Hi Five

by Joe Ide

  “Yeah, I think so. Don’t look at me like that. He doesn’t mean anything.”

  Cherokee was uncomfortable and left to talk to her friends. Grace and Noah looked at Basher’s work together and went for a drink. Grey Goose for her, beer for him. He really had changed. He talked about relationships, that he wasn’t prepared for one, not understanding what it was about, what it meant. “Nobody teaches you about those things,” he said. “It’s trial and error and a lot of stupidity.”

  “Agreed,” she said, smiling. “You were a real bastard.”

  He smiled back. She knew he liked that about her. Never trying to soften things or gloss over them. “Are you seeing someone?” he ventured.

  “Yes, I am. He’s a wonderful guy.”

  “I guess he’d have to be.” He sighed. “Ah, well. All the good ones are taken.” He kissed her on the cheek when they said goodbye. She drove home, feeling an odd sense of loss, more so than when they’d broken up. Maybe it was the finality of it; all the feelings they’d had for each other turned to nothing. They would never see each other again. It’s surprisingly hard to give up a fantasy, even when you know it was a placeholder, even when you know for certain it was the best thing to do. She thought about Isaiah. She wanted to kiss him and go to bed with him and whisper in his ear and tell him everything would be okay.

  Stella was fair game now. Isaiah couldn’t protect her. Dwight, Sidero, Hugo, and the rest of those barbarians would be hunting for her and there was no way of knowing when and where they’d strike. Sometimes, when evil was imminent, you reached a point where there was no more room for maneuvering, quick wits, trickery or sleight of hand. Extremes were necessary. What Isaiah contemplated was beyond anything he’d done or even imagined.

  They were on PCH, heading into Cambodia Town.

  “Whatever you’re up to,” Dodson said, “it’s a giant can of worms, and you know what’s gonna happen? What always happens.”

  “Which is?” Isaiah said.

  “Which is—there won’t be no worms,” Dodson replied. “They’ll be some life-threatening shit you never saw coming but you won’t care cuz you think you know everything even when you don’t and I’ll end up dead or at the very least seriously wounded.”

  “That’s not true,” Isaiah said, unconvincingly.

  “Then spill it. Why do you want to see him?”

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Hard to explain?” Dodson said. “I understand English, I even read and write some too.” He thought a moment and looked sharply at Isaiah. “Oh, shit. You got one of them special plans of yours, don’t you? One of your high-risk, death-defying, all-or-nothin’ muthafuckas with a million moving parts.” He started to lift his T-shirt. “Have you seen the bullet hole I got from the last time you had a special plan? You remember, don’t you? Them Abu Ghraib sons of bitches had guns and we had a slingshot and flamethrower made out of a caulking gun?”

  “Let’s just see how this goes, all right?” Isaiah said.

  “You called Lok so that means you’re offering him something,” Dodson mused. “Probably your skills. What else have you got? My question is, what do you want from a killa thug like that muthafucka?” Dodson’s eyes widened with alarm. “Oh, shit. You’re meeting him because he is a killa muthafucka.”

  “I said we’ll see how it goes.”

  “Ohhh, shit!”

  “Will you stop saying that?”

  They drove into Cambodia Town. The hood is the hood, Isaiah thought. If the Starship Enterprise beamed you up from South Central and beamed you down in Cambodia Town, the only things you wouldn’t recognize would be the names of the gangs. The Mother of All Ghetto Housing had birthed a million identical offspring; Lok’s place was an elder child. A pink L-shaped stucco building, two stories, casement windows that didn’t open, iron railings, graffiti scarred, all the doors facing the V-shaped parking lot. Old men played dominoes at a card table, smoking cigars and drinking 40s. Women sat outside their doors in housecoats, fanning themselves and gossiping with their neighbors.

  Isaiah was an almanac of gang lore. In the eighties, hundreds of thousands of Cambodians fled Pol Pot’s genocide and the Khmer Rouge. A million and a half people were murdered in the killing fields. Isaiah couldn’t get over it, any more than he could get over the Holocaust. The numbers were horrifying, but equally so were the people who could kill with such wanton savagery. History hadn’t washed them away. They were still here. Rwanda, Bosnia, Darfur and a bunch more would-be tyrants with Nazism in their hearts, mulling over which races, religions and sexual preferences they would eradicate if only they had the chance.

  A large number of Cambodian refugees settled in East Long Beach. Adapting was hard. They were poor, rootless, uneducated, spoke Khmer, and there was no network to help them adjust. Many were traumatized by their experiences and suffered from PTSD. Here, they were less than strangers, they were interlopers in a space already crowded with the needy and the powerless. They were strangers to themselves as well. If you’re defined by your world, who are you when your world kicks you out and leaves you to die?

  Good parenting was hard to come by. The kids were neglected, adrift, stunted by poverty, alcohol and drugs. At the time, Cambodians had the highest dropout rate in the city and were brutalized by the black and Latino gangs. A simple trip to the store was dangerous.

  The Tiny Rascals Gang, or TRG, was formed in the eighties for protection. The name referred to a favorite TV show, The Little Rascals, an OG going so far as to name himself Alfalfa. Other members took names from the show, too: Spanky, Stymie and Butch. But as the gang grew and got more ruthless, the reference became embarrassing and the story changed. The name came about because they were all just tiny rascals. Blue and red were taken as gang colors so TRG settled on gray, which looked drab to Isaiah.

  As conditions in the area worsened, the gang evolved into one more Army of the Damned, descending in concentric circles into a burning pit of extortion, robbery, drugs and murder. TRG formed alliances with the Chinese Triads, the Ghost Shadows, On Leong Tong, 14K and Wo Hop To.

  It said something about the country that TRG grew so rapidly. Other Southeast Asians, even Latinos and blacks, joined up. The gang spread to other cities and now they were ten thousand strong, the largest Asian gang in the country. There were sets all over LA. The Tiny Insane Criminals, the Lynwood Varrio Tiny Locos, Alley Tiny Criminals, Paramount Varrio Tiny Sureños and Lok’s gang—the Tiny Enforcerz Crew. TEC. Their formal name was Tiny Enforcerz Crew L59, the L59 referring to the gang’s fiefdom, Lindenhurst Ave, 5900 block.

  Though its turf was larger than that, the block was TEC’s home base, its fortress; trespass and you were likely to catch a bullet. Its gang sign was so complicated, you needed two people and four hands to assemble it.

  “When we get in there let me do the talking,” Dodson said.

  “Why? It’s my proposal,” Isaiah replied.

  “Why? I’ll tell you why. Because in addition to your ignorance about women, your sense of decorum in a business situation lacks finesse, acumen and sensitivity, and if Lok shoots you, he’ll shoot me too.”

  Isaiah and Lok had gotten into a serious beef a while back. Back in the day, Dodson sold weed to Lok and dated one of his cousins. Dodson hadn’t gotten her pregnant—a rarity—and Lok was appreciative. Isaiah would never say it out loud but it was reassuring having Dodson along, knowing how cool he was in a crunch, how fearless and loyal.

  Lok’s apartment was a three bedroom he shared with his homies. You didn’t have to see it to know what it was like. There’d be a TV the size of a ping-pong table, a fucked-up sofa, a couple of PlayStation controllers, white plastic chairs, a mattress on the floor, a coffee table for rolling joints and resting your Glock, and a beat-to-shit, mustard-colored carpet stained to death and only vacuumed when somebody’s mom came over. There was no point talking about the smell. The only thing Isaiah was wrong about was the carpet. It was brown.

  Lok was seated on
the edge of the sofa, clutching the controller, thumbs working the buttons, his eyes superglued to the screen. Isaiah couldn’t stomach video games. There was enough violence in real life. Making a game of it was like the Muppets singing a song about starvation.

  “What’s up, Lok?” Dodson said as they sat down. “How you been?”

  “Aight,” he said without looking up. “I’m cool.” There was nothing to suggest he was the leader of a notorious gang. Pudgy, shaved head, a frown like he was pondering world peace. Studious wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Isaiah’s got something for you,” Dodson said. “A business opportunity.”

  “I hear you got two females on a string, Q,” Lok said, steadily working the controller. “A white girl and a sista. Not bad, dude. I never would have guessed.”

  Isaiah wondered how Lok knew about Stella and Grace. It was one of the worst things about his job, people all up in your business. He started to snap back but Dodson silenced him with a look.

  “You want some advice?” Lok offered. “Stick to your own kind. White bitches ain’t nothing but trouble. All they want to talk about is relationships. Shit. Only relationships I got are with my money and my car.”

  “There’s some wisdom right there,” Dodson said, hiding his ring finger. “Trust a woman and you put your shit on the line. Last time I had faith in one, I woke up naked with no wallet, no watch and my weed was gone too. Only thing the bitch left behind was my socks.”

  Lok chuckled and scratched his nose with his shoulder. “You nearly got me busted, Q. You remember that? Me and Gentry Green was doing that deal and you brought the pigs down on us. I barely got away. Gentry’s still in Corcoran, did you know that?”

  “No,” Isaiah said. “Gentry and I aren’t in touch.”

  “Could have been me, locked up for ten to twenty.”

  “Could have been,” Isaiah said, adding, “You were lucky.”

  Dodson winced. Lok turned hostile. “I’m always lucky, nigga, but you got some muthafuckin’ nerve coming down here. I should be cuttin’ your throat ’stead of sitting here bullshitting.”

  “Ease up,” Dodson said. “We come in peace. My boy’s got something good on tap.”

  “Were you like, poor?” Lok said for no apparent reason. “I mean, like really poor, like no lunch, and soup for dinner? That’s how I grew up. Shit makes you hard, you know what I’m saying? When school started, Mom would buy me a new pair of pants and my brother a new shirt. We switched every day.”

  Isaiah was on the fence about growing up hard, whether it was a reason or pretext for being a criminal. The difference between Stella and Ponlok wasn’t their financial struggles, gang temptations, bad schools or fewer opportunities. It was their families. A kid deprived of love, that kernel of what makes us human, will grow up stunted and mean and might well become the leader of a Cambodian street gang. Grow up loved and nourished and you might well become first chair in the Long Beach Symphony Orchestra. It reminded Isaiah of Angus, his favorite son, Tyler, thriving and esteemed, and the neglected ones, Sidero and Dwight, eating themselves alive with hatred and self-loathing.

  Lok’s gaze never left the screen, his avatar mowing down the bad guys while it ran full out, dodging enemy fire, leaping over chasms and downed bridges, rolling away from explosions and firing everything from handguns to RPGs and flamethrowers. Lok had remarkable hand-eye coordination. Isaiah thought he should quit this gangsta bullshit and fly an F-15, protect his country, do something useful.

  “Oh, shit,” Lok said. He’d hit a tricky part of the game. He worked the controller furiously, ducking his head as tracer rounds zipped past, his shoulders shifting back and forth. Dodson glanced at Isaiah. Be patient.

  There were footsteps and voices from the hallway. Smells preceded them. Garlic, lemongrass, ginger, curry. Three homies came in carrying Styrofoam boxes, Guda one of them. The group had that look seen in every gang photo ever taken: scruffy and disorganized, like everybody tried to dress the same without having the same clothes. They glanced at Lok and ignored Isaiah and Dodson. Guda looked at the floor as if he’d never seen it before. They all stood there a moment. If you had food, it was your prerogative to watch TV.

  “Come on,” Lok said. “Let’s go outside.”

  “Your mom’s pork and rice is crazy good,” one of the homies said. “Is there any beer left?”

  “Hey, man,” said another, “I don’t think this is my box.”

  Lok, Dodson and Isaiah went outside on the balcony and stood at the railing. There was nothing to look at but the parking lot, two dumpsters and some kids running around, having fun even in a shithole like this.

  “So?” Lok said, lighting up a J. “What’s this about?”

  “Angus is selling a Gatling gun,” Isaiah said. “It’s new. Forty-four-hundred-round magazine, fires three thousand rounds a minute. Never saw anything like it. You could kill everybody on the block and still have ammo left over.”

  “No shit?” the gang leader said. “Fuckin’ Angus’s gonna make some stacks behind that bad boy. Why you telling me this?”

  “Because I can help you steal it.”

  Lok thought a moment. He tipped his head back as if he needed more distance to focus. “How do you know this shit? I need more chapter.”

  “I know because I know,” Isaiah said. “The same way I knew you and Gentry were making that deal. This isn’t a sales pitch. If you’re interested, fine. If you’re not, I know people who will be.”

  Lok sneered. “Oh, yeah? Like who?”

  “The Locos, the Boulevard Mafia, the East Side Longos, Sons of Samoa, Armand Duprée on the west side, JJ Hardaway in Cerritos—”

  Lok chuckled. “Okay, okay, you got your shit down, I should have known.” He looked hard at Isaiah, searching for a crack in his confidence. “You sure about this?”

  “You know I don’t bullshit,” Isaiah said.

  Lok nodded. “I’m in, aight?” They pounded fists. “Who are the buyers?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “I’ll put the fam on it, see if they can come with something.” Lok smiled. “What do you want, Q? I know you ain’t doing this for free.”

  Isaiah could hardly believe he was saying the words. “I want you to kill Angus.”

  They drove away from Lok’s place, Dodson incredulous. He’d expected a deal but nothing like this. He hadn’t realized Isaiah was under so much stress. This was contracting a hit. This was muthafuckin’ murder.

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little extreme?” Dodson said.

  “I don’t know any other way to get Stella out from under this, okay?” Isaiah said heatedly. “Have you got any better ideas?”

  “Yes, and here it is. Calm your ass down. I don’t know if you’re aware of it yet but I’m on your goddamn side. I can worry about you if I want to and you got shit-all to say about it.” Isaiah’s teeth were clenched, his eyes narrowed. He hadn’t swallowed since they started the conversation. “Take a breath,” Dodson said. “I’m serious. Take a breath.” Amazingly, Isaiah complied, filling up his chest and letting it go. He did it a second time. His shoulders relaxed. “And I’d be remiss,” Dodson went on, “if I didn’t remind you that the laws regarding killing people are not debatable. There is no wiggle room, there are no do-overs.”

  Isaiah ignored that. “Something else just occurred to me,” he said. “Angus may have hired the killers himself.”

  “What? What for?” Dodson asked.

  “It’s the same thing I told Christiana,” Isaiah said. “If Tyler took her away, Angus would be losing his little girl, the one he owes and can never pay back. What he couldn’t anticipate was that the killers would shoot Tyler in Christiana’s shop. It was bad luck. The killers had no reason to know he had a daughter.”

  “Then why did Angus hire you?” Dodson said.

  “Desperation,” Isaiah said. “The only way he could get the heat off of Christiana was to point the police in another direction. If they were convinced t
here were more plausible suspects than Christiana, they might leave her alone.”

  “What if the cops found the killers?” Dodson said. “Wouldn’t they rat Angus out?”

  “Angus took a chance,” Isaiah said. “What else could he do?” They rode in silence awhile. Isaiah knew Dodson wanted to say Are you sure about this? But wisely, he didn’t.

  “Ain’t the worst thing I can think of,” Dodson said, “having Angus gone the fuck outta here. That’s more like my code of honor than yours. Personally I got no problem with it. I’m thinking about you. You the one that’s gonna suffer behind this. The question is, will you suffer more for Stella or Angus?” Isaiah didn’t say anything. “Okay,” Dodson said as if he’d heard an answer. “Tell me what the plan is—don’t look at me like that. I’m not trying to take over your life.”

  “Oh yeah?” Isaiah said, still defensive. “Then what are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to keep you from ending up with a bullet hole in your head and buried in Angus’s backyard. Now quit being so hardheaded and tell me the goddamn plan.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Junior from Anywhere High

  Isaiah and Dodson drove out to the Den. They parked on the road, went by the empty kiosk, and crossed the city parking lot. It was the weekend and the forklifts and earth movers were lined up in rows, the office trailers and warehouses were closed. Isaiah and Dodson went through the grove of scraggly trees and stopped at the tree line.

  The Den was set in a large, weedy area with a barbed-wire fence around the perimeter, an open gate in front, fourteen Starks milling around in the yard, most holding a beer. A couple of kettle barbecues were smoldering, filling the breeze with the summer smells of charcoal and barbecued chicken.

  “Damn, that smells good,” Dodson said. “And it tastes good no matter who cooks it.” Hate rap was thundering out of the windows, assaulting the sky, the clouds wincing and moving away. “Ain’t this a bitch?” Dodson said. “Muthafuckas using nigga music to put down niggas.” A few of them were dancing halfheartedly, shuffling around and bobbing their heads more than anything else. “Will you look at this,” Dodson said. “Tryin’ to move to the beat and they off by the whole fuckin’ song.”