Hi Five

by Joe Ide

  The house where Grace was waiting for him.

  Frantically, he called her. No answer. He raced home, cursing the car and its puny engine. He called her twice more, letting it ring until he got her voice mail. He drove into his driveway and jumped out. The house was impenetrable: steel-core doors, unbreakable locks and burglar bars. Grace was safe unless they caught her outside, but why hadn’t she answered her phone? He looked down the driveway and saw her GTI in front of the garage. The driver’s door was open, a Starbucks cup on the ground.

  “No!” he shouted. He ran down the driveway. As he approached the car, Sidero, Hugo and two other Starks came out of hiding. They encircled him, aiming guns.

  “What’s up, Sambo?” Sidero said gleefully. “Told you I’d get you, didn’t I?”

  She decided not to go with Noah to Big Sur. What was she going to do? Compare him side by side with Isaiah and see which one had more checkmarks on her what-I’m-looking-for-in-a-man list? Noah lied when he said no romance. Of course there’d be romance. If she went with him she wouldn’t come back and the idea of never seeing Isaiah again made her love startling and intense, a beacon piercing through the fog, everything around it murky and ill-defined.

  She realized her dithering wasn’t about Noah, it was about her insecurities, her self-doubt, her fear of being less than Isaiah’s expectations. She didn’t know what those were or how exactly she would disappoint him, but Isaiah would love her anyway, and that in itself was a miracle. They would always have hard times. They would always struggle. There would always be doubt and pain and grueling decisions. No one escaped. Karma is karma. No matter how much you fretted and worried about the future, you changed nothing. A trillion elements converged to create a single human event. Your angst was a rain cloud in the solar system.

  She was exhausted and wondered if she’d locked the car. She fell asleep in Isaiah’s bed. Her phone was on vibrate. A commotion outside the window woke her up. She peeked through the blinds and saw Sidero and three other men carrying/dragging Isaiah up the driveway. He was bleeding from a gash on his head. “Motherfuckers!” she shouted.

  She ran into the living room, snatched the collapsible baton off the coffee table and opened the front door. A van bumped over the sidewalk onto the lawn just as Isaiah and his attackers came out of the driveway. The door slid open.

  “Let him go!” she yelled. She charged them.

  One of the men came forward to meet her, his hands ready to grab. The baton was unimpressive. It looked like the handgrip on a wheelchair. Isaiah had taught her to use it. She curled her wrist inward and snapped the baton downward to its full length. Raising it high and wide gave the attacker more time to block the blow. She kept the baton close to her body, held it back over her shoulder and swung, putting her hips and shoulders into it, the metal rod slicing through the air. THWACK!

  The blow hit the guy in the rib cage. He screamed and whirled away. The second guy was huge and came in low like a linebacker. She hit him on the shoulder. He cried out but kept coming, grabbing her around the middle and flinging her to the ground. She landed hard, the wind knocked out of her. By the time she recovered, the van and Isaiah were gone.

  “GODDAMMIT!” she screamed.

  Mrs. Marquez was across the street, hysterical and waving her cell phone. “I called the police.”

  “No! No police!” Grace shouted.

  “Why?”

  “I can’t tell you now. Please trust me. Tell the police you made a mistake.”

  Grace got in her car and drove in the direction of the van. It was too far ahead. Chasing it was futile. She pulled over in the Vons parking lot. She questioned her decision about not calling the police but decided she’d done the right thing. Angus had his men kidnap Isaiah and why do that unless they were going to kill him? Or worse. They’d probably have their fun first. She didn’t want to think about that. But if those assholes got a hint the cops were involved they’d kill Isaiah immediately.

  She’d have to rescue him. At least she’d have to try. Before falling asleep she’d decided to move in with him—repaint the place, add some color, hang some paintings, get some furniture. Make it look like a home instead of a monastery. She’d always thought the nesting thing was corny but she’d never had a reason to consider it before. Marriage? Kids? The idea of spending the rest of her life with one of her asshole boyfriends had been laughable. Until Isaiah came along.

  She turned off the engine and collected herself. How could she possibly find him? She had no leads, no clues, and she was no Isaiah. She was dumb to even consider it. “No, Grace,” she said aloud. “You have to do this! It’s Isaiah, you moron!”

  It was warm in the car. She got out and breathed deeply, trying to calm herself. Okay, Grace. Channel Isaiah. Start with what you know. She stood there a minute, her head empty, nothing occurring to her. “I don’t know anything,” she said. She started pacing. “What am I supposed to do?” she asked the sky. “I don’t know anything!” She thought about Isaiah, bleeding and helpless as those motherfuckers dragged him into the van. She thought about what they were doing to him, how they were hurting him. She couldn’t stand herself. “YOU STUPID FUCKING COW!” she shouted. She stopped, put her palms on her temples and pressed hard. She heard Rebecca’s voice. When you go off like that it’s a decision. A bad habit. Exert control or I’m telling you, in all sincerity, you will live to regret it. “Okay, okay,” she said. She started walking. Okay, where would they take him? she thought. There was this fucked-up place where they had their meetings—what did Isaiah call it? The Den, that’s right. He said it was an old house. Where was it? Think, Grace. What did he say? She couldn’t think of anything and walked faster, running her hands through her hair. Still, nothing came to her. “Come on, Grace,” she said aloud. “What did he say? What did he say?” She lost it. “GODDAMN YOU, GRACE! GODDAMN YOUR FUCKING—” She stopped. Calm down, calm down, it’s for Isaiah. Don’t you dare break down. She remembered. “When I asked him where it was he said it’s on the way to the airport!”

  She was pleased with herself for exactly two seconds, and then she slapped herself on the forehead. So what? There’s a million ways to get to the fucking air—no, no, Grace, don’t go there, just think. What the fuck else did he say? She kept walking around, running her hands through her hair so often it was turning greasy. She tried to keep herself from seeing fists smashing Isaiah’s face, boots stomping his bones. She put her hands out in supplication. “STOP IT, GRACE!” She wanted to choke herself until she passed out. He said something else, Grace…something else…what was it? What the fuck was it? It felt like she was birthing a car or a picnic bench. “He said…he said…he stopped at the cemetery!” she shouted.

  She fumbled with her phone, her fingers suddenly fat. She brought up a map. The Sunshine Cemetery was on California Street and Willow. Willow was a straight shot to the airport. Okay, good, Grace. Isaiah had driven on Willow past California and the cemetery, heading toward the airport, the farthest east he would have gone. The Den was somewhere between those two points. She smiled and then frowned. “Big help,” she said. He could have turned off on any of the dozens of side streets.

  She walked in circles but nothing was coming to her. She took off her jacket and dropped it on the ground. Come on Grace come on Grace come on Grace come on you stupid fucking moron bitch! “Please, Grace!” she shouted. She was crying now, tears and mucus streaming down her face. Come on Grace come on Grace come on Grace come on you goddamn fucking idiot! She grabbed a shopping cart and shoved it as hard as she could. It rolled, hit a parking block and fell over. A store manager approached her.

  “Excuse me, miss,” he said, “but you’re scaring the customers and—”

  “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME, ASSHOLE!” she screamed. He scurried off, his hands over his head in case she threw a rock.

  She stopped, panting, her hand over her mouth. She shut her eyes and heard Isaiah say—what? What did he say, Grace? “He said his blood sugar was low
,” she said. “He said he stopped at the park and had an energy bar!” She went back to the map. She scrolled too far and then not far enough. “Where’s the goddamn park?” she said. The only park between the cemetery and the airport was Willow Springs Park on Orange Street. He had turned off Willow onto Orange heading east. The house had to be around there someplace. Otherwise, he would have turned off Willow before or after Orange. But how far did he go? she thought. Orange went on forever.

  He said something else. One more thing, Grace. She was sweating and her throat was raw. Her head was booming like a kettle drum, her anger and self-hatred brawling with her intelligence. She had to relax, breathe like she didn’t have asthma and let her brain cells reorganize. Okay, Grace. Empty your head for fifteen seconds, you can do that, can’t you? She counted aloud. “One.” They have Isaiah; they’re hurting him. “Two.” Sidero hates him. He won’t stop until Isaiah is dead. “Three.” Isaiah is in pain. Terrible pain. “Four.” He’s calling out to me. He’s calling my name. “WHAT DID HE SAY TO YOU, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE? REMEMBER OR I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!” she screamed. She stood there, shoulders slumped, staring at the asphalt. The tears and mucus had dried, a second skin of futility. She blinked twice. “The freeway,” she breathed. “He said he should have taken the freeway!” Back to the map. Orange intersected with the freeway. She had four sides of a box. California Street on the north, Willow on the west, Orange on the south and the freeway on the east. Isaiah was somewhere within that perimeter. She got in the car, started the engine and put on her safety belt. She filled her lungs, exhaled slowly and settled herself. She put the car in gear, popped the clutch and slammed her foot to the floor.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  How Many Daughters

  Does Angus Have?

  Isaiah thought he’d seen her drive fast but that was nothing. That was bumper cars. Willow Street was her own personal Grand Prix. She weaved and darted and cut people off. She ran red lights, swerved up onto the sidewalk and drove into oncoming cars to get around traffic. Her eyes widened, she grinned. “There’s the cemetery!” she shouted. “There’s the goddamn ceme—SHIT!” Orange had come up quicker than she’d thought and she’d gone past it. She did a quick, tire-smoking, death-defying U-turn and turned onto Orange. She slowed. Willow Springs Park was next. That’s where Isaiah had stopped to eat an energy bar.

  It was an ugly, desolate area. Dead trees, bobbing oil wells, storage yards for heavy equipment, a gravel pit and swaths of arid nothing. “Where are you where are you where are you?” she muttered. And then, “YESSS!” There was the goddamn park. Not much of one, more like an extension of what was around it.

  The house was around here someplace. Isaiah was around here someplace. She could feel it. A moment’s elation—a dirt road! No. It led to the stupid gravel pit. Then was more arid nothing and a power station that seemed to bristle with voltage and danger. In front of her was the freeway, the eastern border of the box. Had Isaiah been talking about here? Was this the place he could have gotten to faster if he’d have taken the freeway? She consulted the map again. It was an industrial area. Apparently zoned that way because there were no houses. If she continued east on Orange and went past the freeway, she’d enter a vast and densely populated residential area. Lakewood, Bellflower, Paramount, on and on across the breadth of LA. She could see no place isolated enough that the neighbors wouldn’t complain about a bunch of drunk skinheads playing hate rock. She went over the map again. The house had to be on or near Orange, and on this side of the freeway; nothing else fit. But there were no fucking houses.

  She was desperately thirsty and hadn’t brought water. “You’re a moron, Grace,” she said. Okay, maybe it wasn’t a residential house. Maybe Isaiah meant a frat house or clubhouse. She drove around the box at walking speed, looking for anything that could serve as the house or something that might be hiding a house from view. She was back on Orange again and the place where she’d started. She stopped, muttered expletives, her hands clenched on the steering wheel. Her thinking was faulty. Suppose Orange wasn’t the southern border? Suppose it was the northern border and the box was to the south?

  She drove around the new, bigger box. Still nothing. She was back on Orange again. She covered her head with her arms and wept. “GODDAMN YOU, GRACE! GODDAMN YOU, YOU STUPID FUCKING—” She made herself stop. Was she really going to give up now? Leave Isaiah to the wolves? Think it through again, just like Isaiah would.

  She remembered something. One of her professors had told her that when you’ve run out of ways to solve a problem, break set. In other words, break your mind-set, throw out your assumptions and redefine the problem. Okay, what were her assumptions? There were two. That the house was somewhere in the expanded perimeter and that Isaiah had driven down Orange and stopped at the freeway. But what if the house wasn’t in the box and Isaiah had kept going on Orange past the freeway? She brought up Google Maps, the street view.

  Just on the other side of the overpass was a no-man’s-land. One of those spaces immediately adjacent to freeways where the homeless lived and people dumped their old appliances. There was no obvious way to get to it. Grace drove across the overpass and there it was, off to her left. A road too insignificant for Google Maps to show. It ran alongside the huge abutments, unpaved and wide enough for only one car. This is it, Grace. This has got to be it! Somewhere down that road was the love of her life.

  Grace drove slowly, bumping through potholes, the gravel clattering against the catalytic converter. She was coming around a curve when she saw a car blocking the road, two Starks leaning against it. Thankfully they weren’t ones she’d seen before. She stopped and one of them came up to her window. She could see a lump under his shirt. A gun tucked away.

  “This is private property,” he said.

  “I’m sorry. I’m lost,” she said.

  “Well, you can’t come in here. Go back. Now.”

  She had to drive on the shoulder to turn around. As she made the turn, she glimpsed a rooftop. Was that the Den? She had to take a look. She wondered how Isaiah had done it. There was a grove of trees on the other side of the road. Had Isaiah come through there? She went back to Orange, turned left and drove past the grove. It was hemmed in on this side by a tall, chain-link fence and NO TRESPASSING signs. She drove a little farther. The fencing continued past a vast, empty parking lot. On the other side, forklifts and earth movers were parked in rows. There were some warehouses in the distance. No one was in the kiosk. She parked on the road, jogged across the parking lot and walked quickly into the trees.

  The trees were misshapen and sapless, litter and broken glass on the ground. It was dusk. There were gullies to get over, thickets to get around. She stumbled and ran into things. She reached the tree line and stayed behind some brush. The Den was on the other side of the road, as broken down as the gang’s ideas. Spotlights lit a group of men standing around in the yard. There were what, fifteen of them? Talking, smoking, drinking, joking, playing tug-of-war with a dog. Grace looked for signs of Isaiah but saw nothing.

  An hour went by. The drinking got heavier, the laughter rowdier, the fucked-up music louder. Three women arrived and dispersed themselves among the men. In the harsh white light and deep black shadows, the gathering reminded Grace of news clips from the sixties: Selma, Montgomery, Birmingham, the crowds of white faces seething with hatred for people they’d never met. People who held their innermost fears. Who were too much like them to be tolerated.

  They were waiting for something, Grace thought. A pep rally? A cross burning? For their white robes to come back from the cleaners? Or maybe they’d come to watch a nigger get beaten and tortured and hung from a tree. It seemed shockingly possible. The idea made her heart pound and her hands sweat. Don’t wimp out now, you bitch.

  She had to find out if Isaiah was in there. There was no way to get past that bunch of assholes without a box of grenades and an RPG. Call the police? Not yet. Suppose Isaiah was being held someplace else? If the cops sh
owed up and Angus heard about it, Isaiah was dead. What now what now what now?

  “Okay, Grace,” she whispered, “break set.” The assumption: she had to go through or around the Starks to get to the house. Was that true? Not necessarily. Redefine the problem. What if she didn’t have to go through or around them? What if…what if…what if they left? What if they were called away? They’d have to have a really good reason. Had Angus watched the news? Had he heard about the police and the house in Cambodia Town? She hoped he hadn’t. Isaiah’s life depended on it.

  Angus was feeling a little better. He’d taken a couple more Valium and rested. His control had returned, the craziness held in check. His phone rang. Unknown caller. Not unusual, the nimrods used burners. He was about to call Sidero anyway and find out about Isaiah.

  “Well?” Angus said.

  “Angus, this is Grace. Isaiah’s girlfriend.”

  “Grace?” Angus said. “What happened to Stella?”

  “She got scared about your threat and went into hiding,” Grace said. “It’s me now.”

  Angus hesitated. He’d heard about this girl. A ballbuster, according to Sidero and Hugo. “Well, I can’t say I approve of your choice of men, young lady,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “You have Isaiah.”

  “Do I? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I want to make a deal.”

  Angus shook his head. Was she actually trying to hustle him? Women always think they’re smarter than men. A load of crap. Except for Virginia. “Go on,” he said.

  “I know where the Gatling gun is,” she said.

  Usually, Angus could tell right off if someone was bullshitting, but this girl was straightforward, all business, not fucking around. If Isaiah had a girlfriend, this is exactly what she’d be like.

  Angus tried to sound indifferent. “Oh, really? Well, that’s interesting, Grace. Was there anything else?”