Hi Five

by Joe Ide

  “Do you love him?” Noah said. She nodded. “Then I guess the question is,” he said, “can you forgive him the unforgivable?”

  “I don’t know.” She was crying now. He went around to her side of the table and held her hand in both of his. “Damn him,” she said. “He went too fucking far!”

  “Yes,” Noah said gently, “but is it too far for you?”

  She cried a long time and he held her and stroked her hair. He walked her back to Cherokee’s place, his arm around her shoulders.

  When they got to the apartment, he said, “I’m going on a little trip, up the coast, to Big Sur maybe. You can come along if you want.” He put up his palms. “No, no romance. Just some time to clear your head, get some perspective. I’m your friend, you know.”

  “Thanks, Noah. I’ll let you know.”

  Isaiah stood on the stoop staring at the place under the lemon tree where Ruffin liked to sleep. There was a barren spot among twigs and fallen leaves where the dog walked in circles before lying down. Isaiah noticed the tree was dying and somehow it seemed right. Didn’t Grace know he had no other choice? Didn’t she know he would have done the same for her? He wanted to explain again. Maybe he hadn’t said it right. Maybe he hadn’t been clear. Maybe she hadn’t understood the pressure he was under. No, he thought, she understood. She understood everything. And then she drove away.

  He went inside and paced. He was all self-revulsion and guilt-driven energy. He couldn’t just stew about it; he had to act. He had to do something. He needed some small degree of redemption, however small, and the more he thought about it, the more he needed it right fucking now. The Gatling gun, he decided, would never reach its customer.

  Chapter Eighteen

  LTEC

  Isaiah had transferred the weapon to Lok in an alley in Cambodia Town. He didn’t know what had happened to it after that. Would the gangster have taken it to a storage locker? No. There were cameras and people going in and out. Manzo had done it because he’d been under threat and had no immediate alternative. The safest place to hide the gun was in Lok’s hood.

  “Thanks for coming,” Isaiah said. “I could do it myself but—”

  “Nobody said you couldn’t,” Dodson replied. “My question is, why do it at all? You could leave that goddamn gun right where it is and it don’t mean nothing ’cept some useless muthafuckas who deserve to be dead get what they deserve. You think there’s a shortage of gangstas out there? Nigga, please. It ain’t no different than throwing out the garbage. The only thing you’d notice was that the stink was less.”

  “I have to do it,” Isaiah said.

  “No, you don’t,” Dodson replied. “That’s just what you say when you gonna do something that makes no sense. Are you really gonna risk your life behind this bullshit? You could die, Isaiah. Don’t that ever occur to you? That your freakishly large brain don’t make you immortal?”

  “Yes, it occurs to me,” Isaiah said.

  “What about Grace?” Dodson said. “I don’t know the girl but I’m pretty sure she wants your ass around for a while.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “Yeah, but I know you want to be around for her.”

  That was Dodson, Isaiah thought. Combative, contrary, sanctimonious and unyielding unless he was forced at gunpoint.

  “Do you want to be partners again?” Isaiah said.

  “I do if you do,” Dodson said. “But you know how I am.”

  Isaiah said, with no small amount of trepidation, “Yeah, I do.”

  Lindenhurst Ave, the 5900 block, was no different than the blocks that came before or after it. Run-down houses and apartment buildings, chipped stucco, gang graffiti, littered streets, chain-link fences and worn-out banana palms, their edges brown and dry. Five gangstas were hanging out on a porch. Other than the Asian faces, they were indistinguishable from any other squad across the nation. They called each other nigga, wore the tats and chains and waved guns in their videos. A statement, Isaiah thought: We are outlaws. Funny, though, being apart by being the same.

  Who would Lok trust to hold the Gatling gun? There was no room in his apartment and it was risky. A raid could put the crew away for decades. Other homies? Possibly. But Lok would worry they’d open the crate and show the gun to their girlfriends. Family, then. Brothers or sisters? No. Same problem, and they might be upright citizens like the great majority of people in the neighborhood.

  Dodson was quiet and thoughtful. Isaiah didn’t like it. “You’re trying to get ahead of me, aren’t you?” he said. “Figure out the move before I do.”

  “Yes, I am,” his partner replied. “That’s my job. To push you into doin’ shit you wouldn’t do if I wasn’t here so go back to your cogitatin’ and leave my ass alone.”

  Because of their fluctuating incomes, many gangsters lived with their parents, which made it hard to be completely independent. It wasn’t uncommon for mom and dad to look the other way when it came to their kids’ criminal activities. If they helped support the family, why ask questions? Times were hard and Pol Pot’s genocide made selling a Gatling gun not such a big deal. Survival was survival.

  “His parents,” Isaiah said.

  “That’s what I was thinking too,” Dodson said.

  Lok’s family name was Heng, but it turned out to be a very popular name in Cambodia Town and Cambodia as well.

  Okay, Isaiah, what do you know? All he had to work with was what he’d gleaned from his visit to Lok’s place. He remembered talking with Lok while he played the video game. There was nothing in the décor that referenced the gangster’s parents. Isaiah remembered smelling the food as the homies came in, everybody with a Styrofoam box. They ignored him and then he, Lok, and Dodson went out on the balcony. Go back, Isaiah, you missed something.

  “Remember when we were in Lok’s apartment?” he said. “We were talking to Lok and then his homeboys came in with the food?”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Dodson said.

  “They wanted to watch TV so we went outside and as we were leaving, one of them said something. What was it?” They thought a moment, their faces screwed up.

  “He said he had the wrong box,” Dodson said, pleased with himself.

  “No, it was before that, something about the food.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Dodson said, nodding. A moment passed, both of them staring out of the window at the contest they were having.

  “Pork and rice,” Isaiah said. “The homie said your old lady’s pork and rice is crazy good and he was talking to Lok.”

  “Damn, your memory is tight,” said Dodson appreciatively. “But what about it? Lok’s mom is a good cook. That don’t mean nothin’.”

  “The food was in Styrofoam boxes,” Isaiah said, his smile victorious. “Lok’s parents have a restaurant.”

  “Fuck you, Isaiah,” Dodson said.

  There were six Cambodian restaurants in the area. Conveniently, one was called Heng Cambodian Food. It wasn’t far away. They took a quick look inside. Thirty seats, twelve customers, prints of Cambodian dancers on the walls and bottles of fish sauce on the tables. Mrs. Heng was at the cashier’s desk doing something on a calculator. She was thick, white-haired and grim.

  “Can I help you?” she said.

  “Can I get some kung pao chicken to go?” Dodson said.

  “Kung pao chicken Chinese,” she said, insulted. “This Cambodian food. Don’t you read sign?”

  They walked through the parking lot. Three spaces were designated STAFF ONLY. Two cars were aging, dull paint and Bondo patches. The third was a new Camry, XLE, the up model, retail around thirty thousand dollars.

  “That’s a lotta car for somebody who owns a little restaurant,” Dodson said. “I think Lok’s helping her. The least she could do is keep the Gatling gun for him and open herself up to prosecution.”

  “Do you want to do it?” Isaiah said. “You’re good at this.”

  Dodson called the restaurant and in an impressively officious voice, said, “Is thi
s Mrs. Heng?”

  “Yes, I Mrs. Heng. What you want?”

  “My name is Walt Jacobson from FedEx security.”

  “FedEx? We get FedEx?”

  “That’s the problem, ma’am. We tried to deliver a package but it was the wrong address. Do you live at fifty-nine eighty-two Lindenhurst Avenue?”

  “No, you wrong,” she said sharply. “Two blocks down. Sixty one twelve. You get that? Sixty one twelve.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Someone has to sign for it. Will anybody be home?”

  “My niece there. I have to go now.”

  Isaiah parked in the alley behind the house at 6112. The partners stood on their tiptoes and peered over the cinder-block wall. Hopefully there’d be a garage suitable for storing a big PVC crate, but there was only a square of fractured cement, a carport and a driveway off to one side. Why can’t something be easy? Isaiah thought. If the crate was here, it was inside the house.

  He got his binoculars from the car and checked out the dead bolt on the back door. There was a tiny hole adjacent to the keyway. It was a so-called smart lock and connected with a phone app. You opened it by simply touching the lock. People thought they were more secure because the locks couldn’t be picked and you could rekey them yourself. Not true. Because of the extra components, manufacturers saved money on the lock itself. It was weak, poorly designed and more vulnerable to duress.

  In his quest to keep up with modern advances, Isaiah had acquired a force tool specifically designed to defeat popular brands of smart locks. It was a #3 key blank adapted to fit a ratchet wrench. He went over the wall and hurried across the cement square to the back door. He could hear a TV, an action movie judging from the slam-bang music. He inserted the blank into the lock’s keyway and ratcheted the wrench. Because there were no cuts in the key and the lock was weak, the whole cylinder turned and the dead bolt slid back into the strike plate.

  The door was open. God help me if there’s a dog, he thought. He slipped inside the kitchen. He waited, listened. No dog. Good. The movie was still playing. He crept through the kitchen and the small dining room to a doorway. It opened onto the living room. He peered around the corner.

  A girl was sitting on the sofa, facing away from him, talking on the phone and watching Batman v Superman. Judging from her voice, T-shirt and the sheen of her hair, she was in her late teens. There was a mishmash of tats on her arm, the only legible things being four letters in fancy script: LTEC. Lady Tiny Enforcerz Crew, the female wing of the gang.

  “Shit,” Isaiah hissed. On the end table nearest her was a handgun. This girl wasn’t just hanging out at her aunt’s house. She was the goddamn security guard.

  There wasn’t a big crate within viewing distance so it had to be in a bedroom, assuming it was here at all. The hallway was on the other side of the room. Isaiah would have to creep past the girl and hope she didn’t turn around. Even without looking, she might detect him by the movement of the air.

  He got down on his hands and knees and crawled. The fucking hallway looked ten miles away.

  The girl got off the phone and stretched. Was she going to the bathroom? Getting an extra clip for that gun? Gratefully, she stayed seated.

  Isaiah was halfway across the room when he heard a man’s voice.

  “Get me a soda, Jorani.”

  Her boyfriend! The voice was raspy with sleep. The guy was probably lying down with his head in her lap. Given the macho nature of gangs, he was the real security guard. The girl was there to keep him company.

  “You get it,” she said. “I’m not your fucking slave.”

  The room was hot, Isaiah’s heart pulsing in his throat, sweat dripping like he was under a heat lamp at Robert Earl’s BBQ. Why was it always ninety degrees when he was in dire jeopardy?

  The boyfriend sat up, yawned and ran a hand over his shaved head. Guda.

  Isaiah resumed crawling, fighting the urge to speed up.

  Guda groaned. “Fuck, man, it’s fucking boring. When’s Jessie gonna be here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Isaiah was fifteen feet away from the hall. Guda stood up and stretched his massive bulk, his arms like grain silos.

  Isaiah kept crawling. Almost there, keep going!

  “Is he gonna be here soon?” Guda asked.

  “I told you,” the girl groaned. “I don’t know. Quit bugging me, okay?”

  Ten feet away.

  “Fuck, man. What a bitch.”

  “You don’t say that when I’m giving you head.”

  Five feet away.

  “I’m going to call him,” Guda said.

  “Good. Call him.”

  Two feet away.

  Guda turned around, poking at his phone.

  Safe! Isaiah was in the hallway, out of view. He sat up, rubbed his aching wrists, and sucked in a deep breath. He got to his feet and tiptoed to the first door. It was a bedroom, no crate. Next was the bathroom, and then a second bedroom, still no crate. There was one more door at the end of the hall. He started toward it.

  “I’m going home,” the girl said.

  “No, don’t,” Guda whined. “Don’t leave me here by myself.”

  “I’ve got things to do.”

  Isaiah heard her get up. He stepped into the second bedroom and saw the girl’s handbag was on the bed. Shit! She was coming in here. There was no place to hide except the tiny closet. He got in and squeezed himself into the narrow space beside the door. It smelled like old shoes. He heard the girl enter and rustle around in her bag.

  “Where’s my car keys? Guda? Do you have my keys?”

  Guda came in. “Come here, baby,” he said playfully. “Come on and gimme some.”

  “‘Come on and gimme some’?” she said. “Now? Fuck no.” Isaiah visualized their movements from the sounds. A rustle of clothing, shuffling of feet, a deep sigh. Guda had come up from behind and wrapped her in his arms.

  “Don’t, Guda,” she said. More rustling and shuffling. “I said, don’t!” She was trying to wriggle away and he wouldn’t let go.

  “Come on, don’t be like that.”

  “I have to go, okay?”

  “Ten minutes, that’s all,” he said, like he was selling pressure cookers or car wax.

  “Ten minutes? Gee, that sounds like fun. Let me go!”

  They were struggling now. She was twisting around, grunting angrily, but he held on easily, chuckling. “Fuck, Guda!” she shouted. “I swear to God, I’ll break up with you!”

  “Do it. I don’t care,” he said. His flimsy idea of manhood was at risk. He needed control. The struggle was escalating. They were moving around the room, banging into things. Isaiah was stuck. Put a stop to it? He’d expose himself to Guda and what if he’d brought the gun in with him?

  “Don’t fight me, bitch!” Guda said, getting pissed. He threw her on the bed and got on top of her. The bed springs bottomed out, she grunted from his weight. They grappled, but he had her pinned.

  “Get off me!” she screamed. “Get off me!”

  He hit her. She yelped. The struggling stopped and there was only heavy breathing. What a coward, Isaiah thought. What was it about a girlfriend that gave you permission to assault her? Guda gave the age-old line men used to justify violence. “I told you not to fight me, didn’t I?” he said.

  She was crying. “Okay, okay, fuck. Let me take my pants off.”

  “Yeah, let me see that ass.” He chuckled. They got off the bed. Isaiah heard an ugly wallop, fist against face. “Oh fuck!” Guda shouted. He staggered but didn’t fall down. She ran out of the room. “I’m gonna fucking kill you!” he screamed and went after her.

  Isaiah came out of the closet and went into the hall. The happy couple was in the living room, screaming at each other and throwing things. Mrs. Heng was coming home to a disaster. Isaiah hustled to the door at the end of the hall, opened it and smiled. The crate was leaning against the wall like a sarcophagus in a museum basement.

  He went back down the hall and peeked
into the living room. The fighting had reached another level. Guda’s shirt was torn, scratches on his neck and face. The girl’s hair was a fright wig, her nose bleeding, a bruise on her cheekbone. They were standing on opposite sides of the sofa, glaring murderously and breathing like racehorses.

  “Get away from me!” she said. “I’m going to tell my brother, you know!”

  “Fuck your brother,” Guda said. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

  The doorbell rang. BRRRINNG. Isaiah had been here too long, Dodson had gotten worried and circled around to the front of the house. It’s good to have a partner.

  Guda lunged over the sofa. He almost grabbed her but she dodged away, knocking over the end table on her way to the floor. Guda snarled and came after her again. Isaiah was about to make his move when the girl got to her feet. She was holding the gun.

  “The fuck are you doing?!” Guda shouted.

  BRRRINNG.

  Isaiah thought of Cherise and Micah. Stay away, Dodson. Stay away!

  BRRRINNG. BRRRINNG, BRRRING, BRRRING.

  The gun infuriated Guda all the more, this bitch trying to back him down with his own goddamn strap. He was a gangsta and that shit was never going to happen. Guda went toward her with his chest out, pounding it like a pissed-off silverback. “Come on, bitch, shoot me!”

  She backed away, holding the gun in two hands. She was sobbing, garbling her words. “Stay away from me, Guda. I’m not bullshitting.”

  “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

  “You hit me, you fucking prick. You said you’d never do that!”

  “Put down the fucking gun!” he bellowed and kept coming.

  She backed into the wall and fired. BLAM BLAM! The gun bucked harder than she’d expected, the shots going wide, blowing up a plastic crucifix and fracturing the TV screen. Guda stumbled back, arms over his head. “ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY?”

  Isaiah hid his face with his hands and took off, racing across the living room.

  BRRRINNG. BRRRINNG.

  “Hey!” the girl said, and aimed at Isaiah. BLAM BLAM! But he was already gone.