Righteous

by Joe Ide

  “It’s rude to ask a direct question. Don’t you know that?”

  “But you just asked me a question.”

  “I am your elder.”

  They’d finished the meal and were drinking their tea when Tommy said: “Let us talk about your debt.”

  “I’ll pay you back, Tommy,” Ken said. “As soon as I’m working. I promise.”

  “The vig is twenty percent a week.”

  “A week? But that’s…”

  “Ten thousand percent a year,” Tommy said. “Give or take.”

  “I’ll never be able to pay that off.”

  “No, you won’t. A shame, really. What will you do when your family finds out, not to mention your future in-laws? Did I tell you I know your fiancée’s father? A very principled man, very conservative. They will be disgraced, you know. They will never forgive you and neither will your parents.”

  “Please, Tommy,” Ken said. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

  Tommy said he had a growing operation in Las Vegas and he needed someone to run it; someone smart and trustworthy who knew numbers and could manage a business. He was vague about what kind of business it was. “You can graduate or not, up to you,” Tommy said.

  “And my parents?”

  “Yes, they will be shocked at first but when they see how much money you are making they will come around.”

  “Can I have time to think about it?”

  “Certainly. You have until we finish the meal. Would you like something else?”

  “Yeah, I guess I would.”

  Somewhere between the char siu and the steamed frog legs on lotus leaf, Ken realized his parents would be disappointed with him no matter what he did or how hard he tried. As for his fiancée—well, if he never saw her rigorous, goal-oriented face again that was okay with him. And working at a hedge fund? He couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less. Actually, it would be something of a relief, escaping a life he’d never asked for or wanted.

  So Ken went to Vegas and worked for Tommy. He was repelled at first, almost quitting any number of times, but he was still in debt and there was nothing for him in San Francisco. Despite what Tommy had said, he was disowned, disgraced, and blacklisted by his family, his former future in-laws, and seemingly the whole legit Chinese community. The work itself wasn’t so bad. He was on the business and financial end, Liko did the work on the ground. As the years rolled by, Tommy didn’t talk about the debt anymore but it was implicit that Ken could never quit. He had the affair with Angela, and Sarita entered his life. Then he married a stewardess from Hong Kong, and Janine was born. The stewardess missed her family and went back home to Hong Kong, thank God, and now he was a very wealthy pimp under a death sentence, locked in his own bedroom, afraid for his daughter’s life but more afraid of climbing down a drainpipe.

  Ken wiped the vomit off his mouth, flushed the toilet, and went back into the bedroom. Tommy, he thought. Fucking Tommy. That greedy, evil old man, arrogant and contemptuous, enslaving him all these years. He didn’t think enough of Ken to tie him up or search the room and find the gun he kept in the bedside table. After all, Ken was a weakling, a coward, no one to be concerned about. Ken was overcome with hurt and humiliation. Why should he go down without a fight? Why shouldn’t Tommy pay a price? Why should that asshole get to live while his daughter died?

  “Fucking old man,” Ken said. He went to the bedside table, yanked open the drawer, and found the Glock. They would come for him sooner or later; use him as bait to bring in Janine. No, he wouldn’t let that happen. Ken sat on the bed, taking deep breaths, rehearsing what he would do and what he would say, mouthing the words and pointing the gun at the mirror. He heard footsteps coming down the hall and stood up, facing the door. His hand was sweaty and he wiped it off on his shirt. “Here we go,” he whispered.

  Tung came into the bedroom first, Tommy right behind him. Ken aimed the gun at them. “Stop right there!” he shouted. They stopped but didn’t look afraid. “Okay, turn around and put your hands up.”

  They did neither.

  “So,” Tommy said, “you’ve grown a pair, is that it?”

  Ken’s face was terrified and trembling. “Turn around, I said!” Tommy was expressionless. Tung looked puzzled, like the cockroach had started to sing. “I’m not kidding!” Ken said. He knew he sounded pathetic. Don’t back down, don’t back down like you have your whole life!

  “Are you going to shoot me, Ken?” Tommy said mildly.

  “Fuck you, Tommy,” Ken said, his voice losing volume, a note of mewling creeping in. Tung was coming toward him. “Stay back,” Ken said. “Stay back, Tung!” But Tung kept coming. Shoot him, Ken! Shoot him! “I’ll shoot, Tung, don’t come any closer!” But he’d waited too long and knew it. Tung slapped the gun aside and hit him with what felt like a flying anvil, bouncing him off the wall and into another flying anvil. Tung kept at it, punch after punch, crunching and crushing, Tommy watching, the crocodile smiling as it dragged the kicking body underwater.

  Despite his injuries, Isaiah had insisted on driving. They were heading west on Charleston Boulevard. He hadn’t told Dodson his plan, a game they played when they were the Battering Ram Bandits, a way to stay in control. Dodson was pretending he didn’t care about where they were going and was busy texting Cherise. That was fine with Isaiah. He could hold out forever, Dodson would break down sooner or later. He wanted to call Sarita and it took him a few minutes to work up his nerve. He hit the speed dial.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “It’s Isaiah,” he said.

  “What’s happening? Is Janine okay?”

  “I sent her to LA. She’s not safe here.”

  “Not safe? Well, she can stay with me.”

  “No, you might be watched.”

  “You’re scaring me, Isaiah.”

  “Everything will be okay.”

  The fear in her voice was thrilling but he didn’t know why.

  “What about my dad?” she said.

  “He’s probably all right for now. They’ll use him to find Janine.” He hesitated a moment. “He works for the triad.” He was talking in short, clipped sentences like a cop. He hadn’t planned it that way but he liked it. He thought he sounded more in charge this way.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Sarita said. “I’m so disappointed and angry at him I—excuse me a moment, Isaiah.” He heard her talking to someone. He couldn’t make out the words but it sounded like she was explaining and then arguing. She got back on the line. “Sorry about that,” she said. “What should I do, Isaiah?”

  “Nothing. Just be careful. “Keep your doors locked. If you go out have someone with you.”

  “Is it really that dire?”

  “Precaution.”

  “What will you do now?” she said.

  “Find your dad, find Benny.”

  “How?”

  “It’s better you don’t know,” he said. There was no reason why she couldn’t know but that sounded resolute, like he was on top of it.

  “Isaiah, I feel so bad about this. You’re not in danger, are you?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Thank you, Isaiah. Thank you so much. You’ll call me, won’t you?”

  “I will,” he said. He didn’t say goodbye and ended the call. Perfect. At least you didn’t sound like a bumbling idiot.

  Dodson looked up from his phone. “That’s who you into, Marcus’s ex? She’s a little old for you, ain’t she?”

  “What? No. I’m just helping her out.”

  “Who you think you talking to? I know the fever when I see it.”

  “I don’t have any fever.”

  “Really? Then why was you talking like you was on CSI? I almost got out the car and put my hands up.”

  “I was just telling her what’s going on.”

  “You told her just enough so she’d worry about you, and I like how you said I’ll be fine like you knew some shit was coming down but you was ready for it. I couldn’t h
ave done better myself.”

  “Could we change the subject, please?”

  “Let me give you some advice, son. Don’t never front with a woman. Be who you are, and if you ain’t sure, be not sure. They way ahead of us anyway. Don’t matter what you do, they’ll find out your true shit sooner or later.”

  Isaiah drove on. The Vicodin made him dreamy and he imagined himself with Sarita; how they’d live in one of those Century City condos with the cool furniture and hardwood floors and marble countertops and stainless steel appliances and a sparkling view of the city that went all the way to the ocean. He imagined Sarita returning home from a day at the Justice Center and then coming into his study, where he was sitting at a desk made from some kind of Scandinavian wood working on a case about industrial espionage. Then they’d curl up together on a leather sofa the color of heavy cream and have a glass of wine, a subject he’d have to brush up on, and talk about what she was doing and how she was helping people and what he was doing and the problems he was having with the case. Then they’d have dinner; get some steaks from Gelson’s where a rib eye was thirty-two dollars a pound, maybe cook it up for her with some fresh vegetables, make her laugh while she sat at the counter and ate some snacky things from Italy or Spain and had another glass of wine. Then they’d go have a drink with their friends at a fancy bar somewhere and talk about global warming or the humanitarian crises in Europe or North Korea exploding another nuclear bomb. Then they’d go home and have crazy sex and when they woke up in the morning she’d serve him espresso and a warm croissant and on Sundays they’d have brunch, whatever that was, and when they came home they’d have crazy sex again and—

  “Hey,” Dodson said. “Wake up. If you’re going to the Red Rock Country Club you missed the turn.”

  Isaiah looked at him. How did Dodson know they were going there? He hadn’t told him the plan yet.

  “The triad can cover Vegas better than we can so why not let them do all the work?” Dodson said. “Didn’t think I figured that out, did you?”

  “Wasn’t that hard to do,” Isaiah said, without much behind it. He made a U-turn.

  “You know what I’m thinking?” Dodson said. “What if the skinny dude ain’t the one that finds Benny?”

  “What?” Isaiah said.

  “What if the skinny dude don’t find Benny and somebody else does? What do we do then?”

  “He looked to be in charge,” Isaiah said like it was obvious. “If something happens he’ll know one way or the other.”

  “Okay, suppose them Red Poles catch Benny. Then what we gonna do? Strong-arm ’em? I ain’t got a strap, do you?”

  Isaiah thought a moment. Dodson was putting everything on him like he always did. Why should that be?

  “Well?” Dodson said.

  “I don’t know,” Isaiah said.

  Dodson looked at him sharply. “I don’t know?” he said. “Is that what you said? I don’t know?”

  “I don’t know. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Long as I’ve known you I never heard you say that.”

  “Well, I’m saying it now, and so what if I don’t know something? If something needs to be known why don’t you know it?”

  “But you always know,” Dodson said, sounding a little alarmed.

  “And you always don’t. Why is that? You’re always complaining about my freakishly large brain. Well, how about we use yours for a change, or is that too much to ask? Now, I brought you along to help so why don’t you, instead of sitting there complaining like a bitch?”

  Dodson had no comeback, Isaiah enjoying an inward smile. Challenge me at your own risk, son.

  They waited near the entrance to the Red Rock Country Club for an hour before the black BMW with turbine wheels came out of the gate, the skinny guy and Dumbo in the front seat.

  “There’s our boy,” Dodson said.

  Isaiah followed him, staying out of the BMW’s mirrors, wondering what they’d do if they caught up to Benny. Separating him from the Red Poles wouldn’t be easy. They followed the BMW to a public park. About thirty young Chinese guys were milling around on a floodlit basketball court. Baggy jeans, white T-shirts, and gold chains were apparently mandatory. Could have been a tattoo convention. Their gleaming dubbed-out, tricked-out cars were parked on the grass. A few bony girls were with them. Dark glasses, painted-on jeans, and heels. They looked like assassins in a James Bond movie.

  Isaiah parked.

  “Damn,” Dodson said. “Are all them dudes in the triad?”

  “Affiliated. They’re a gang, the Dragon Boyz.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The graffiti on the sidewalk, the stop sign, and the bus bench right outside your window.”

  “Fuck you, Isaiah.”

  Skinny got out of the BMW, the other Red Poles remaining inside, the engine running, windows down. No doubt there was an arsenal in there, the safeties clicked off. Skinny went over to a guy who was probably the gang’s shot caller. Same uniform, heavy-lidded and sullen, arms folded across his chest. Isaiah wondered what made him so special. Maybe he had a good personality. Behind him was a massive Hummer the color of French’s mustard, his three-man personal crew leaning on it.

  Skinny talked to the shot caller in Chinese, demanding, even threatening, but he could have been elevator music for all the reaction he got, the guy smoking and looking bored. At one point he yawned. When Skinny finished talking, the guy took a last drag off his cigarette and flipped the butt to the ground, orange sparks landing on Skinny’s pointy shoes. Then he exhaled wearily, his cheeks puffing out like it was time to mow the lawn. He said something and the whole group got into their cars. They must be loving this part, Isaiah thought, starting their engines together like a scene from Fast & Furious, thirty throaty roars blasting the night apart with power and menace, tires fishtailing, leaving squiggle marks on the grass as they took off in different directions, Skinny left in a cloud of exhaust.

  “They’ll post up around town,” Isaiah said. “When somebody in their network spots Benny they’ll have people close by.”

  “You don’t think I know that?” Dodson said.

  Fed up with the arguments, Isaiah said, “What’s your problem, Dodson?”

  “I don’t have no problem. I’m just letting you know it’s not like the old days. I got my own thinking cap. You ain’t the only one that can work shit out.”

  “And you think you’re in my league?” Isaiah said. “Be serious.”

  “No, I’m not in your league—not yet.”

  “Not yet? You’re not even close and you never will be.”

  “Yeah, well, I just might surprise you. Besides, why the fuck did you bring me here if I’m so damn useless?”

  Isaiah had no answer to that. He did tell Dodson to be more helpful, but he hadn’t anticipated it would feel like an intrusion, like someone was trespassing on his domain. He’d worked long and hard to be IQ, and he wasn’t sharing that title with anybody.

  They followed the Red Poles to a Chinese restaurant, where they ate dumplings and Skinny took calls. Dodson kept sending Benny texts on Janine’s phone. Red Poles are after you. Leave Vegas. You’re in danger. Leave Vegas. Leave Vegas. Whole town out looking for you. Leave Vegas. Forty-five minutes later, Skinny got a call that made him stand up. He said something to the others and threw some bills on the table and the group ran out to the BMW.

  “They found him,” Isaiah said. He looked at Dodson. “I know you know that, okay?”

  They followed the BMW to a commercial street in Summerlin, a nondescript suburb south of Vegas. There was a blue-and-white neon sign over a shop that said RAY’S YAMAHA, a tire store on one side, a towing yard on the other. At the near end of the block, some of the Dragon Boyz were arriving in a parking lot. The Red Pole who had kicked Isaiah in the chest was talking on his phone like a commando calling in air support. He said something to the crew and a few of them broke off and headed for an alley.

  “They’re going around to th
e back,” Isaiah and Dodson said at the same time.

  There was light traffic. Isaiah got behind a delivery truck and drove past the gangsters, parking across the street from Ray’s. A scissor-type security gate extended over the front window, a roll-up garage door next to it. At the far end of the block, the BMW, the Hummer, and a white Denali were parked; Skinny, the shot caller, and a few other Dragon Boyz were down there. If Benny managed to run, he’d be trapped no matter which way he went.

  “Are you texting Benny?” Isaiah said.

  “No, I’m playing Angry Birds,” Dodson said. Red Poles know you’re at Ray’s. Go now. Go now.

  Benny texted back, thinking it was Janine. What are you doing here? How did you find me?

  Go. Get out. Red Poles surrounding you. Dodson stopped texting. The Red Pole and three gangsters were jogging up the block toward the Yamaha store. They had tools. A fire axe, a sledgehammer, a bolt cutter.

  “Shit, it’s game over now,” Dodson said. “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I liked you better before.”

  The gangsters gathered at the security gate, the guy with the bolt cutter cutting off the padlock. As the Red Pole yanked the gate open, they heard the whine of an electric motor and a chain clanking. The garage door was starting to rise. You could hear an engine grumbling at idle, revving now, getting louder.

  “He coming out!” the Red Pole shouted. “Geh him! Geh him!” The gangsters dropped their tools and went for their guns. The door was four feet off the ground, the gangsters ready to rush in, when Benny’s bike exploded out. Benny was wearing leathers, lying flat over the gas tank, his head behind the handlebars, the top of his helmet grazing the underside of the door. As soon as he hit the street, he made a hard turn, planting a foot on the pavement, the rear wheel skittering out wide. The gangsters got off some shots but missed, a moving target hard to hit with a handgun. Benny straightened the bike up, cranked the gas, and rocketed down the block, the gangsters running out in the street to shoot. They fired off a salvo but Skinny and his crew were at the far end of the block, directly in the line of fire. Some dived to the pavement, others scattered, bullets zinging past them.