Hi Five

by Joe Ide

  Sidero had been planning to leave town for a while now but he’d always chickened out. He’d load his stuff into the truck, be all ready to go and think, maybe this time he could make Angus happy. The need drove him to try over and over again, even with the abuse, even with the humiliation.

  The realization had been coming for some time now. There was no way to please Angus. It was impossible. Sidero’s sins were biblical and he’d be in hell forever. He decided after the shooting range that he’d had enough. When the Gatling gun deal was done he’d get the fuck out of Dodge. And Jenn? So long you miserable cunt. You just got dumped by a wimp.

  Sidero had just dozed off when Jenn woke him up. “Time to go,” she said. She gave him that I don’t know who you are look, and just to be a bitch, she added, “We don’t want to be late.”

  Isaiah and Dodson followed Sidero and the redhead back to the dirt road that led to the Den. Isaiah parked and waited.

  “You think it’s coming down tonight?” Dodson asked.

  Isaiah nodded. He was glad he hadn’t told Grace. This was going to be bad and he didn’t want to lie, keep secrets and try to smile. Fifteen minutes later, Hugo and Dwight showed up in a green delivery van. They were grim and tense. The Gatling gun was in there.

  Isaiah called Lok. “Be ready. It’s happening.”

  “Fuck yeah,” Lok said.

  Isaiah’s unease was turning into horror. He had set this up and people might—would certainly—be killed. He rationalized. Nobody told the gangsters to do this, they were volunteers. They’d chosen this life. They knew they could be killed at any time and many of them were killers themselves. The world wouldn’t miss them any more than it missed the countless numbers of other gangsters who had died violent deaths they probably deserved. How was this any different? Isaiah sighed, shook his head and wondered why he kept bullshitting himself. Whatever happened, he owned it. He had to think of Stella before he fell apart.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Deal of the Century

  A little after midnight, Sidero’s truck and the green van emerged from the dirt road. Isaiah followed. Willow to the 710 and then north on the 405, Isaiah keeping Lok informed. When they exited at El Segundo Boulevard, Isaiah knew where they were going. “The industrial zone,” he told Lok. “Don’t get any closer than Sepulveda.”

  The zone was a large expanse of acreage, bleak in the daytime when people were around. At night, it was a forgotten outpost, survivors from the apocalypse awaiting death. A massive oil refinery loomed out of the dark, a tangle of pipes and tall fire stacks emitting clouds of steam, escaping gases burning into water vapor, random lights illuming flurries of insects. There were immense storage tanks, rusted-out railcars, sludge pools, stretches of weedy ground, old tractor tires, piles of rebar, clustered labyrinths of pipes with no end or beginning and low buildings dingy with pollution, the whole area thick with the smell of oil and cancer.

  Isaiah positioned the car on a rise from where he could see most of the area. Sidero’s truck and the green van were waiting on the south end of the zone, their engines running, the lights off. Isaiah waited, fear and anxiety rioting inside of him. He heard distant engines approaching; the buyers were coming. He still didn’t know who they were. Dodson didn’t seem especially anxious, more excited, something Isaiah admired. Dodson liked action, craved adrenaline. Isaiah texted Lok. Be ready.

  On the north end, the sellers showed up, only the shapes of their vehicles visible. At exactly twelve thirty, Sidero flashed his lights three times and then once. The reverse code came back from the buyers. All the vehicles turned on their lights and started down the long, roughly paved road that ran from border to border. Isaiah imagined how Sidero must be feeling, his heart in his throat, Angus yelling in his ear, a gun on the console, sweaty hands clamped down on the steering wheel, every instinct telling him to get the fuck out of there and that well of fear when he realized there was nowhere to go but straight ahead.

  The two sides stopped thirty feet apart. They were in different lanes so the headlights didn’t blind them.

  “I’m going to text Lok,” Isaiah said.

  “I’d wait a minute,” Dodson said. “Wait till they get out of the cars and they’re on foot. You wanna make sure the Gatling’s in that van. Nobody can trust nobody.”

  Dodson was right, of course. If Isaiah hadn’t been so nervous, he’d have thought of it himself.

  Sidero got out of his truck, no gun visible but for sure he had one. Hugo and Dwight stayed in the van, an arsenal in there with them. Over the idling engines, there was the swish of traffic and crickets trilling in the darkness. The buyer emerged from his vehicle by himself. As he came into the light, Isaiah saw his face. “Oh, shit,” he whispered.

  “Oh, shit,” Dodson said.

  It was Manzo.

  The Locos were acting as middlemen for the Sinaloa cartel, charged with making a smooth transaction. Manzo had a full-size suitcase. He set it on the hood of the pickup and opened it, revealing bundles of cash. Sidero began counting the money. Manzo turned and gestured. A Loco got out of a car. He went around to the back of the van, Hugo opening the door for him. The Loco went in, turned on a flashlight and scuffled around with something. It was going smoothly enough. Willing businessmen making a deal.

  Dodson nodded and Isaiah texted Lok. Now. He waited, his chest clenched, his breathing short, the full impact of what he’d done landing on him like a grenade, his conscience exploding into shrapnel. This would result in carnage. Young men would die tonight. Die. And their families would too but slower, like arsenic dripping through an IV, sickening them with loss for the rest of their lives. The Loco got out of the van and nodded. Everything was cool. Sidero said something that might have been, It’s all good.

  “Where the fuck is Lok?” Dodson said. “This shit is gonna be over in a minute.”

  A dozen cars appeared on the south end, behind Sidero’s crew. They bounced over the bumpy road, engines roaring, blasting DMX’s “X Gon’ Give It to Ya” out multiple stereos, the TECs yelling and pointing guns out the windows. They weren’t in range but started shooting anyway, Isaiah chanting in his head, For Stella for Stella for Stella.

  Manzo crouched low and ran back toward the Locos, bullets zipping past him and kicking up dirt. Sidero’s crew was trapped between the TECs and the Locos. Hugo and Dwight ran into the darkness and began shooting back in both directions. Sidero was underneath the truck with his hands over his head. He wanted no part of the fight. At first it seemed stupid but the kid had made a smart calculation. He couldn’t be seen under there and no one had an angle on him. Out there in the dark, anything could happen. He’d left the briefcase on the hood of the truck. Isaiah wondered if he’d done it on purpose.

  Because the TECs had come up behind Sidero, the Locos thought the two forces were on the same side. A huge salvo erupted. Gunshots popping, flaring, hundreds of them, the bright flashes lighting the shooter and going out again.

  “Damn, man,” Dodson said. “Vietnam just came to Long Beach.”

  Somebody shot at the truck, cracking the windshield and punching holes in the fenders. Sidero rolled out from underneath and crawled into the brush.

  A Loco shouted, “Cover him!” A volley of gunfire from the Locos. Manzo ran out of the dark, hunched low. He jumped into the green van, the engine still running. Vehicles were blocking the way but Manzo drove around them into the scrabble.

  “Oh, no,” Isaiah said. The van made it to the perimeter road and sped toward the north-side exit. The Gatling gun was getting away! Isaiah put the Kia in gear, stomped on the gas and took off in pursuit. The four-cylinder engine was hard-pressed to follow but eventually caught up when Manzo slowed for traffic. The gang leader drove at the speed limit, going south on Anaheim. As soon as he made the turn onto Long Beach Boulevard, Isaiah knew where he was going.

  “The storage place?” Dodson said. Isaiah nodded. He’d had a locker there for years.

  Isaiah knew Manzo would use a
key card to get in and the gate would close behind him. He also knew the place was surrounded by a twelve-foot chain-link fence with razor wire coiled along the top. Isaiah parked nearby and went into the trunk of the Kia. He had transferred his gear from the Audi. Make it simple this time. The collapsible baton and a Taser.

  “You still got that pepperball gun?” Dodson said. “I like that thing.”

  “You’re not coming. If something happened to you, Cherise would kill me twice.” Dodson didn’t argue.

  Isaiah cut through the fence with a bolt cutter. Nothing but rows and rows of identical lockers with roll-up doors, the aisles wide and empty. In the sulfurous light, it looked like a set for a horror movie. He found Manzo in Aisle 3. The back of the van was inside the locker. Manzo was out of view.

  Isaiah stayed close to the locker doors and reached the van. He cursed himself for not wearing a mask. He turned into the locker and with aching slowness, slipped alongside the van, sweat stinging his eyes, trying to breathe without making a sound. He could hear Manzo inside the cargo bay, sliding the Gatling gun to the rear of the van. He jumped out and went toward a dolly leaning against the wall, his back turned. Isaiah made his move the moment Manzo turned around.

  “Isaiah?” he said. Isaiah plunged the Taser into his chest.

  “Motherfucker!” Manzo screamed.

  While he grunted in agony and writhed on the ground, Isaiah shut the cargo bay and drove the van away.

  Dodson called. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got the Gatling,” Isaiah said. “Take the Kia and go home.”

  “You sound like something’s wrong.”

  “Manzo saw me.”

  “Lord have mercy,” Dodson said. “Can’t you do anything without somebody else wantin’ to kill you?”

  “No, I guess not,” Isaiah said.

  Next day, Dodson went with Isaiah to deliver the Gatling gun to Lok. They met in an alley somewhere in Cambodia Town. It only took a minute for Lok’s boys to heft the PVC crate into a pickup truck, cover it with stained drop cloths, paint buckets and some gardening tools to pin it down.

  “You true to your word, Q,” Lok said, grinning. “I saw you going after Manzo. That was some bad shit right there.” Lok took a fat envelope out of his pocket. “A little sumpin’-sumpin’ for you. Call it a gratuity.” To Dodson’s surprise, Isaiah took the envelope and put it in his pocket.

  “I need Angus to be gone,” Isaiah said.

  “I know,” Lok said, “it’ll take me some time.”

  “I don’t have time,” Isaiah said. He was angry, looking directly into Lok’s eyes, a challenge anywhere there are gangstas. Lok was nodding, lips pursed, reassessing. Dodson tensed, ready to get into it. The fellas in the truck were watching, one of them with his hand behind him, a gun in the back of his pants. Lok was still considering. He knew nobody fucked around with the homeboy they called IQ. Cheat him, shoot at him, mess with his friends, even fuck with his dog or in any way try to undermine him and you could find yourself in jail, hiding from your own people or deep in poverty without a place to live and a bus pass as your primary means of transportation.

  “I’m not fuckin’ with you, Q,” Lok said. “Angus is as good as dead.”

  Isaiah kept his voice low. “We had a deal.”

  “And I’m keepin’ the deal,” Lok said, belligerent now. “Don’t disrespect me, Q. I don’t take this shit from nobody, even you. This shit takes time to organize. I already tried once so what am I supposed to do—go to his crib, knock on the door, get past all them skinheads he keeps around and say, ‘Let me in, Angus, I need to kill your ass immediately’? If you’re in such a big fuckin’ hurry, go on and do it yourself.” All the air went out of Isaiah at the same time. “I always keep my promises,” Lok said. “Ask anybody.”

  Isaiah drove, staring and silent. Lok was right. In his panic about Stella, he’d made a huge mistake. Why hadn’t he thought of it? Killing Angus would, in fact, take time. You’re so stupid. You’re so fucking stupid!

  Lok was right about the other thing too. If Isaiah wanted Angus gone in a hurry, he’d have to take him out himself. He thought about it, deliberately killing another human being with malice aforethought. Could he do it with his own hands? How? Gun, knife, baseball bat, garrote, ice pick, bow and arrow? He groaned aloud, bullshitting himself yet again. He’d seen people get killed and the reactions of the ones who’d killed them.

  He remembered Novelle standing in his driveway with a pistol in his hand, the shot still resounding, staring at his girlfriend, Leslie Garza, crumpled on the ground. In one cathartic moment, Clarence had turned her into a thing, an object you could shoot with impunity. You could see it in his eyes, the realization that she wasn’t a thing. She was a person, lying there as a pool of blood expanded around her. Clarence dropped the gun, went to her and fell to his knees, whispering oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no. He grabbed her and shook her, screaming, “COME BACK COME BACK!” But Leslie was gone and not ever coming back. Weeping, Clarence held her in his arms and rocked her back and forth, as if she were a sleeping baby who would wake soon and be whole again.

  Even if you shot somebody climbing in your window with a butcher knife and a roll of duct tape, something dies inside you right along with the life you’ve taken. Isaiah wasn’t a spiritual kind of guy, but he believed there was a bond between human beings, not of brotherhood but of evolution—a species that survived by keeping each other safe, and when you broke that bond, you broke the tether that held you to humanity.

  He thought of that night in the industrial zone, and the screams of the dying and wounded. He might as well have shot them himself. The overwhelming awfulness reminded him of Flaco, the ten-year-old boy who’d been shot in the head during a gang war. The boy was a young man now, cheerful and industrious. He lived in the condo Isaiah and Dodson had bought for him. He married his girlfriend, Debbie, who had Down Syndrome and he’d been promoted to cashier at the pet boutique. But his brain injuries had stunted his abilities, his aspirations, the fullness of his life. He never complained, maybe because he’d forgotten who he could have been.

  In a world where mass shootings, murderous antiheroes, glamorized bad guys, terrorist bombings, and ethnic cleansing were routine, people forgot, or maybe they never knew, how devastating the consequences of violence could be. Isaiah had suffered no brain damage in the gang war, but he’d been partially responsible for it happening and the guilt had injured him somewhere deep inside; an inoperable wound that pulsed and hemorrhaged every time he saw Flaco.

  He wondered if saving Stella would have been worth the lives that were lost and the grief of their families. No, he thought, but saving Stella would have been some small consolation, an over-the-counter analgesic for a massive stroke. But he couldn’t save Stella. He’d failed. He’d failed in every way possible.

  Headlines blared:

  GANGLAND SHOOTOUT IN LONG BEACH; POLICE CHIEF SAYS IT WAS OK CORRAL

  GANG WAR EXPLODES IN LONG BEACH

  GANGS OUT OF CONTROL, RESIDENTS SAY

  BIGGEST GUNFIGHT IN SOCAL HISTORY LEAVES THREE DEAD, MANY WOUNDED.

  Grace knew Isaiah was involved. The TECs, the Locos, Angus, Lok, the Starks, the Gatling gun. None were mentioned in the news but it all fit together. She watched the coverage and read the reports. She went into the kitchen. Isaiah was standing at the counter, looking into a bowl of oatmeal as he slowly took bites.

  “The gunfight,” she said. “Did you have anything to do with it?” She sounded severe and shrewish but she couldn’t help it. He sighed and put down his spoon but didn’t answer. “Isaiah,” she said, “I asked you if you had anything to do with this.”

  “Yes, I did,” he said quietly, his eyes still on his oatmeal. “It was my idea. I set it up.” He told her why and how and left out nothing.

  Grace felt a rising fever, an illness spreading through her system. Isaiah had delivered a weapon of inestimable power to some unbounded maniacs, and people had been killed in the pr
ocess. Something even more terrible occurred to her.

  “What did you want from Lok in return?” she asked. She couldn’t look at him, the man she loved. Revered. He was stripped of his skin, his naked self in such pain she couldn’t bear it.

  His voice was broken and doomed. He said, “If I got him the Gatling gun, he would kill Angus.” A smothering silence descended on them.

  She was hesitant about judging him. She had killed a man herself and she could see what a terrible bind he was in and that what he did had come from compassion. But some things were wrong no matter what the reason. Isaiah had orchestrated a situation where he knew in advance people would be killed. Her love for him, her sense of right and wrong and her humanity, argued and fought, leaving her with only bewilderment and a dizzying sense of loss.

  “I, um, I’m gonna go to Cherokee’s,” she said. “I need to think about things.”

  She left as confused and heartsick as she’d ever been. THREE DEAD AND MANY WOUNDED. She couldn’t get over it. She needed to talk, but Cherokee had gone camping with her girlfriend. She met Noah at McClarin Park. He knew her. She could unload on him and it would be all right.

  “I’m glad you called,” he said. They sat across from each other at a picnic table. She told him about Isaiah and how he’d orchestrated the gunfight. “He knew people would be killed,” she said. “He did it because he had to. I know that but some things can’t be parsed. Some things are wrong no matter what the reason.”

  “He went too far,” Noah said.

  “Yes! He went too far! It’s unforgivable.” She said it knowing she hadn’t forgiven herself for killing the man she thought murdered her father.