by Joe Ide
“Thanks for the help,” she said, like she was sorry she had to say it.
“Sure. Anytime.”
As she walked away, she half-turned, smiled, and said, “Bye.”
“Bye,” Isaiah said, not expecting that, a moment later realizing she’d been talking to the dog again. “Great,” he said to himself.
He felt more intrigued than attracted. This girl who drove a fast car, had a pocket watch tattoo, wasn’t afraid of pit bulls, and knew about David Ruffin. Yeah, she was rude, but she was alone in a wrecking yard. He could have been anybody, and okay, she’d given him a hard time but that was because she cared about the dog. As he packed up his tools, he wondered why he was making excuses for her. Maybe because she was a little like him. Removed, prickly, never acknowledging you needed help, and if you saw something you didn’t like, you said so and not politely.
When Isaiah got back to the warehouse, TK was leaning against the hoist and drinking a beer.
“Want one?” he said.
“No, thanks,” Isaiah said. “Who was that girl?”
“Who is she? I don’t know, but she’s a lezbo.” TK’s word for lesbian.
“How can you tell?”
“She got that hard look like you ’bout to grab her titty. She’s a lezbo all right.”
“What’s her name?”
“Name? Hmm, lemme think, it was on her check. Tracy or Macy or something like that. Why you asking?”
“No reason.”
A customer arrived and wanted suspension parts for a ’76 Cutlass. TK said maybe he had them, maybe he didn’t. He asked Isaiah, “Can you look after things ’til I get back?”
“Sure,” Isaiah said. As soon as TK and the customer were out of view, he hustled into the office and opened the cash register. There was only one check. The account holder was Grace Monarova, an address on Linden right off Seventh. Okay, so now that he knew that, what? He thought a moment but nothing came to him. He put the check back and left.
The 1995 Caprice had 1995 air-conditioning that hardly made a dent in the sweltering heat. The black paint didn’t help either. Manzo cruised along Magnolia, wondering who gave out the zoning permits and how much they got paid. A mattress company next to an apartment building next to a church next to a house next to a pain clinic next to another apartment building next to an auto body shop. He thought about Isaiah. He was a relentless dude. All these years later looking into what happened to his brother, and then he’s got the cojones to show up at Frankie’s house? Why the hell did Frankie let him in? Isaiah was smart. And fierce in his own way.
A homeboy named Stacks had a beef with Isaiah for busting his brother, a bubble-eyed idiot named Laquez. Stacks decided he’d get back at Isaiah by killing his dog. He took a potshot at Ruffin with his .22 and fortunately for him, he missed. Isaiah was beyond pissed but it wasn’t like him to get physical. He found out Stacks was a baggage handler at LAX. Then he went to an auction and bought a dozen pieces of lost luggage. After he removed all the ID tags, he broke into Stacks’s house and piled the stuff up in the basement. He used a burner and sent Stacks texts: Got any more iPads? Jewelry you sold me was shit. Drop by the crib 2night with $$. Keeping Armani suit for myself. Stacks had no idea what they were about and ignored them. Then Isaiah called the airport police. He said he worked alongside Stacks and he was stealing. No, he didn’t want to give his name. The police paid Stacks a visit. He didn’t think he had anything to hide and let them search the place. He got five years because he wouldn’t give up his partner. No, Isaiah wasn’t anybody to mess with, but there were limits, even for him.
Manzo drove past the elementary school. A low wall ran the length of the playground, a mural on it in bright fiesta colors. Daisies, clowns, flamingoes, a village with happy campesinos working in the fields, a doctor examining a patient, a man in a spacesuit landing on the moon. Was a kid from the barrio supposed to look at that and want to be an astronaut? There should be warnings instead. A homie behind bars or dead on the sidewalk or looking at his food stamp debit card.
There was graffiti on the mural. LIL GENIUS SL 13 ELB. Lil Genius, Sureños Locos 13, East Long Beach. SL13 →. Go in that direction and you’re in Loco territory. ANGEL CPV. Angel killed a Crip Violator. FREE JUAN KVSP. Free Juan from Kern Valley State Prison. Fans of Lil’ Wayne had started that bullshit when he went to Rikers for eight months. LKSRKC. Locos, Kimball Street set, Ramona, kill Crips.
Manzo felt sorry for her, trying to get respect by going heavy into the gangsta thing. People made fun of her behind her back, and nothing he could say would convince her to relax and be a regular chola, like Pilar and them weren’t crazy enough already. He had a feeling something bad would happen to Ramona but he didn’t know what he could do about it.
There was more graffiti on fences, street signs, sidewalks, and bus benches. Manzo had told everybody to cut that shit out. It pissed people off, seeing their property all messed up, and it helped cops focus in on them. Motherfuckers stuck in that barrio mentality. They couldn’t wrap their heads around change.
Manzo got the idea for a new kind of gang from Godfather II when Michael Corleone bought the casino in Vegas and told Kay that in five years, the family would be completely legitimate; legitimate another way of saying you’d be free. Free from the cops and people trying to kill you and spending half your life in the joint. Manzo’s goal was to dominate East Long Beach, not because the Locos were feared and sold the most drugs, but because they owned real estate and businesses and had a serious portfolio. Manzo wanted to get his homeboys off the street and stop dooming themselves to a life of crime and death. Lots of holdouts. Jorge, Popeye, X Ray, and Vicente to name a few; Vicente with that stupid fucking hairnet. And Ramona. One of the worst decisions of Manzo’s life was when he agreed to be her mentor. Not that he had much choice. Frankie asked him and he couldn’t refuse. Frankie had mentored him when he was coming up; gave him responsibility, grooming him, teaching him how shit worked. Nine years old and Manzo was delivering dope from the stash to the street dealers. He carried money and guns for the gang, the cops less likely to stop and search a little kid. He did surveillance on the Violators and Pimpside Family and those fucking Samoans who didn’t notice a scruffy Mexican kid riding through their hood on a beat-up bicycle. He played lookout when there were meetings at the park and when the homies hung out at the Capri. He got jumped into the gang when he was fourteen, the shit beat out of him in Jorge’s backyard. Frankie joined in.
Frankie was the one who recognized Manzo’s ability to see the big picture, learn from it, and figure out how to do things better. Hard to say where that talent came from. His dad maybe, a city planner in Mexico City before he died from lung cancer and left the family with nothing. Manzo figured out ways to improve the gang’s operations. If a big reup was happening, he sent out a decoy courier to test the waters. Then he split the real package between the real couriers so if there was a bust, the cops would only get part of the dope. And no more dealing on street corners. Better to do business in alleys where there were multiple escape routes; passageways, garages, back doors, and courtyards, everything mapped out in advance. Even if the cops entered from both ends of the alley all they’d catch were beer cans, weed ashes, and footprints. And always sell the best shit available at the going rate. No rip-offs. If the dope was iffy, sell it off to the unaffiliated dealers, let them fuck up their reputations. Let it be known: If you buy from the Locos you get the good shit every time. Eventually Manzo brought everyone indoors. No more police taking pictures of you dealing and the prosecutor showing them to a jury and telling them you were poisoning a whole generation of children.
Manzo encouraged secrecy. Most of the big busts happened because somebody was looking at a long jail term and snitched. Manzo said only Frankie and his top lieutenants should know what shit was coming down when, and only issue orders to specific people at the last minute. Manzo gave free dope to dope fiends for spying on each other; to give him a heads-up if somebody was rel
eased from custody too early. He decreed that drugs weren’t to be sold from stash houses and to move the locations so they’d be harder to raid. He encouraged everybody to get a medical marijuana permit and only carry small amounts to avoid a felony charge. He told everybody to keep their guns outside the house so a search warrant would come up with nothing. If you have to have a Glock on the coffee table while you watch TV then get your mom to buy it, and get a separate gun to use on the street. If you shoot somebody with it, sell it or throw it away. Simple shit but it kept you out of the joint.
Manzo said extorting protection money wasn’t worth the trouble. Take cash from some guy with a hot dog cart who’s making forty dollars a day and maybe he tells the cops and you get busted and then what happens? You and the fellas take revenge, beat the guy up, which somebody records on their phone, and everybody’s busted for aggravated assault and you get the max sentence because you’ve got a record. Better to protect the neighborhood, get people on your side. Some thug fucks with the hot dog man? Kick the thug’s ass, make him pay a fine, and give the money to the hot dog man. Some kids burglarize an old lady’s apartment? Make them give the shit back, cut the old lady’s lawn, and apologize. A junkie sticks up a neighborhood store? Take his dope away, lock him up somewhere, and let him get sick. The next time he wants to rob somebody it won’t be in the Locos’ hood. Manzo told the fellas to be Robin Hood, be Pablo Escobar. People were less likely to call the cops on you and take videos and be witnesses. Because of Manzo’s policies, gang arrests went down and profits went up, along with Manzo’s stature in the gang. When Frankie decided he wanted out there was no question Manzo would take over. Vicente held a grudge but so what? Manzo didn’t like violence but he wouldn’t run from it. If Vicente wanted to start some shit, he knew where to come.
He pulled over and parked. He pried a panel off the door, exposing the secret compartment Diego at the body shop had installed. Velcroed neatly in place were a Glock 9mm and an extra clip. More than once, the hiding place had saved him from a prison term. He let his anger rise, then loaded the gun and stuck it in his belt. The Audi was parked in the driveway. Isaiah was home.
Chapter Nine
A Real Man Does the Right Thing
After the car chase, Dodson drove. Isaiah was in a lot of pain. He had the seat back and his eyes closed. Dodson wondered if he should be taking all these chances. He was going to be a dad in a few days. A dad. The last thing he ever thought he’d be. Despite all his complaining, he was excited about it. He wondered what it would be like, watching Lil’ Tupac grow up, guiding him, protecting him. There was no way in hell the boy would be running the streets. It was college or death. Cherise had made it possible. She made everything possible. That he’d hooked up with her at all was nothing short of a miracle.
Dodson met Cherise just after he was released from Vacaville, in there on a variety of charges, all of them under the general definition of hustling. He was broke, living with his Auntie May again. Her house smelled like fried food and potpourri, the furniture like sleeping elephants in the rooms of her dark house, a million knickknacks with doilies under them.
One Sunday, Auntie May’s rheumatism was acting up and she couldn’t drive herself to church. Dodson took her. He hated her car, an old Dodge Fury. It drove like a freighter, with a plastic steering wheel the size of a Hula-Hoop and a bench seat covered in the same kind of polyester mesh you’d find on a beach chair. Punch the gas and it sputtered, backfired, swallowed three gallons of gas and took off about as fast as Auntie May answering the phone.
The United in God Baptist Church was an unimpressive pink stucco building with stained-glass windows that looked like colored cellophane and a steepled roof with a cross at its peak that used to light up but didn’t anymore. Dodson had nothing to do so instead of waiting around, he went to the service with Auntie May. As they took their seats in the chapel, Dodson noticed a woman stationed at the very back. She must have been in her eighties, withered as a dead vine, her owlish eyes behind glasses big as ski goggles. She was wearing a crisp white nurse’s uniform and a matching cap with a red cross on it.
“What’s a nurse doing here?” Dodson said.
“Oh, that’s Celia Mayfield,” Auntie May said. “She’s not really a nurse.” Auntie May explained that sometimes parishioners got moved by the spirit to the point of falling down on the floor and bucking like they were being electrocuted. “Celia’s supposed to keep people from hurting themselves but I don’t know how,” Auntie May said. “She can barely see her hand in front of her face.”
Reverend Arnall came to the pulpit. Dodson was in elementary school the last time he’d seen him, dragged to church by his mother and forced to sit still or get pinched to death. That his father was at home watching the game with a cold beer and a big bowl of Doritos didn’t make it any easier. The Reverend’s hair had gone white, he had more wrinkles, and he moved a little slower but the dignified, upright posture and upraised chin were the same, and so were the eyes that understood, forgave, and expected better of you. People said he looked like the actor Sidney Poitier. One of his dad’s favorite movies was In the Heat of the Night. Poitier played a detective from New York who was forced to work a case in the Deep South. Dodson’s dad would always fast-forward to the scene where Poitier was slapped by a rich old redneck and in the blink of an eye slapped him back. “Pow-pow,” his dad would say with a chuckle.
The Reverend was wearing what he always wore. A dark suit with a crisp white shirt, and a silver-blue tie with a pattern of loaves and fishes. His wife, Sylvia, had to tie it for him or it came out looking like a fist. Not a glint of gold anywhere on him except his wedding ring.
“Welcome, my friends,” he said, his warm smile a blessing in itself. “We are gathered here today to worship our Lord Jesus Christ and reaffirm our faith, that in Him we are refreshed, renewed, and born again.” The Reverend surveyed the congregation with a pride and compassion even a card-carrying atheist would feel. “I see familiar faces,” he said, “but I also see someone who hasn’t been here since he was a boy. Juanell Dodson, stand up and be greeted by the congregation.”
Dodson wondered who he was talking to. Was there someone else here named Juanell Dodson? Auntie May elbowed him.
“Stand up, Juanell,” she said, more than a little amused.
Dodson felt like he’d been called on to sing the national anthem at the Super Bowl. Slowly, he got to his feet. Why was everybody smiling at him? Was his zipper open? Did he have a weed stem on his teeth?
“Welcome, Juanell!” the congregation said in unison. It startled him and he flinched. There was a pause, everybody looking at him expectantly.
“Say something,” Auntie May said.
“Uh,” he said. He swallowed hard. “Hello.”
“We’re glad to have you, Juanell,” the Reverend said. “The Lord is always pleased when one of his children returns to the flock. I hope to see you more regularly from now on.”
Dodson didn’t want to lie in church. “You never know,” he said.
“The Lord does,” the Reverend replied, a wink in his smile. “Now let us join hands and pray.”
Dodson joined hands with Auntie May and a little girl in a yellow dress and yellow ribbons in her hair. The Reverend spoke of God’s grace and how we are His instruments of peace and justice, and he asked for understanding between men of all creeds, colors, and races. He said when we help others, even our enemies, we are serving His holy name. He asked for guidance as we navigated the perils and temptations of our temporal lives, and he gave thanks for God’s enduring love. Familiar lines, but the Reverend said them as if the Holy Spirit had whispered them in his ear that morning.
Dodson couldn’t relate, but when he glanced around he saw that the congregation was deeply affected. Some looked in agony, their eyes closed or turning to the heavens and waving a hand as if they hoped God would notice them. But most seemed happy or relieved, like this was what they’d come for, this feeling like a hot shower aft
er a long day or climbing into cool, clean sheets after a longer one. He envied them. Nothing in his life made him feel that way.
When the prayer was over, the organist began to play an old spiritual Dodson had heard many times as a child, “Oh Mary Don’t You Weep.” The choir came in from the back, their white robes trimmed in gold, doing a time step as they moved down the center aisle singing like angels from the hood. Dodson liked old-school gospel. No dance moves or rapping, no beatbox or theatrics, just pure, divine voices making a joyful noise unto the Lord. The little girl in the yellow dress was singing, not understanding the words but with a sound so pure and beautiful it gave Dodson the chills. We are all God’s children, he thought, but some of us get more blessings than others.
As the choir went by him, he saw a girl who made him blink a couple of times. Head erect, a posture like she knew who she was, a passionate face and you knew there was a body underneath that robe. She moved through the light from the stained-glass windows, now gold, now red, now blue, like heaven’s police car was pulling her over for being too fine. The girl was an alto, singing harmony right on key, her voice as smooth as butterscotch pudding, a little too sexy for a choir. I need to meet her, Dodson thought.
After the service, Auntie May stopped to talk to the Reverend and Dodson went outside and waited for the girl. She was in street clothes and walked past him without a glance. He followed her to her car, a late-model Prius. When she chirped off the alarm, she turned around, her expression like she was late for work and he was a detour sign.
“Can I help you?” she said.
“Good morning,” Dodson said with his best smile. “I’m Juanell Dodson.” If he was wearing a hat he’d have tipped it. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
“A pleasure for who, you or me?”
“Can you tell me your name or is that too personal?”