by Joe Ide
Deronda had left Dodson to his cleaning duties. She was starting to feel bad about giving him such a hard time, not that he didn’t deserve it. Maybe she should let up on him, give him a raise or something. She and Cherise were friends after all. She could afford to be generous. She was where she always thought she should be. At the top. With money. Money made you invincible. If you wanted something, you bought it. If there was a problem, you could pay somebody else to solve it for you. Her son, Janeel, was in private school. She had a new car. She was looking to buy a house. She had a boyfriend, Robert, who was beautiful and had an uptown job.
The LA Times Magazine had done a feature on her and the business. Color pictures of the trucks, the long lines of customers and a few of her. In one, she was standing next to a truck, beaming. In another, she and Janeel were mugging for the camera. The caption: Deronda’s son, Janeel. “I do it all for him.” She must have said “That’s you and me, baby. Don’t we look good?” to Janeel five hundred times. Business had gone up twelve percent since the article came out. She had plans to expand the business. More trucks in Riverside and Orange County. Maybe sell franchises. Put Popeye’s out of business. She smiled and patted her hair. There was no other way to bake that cake. Her life was lit up.
A phone call, private number. Everybody had a private number so she answered it.
“Deronda? This is Bobby James.”
“Bobby who?” she said.
“You don’t remember me? You should.”
“Oh yeah?” she said with a huff. “And why is that?”
“As of now, I’m the most important man in your life.” He sounded cocky and sure of himself, like he had selfies of you bent over and smiling between your legs. She’d never heard of him. He was probably selling something.
“I don’t know who you are,” she said, “but you’re not the most important anything in my life. I got dead plants that are more important than you. I got toenail clippings that are more important than you. I don’t have a dog but even if I did, the hair on his ass would be more important than you. Now was there anything else you wanted to say before I hang the fuck up?”
He snorted. “No, bitch, you don’t want to do that,” he said. “You really don’t.”
“Oh, I’m a bitch now?” she said.
“You’re my bitch now,” he said. Deronda shook her head with wonder. Where did these motherfuckers come from? Did somebody have a 3-D printer and a template for a deluded fool? “Goodbye, you poor, sad-ass loser,” she said. Her finger was a millimeter from the end call button but stopped when he said, “I’m Janeel’s father.”
Deronda stopped breathing. Was that his name? Bobby James? The guy she’d had sex with in the bathroom at an underground club in Compton back when she was Captain of the All-American Ho Team?
“Nice try,” she said. “I know who the father is and he sho’ the fuck ain’t you.”
“Oh, it’s me, all right,” Bobby said. “You don’t remember? It was at that no-name club over on Rosecrans, right near the freeway, was downstairs somewhere, like a basement. I bought you your favorite drink, seven and sevens—remember the bathroom? It was painted orange, the sinks didn’t work and there was water on the floor. We hit it in the third stall from the left.” He laughed. “Doggie style. You were wearing a pink miniskirt, high heels and no panties. You said if I quit before you got yours, you’d turn around and twist my dick off. You don’t remember that?”
She didn’t remember all of it but it sounded right. The dress, the bathroom painted orange, the water on the floor and especially the thing about twisting his dick off. She’d said that on more than a few occasions.
“Man,” he said. “I saw that picture of Janeel in the paper and I couldn’t believe it. We look almost exactly alike. I said to myself, damn, brother, that’s your son.”
For the second or third time in her life, Deronda had nothing to say. Bobby laughed again, but it wasn’t a ha-ha kind of laugh. It was more like a your-shit-is-over kind of laugh.
“And you know what else?” Bobby James said. “I want custody.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Evil Nymph
Grace went to Cherokee’s. Isaiah was beat up, bedraggled and as tired as he’d ever been. He was afraid of going home so he went to the wrecking yard. TK took one look at him and said, “At it again, huh?” During the Walczak case, Isaiah had cleared a space in the loft for Grace. She needed a place to hide. He trudged up the steps, took off his shoes and fell on the futon.
His nerves were sizzling at the ends. Sleep. Your problems will still be there when you wake up. He closed his eyes. One minute later, he opened them and sat up. Something was bothering him. Something always bothered him when he finished a case, successfully or not. Obsessively, he always went over the events again no matter how sure he was of the resolution. He didn’t like missing puzzle pieces. Ridiculous, really. Even if Florida and Ohio were missing from the map you still knew it was the United States. Okay, Isaiah. What is it? What is it this time?
It was the infamous sticking point. That moment in the case where a single revelation could turn everything around and predictably, it was an inch from his face, too close to focus on. And then, as frequently happened, another lens brought clarity. Many murders had their origins in the past. Isaiah remembered his conversation with Gia. She told him Angus had married a Filipino woman named Virginia. They were in love and happy but she died in childbirth. Isaiah wondered what had happened to the baby. Gia said it went to the grandmother—but forever? The grandmother would have been elderly already. At some point, the child would have gone back to its father. Back to Angus. That child would be grown up by now. Isaiah didn’t know the statistics but in his experience, the number one reason for murdering somebody was revenge. That uncontrollable rage that comes with suffering a loss so great, it was unbearable. Loss of your spouse, a family member, a fortune, a career. Loss of dignity and self-worth.
Angus had tortured Christiana. Wouldn’t he also torture the child who killed his beloved Virginia merely by entering the world? And when the child grew up, wouldn’t he hate his father? And what better way to take their revenge than to kill the man their father needed and admired? Angus would be cruel and merciless to that child. He’d treat them like scum, like garbage, like shit. He’d treat that child the way he treated Sidero. Sidero’s last name was Bernal. A Filipino name. Virginia’s last name, and a reminder every time Sidero made his signature that he’d killed his own mother. Gia said Angus had taken a long time to name his son; to find the Latin word for “evil nymph.”
How would Sidero pull it off? Isaiah thought. Call the killers himself? Probably not. Too easily traced. If he was smart he’d have let his girlfriend do it. From the looks she gave him at the gun range she hated Angus too. She’d say she was Angus’s daughter so if he found out, it wouldn’t come back on her or Sidero. A realization smacked him upside the head. “Shit!” he said. Sidero’s truck was at the gun range. It had new tires and the backseat was full of clothes still on their hangers, a juicer, DVDs in a box, fishing poles, a laundry basket full of shoes, a space heater and a bunch of other things. Stuff you’d take when you’re leaving town.
Sidero had almost made a clean getaway but forgot the TV. It was his, he’d bought it before Jenn had moved in. It cost him almost a thousand bucks. He was trying to take it off the wall bracket but Jenn was distracting him. She was fucking pissed, pacing around, crying, taking deep breaths through her nose, her fists balled up.
“You motherfucker!” she screamed. “You motherfucker!”
“You said that already,” Sidero replied. She’d been yelling and foaming at the mouth ever since he walked in the door. Before he came back for the TV, he’d sent her a text. I’m leaving you you fucking bitch. Have a nice life and go fuck yourself. He wished he hadn’t done that. It sent her from crazy to fucking insane. Oh my fucking God, he couldn’t wait to get out of there.
She came close so she could yell in his ear, “Everythi
ng I’ve done for you! Everything I’ve fucking done for you!”
“Like what?” Sidero said. “Could you stand back a ways? I’m trying to do this.” He was going to take the wall bracket too, but changed his mind. He had to get away from her before he grabbed her assault rifle off the coffee table and shot her.
“All this time I stuck with you!” she screamed. “You fucking wimp! You coward! Who stuck up for you, Sid? Who? Me, you bastard! It sure the fuck wasn’t you!” Sidero got the TV off the bracket. He held it in front of him and turned for the door. Jenn stood in his way.
“Move, Jenn,” he said. She was grinning now. It was a really fucked-up grin. Like a nigger hanging from a tree. “Remember the night at Rafters?” she said. “Remember? Did I say anything? Huh? Did I say anything, you fucking faggot?”
“Move, Jenn.”
“I’m telling everybody!” she shouted. “Everybody! I’m telling your dad!”
He shoved her with the TV. She fell back and toppled over the coffee table, everything crashing to the floor. She was stunned, sitting there in a mess of beer cans, cigarette butts, loose ammo, tabloids and dirty paper plates. Her gun had a moldering slice of pizza on it.
“I told you to move, didn’t I?” he shouted. He started for the door again but she crawled over and grabbed him around the knees.
“Don’t leave me, Sid!” she sobbed. “I won’t let you! You can’t leave me!” She was pitiful. He’d never seen her like this. Hair all fucked up, makeup and snot all over her face. She was disgusting. He tried to walk out of her grasp but she held on. “No, no, no, Sid!” she cried. “Please, pleease don’t go!” He liked it, her begging. “Let go, Jenn,” he said. “It’s fucking over!” She held on tighter. “Goddammit, Jenn, get off me!” he shouted. He twisted away from her and dropped the TV. “Fuck!” he barked. The screen was cracked. “Goddamn you, Jenn! Goddamn your fucking ass!” She was on her feet now, zombie-walking toward him, muttering please please please. Furious and half-pleading, he yelled, “Stay the fuck away from me!”
“Please, Sid,” she sobbed. She tried to put her arms around him and he punched her in the face, hard. He could feel her cheekbone break. She fell into the mess again. He pushed open the screen door and charged out. He heard her scream, a wordless howl, so sharp and ugly he put his hands over his ears. He walked quickly toward his truck parked in the driveway. Neighbors had come out to watch. “What the fuck are you looking at?” he yelled at them. He heard the screen slam open behind him. “Leave me alone, Jenn!” he said.
“You’re not leaving me,” she said. He caught a glimpse of her as he got in the truck, bloody, limp and reeling, aiming the assault rifle from the hip. She screamed, “YOU’RE NOT FUCKING LEAVING ME!” He saw the barrel flash, a round jolted him, and then another. Surprisingly, he felt no pain, only a loosening, a letting go, and then his vision was blurry and there was no sound and he was falling and falling and then there was nothing.
Isaiah stood beside the Kia, openmouthed and staring. The neighbors were screaming and hurrying back inside. The redhead had dropped the gun. She stood there in utter shock, knees unsteady, the look on her face exactly like Clarence Novelle’s. For a moment, it was remarkably quiet, remarkably still, nothing moving except the blue smoke drifting over Sidero’s body like a ghost.
Isaiah returned to the car and sat there a moment. There was something ineffably sad about Sidero even when he was alive. He longed for the love of his father who was only capable of hate and greed. Sidero wouldn’t accept it. He’d fought for that love, hated that love and was humiliated by that love his entire life. One of the hardest things anyone can do is to accept the fact that no matter how much you love your mother and father and no matter how hard you try, they will never love you back. Sidero didn’t want to escape and he didn’t want to be his own man. He would have stayed in his chains forever but Angus set him free.
Angus didn’t know what to do without Weiner. Those two bitches would scream for death if they hurt that dog. Their suffering would be creative and would involve every orifice. It occurred to him that the dog was the only thing in the world that loved him and the only thing in the world that allowed him to love it back.
The attorney called. Christiana’s bail had been revoked. She got into a fight and resisted arrest. It was Angie, Angus thought. “The judge ordered a psych exam,” the attorney went on, “and I’m afraid she could be held until her trial. The date hasn’t been set.”
Angus hung up. He couldn’t breathe and had to sit down. Isaiah called.
“Sidero hired the killers,” Isaiah said. “And you know why.”
“Where is he?” Angus said.
“He’s dead. His girlfriend shot him.”
Angus was dumbfounded. He said, “Sidero is dead?”
“Yes, he is,” Isaiah said.
Angus dropped the phone. He’d been tough on the boy. He hated him, in fact, but he might have lightened up some. He’d promised Virginia he’d take care of the little shit. He did the best he could with the best he had in him, which wasn’t much. His girlfriend shot him; it wasn’t Angus’s fault.
He was suddenly nauseous. He staggered into his private bathroom and threw up in the sink. He glanced at the mirror and was horrified. He looked a thousand years old. Oddly, his ugliness was less pronounced, everything washed out like a portrait in watercolors. He held on to the sink with both hands and opened his mouth so wide he could see his palate, his molars, his tonsils, so wide he thought his jaw would break. He tried to scream but nothing came out. He thought he might kill himself but decided it was too easy. He had to stay alive so God could punish him.
Dwight was in the hallway. He’d listened to Angus talk to Isaiah on the phone. When the call ended, he found the old man in the study, flopped down in one of his fancy chairs. His head was back, his arms dangling, unblinking eyes staring at the ceiling. He didn’t look dead, he looked slaughtered. Dwight put his hands on the armrests and leaned in, their faces as close as they’d been at the gun range.
“You got everything you deserved, Angus,” Dwight said. “Everything except a bullet in the head.” Angus’s eyes were blank and unfocused. “Now you’ve got nothing,” Dwight went on. “No son, no daughter, no Tyler. Only me. Only stupid, useless, fucked-up me.” Dwight stood back, smiled and inhaled a triumphant breath. “Actually, that’s not true. Wanna hear something funny? I kept the money from the last six sales, and the cash you had in the safe is mine too. I’ve known the combination for years. Didn’t know that, did you? And by the way? Your jewelry and watches are in my safety-deposit box.” Dwight looked off. “There was something else too, what was it?” He snapped his fingers. “Oh I remember! The guns we stored in the warehouse? I sold them. The fucking Russians are loading them into their trucks right about now.” Dwight stretched and yawned. “I’m going on a trip, Angus. The Bahamas or Costa Rica, someplace like that. Maybe I’ll move there, who knows?” Dwight grinned. “I’ll send you a fucking fruit basket, asshole.” He left the room and walked down the hall, tossing the keys to the Maybach up and catching them again.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Have You Ever Seen
an Elephant Dance?
He was in his room playing Call of Duty when Hugo burst in, grabbed him by the neck and threw him into the wall. “My son’s a nigger lover?” he screamed. “My son’s a fucking traitor?” He came in swinging, but Chip held his ground even as the blows fell and his vision turned to stars and the pain was a sledgehammer pounding him into the floor. He looked straight at the stupid cocksucker and smiled through his bloody teeth.
In the days following the warehouse disaster, Chip was bombarded with threatening emails, voice mails and texts. The Starks and their families hated him and he hated them back. They posted a bunch of shit on his Facebook page until he took it down. He didn’t care. You could spend half your life posting idiotic selfies and pictures of the chili cheese fries at Fatburger.
He came home from school and noticed an env
elope on the floor. Somebody had slipped it under the window. He imagined all the fucked-up things the message would say and he wondered if there was anthrax on the paper. But there was only a car key tied to a piece of red ribbon. He looked at it, and then he went outside.
A car was parked across the street, a red ribbon tied around the door handle. It was a Kia sedan, red, five, maybe six years old but in really good shape and detailed too. The chrome shined and the interior smelled like pine trees. Chip put the key in the ignition and the engine vroomed to life. It sounded good. From Isaiah, he thought. He nodded to himself. He’d done the right thing and that felt good. Maybe they’d meet somewhere down the road.