by Joe Ide
“The fuck you doing?” Skinny screamed. Benny kept accelerating, charging directly at them. They started shooting. “Kill him! Kill him!”
“Benny’s gonna get his ass shot to pieces,” Dodson said.
Benny swerved sharply, standing on the pegs and bumping over the curb, getting low again as he sped down the sidewalk, the parked cars shielding him from the gunshots, the barrage blowing out windows, puncturing tires, and shattering storefronts. In seconds he was by them and gone. “What you waiting for?” Skinny screamed as he ran for the BMW. “Geh him!”
The speed limit on Wyatt Avenue was forty-five miles per hour, the Audi going seventy, following the Denali, the Hummer, and the BMW, Benny too far in front to see. It hurt to work the gears and pedals, but Isaiah tried to ignore it. The problem was the Vicodin. He had to shake it off. Fortunately, Wyatt was a long straightaway, apartment buildings and businesses were on either side, the only obstacles were other cars. It was dangerous weaving around them when you were going that fast but the Audi’s sports suspension was made for it, no body lean, stuck to the road like a slot car.
“Why is Benny going straight?” Dodson said. “Why doesn’t he turn, try to shake them loose?”
“He must have something in mind,” Isaiah said, blinking hard as he braked, swerving around a Volvo station wagon and a FedEx truck, downshifting, the pain in his chest throbbing as he rocketed off again. “Check your GPS. See what’s ahead.”
Dodson got out his phone. “There’s a big turn up there. Nothing after that but desert.”
“That’s it,” Isaiah said. “He’s going to go off-road and disappear. No way to catch him out there.”
Isaiah changed lanes and got a quick look at Benny. He was well ahead, but the BMW was powerful and closing the distance. “They’re gonna run him off the road,” he said. He downshifted and stomped on the gas, the big V8 WAAAAHing, the sound so loud Isaiah had to shout over it. “The BMW is faster than the bike. We’ve got to get in front of it, slow it down.” The Denali was at the rear of the pack. Isaiah caught up and passed it, the gangsters’ eyes popping as they surged past.
“Bye-bye, muthafuckas,” Dodson said, giving them a little wave.
The Audi’s speed hit eighty-five as it approached the Hummer. The driver started zigzagging back and forth, trying to block his path.
“He’s a fool,” Isaiah said. “He’s gonna tip over.”
The driver zigged a little too sharply, the three-ton vehicle rocking back and forth, skidding sideways, nearly rolling over as it slammed into a curb.
Isaiah could see Benny clearly now. He had his head tucked low, elbows out, going full throttle, the engine screaming. Motocross bikes were built for mobility on dirt, not top speed, and Benny had topped out, the BMW a few car lengths behind him. Both braked hard to get around a traffic island and Isaiah caught up, all three getting back on the straightaway, Benny with a slight lead. Just ahead of them, a minivan blocked the right lane, a tiny Fiat blocked the left. Benny shot right between them but the BMW had to slow down, Skinny leaning on the horn, riding the minivan’s bumper, the kids in the backseat making faces and giving him the finger. Isaiah pulled up behind the Fiat and even with the BMW. The Fiat couldn’t move over and neither could the minivan, one had to pass the other. With aching slowness the Fiat sped up, the Audi a foot behind it, the driver’s terrified eyes in the mirror.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Dodson shouted. The Audi edged ahead of the BMW by half a length. “Isaiah?” Dodson said.
“I see him.”
Dumbo had an Uzi, somebody in the backseat handing him a clip.
“Hurry up, hurry your ass up!” Dodson shouted at the Fiat; its engine straining like a mosquito in a headwind, the tiny car passing the minivan an inch at a time. “Oh shit,” Dodson said. The window of the BMW was coming down, the barrel of the Uzi sticking out. “HURRY UP! HURRY THE FUCK UP!” he screamed at the Fiat. Dumbo was leaning out of the window, trying to get an angle. “HURRY UP, MUTHAFUCKA!” Isaiah was about to slam on the brakes and let the BMW go by but the Fiat moved forward just enough for the Audi to slip in front of the minivan. Isaiah downshifted, winced at the pain, and blasted off after Benny.
“Thank you Jesus!” Dodson yelled.
The BMW came around the minivan and in moments caught up with the Audi. Dumbo had the gun stuck out of the window, his arm in a semicircle. He started shooting but it was harder than it looked in the movies. If your aim is off even slightly with a short-barreled gun, the bullet strays wider the closer it gets to your bull’s-eye. Dumbo’s rounds were hitting parked cars, buildings, and streetlamps. Skinny screamed at him and yanked him back in the car.
Benny was a quarter mile ahead now, approaching the big turn. Beyond it the fences and guardrails stopped, and there was nothing but wide-open desert on either side of the road.
“He’s gonna make it,” Dodson said.
“He’s going too fast,” Isaiah said. “His tires won’t hold.”
“Don’t jinx the boy!”
“Slow down, Benny, slow down!”
Benny slowed but it didn’t seem nearly enough. He leaned over so steeply he could almost reach down and touch the pavement.
“Go, Benny, go!” Dodson shouted. Benny made it through the turn, and you could almost hear him yell Yahoo. “What’d I tell you?” Dodson said, whacking Isaiah with the back of his hand. “That’s my boy—oh shit!” Benny hit a patch of gravel, the bike skewing sideways. He tried to correct it, turning into the slide, but the knobby tires let go, the bike landing on its side. Benny slid off and tumbled into the brush, the bike whirlybirding across the asphalt in a shower of sparks, going another hundred feet before it stopped.
Isaiah sped past Benny and then the bike, its wheels still spinning. “We can’t stop,” he said.
“You don’t think I know that?” Dodson said. “That muthafucka had an Uzi.”
“Dammit,” Isaiah said. He pulled over, and they looked back. The BMW had stopped, the guys running into the brush where Benny had disappeared. Dumbo saw them and Isaiah took off again.
“What do you think?” Dodson said. “Fifty-fifty that Benny’s still alive?”
“Yeah,” Isaiah said. “Fifty-fifty.” The whole mission was falling apart. To console himself, he said, “Well, at least Janine is safe.”
“Where is she now?” Tommy said.
“She’s still on I-15,” Zhi said, his MacBook set up on Ken’s desk. “She should be in LA in three hours.” Zhi was smart, having the guys attach a GPS tracker to Janine’s bus. Zhi said that sooner or later everybody comes back for their car.
“What type of tracker?” Tommy said.
“It’s the same one the FBI uses. Motion-activated, battery lasts a hundred hours, operates up to a hundred and forty degrees Fahrenheit, military standards for shock and vibration, four-G network. We’ll know where she is within three meters.”
Tommy didn’t understand half the things Zhi said but asking a question made it sound like he did. “What about the black guys?” he said.
“We have nothing on one of them,” Zhi said. “The other is Isaiah Quin-ta-bee. He’s some sort of neighborhood detective. Quite well known and by all reports very good at it. They call him IQ.”
“Who works for us in LA?” Tommy said.
“The Chink Mob. They’re reliable. Hard to keep them in check, though.”
“Once Janine reaches her destination they are to approach her and bring her back, by force if necessary. Tell them to do this quietly. Small team, in and out, no police.”
“Yes, Tommy.”
“And keep digging on this IQ and find out about his friend. I want to know more about them.”
“Yes, Tommy.”
Ken woke up, his eyes crusted shut. Opening them was like peeling off a Velcro strip. Everything hurt. Every movement made him wince and groan. He was in a windowless room lit like night vision through a red lens, the air sluggish with the smells of disinfectant, garlic, and baby oil.
A folded towel was on the massage table, plucked minor notes playing through a scratchy speaker.
When Ken first started working for Tommy he’d done a quick walk-through at a brothel near the Rose Parkway, not really looking around, afraid he’d remember something that would keep him up nights. Since then, he hadn’t visited a single facility. If there was trouble, he handled it on the phone. He didn’t know what any of the mama-sans looked like and he’d never had a conversation with one of the girls. He couldn’t imagine coming in here, taking off his clothes, and lying naked on a table where hundreds of men had grunted and ejaculated. He thought if he had a UV light the whole room would glow. He wondered how this was even sex. Some anonymous girl unlovingly rubbing your dick until you got off and leaving you using the towel to wipe the cum off your stomach. What did you think afterward? Ooowee, that was hot! What the girl thought was too awful to contemplate.
Ken heard a groan. There was somebody else in the room. “Benny?” he said.
“Who’s that?” Benny said. Ken could barely make him out, curled up against the far wall, knees pulled up to his chest.
“It’s Ken Van.”
A silence like Benny had stopped breathing. “What are you doing here, Mr. Van?” he said at last.
“What do you think I’m doing here, you fucking idiot?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Good for you.” Ken wanted to crawl over there and kick him to death.
“Is Janine okay?” Benny said.
“I don’t know, Benny,” Ken said. “I don’t know how she is. She could be in the next room getting the shit beat out of her. She could be dead.”
“Oh God,” Benny said. “Don’t say that.”
“How could you do this, Benny? How could you be so stupid?”
“I don’t know,” Benny said, tears in his voice.
“If my daughter is hurt in any way, I’ll kill you, Benny.”
“That’s okay. You won’t have to.”
There was an argument out in the hall. Ken recognized the skinny guy’s voice. He was arguing with the mama-san. She wanted the room back, she was running a business here. A minute later, Skinny returned with a couple of other guys and they hauled Ken and Benny into the back room.
Three girls were sitting on an old car seat. They were all wearing cheap shorts, tank tops, and mules. No makeup, blunt haircuts, and bad acne; not used to eating a diet of fast food and Coca-Cola. They were watching TV. A Chinese boy band with their caps on sideways were doing a herky-jerky dance. The girls looked like they were waiting for a train that wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. They could have been in the third world someplace, the room painted that bilious green you only see in prisons and aging hospitals. There were a pile of dirty dishes on the sink and a microwave with greasy fingerprints all over it. Hunks of drywall were torn out of the walls, no covers on the harsh fluorescents. The one window was painted over, chicken wire inside the glass. Bras and panties hung on wire racks, aluminum pie pans full of cigarette butts were scattered around.
The girls didn’t say a word when Ken and Benny were shoved down on the floor. The skinny guy and his buddies resumed playing cards on a rickety Formica table, smoking, drinking Tsingtaos, talking in Cantonese, their guns in front of them. Above them on wall brackets were two worn-out surveillance monitors. One showed the reception area, the mama-san at the desk. The other showed the hallway leading to where they were now.
The skinny guy glanced at his watch and then looked at Ken and Benny. “Not long for you,” he said, smiling. “Everything over pretty soon.”
“You’re letting us go?” Benny said.
The Red Poles laughed. “Yeah,” Skinny said. “We let you go.”
Benny looked at Ken like that was cause to be hopeful.
“How did you get to be so fucking stupid?” Ken said.
Chapter Eight
Ascension
The morning after the confrontation at Frankie’s, Isaiah went out for an espresso and a Danish at the Coffee Cup. He was still grinding on the identity of the robber. He’d come up with nothing and was burning himself out. He needed a break. He hadn’t been to the gym in a while. It’d be good to scrape the mold off his reflexes, refresh the memories his muscles had forgotten. But take it easy, just work up a sweat.
If Ari was glad to see him he didn’t let on. “Where have you been, Isaiah?” he said. “Did you gain some weight? Yes, definitely. Four pounds at least.” It was Ari’s gym. He was thick like a pillar and made from the same concrete, a wary unyielding look in his eyes, his silver crew cut matching the tangle of hair on his chest, his fists like cannonballs studded with knuckles. Ari had fought in the first and second Intifadas and the war in Lebanon. He’d emigrated to the US seeking peace and safety but never seemed to be convinced that he’d found either.
“Go change,” Ari said. “Let’s see how you are doing.”
Isaiah changed his clothes in the locker room, remembering his first lesson in Krav Maga. He was nineteen. He was walking back to his apartment from the hospital after seeing Flaco. He dreaded the idea of going back to the depressing one-room hovel that was dingy no matter how many times he cleaned and scrubbed. He was wondering what he could do to fill the hours and passed a place he’d been by numerous times. KRAV MAGA SELF-DEFENSE TRAINING.
He went in, stood at the edge of the mat, and watched other people work out. They were doing exercises and sparring but the movements were different from the martial arts he’d seen in the movies. No posturing or grace, everything quick and brutal.
Ari approached him. “You want to learn Krav Maga?” he said.
“I don’t know what it is,” Isaiah said.
There were old black-and-white photos on the wall, many of a balding man with a mustache and soldier’s fatigues. He was a rugged-looking brawler. A Sean Connery type. He was demonstrating moves to other soldiers. Choking one out, taking away a knife. A hip throw, bringing a man to the ground, one hand clamped over his mouth, a knee in his back, the man bent like a horseshoe.
“Krav Maga came from Czechoslovakia, the 1930s,” Ari said. “A terrible time. The fascists were attacking the Jewish quarter, beating people, killing people, but it was against the law for Jews to have guns. A man named Imi Lichtenfeld wanted a way for the Jews to defend themselves. He came up with a combination of aikido, judo, boxing, and wrestling.”
“Like MMA,” Isaiah said.
“Yes. This was MMA before there was MMA. He went on to teach the Israeli military, tough guys, believe me. Take off your shoes.” Isaiah removed his sneakers and Ari led him onto the mat. “Okay,” Ari said. “First principle. We defend and attack at the same time. Here, I show you. Throw a punch at me. A good one. Right here on the chin. Go on. You can’t hurt me.”
Isaiah was hesitant. He’d seen martial arts demonstrations before; the guinea pig trying to clock a black belt and ending up on the floor wondering what happened. But he’d always thought those demos were rigged, the guinea pig telegraphing the punch, the black belt knowing what was coming.
“Okay,” Isaiah said, and with no hesitation he threw a punch straight from the shoulder with his off hand. What happened next went so fast Ari had to explain it to him afterward. Ari blocked the punch with his left forearm. Simultaneously, he threw a straight right that stopped a paper cut away from Isaiah’s nose, the left hand coming off the block, grabbing Isaiah by the back of the head and pulling him down into what would have been Ari’s face-smashing knee.
“Damn,” Isaiah said.
“You see?” Ari said. “We never defend with both hands, always one to attack and always aggressive.” Ari threw a blizzard of punches and kicks that ended with Isaiah in a wristlock and forced to his knees. “This is real fighting,” Ari said, helping him up. “Street fighting. Not pretty to look at, but effective. Okay, second principle. We focus our attacks where the opponent is weakest. Groin, throat, eyes, temple, pressure points. There’s a fissure on top of the skull that comes togethe
r as you grow up. Hit your opponent there with enough force and you could kill him.”
“I don’t want to kill anybody,” Isaiah said.
“Maybe not now,” Ari said. “But you never know.”
Isaiah came out of the locker room and onto the mat, thinking he shouldn’t have eaten that Danish. The heat wave had turned the gym into a convection oven and he was already sweating under his clothes. There was a class of grade school kids being taught by a woman about Isaiah’s age. She wore a light blue head scarf, no makeup, and was pretty in an uncompromising way. Her kicks and punches were so sharp Isaiah had no doubt she could beat his ass. Maybe some of those kids could too.
Ari put Isaiah through his paces, holding a punching pad that looked like a human head, Isaiah doing repetitive sequences of kicks, punches, elbows and knees, breathing hard after the first ten minutes.
“Embarrassing,” Ari said. “Have you forgotten everything? Are you washed up already?”
“Maybe so,” Isaiah said.
“Try to remember. You throw the jab at one eye. See, like this. If you throw it in the middle he lowers his head, you break your fingers.”
“Right,” Isaiah said, hoping Ari would keep talking so he could catch his breath.
“Okay,” Ari said, “so now he is turning his head to protect his eye and you see what happens? He exposes a pressure point. Here, where the jaw meets the cheekbone. Boom. You hit him there, he goes down. If he doesn’t it’s because you are punching too soft, like you are today. Then it’s left, right, elbow, elbow, knee to the balls. Okay, do it again.”
They practiced until Isaiah’s sweats were soaked through and his lungs were scorched. They practiced a new move: disarming someone with a gun. It seemed like a relevant thing to learn given what happened at Frankie’s house. Ari gave Isaiah a toy gun and demonstrated. It involved a series of movements, but Ari did them so quickly it seemed like a single motion. The gunman had to be an arm’s distance away, the gun held in front of him. With no hesitation, you turned sideways, out of the line of fire, at the same time grabbing your opponent’s gun hand by the wrist, your other hand turning the gun barrel upward and twisting it away. Ari made it seem easy. In one instant, the toy gun disappeared from Isaiah’s hand, and in the next, it was aimed at his chest. If there’d been a puff of smoke Isaiah wouldn’t have been surprised.