anything you say.”
Dwight had a puffed-up build, a square head, his salt-and-pepper hair shiny and combed back. He reminded Isaiah of John Gotti—cunning eyes and a smug, cruel face. He was restless and fidgeting, seemingly embarrassed; a flunky who was too old to be doing a flunky’s job.
“Say what you want or I’m closing the door,” Isaiah said. Dwight turned his head and nodded at the Maybach idling at the curb, a stretch Mercedes, snow white, gleaming like a block of sculpted ice. “Angus wants to talk to you. Five minutes.”
“Why?” Isaiah said. “Did he lose a shipment of machine guns? A box of hand grenades go missing?”
Dwight sighed impatiently. “It’s five fucking minutes, okay? Don’t give me a hard time.”
“Sorry, I’m busy,” Isaiah said. “I’ve gotta go do something important like wash the dishes or sweep the floor.”
Dwight puffed himself up even more and growled through the screen like a mafioso. “You’re making a big fucking mistake.”
“I make them all the time,” Isaiah said as he closed the door.
He ate some soup standing at the counter. He’d been tempted to accept Dwight’s offer; a chance to get a read on a bad guy was always a good thing, but Isaiah loathed Angus Byrne. He was one of the biggest arms dealers on the West Coast, another prince of darkness living the life of royalty. His weapons had robbed parents of their children and turned children into orphans. They had gunned down husbands and wives and grandparents, teachers and nurses and laborers in the field, and Isaiah wouldn’t abet Angus in the smallest way. The old man had probably sold the gun that killed Beaumont.
Isaiah knew what Angus wanted. He had a case, he needed help. Why else would he be reaching out? Isaiah would never work for that asshole. The man was pestilence, a virus, a stinking glob of human offal. Making the smallest effort on his behalf would be like burying yourself under an outhouse. You’d never get the filth off.
Later that afternoon, Isaiah was holding a bag of groceries, trying to put in the key and thinking about Grace when three men rushed him from behind. By the time he heard them and dropped the groceries, they were at his back. He whirled around and caught the first attacker with an elbow and heard the guy’s nose snap. It was Sidero, the dull hyena eyes going wide and bright. He howled, spun away, blood spurting on the lawn. The second man was Dwight, grinning and eager, his gold tie undone. Isaiah ducked under his lunge and punched him in the crotch. Dwight screamed and doubled over, clutching his balls like they were trying to escape. The third attacker was hippo man from the Den. He bear-hugged Isaiah from behind. Isaiah pushed up on his arms and ducked, slipping out of the embrace, but Dwight was on his feet n
ow. He came at him with his teeth bared, snarling, hitting Isaiah with a flurry of angry punches to the midsection, enjoying himself. He only stopped because the others told him to. They dragged Isaiah into a van gasping for breath. Sometimes a six-pack helps.
They drove to Newport Beach, an upscale area south of Long Beach. Dwight was driving, shooting glares in the rearview mirror, Isaiah bookended between the others. If he wasn’t so winded he’d have taken them on. Sidero had his head back, holding a T-shirt against his bloody nose.
“If it was just you and me?” he said nasally. “I would hab killed you.”
“If it was just you and me,” Isaiah replied, “I’d have broken more than your nose.”
Hippo man was taking up most of the seat. The sleeves of his T-shirt were cut off by necessity and apparently he’d run out of deodorant.
“Could we open a window?” Isaiah said.
“Christ, you stink, Hugo,” Dwight said. “Don’t you take a shower?”
“Eben I cad smell it,” Sidero said through his T-shirt.
“Shut up, Sidero,” Hugo said. Then he leaned forward and tapped Dwight on the head with a sausage-like finger.
“Listen, asshole, you don’t say shit to me, okay?” Hugo said. “Or I’ll fuck you up bad. Stop the car and I’ll do it right now.” Dwight smoothed his hair, looked in the mirror and sighed like he was bored.
“Sure, Hugo,” he said. “Anything you say.”
Angus’s house was a monument to sterility. A stack of cement blocks, painted white with smoked windows and bands of oak across the front for that homey feel, the cheapest possible way for a developer to build a luxury house. Fuck aesthetics. Fuck architecture. Houses sold by the foot.
Isaiah was ushered into the study, nearly cringing when he saw Angus. He’d always been repulsed by the man’s impossible ugliness. Angus was at his desk, talking on the phone. He was wearing a suit that was too young for him and reeked of cologne that smelled like limes. When he saw Isaiah, he dropped the phone.
“You nimrods,” he said. “You were just supposed to bring him here, not beat him up. Can’t you do anything right?” He glared at Sidero still holding the bloody T-shirt to his nose. “What happened to you? Weren’t there three of you?”
“Des,” Sidero said, “but—”
“And you get your face busted up? How does that happen? Did you have your hands in your pockets? I wouldn’t be surprised if you hit yourself in the face, you goddamn moron! Stop bleeding on my fucking carpet and get the hell out of my sight!” Sidero hurried out of the room.
Angus was a stooped, skeletal old man, Ebenezer Scrooge with thinning hair dyed too brown and an antique scowl. His face was inexplicably lumpy, like someone had pressed his knuckles into a hunk of cookie dough. Add big startled eyes, a mustache and ears like sideways satellite dishes and you had an aging Mr. Potato Head after a car accident.
“Why are you standing there, Dwight?” Angus said. “Get the man some water and an aspirin. Dwight took a second too long to respond to Angus, testing his patience. He left the room tugging at his sore balls.
A brown dachshund slept next to the unlit fireplace. Angus looked at the dog with concern, as if he hoped it hadn’t been disturbed. “You okay, Weiner?”
“This is kidnapping,” Isaiah said, “and if you think I won’t press charges, you’re dumber than the people who work for you.”
“I know you’re angry. I’m angry too,” Angus said. “I’m surrounded by idiots. Give them a screwdriver and they’ll stab themselves in the forehead. Do you want a drink?”
“No, I don’t want anything except to get the hell out of here,” Isaiah said. “Say what you’re going to say or I’m out.”
“I want you to work for me,” Angus said.
“No chance. I’d rather work for a serial killer,” Isaiah replied. “At least they murder people one at a time.”
“You haven’t heard what I want you to do.”
“Like I said, no chance.”
Dwight returned with an ice pack, Tylenol and a bottle of water. “Here,” he said, and Isaiah waved him off.
“My daughter’s in serious trouble,” Angus said.
“I don’t care,” Isaiah said.
“Could you just listen for a minute? This is important.”
“I guess you didn’t hear me. I don’t care.”
“You handle this for me and I’ll pay you fifty grand.”
“Fifty grand won’t buy you breakfast,” Isaiah said.
“Taking the high road, are we?” the old man said. “I realize we don’t walk on the same side of the street, but you can’t take it out on my kid.”
“Oh, yes, I can,” Isaiah retorted. “You’re a plague on the world, Angus, and I want nothing to do with you, your kid, your problems, your dog or anything else.” Isaiah moved toward the door. Hugo was standing in front of him, his arms folded across his chest. “I’m going home,” Isaiah continued, “and you need to get out of my way.”
Angus wasn’t used to being challenged. The lumpy face had flattened, the big ears turning red. He took a moment, nodding, thinking, and then he said casually, “I have a question for you,” and Isaiah knew from his tone that something bad was coming.
“I was wondering,” Angus went on, “can you play the violin with a broken hand?” Something cold and sharp pierced Isaiah’s gut. Dwight smiled. “I’m not a medical man,” Angus continued, “but I think it would be impossible. Even after they put it back together. You’d lose flexibility.” Dwight cracked his knuckles.
Isaiah restrained himself. Outrage would have no effect on Angus. Pleading or arguing would only make him more confident of his position. There was no doubt he’d carry out the threat. He’d have Dwight and the Starks slam Stella’s long, graceful fingers in a car door until they splintered.
Angus was known for his vindictiveness. Jose Modesto cheated him on a deal and left town. Three and a half years later, Jose came back and his wife found him upside down in a barrel of tar with his feet tied together. A rival named Teddy Walsh went missing. The next time anybody saw him, he was lying under an industrial steamroller like a poster of himself. There was no way Isaiah could protect Stella 24/7 and if he told her about the threat what would he say? That he’d brought his virulent world into hers? That she’d have to be on guard all the time, even when she was home rehearsing Vivaldi? That wherever she went she’d always be in danger of losing her ability to play music? Isaiah remained blank but he knew his eyes revealed his fury.
Angus smiled like a skull in the catacombs. “Like I said, I want you to work for me. My daughter, Christiana, makes custom suits, has a shop here in Newport Beach. A man named Tyler Barnes was shot and killed right in front of her and the cops think she did it. It’s ridiculous bordering on idiocy. The girl is spoiled and capricious, but she wouldn’t kill anybody.”
“Who is Tyler Barnes?” Isaiah asked.
“He worked for me,” Angus said.
Isaiah snorted a laugh. “A guy who worked for you got shot in your daughter’s shop?”
“It’s not funny. It’s my flesh and blood we’re talking about.”
“What did Tyler do for you?” Isaiah said, still amused.
“Finance and logistics,” Angus said. “He handled the money and got things organized. He was honest, smart—and classy. None of that flashy stuff. He could have been from another time, another era. He had manners. He lived in one of those historic homes and drank vintage wine. He was also the best employee I’ve ever had.” He shot a snide glance at Dwight. “This asshole has been with me for fucking decades and hasn’t come close.” Dwight’s jaw tightened and stared off at his anger. If he didn’t want to kill Angus, Isaiah would be very surprised.
“Tyler was a homo,” Hugo said.
“No, he wasn’t, Hugo,” Angus said. “Maybe you should suck some dick yourself. It might make you smarter.”
“Suspects?” Isaiah said.
“Ponlok. Know him?” Angus said.
&
nbsp; “Sure, I know him. He’s a thug like you.”
“He’s trying to run me out of town and I’m doing the same. We’re at war. That’s why I have all these dimwit monkeys hanging around my house. Lok couldn’t get to me so he went after Tyler.” Isaiah had doubts about that. Angus went on. “I still can’t believe they got him. He was a former Marine, always armed, and on the lookout for an attack.”
“Was Tyler from LA?” Isaiah asked.
“From Oregon, somewhere on the coast,” Angus said. “Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering if Tyler and Lok had some prior beef,” Isaiah said.
“None that I know of.”
“So what do you want me to do?” Isaiah asked.
“What do you think I want you to do?” Angus snarled. “Get my daughter free and clear.”
“If your daughter didn’t do it, then she is free and clear. I don’t see the problem.” Angus hesitated. Isaiah said, “You think she might have done it, don’t you?”
Angus was glaring now, his ears bright red, his breathing faster. “No, I don’t, goddammit! That’s not possible!”
“Okay, let’s say it is Lok’s crew,” Isaiah said. “I’m supposed to find out which one of them pulled the trigger and convince the cops he’s guilty? That’s impossible and you know it. It’s stupid and a waste of time. If your daughter did it, that’s not my fault or yours.”
Angus’s gaunt body seemed to swell, his breathing pumping noxious fumes into his system, the cartoon face contorting into a freak-show exhibit, grotesque and terrifying, a Stephen King clown come to life. A small, white scar on his temple glowed brighter. “My daughter is precious to me,” he hissed, spit bubbling between his teeth. “Christiana is the only person in the world I care about and you will get this done no matter what it takes, do you understand?” He was shaking, palsied with fury. “Fuck this up and I swear to God, I’ll cripple your girlfriend and break you in half!”