by Joe Ide
“The Locos have the gun.”
“Christ,” he scoffed. “You don’t think I know that? You’re as dumb as your goddamn boyfriend. I wonder what happened to him, anyway. I hear he’s gone missing.”
“Could you shut up a minute?” she snapped. “I know exactly where the gun is. I’m talking about an address and I’m talking about now.”
“And how would you know that?” Angus said.
“During the shootout, Manzo took off with the gun, right?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Isaiah was there and he went after him,” she said. “Didn’t anybody see him?” Hugo had told Angus someone had gone after Manzo, but he thought it was some of the Locos.
“It was Isaiah,” Grace said. “And the car was red.” Angus took a moment. Hugo had said that too, the girl adding, “How would I even know that unless somebody who was there told me? Think about it, Angus. Who do you think called Lok’s people in? Who do you think ratted you out? One of your moron crew had the balls and the smarts to orchestrate something like that? It was Isaiah, no one else could have done it.” She was right again, Angus thought.
Angus said, “What was Isaiah going to get out of it?”
“Lok was going to give him a cut,” she said, “a hundred grand. Isaiah was going to give it to you in exchange for not hurting Stella.” Yeah, Angus thought, Sir Galahad would do something like that. If he inexplicably saved Angus’s life in that sewer pipe, he’d do something as idiotic as this. That Isaiah had stabbed him in the back was outrageous, but he’d get his. “What do you want?” Angus said.
“The gun for his life,” Grace said. “I know what you’re going to say. How do you know I’ll play it straight? I’ll go first. I’ll tell you where the gun is. When you get it, you release Isaiah.”
What an idiot, Angus thought. She should take a lesson from the titless dwarf who took Weiner.
“Okay,” he said. “It’s a deal.”
“The guns are at an apartment.” She gave him the address.
“This is useless,” Angus said, writing it down. “You expect my guys to go in there with guns blazing? It’ll be a bloodbath.”
“No, it won’t,” she said. She’d found a building on Google Earth. Run-down, four stories, off by itself. “The front and back doors are always open,” she said. “It’s a shitty building, nobody cares.” She reminded Angus it was Saturday night, and the gang would be out partying. If somebody was in the apartment, it was probably one of the younger guys or maybe even a sister or grandmother. “Shouldn’t be a problem for your crew,” she said. There were fifteen or so gang members at the Den. She wanted them all to leave. “The real problem is keeping other people out of it,” she said.
Angus was Google Earthing the address. Shitty area, no streetlights, neighbors were mostly small houses, fewer people to call the police or come running with a pistol. A good place to hide the Gatling gun. Grace said the Starks should secure the fire stairs, elevator, both ends of the hall, as well as the parking lot, all of which she’d never seen. Lookouts too, in case a Loco happened to drive by.
“I don’t know,” Angus said. “A lot of things could go wrong.”
“Yeah, it’s risky,” she said. “It depends on how much you want your self-respect back.”
When this is over, Angus thought, I’m going to throw this whore in a landfill. “You’d better not be bullshitting or I’ll—”
“I know, I know,” Grace said wearily. “You’ll kill me and you’ll kill Isaiah. I get that, okay? But I’ve got no choice. Isaiah means everything to me. So just do it, okay? I don’t want this to fuck up because the gun isn’t there.”
“Why wouldn’t it be there?” Angus said.
“Manzo’s already made a deal,” she said. “The handover’s happening soon, maybe tomorrow for all I know. But the gun is there now. I’ve seen it. I hang with one of the Loco girls.”
“Oh, really?” Angus said, testing her. “What does the gun look like?” Grace had seen it on the news.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It was in a big plastic crate.” She asked him to call when it was over and recited her number. He didn’t write it down. “A word of advice?” she said.
“What’s that?”
“It’s in Manzo’s hood. Go big or go home.”
Grace ended the call and was immediately kicking herself. Did she say too much? Too little? Go big or go home? She couldn’t believe she’d said that. How obvious could she be? Angus was probably laughing at her right now and even if he did take the bait, would he act on it now or put it off? She was sitting with her arms around her knees, watching the Starks through a veil of leaves and branches. The gathering itself hadn’t changed. If the scene was running on a loop, you wouldn’t be able to tell. A fight broke out. Two drunk guys throwing wild punches, grappling and ripping each other’s T-shirts, the crowd egging them on, glad to have some entertainment.
Sidero came out of the house, and there was immediate quiet. Everyone gathered around the porch. Sidero stood straight, breathed in deep and waited until every eye was on him. He spoke, his words riling up the crowd, invoking angry shouts and raised fists. Grace was breathless. It’s working! Sidero gave them instructions, pointing at different members, getting enthusiastic nods in return. How many would leave? Grace wondered. It had to be all of them or she’d be back where she started. Go big or go home—please. Sidero shouted something and the whole fucking bunch of them dispersed to their cars. Oh my God, Grace. You’re a genius!
The engines started almost simultaneously, the thunderous roar filling the night with violence. Sleeping birds took off, the mosquitos disappeared, leaves shook down from the trees. The cars lined up and sped off down the narrow road, great clouds of dust in their wake. The sound faded and an amazing quiet descended, as if noise had been banished from the world.
The three women were left on the porch. A big dog was sitting there too. The women talked for a bit and went into the house. The dog remained, nose up, sniffing the darkness for enemies, sniffing for Grace. She had to take a look. Creep up and peek in a window? No, the dog would be on her. She thought about the women. When the men drove away, they looked bereft, like they’d missed the bus to the big game. Grace had used her sex against Gordo, the creep from her foster home. Women would be a different story.
Grace drove the GTI down the dirt road, going way too fast. She downshifted into second, turned hard through the gate, simultaneously releasing the clutch and yanking the hand brake, the car sliding sideways right up to the house, stopping hard, a wave of dirt and gravel thrown up on the porch. The dog was barking savagely. The women came bursting out the door wielding guns.
“What the fuck are you doing?” the redhead said. “Have you lost your goddamn mind?” Another woman held on to the dog.
Grace got out of the car and slammed the door. “Goddammit, I’m late! Fucking shit! When did they leave?”
“First of all,” the redhead said, “who are you?”
“Who am I?” Grace feigned surprise. “I’m Angus’s daughter, Grace.”
The women glanced at one another. “Angus’s daughter?” the redhead said. “I thought she was a dressmaker or something.”
“That’s my sister, Christiana,” Grace said. “Prissy little bitch.”
The women looked her up and down. Stand your ground, Grace. Stay calm. Stay fierce. The heavyset brunette wasn’t having it.
“Let me see your ID,” she said. Grace handed over her license. The brunette held it so the others could see it. “Says your name is Grace Mon-a-ro-va,” she said.
“Is that Jewish?” the redhead said.
“My ex-husband was from Belgium,” Grace said, “and I’m Angus’s kid. I’m as white as you are.” The women were still eyeing her skeptically. “What’s the matter?” Grace said, sounding a little annoyed.
The brunette went back to the license. “Your address is 231 Latimer Street. Where is that, East Long Beach, right? It’s full of nigg
ers and Mexicans. If you’re Angus’s daughter, why are you living there?”
“I told Angus I wasn’t a baby anymore and that I’d do whatever I want. He cut me off, the prick. Rent is cheap there. What else can I say?” She put her hands on her hips and stomped her foot. “I can’t believe I’m late!”
“What do you care?” the brunette said. “You weren’t going anyway.”
“That’s my point,” Grace said. “Why do the men always leave us out of things? Haven’t you noticed that? We’re their best buddies when they’re fucking us and bringing them beer, but when it’s crunch time, we’re on the sidelines.”
“I’m not on the sidelines,” the redhead said. “None of us are.”
“Oh, really?” Grace replied. “Then why didn’t you go with them to kidnap the nigger? I’ll tell you why. You’re a woman, that’s the only reason.” Grace chuckled. “I mean, seriously. Are you telling me you’re not as good in the field as any of those assholes? Give me a break.” She huffed. “Happens every fucking time. Like tonight. They run off like heroes to get the Gatling gun and what are we doing? Nothing.”
“Wait,” the brunette said. “If you’re cut off from Angus, how do you know about that?”
Grace shrugged. “Sidero called me.”
The redhead took a step forward. “Sidero called you?”
“Yeah. We’re hooked up.” She’d seen them together outside Angus’s house. The redhead inhaled the air out of the world and dropped her chin to her chest. She glared at the ground, trembling.
“What?” Grace said. “What’d I say?”
“She’s with Sidero too,” the third woman said.
“You’re kidding me.”
“Motherfucker!” the redhead screeched. She walked in a circle, clutching an assault rifle and shaking it. “I swear to God, I’m going to shoot that bastard as soon as he gets back!”
Grace’s eyes widened. “That’s why he didn’t want me to join up! He said he wanted me in reserve!”
“I should have known,” the redhead said, “I should have known! I’m gonna kill that prick!”
“I’m sorry,” Grace said. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s not your fault,” the brunette said. “God, what a rat.” She put her arm around the redhead. “Come on, Jenn. Let’s have a drink.” They went into the house.
The third woman remained. She was older, hair streaked with gray. “We told her a million times but what can you do? I’m Samantha, by the way. Come on in. We can plan how to kill Sidero.”
The living room was large, plastic chairs in uneven rows. A tattered Confederate flag on one wall, white nationalist signs on another, stuck there in disarray like stickers on a suitcase. A table with a coffeemaker. A cluster of tiki torches leaning in a corner. Samantha put the dog in another room and Grace trailed her down the hall to the kitchen. A fridge, a microwave, dirty dishes in the sink and an overflowing trash can. The brunette was sitting at a folding table, smoking and talking on her phone. A bottle of scotch and plastic cups in front of her. She ended the call.
“I’m Ida,” she said.
“Grace. Nice to meet you.”
“I thought Chip was supposed to clean up in here,” Samantha said.
“Who knows?” Ida said. “It’s not like Sidero pays him. You want a drink or a beer?”
“Beer,” Grace said.
Samantha got beers out of the fridge and gave Grace one. They sat down at the table. “I still can’t believe that asshole,” Grace said.
“Take it from me,” Ida said, “never date a white nationalist and especially don’t marry one.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re angry.”
They drank their beers. Ida finished her drink and stubbed out her cigarette. “Wonder how the boys are doing?” she said.
Samantha smiled at Grace. “Maybe Sidero will get killed and save you the trouble.” Grace smiled back and they clinked beer bottles.
Ida and Samantha started talking about their kids. Grace took stock. Samantha had a gun in a back holster. Ida’s was on the table. The redhead’s assault rifle was leaning against the sink. Maybe she was in the bathroom. Was Isaiah here? Grace was wary of asking directly. If she knew about the kidnapping and the Gatling gun, she should also know where Isaiah was being kept.
Ida kept glancing at her, as if she knew Grace but didn’t quite recognize her. Grace smiled and joined the chatter. She never realized how hard it was to seem casual. Don’t just sit there, Grace. Make a move.
Angus wondered what the Starks were doing. Would Sidero fuck this up, too? Maybe he’d been too rash, sending them out on something like this, but he wanted that goddamn Gatling gun. He needed it. The boys would deal with Isaiah very soon now. Angus told Hugo to go crazy, do whatever they wanted until there was nothing left of Isaiah but his fillings.
He worried about Grace. Had she told him the truth? Was this some kind of elaborate scam? He should have done surveillance, come up with a plan. There was still time to call them back. He picked up his phone.
Dwight came in. “I’m going home.”
“No, stick around,” Angus said. “I may need you.”
“Why? I’ve got something going.”
“For one, because I say so,” Angus said. “And for two, I’ve got something going too.” He told Dwight about the girl calling and the Gatling gun.
Dwight’s forehead furrowed. He opened his mouth but didn’t respond.
“What’s wrong with you?” Angus said.
Dwight fumbled in his pocket for his phone. He dabbed at it, nervous because Angus was watching.
“How long is this going to take?” Angus said. Dwight found an article from a local paper. “Read,” he said.
The article said the police had confiscated an unidentified weapon from an address in Cambodia Town. Angus read aloud. “Police were seen removing a large crate from the house, leading to speculation that—that fucking bitch lied!” he screeched. “When was this?”
“Two days ago,” Dwight said.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you knew.”
Angus paused, his face swelling and turning red. “Call Sidero!”
The Starks were on Willow, heading into East Long Beach. Hugo drove. He hoped this worked out. If it didn’t, Angus might fire the bunch of them and he’d be really fucked. He was otherwise unemployed. The old lady worked at a daycare center. Their unplanned second kid was on the way. They borrowed money from their parents and had seventeen grand in credit card debt. Nobody said The Cause would pay, but it was one more reason to be pissed. Here you were, saving the country from the niggers and the Mexicans and what do you get for your trouble? Bill collectors calling you every five fucking minutes.
Hugo looked at Sidero, one lane over. Something was wrong. He was on the phone, yelling, pounding on the steering wheel, so angry the car was weaving. He rolled down his window and Hugo did the same.
“What’s up?” Hugo said. Sidero looked deranged.
He screamed, “We’ve got to go back!” and he peeled off into a U-turn, bumped over the center divider and hurled his truck into the night.
Sidero drove, his pulse as high as the RPMs. They wouldn’t get the Gatling gun but at least it wasn’t his fault. It cracked him up, really, Angus getting fucked over by the asshole he’d hired. Who’s the moron now? He couldn’t wait to get there. That prick Isaiah. Oh, my God, he would fuck that nigger up. The idea made him punch the accelerator and leave the others behind. He didn’t have words for what he’d do to him, he didn’t have thoughts. There was only the car’s roaring engine, the blood thumping against his temples, and his heart screaming death to the nigger!
Ida left to see about Jenn. Grace had chanced it and asked Samantha if she could see the nigger. Every time she said the word it felt terrible, like she’d lost her integrity. She followed Samantha down the basement stairs. It was cool, lit by grim fluorescents, a labyrinth of pipes on the ceiling, everything dr
aped in cobwebs. Grace smelled dust, mold and wet cement. She knew Isaiah would be in bad shape. Don’t freak out. You’re happy about this, remember? They made a turn around the water heater and she nearly retched. He’d been beaten and hog-tied. Lying on his stomach, his hands duct-taped behind him, feet bound, a short rope connecting his wrists to his ankles. He was forced to bend backward, his neck sticking out like a masthead. He was in great pain, his eyes wide with panic, sweat was dripping from every pore. There was a strip of duct tape over his mouth, and he was sucking in long breaths through his nose.
Don’t lose it, Grace.
“That must hurt,” Samantha said.
Grace made eye contact and forced a smile. “Only what he deserves,” she said.
Ida hadn’t liked Grace right off. Something about her. She wasn’t just folks. She didn’t wear any jewelry for one thing, and her nails weren’t polished. Ida and the other wives painted theirs every color in the Crayon box and had designs on them, ranging from snowflakes and unicorns to AKs and swastikas. Nobody she knew drove a little car like that or kept it that clean, and the tough talk sounded fake. But there was something else about her—what was it? Ida pursed her lips and nodded. Grace looked like a liberal.
“Hello, Dwight? This is Ida. Do you remember me?”
“Yeah, I remember,” Dwight replied impatiently. “Is Isaiah secure?”
“Yeah, he’s down in the basement, hog-tied. He’s not going anywhere.”
“I’m busy, Ida. Why are you calling me?”
“Just a question. How many daughters does Angus have?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Us Against Me
Samantha had taken the tape off Isaiah’s mouth. She was kneeling and giving him water, most of it dribbling down his chin.
Do it, Grace. Now or never.