Righteous

by Joe Ide

  “What,” the pockmarked guy said. “You don’t want fight?”

  Isaiah kept his weight on the balls of his feet and tried to relax, get too tight and you can’t react. He kept his hands open, one in front of his face, the other guarding his left cheek; his opponent was right-handed, his punches would likely land there. The guy kept coming, smiling, his knees bent, hands like he was about to catch a basketball. He feinted a charge, Isaiah leaning forward, ready to step in and counterattack. The front kick came so fast he didn’t see it, the spinning back fist right behind it grazing his chin. Isaiah stumbled back, the pain like a cramp in his chest. All three Red Poles charged. He put up his guard. Stay off the ground.

  Dodson was doing his Muhammad Ali impression, dancing and dodging and ducking, two opponents now. He hit Dumbo with a couple of stiff jabs, enough to slow him down, and rat-tat-tatted the second guy, giving him a few extra tats, the same combination that knocked out Ernesto Rodriguez for the flyweight title at Vacaville State Prison.

  “Come on, bitches,” he said. “Where you at?” They came at him, yelling in Chinese. These guys were street fighters, throwing wild punches, trying to overwhelm. Dodson made them pay, busting a cheekbone, loosening a tooth, but they wrapped him up and slung him to the ground.

  The three Red Poles swarmed Isaiah, windmilling punches, too many fists to block, and he was reeling from the front kick. He had to defend and couldn’t attack. He caught a glimpse of Dodson, rolling across the asphalt to keep from getting stomped. Janine was blasting the Audi’s horn to attract attention, but the Lucky Streak was light on security guards. Isaiah was getting punished, absorbing blow after blow, his knees buckling. Stay off the ground.

  Leo drove the Benz into the parking lot and spotted Benny’s Yamaha parked under a lamppost, a bunch of guys fighting over there. Benny was lying on the ground. Two black guys were getting the shit beat out of them by a bunch of dudes in black suits. Janine was in a car, yelling and honking the horn. Leo drove over there, and the fighting stopped. He got out of the car and looked at all the Chinese faces. His mother used to call them those squinty people.

  “What are you motherfuckers doing here?” he said. “Somebody order too much takeout?”

  A skinny guy, bleeding from the mouth, said: “Look, my fren, this none of your business, okay?”

  “Who gave you permission to be my friend?” Leo said. “You need to get on the waiting list like everybody else. And could you wake Benny up? We need to have a talk.”

  The guys who were beating up the black guys came over and regrouped around Benny.

  “You go away, nobody get hurt,” Skinny said.

  “Me get hurt?” Leo said. “By who? You and them other Jackie Chans? The last time I got hurt was at the Pimp and Ho softball game. I was sliding into second, ran into El Romeo and twisted my ankle. Now maybe you didn’t hear me the first time so I’ll say it again. I need to talk to Benny.” Leo thought about pulling the Sig Sauer, but there were surveillance cameras everywhere. Show a gun near a casino, and you wouldn’t get out of jail until you were eating soft foods.

  “You say goodbye now or we fuck you up,” Skinny said.

  “Say goodbye now? Who do you think you’re talking to, your ugly, stupid girlfriend? Benny owes me and rule number one is Pay me my fucking money.” The whole group moved toward him. Leo sighed. “Bad idea, fellas,” he said. “Maybe you should go have an egg roll and think this over.”

  “Okay,” Skinny said, “you get beat down now.”

  Balthazar got out of the car. It was like watching somebody unfold a card table, his arms and legs coming out one at a time. The Chinese guys tried not to react but couldn’t help it, staring like they were trying to make out what species he was. Balthazar lumbered right at them, reaching out with a telescopic arm and clamping a massive hand around Skinny’s neck. “Fuck you, eh?”

  Skinny’s eyes bulged. “Geh him,” he croaked.

  Isaiah picked himself up off the ground, Dodson coming over to help him up. “You okay?” he said.

  “Not really,” Isaiah said, wincing with every movement.

  “Who the fuck is that?” Dodson said.

  Some big giant dude was fighting off the Red Poles like King Kong swatting at single-engine airplanes. Another guy who looked like an extra in Saturday Night Fever was banging on the Audi’s windshield and yelling at Janine.

  “Benny,” Isaiah said. Benny had risen from the dead. He was mounted on his bike, starting the engine. The fighting stopped.

  “Hey, don’t let him go!” Skinny said.

  “Benny!” Janine shouted, her voice trapped inside the car. “Benny, wait!”

  Benny wheelied out of there, the bike pluming blue smoke as it raced across the parking lot, disappearing into the night. Skinny was red-faced and rubbing his neck.

  “See what you do?” he said to Balthazar. “You fuck up everything.”

  Balthazar ignored him. “Too bad, eh?” he said to Leo.

  Skinny turned and punched Dumbo. “Why you not watching him? That’s your job!”

  Security guards were running out of the casino, sirens coming. Everyone broke for their cars.

  Isaiah drove away from the Lucky Streak; police cars with their lights flashing whipping past the other way. He was running on pure adrenaline, the onslaught of pain just beginning. To take his mind off it, he thought about Sarita.

  He was fourteen when he met her. Marcus was being secretive but seemed happy about it; taking his phone calls in the bedroom, going out more than usual, freshly shaven, wearing his best clothes and coming home late. A girl no doubt, but that was okay. Like all the rest, she’d last a few weeks, they’d argue, and she’d disappear.

  The brothers were having breakfast, Marcus with his coffee and Shredded Wheat, humming “Sugar Pie Honey Bunch” between bites. “Met a girl,” he said, trying to keep his smile from turning into a grin.

  “Who is it this time?” Isaiah said. “Wait, let me guess. A sales associate at Home Depot? A dog walker you met at the park?”

  “Are you finished? She happens to be a student at Long Beach State.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  “Remember Dewey Patterson, the contractor? Doesn’t matter. He owns an apartment building over by the college. Gave me a job doing some work in an apartment. There was water damage, and I was putting up new ceiling tiles and replacing some drywall. The tenant was away on some kind of foreign exchange program, but then she came home early. She had nowhere to go, and I had to finish the job. We got to talking, and one thing led to another.”

  “What does she see in you?” Isaiah said, smirking.

  “For your information, women find me very attractive.”

  “They do? Then why don’t they stick around?”

  “I’m the one that doesn’t stick around, and this girl is different. This girl is special. You’ll see.”

  It worried Isaiah, seeing Marcus so excited. He could already feel his brother’s affections splitting in two. The energy that used to be all his was lessening with every phone call and date and fell off alarmingly when Marcus started staying out all night. Marcus tried to remain attentive, doing the things with Isaiah they always did. Watching movies together, playing basketball at the park, walks around the harbor talking about everything and nothing. But then Marcus started begging off, saying he’d make up for it but he never did. A month went by. Isaiah waited for the breakup, but it never came. He got resentful; this usurper horning in on what was his. He imagined her as an undernourished bookworm with an eating disorder and big thick glasses, nappy hair and a bulky cardigan that went down to her knees. He started sulking and cold-shouldering Marcus, speaking when spoken to, pointedly ignoring him, but he hardly seemed to notice, and if he did he didn’t say anything.

  It was a rare chilly day when Marcus brought Sarita back to the apartment for the first time. He wanted to get her a jacket before they went out to lunch. Isaiah could only stare as she came in, slender and lovely,
kidding around about something, her laugh full and genuine, a face that brought light into the room and cemented Isaiah’s feet to the floor. She was wearing jeans, suede ankle boots the color of a lion’s mane, a designer field jacket, and a dark scarf that made her look sophisticated.

  “Isaiah,” Marcus said. “This is Sarita Van.”

  She smiled, the buffed copper eyes warm as a space heater. “Hello, Isaiah,” she said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  It took a moment for him to find his voice, and when he did, it came out hoarse, almost like a cough.

  “Uh, hi,” he said.

  “I’m so glad to meet you,” she said, like she’d been waiting a long time to say it. She gave him a hug, Isaiah rigid and starting to sweat. He didn’t know what to say and paused for so long Sarita’s smile began to fade.

  Marcus looked at him. “Are you going to say something?” he said.

  “I’m, uh, glad to meet you too,” Isaiah said.

  “I have an idea,” Sarita said. “Why don’t you come to lunch with us?”

  Isaiah scrunched up his face like he’d suddenly lost a hundred IQ points. “Lunch?”

  “Yeah, lunch,” Marcus said. “You know, when you sit down and eat a sandwich?”

  “Stop, Marcus,” she said. “Please come, Isaiah. We’d love to have you.”

  They went to lunch at Thai Tastes and sat in a booth; Marcus and Sarita sitting next to each other. They chatted about her parents and her trip to Cambridge and her plan to go to Stanford Law. They teased each other about something Isaiah didn’t understand, but it felt so intimate he had to find something interesting to look at in his pad Thai. When she gave Marcus a spontaneous kiss, the first stab of jealousy pierced Isaiah’s heart, went out the other side, turned around and stabbed him again. What was it like to have her look at you like that? To spend time with her, talk to her, listen to her. And Marcus got to have sex with her? Oh my God. What was it like to see her with her hair down? To see her naked? He could hardly stand to think about it.

  “Marcus tells me you’re a real scholar,” she said.

  Isaiah blinked, not a single coherent thought in his head. “What?” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Sarita,” Marcus said. “My brother seems to have taken too much cold medicine.”

  “Marcus, stop,” she said. She seemed to sense what was going on. “We’ll get to know each other soon enough. Won’t we, Isaiah?”

  Isaiah smiled like he was half in pain. “Yeah,” he said. “That’d be great.”

  Marcus and Sarita were going to the movies. Isaiah said he had too much homework and came back to the apartment. He was worried. This girl was special. What if she and Marcus got married? What would happen to him and Marcus? He’d have to see her all the time. How could he stand it?

  He imagined Marcus joining the Peace Corps, leaving Sarita alone and lonely. She leaned on Isaiah for support and couldn’t help falling in love with him, but there was Marcus to consider so a relationship was out of the question. They stayed away from each other, chaste and pining, but then Marcus called from Haiti and broke up with Sarita, and she immediately rushed over to the apartment and fell into Isaiah’s arms, and they were together at last, and then they heard Marcus was marrying a Haitian girl so everything worked out perfectly.

  Over the next few months, Sarita came over to the apartment more and more, her presence so disturbing he avoided her. She’d greet him warmly; he’d mumble a hello, make an excuse and leave, sometimes lurking outside the apartment building and looking up at the window, wondering if they were making out or had gone into the bedroom. Then he’d come back later and smell her perfume and see something like fairy dust floating in the air. Marcus would be smiling like he was about to burst out singing The Sound of Music.

  At breakfast one morning, Marcus was pensive, worried. “Are you okay with Sarita?” he said.

  “What?” Isaiah said. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you’re always avoiding her. She comes in, and you act like she’s got the plague.”

  “No, no, everything’s okay, I like her, I do. I just, you know, want to give you privacy.”

  “When I need privacy I’ll let you know.” Marcus put his spoon down. “Look, Isaiah, she’s it for me. She’s the love of my life. It’s important that everything is okay with you two.”

  “Everything is okay. Really,” Isaiah said, but he avoided her anyway.

  Marcus and Sarita were inseparable, no question they’d share a future together. Sarita graduated with honors, a bachelor’s degree in international relations, and she got a scholarship to Stanford Law. A week before her departure, Marcus was brooding and short-tempered, snapping at Isaiah for little things, getting into a fender bender, throwing a fit when a job got canceled. Mysteriously, college brochures started showing up in the bathroom and on the coffee table. Marcus had long phone conversations with her; out on the balcony, pacing, his voice intense and combative like he was being sent on a suicide mission. The day before Sarita was to leave, Marcus was killed in the hit-and-run. When she heard the news she came to the apartment and banged on the door, but Isaiah was dealing with his own pain and didn’t answer. He didn’t see or hear from her again until their meeting at the Intercontinental Hotel. He’d thought about her frequently, her image and the sound of her voice becoming almost mythical, a princess in a story told many times and long ago.

  Isaiah had a massive purple hematoma on his chest where the Chinese guy had kicked him. He also had a headache, and his cheekbones were swollen; bruises and abrasions pretty much everywhere. They stopped and bought first aid supplies and got a room at the Travel Inn. Dodson put ice packs on Isaiah’s worst injuries and antiseptic on the abrasions. It made Isaiah uncomfortable; somebody tending to him that wasn’t Marcus. Someone tending him at all. Janine went out and brought back a bottle of Vicodin, not saying where she got it.

  “Janine’s gotta leave town,” Isaiah said. “The question is how.”

  “Why don’t we just put her on a plane or a bus?” Dodson said.

  “No, she might be spotted.”

  “You guys know I’m right here, don’t you?” Janine said. She’d taken some Vicodin herself and was pretty relaxed.

  “Look at her. She’s high,” Dodson said. “She ain’t fit to drive nowhere.”

  “Can you drive, Janine?” Isaiah said.

  “No problem,” she said. “Once, me and Benny drove to Miami on acid.”

  “We’ll check out the motel,” Isaiah said. “If the Red Poles aren’t watching it she can take her own car.”

  Dodson persisted. “But where’s she gonna go? Another motel?”

  “No. If they found the first one, they’ll find her again.”

  “Then send her to LA. She could stay with Sarita.”

  “Too obvious.”

  “How ’bout this?” Dodson said, getting testy. “We get her a seat on a satellite and put her ass in orbit.”

  “Give me your phone,” Isaiah said.

  “What for?” Janine said.

  “So any calls will come to me.”

  “I’m not gonna give you my phone.”

  “Oh yes you are.”

  “That’s stupid,” Dodson said. “What if she needs to call us?”

  “We’ll get her a burner.”

  Dodson looked out the window and sulked.

  “Are you guys on the same side?” Janine said.

  There was nobody watching the motel so she grabbed a few things and threw them in her VW bus. Isaiah took away her phone. She cried but he wouldn’t give it back.

  “You know, my whole life is in there,” she said, Isaiah wondering how that could be. He only made calls and text messages on his.

  Dodson gave her directions and called ahead to make the arrangements. “This is crazy,” he said as they watched her van putter out of the lot. “She might be in more trouble there than if she stayed here.”

  “Best we can do,” Isaiah said.

  “Well,
what now?” Dodson said, hoping Isaiah didn’t know. Isaiah had gone into a trance again, that look on his face like he was trying to see something faraway and in the dark. Damn, Dodson thought. Isaiah was racing ahead of him, thinking about how to find Benny. That fool could be anywhere. Janine had already checked with his friends and relatives, and Benny wouldn’t be gambling in a casino anytime soon. He could be camping out in the mountains or driving to Alaska. No, let Isaiah zone out all he wanted to. There was no way in the world to locate that dumb-ass white boy.

  “I know how to find Benny,” Isaiah said.

  Dodson heaved a sigh that was almost a groan. He was in for it now. Isaiah would no doubt mess with him, not telling him the plan until he asked, torturing him, making him draw it out little by little. No, fuck that. If Isaiah could figure it out there was no reason why he couldn’t too. Put your mind to it, he told himself. Do one of them brainstorming things and throw out some ideas to yourself. Cogitate, son.

  Chapter Six

  PTSD

  Seb was wearing his favorite suit. A three-piece glen plaid, this one brown with threads of bone and beige running through it. It was uncomfortable in the hot weather, but appearances were important, especially now. He let himself into his office, turned on the lamp and carefully made a cup of tea. He inspected the desk and chair for cleanliness, then sat down and arranged the Styrofoam cup, a package of English Ovals, his lighter, and an ashtray into a grid, concentrating, like he was moving chess pieces. Gahigi was outside in the dark, keeping watch like he was waiting for Tutsis.

  A few minutes later, Gahigi led Manzo and Ramona inside, the Members Only jacket zipped up to his neck. He had his hand in his pocket, something heavy in there. Manzo was carrying a Trader Joe’s shopping bag. He seemed weary and exasperated. Ramona looked like she’d been called into the principal’s office.