Hi Five

by Joe Ide

  This is our fucking life.

  There was police tape strung around the house, the front door battered down. The cops had come and gone. Angus hobbled inside, aching, limping, his face bruised and crusted with blood. He wished he had a crutch or a wheelchair. He wished he had Virginia.

  Angie was leaning against his desk, drinking eighteen-year-old scotch out of a coffee mug. “Surprised you made it back,” she said. He hoped she would ask him if he was all right but she didn’t. She looked at him, hostile and challenging, like whatever he said would be wrong and stupid and useless.

  “What did you tell the cops?” he asked.

  “That it was a home invasion,” she said.

  “What did you say about me?”

  “That you were traveling, on an airplane somewhere.”

  Angus hesitated. Had she realized he’d risked his life for her? That he’d saved her? Would this be the beginning of forgiveness? “Why did you stay?” he asked hopefully. He could see the fury rising in her again, her eyes surging with hatred so pure and limitless he thought he would faint.

  She came in close. “I’m going to let you live, Angus. Because that way I can punish you forever.” There was a long, still moment. She looked at him as if he were a tick swollen with blood or a smear of shit on her hand. She spit in his face. And then she left.

  Angus let the drops dry. They felt like abrasions, like scabs. He wished they were tattoos, like the ones the Nazis forced on the Jews, a dehumanizing string of numbers that marked them for suffering. Marked them for doom. He closed his eyes and saw Christiana, eight years old, hanging from a closet bar, a wire coat hanger twisted around her wrists so tightly her hands were purple. Her hair was filthy and ropy and stuck to her face with sweat, grime and tears. Strands covered her eyes but she saw him. She saw her father looking at his daughter in a torn lavender dress, piss and shit running down her legs. She saw him recoil at the smell. She saw him almost say something but change his mind. She saw the darkness coming and felt the air compress as he closed the door.

  Angus sat down at his desk and thought he might stay there until he perished from hunger or thirst or was, in some other way, dead on arrival.

  Deronda had left ten minutes ago. Dodson’s soul still stinging from her taunts. He was cleaning truck number three. It was parked in a lot with Deronda’s five other trucks. He couldn’t bear to look at them. He couldn’t stand thinking that they might have been his and how there’d be twenty or thirty of them if he had been in charge. He kept his head down and went through the routine. Sweeping, mopping, emptying the garbage, disposing of the cooking oil, sanitizing the ice machine, cleaning the coolers. Usually, he listened to old-school beats. Tupac, Biggie, Nas and the like, but lately, he’d been leaving his headphones in the car. The music reminded him of who he thought he’d be. He took a break. There was a lot left to do.

  Headlights turned into the lot. He could tell from the driver’s profile it was Cherise. Something about the way she carried her head. He didn’t want to see her. He didn’t want her to see him. There was no way to escape so he took a deep breath and waited. He imagined what she saw. Her broke-down husband, standing there in a sweaty do-rag and a filthy apron, holding a mop stuck in a bucket of soapy water. Shame was new to him and he almost turned and ran. She pulled up alongside.

  “Hi, baby,” she said. “Just wondering if you were okay.”

  “I am as you see me,” he said. She didn’t flinch.

  “It had to be this way.” She wasn’t smug or condemning. Just a fact.

  “I know,” he said. “I’m not complaining. Where’s Micah?” She turned her head. The boy was asleep in the backseat. No teddy bear and Dodson was glad. The idea that his son would need a stuffed animal for comfort was somehow pussyish. He wished Cherise would hurry this up and drive the fuck away.

  “I love you, Juanell,” she said. “I want you to know that.” He wished she’d keep her voice down. He didn’t want the boy to wake up.

  In nearly a whisper, he said, “I know.”

  “Do you?” she said.

  “Yes, I do,” he answered.

  He didn’t look at her, his eyes cast downward at the dirty mop water.

  “I’ll see you at home,” she said. “I’ll have dinner waiting.”

  She drove away and Dodson watched the taillights grow dim and disappear. He wondered what people would say about him when he was lying in a mess of tubes and white tape and catheters; what they’d say when the beeping stopped and the lines had leveled. He remembered what they’d said about Beaumont. He was a good man, Merrill. He was a rock. Everybody loved him, Merrill. Your father was the best. Stronger than iron. He was a hero and nobody knew. Would anybody say things like that about him? No, they wouldn’t. They couldn’t.

  He wondered what Micah would say to someone who brought him chili and warm corn bread at his father’s deathbed. Someone he hardly knew. Would he say his father was brave and kind and loved history and gave free food to strangers and built a business from scratch that had lasted for decades? Would Micah say that he was proud of his father? No, he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Because if Micah was honest, he’d say his father was a small-time criminal who wasted his life on schemes and dreams and playing private detective. If he said anything at all.

  A pang went through him, the kind he hadn’t felt since he was a boy. It was the pang that broke through your defenses and rose in your throat and forced tears out of your eyes. Dodson let go of the mop handle, bowed his head and cried like a fucking baby.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  You Stupid Fucking Cow

  TK stood in the entrance of Elise’s Tea Room. He nearly turned around and left. Most people would think the room was lovely and inviting, but to TK it was like a fancy china shop where you weren’t allowed to touch anything and were in constant danger of breaking something priceless. The room was painted a frosty pink with fancy drapes, glass chandeliers, old paintings and plates with pictures on them on the wall. Classical music was playing, which made everything seem all the more breakable.

  The server led him to a small round table, so crowded he could hardly see the tablecloth. There were wine-colored napkins folded into pyramids, a lot of shiny utensils, so many he wondered if more people were coming. There was a centerpiece of flowers and fancy teacups with fancy saucers, the kind that would shatter if you breathed too hard.

  He sat down. He felt huge, like he’d been assigned to the kiddie table. He unfolded the napkin and laid it across his lap. He wondered if he’d done it too soon. Maybe it was more polite to wait for his date. He hastily tried folding it back into a pyramid but didn’t come close. He put it back on the table and drank a full glass of water.

  Gloria arrived. She looked at the napkin lying there like a broken kite. “Hello, Thomas,” she said. “You’re early.”

  Realizing he should be standing, he got up quickly, his thighs hitting the edge of the table, everything on it jumping up and crashing back down again. He’d made less noise shooting skeet with his shotgun. The room went silent.

  Gloria sat down. She had on a gray suit, black pumps and a necklace made of blue stones. On her, it looked frilly.

  “Great to see you, Gloria,” he said. “It’s nice in here.”

  “I like it,” she said, as if expecting an argument. The server brought the menus. “Not necessary,” she said. “We’ll have the full tea.”

  The server left and a pause fell over them. Gloria seemed to be waiting for something—him, probably, to start a conversation so they could get to know each other. This was a dumb way to do it, he thought. You don’t get to know people sitting at a table with all this stuff around you. You got to know them fishing from the same boat or playing poker or watching a game and yelling at the TV.

  Gloria sighed and looked around like there might be something more interesting to do. TK was desperate. He remembered what Grace had said. Be yourself. “Have you heard this one?” he said. “There’s this fella, you see, and
one Sunday he goes to church and when the sermon was over, the fella goes up to the preacher and says, ‘That was one helluva sermon. I never heard a better one,’ and the preacher said, ‘Well, thank you, sir, but the Lord would appreciate it if you didn’t swear in his house.’ And the fella says, ‘Sorry about that, but it was a damn good sermon.’ Well, the preacher shakes his head and says, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid you have to leave. I simply won’t allow that kind of language in my church,’ and the fella says, ‘All right, I’ll go now, and by the way, I left a thousand dollars in the collection plate,’ and the preacher says, ‘No shit?’”

  TK had told lots of jokes that had fallen flat, but this one hit bottom like it had been thrown out of an airplane. To her credit, Gloria tried to smile. Either that or she had a stomachache.

  “That’s very funny, Thomas.”

  The food came. Tiny little sandwiches cut into triangles with the crusts removed. They were hardly worth bothering with. He ate the egg-salad one in two bites. Then he ate the salmon one in two bites.

  Gloria was looking at him. She hadn’t touched hers; she was still sipping her tea.

  “Hungry,” he said. “I missed breakfast.”

  There were also some things called scones, which turned out to be the driest biscuits he’d ever had, and there was nothing to wash them down with except the bitter-ass tea. Time slowed. TK could hear the seconds trudging past. Conversation was like someone swept away in white-water rapids, bobbing up every now and then only to sputter and disappear under waves.

  “How long have you owned that junkyard?” she said.

  “It’s not a junkyard. It’s a wrecking yard.”

  “Is there a difference?” He didn’t like her tone. “I don’t know how you can stand it, really,” she continued. “All those old cars. Everything rusty and dirty. What do you do there, anyway? Repair them? It seems to me it’s a waste of space.”

  A vein began pulsing in his neck. “There must be a better use for it,” she went on. “A playground, a park, even a parking lot. Anything would be better than that mess.” His hand was trembling, the teacup rattling as he set it down.

  “Gloria,” he said. “I want you to be quiet now.”

  She stiffened. “‘Be quiet now’? How dare you tell me to—”

  “Gloria, shut your mouth,” he snapped. She froze, her lips parted. He leaned forward, speaking softly, his anger held back by a thread. “My people are from Louisiana. They cut sugarcane all day and lived in shacks and didn’t go to school. They came here with nothing and my parents had nothing. I’m the only one in the family to make something of hisself. Now I know I’m not much to look at or talk to, but you don’t get to insult my place of business, not to my face, not in my company. And something else you should know. You are the rudest person I’ve ever met. You’re disrespectful every time you open your mouth, and for somebody who’s supposed to be a lady, you got no manners at all. You judge people before you even know them, before you even give ’em a chance.”

  “Thomas—”

  “I’m not done yet,” he hissed. “See, I knew your husband. I knew him well. He was a bum, a liar and a cheater. He didn’t deserve that half-wit girl he ran off with, let alone a beautiful woman like you, and one more thing before we part company forever? I am not him. I am Thomas Marion Kahill, and passing me by is the worst mistake you’ve ever made in your life.” He got up, threw some bills on the table and walked out.

  He was so angry, he could hardly drive. He wished he’d yelled at her and pushed those scones into her face. What had he seen in that spiteful old witch in the first damn place? Loving heart, my loving ass. How could somebody his age make a mistake like that? He was getting senile, losing his marbles.

  When he drove through the gate, he saw what she saw. A junkyard full of junk. Everything rusty and dirty. A space better used for a parking lot. He went into the warehouse and got a beer out of the fridge. He took a long gulp and hurled the bottle at the wall. He couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. When a tear rolled down his cheek he knew—it was time to sell the business. Time to pack up and leave.

  His phone buzzed. Probably Grace, wanting to know what happened. He rejected the call. The phone buzzed again. He’d have to talk to her sooner or later.

  “It didn’t work out, Grace,” he said. “I thank you for your help but—”

  “Thomas? It’s Gloria.” She was crying. “I’m sorry.” She paused to sniffle. “You were right about everything. I was horrible and I’m thoroughly ashamed of myself.”

  “No argument here,” he said.

  “When I get nervous or anxious I lash out like that,” she said. “It’s ridiculous. I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

  He didn’t but said, “Fine. I accept. I gotta go now. A new shipment of junk just came in.”

  “Thomas, wait. I can’t tell you how humiliated I feel. I realize there’s no way to make it up to you—”

  “No, there ain’t,” TK said.

  “Could we give it another try?” she said. “Please?” He took a breath to calm himself. He heard her sweating through the phone and liked it. “Please, Thomas?”

  He took a few moments before answering. “All right. Wear comfortable clothes. No dresses, nothing fancy.”

  “May I ask where we’re going?”

  He thought a moment and said, “Have you ever seen an elephant dance?”

  Christiana was curled on the black leather sofa between the giant stuffed panda and the HOME IS LOVE pillow. She was alone and in the dark, the chaos and mess a shadowed moonscape. Everyone had gathered in the house inside her head. Lockup had chastened them. Before, their prison was the walls within Christiana’s mind. But there were other kinds of prisons they’d learned, other terrors, and there were people who didn’t care about Angus or Gia or that they were rich. There were people outside the bubble of their insulated world who misunderstood and ridiculed alters and switching out and different voices and different everything. Even hating them. Such things made them targets. Such things made them bull’s-eyes. Those people were everywhere.

  There was silence but she didn’t trust it. She stood and walked carefully through the mess and down the hall to her room. She left the light off. She went to her desk, opened a drawer and brought out a pen and a sheet of paper. She signed the paper and left it there. Faint light slipped through the blinds, casting lines of shadow across the photo on her nightstand. The house at the edge of the sea, the dark forest behind it. She could barely see it but she saw everything. She took the photo out of the frame and looked at it for a long time.

  Isaiah slept restlessly and, no, things didn’t look better in the morning. They hardly ever did. He’d identified Angie as the conspirator but Angus wouldn’t let Stella off the hook. Isaiah went to the Coffee Cup. He drank a double espresso but it did nothing for his energy level or his sense of desolation. He left the croissants on the plate.

  He thought about Grace. He loved her without question. There was the emotional part, the overwhelming need to be with her, care for her and be cared for in return. But he also admired her. She impressed him. Even if they weren’t together, he was glad to know someone so brave and smart, so self-reliant and resourceful. There was no one like her and never would be.

  Three dead and many wounded. He wondered if he was irredeemable, to her and to himself. Yes, there were reasons for what he’d done, but reasons were intangible, invisible, electrons sparking through a synapse with no more materiality than a song. But a dead body was real. It had structure. Weight. You could see it. You could roll it over and find the bullet hole. You could watch the family grieve. He had to talk to Grace. See her face. See where things were and ask for forgiveness. He texted her. Can I see you? She replied immediately. I’m at the house. She was waiting for him and that made him happy.

  He went out to the street and automatically looked for the Audi. Man, he missed that car. He thought he heard its roaring engine. He turned and saw a tricked-out Impala spee
ding right toward him. A Loco named Estevan was holding an Uzi out the window, cranked up, screaming and out of his fucking mind. Isaiah hesitated. There was no cover. He could race in front of the Impala, get to the other side of the street—no time, he’d get run over. Run away, get shot in the back. The car was coming and coming fucking fast! He had to take away Estevan’s angle. He ran toward the car. Estevan was grinning, gibbering insanely. He started shooting, BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM, the thirty-round mag spitting brass casings, the trajectory of the salvo and Isaiah’s path about to meet head-on—Isaiah hit the ground and rolled toward the street. Estevan couldn’t angle the gun down low enough, emptying the magazine over Isaiah’s head. The Impala sped on, turned a corner and was gone. Isaiah got up on his hands and knees. Mouth open, spittle dripping out, breathing hard, wrists scraped to shit, bleeding from breaking his fall. People were peeking out of the shops and stores, tentative, not sure the shooting was over. Isaiah stood up, trudged toward his car. He had to get out of here before the cops showed up.

  His phone buzzed. “Still alive, motherfucker?” Manzo said. “Enjoy it while you can. It’s not just us that’s coming for you. Our allies too. Varrio Longos, Barrio Pobre, Poker Town Flats and every fucking Sureños gang in LA. Dig a hole, you fucking puta, because that’s where you’re gonna be.” Manzo hung up.

  Isaiah plodded back to the Kia. He sat there awhile with his forehead on the steering wheel. He’d fucked up in every way imaginable. Lok wanted to kill him for the betrayal and Angus did too. Sidero and Hugo were lurking out there somewhere and Manzo had called in the troops. Every killer in SoCal would be after him. He needed time to get himself together and figure out what was next. He couldn’t go back to the house; they might be waiting for him. He’d stay with TK and lay low for a while. A jolt of alarm made him lift his head. The house.