Righteous

by Joe Ide

  “Seriously?”

  “Do a Google on him. Got a million pictures of him riding around on that thing. And I’ll tell you something else, and I know this one for a fact.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “There’s a chemical in government cheese that makes black folks late for work.”

  Janine choked on her biscuit. “Get out of here,” she said.

  “It’s true,” Deronda said. “I was forty-five minutes late for every job I ever had ’til I started eatin’ Velveeta. Shit. You think we ain’t got alarm clocks?”

  “Damn this stuff is good. I could eat this all day.”

  “Wait’ll you taste the chicken. You’ll never eat that Kung Pao shit for the rest of your life.”

  There was a stuffed animal on the floor. A cow. Janine picked it up and gave it a squeeze and it mooed. “That’s funny,” she said.

  “You think that’s funny?” Deronda said. “Try listening to that thing moo fifty times in a row and you might change your mind.”

  “You’ve got a kid?”

  “Janeel. He’s four. I love that boy. Nothing I wouldn’t do for him but I’m glad as hell he’s in San Diego. You want kids?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Look before you leap, girl. It’s the hardest job you will ever have in your life.” Deronda got up and started clearing away the dishes. “You must be in a whole bunch of trouble,” she said. “Got to run all the way to Long Beach.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Janine said.

  “Y’all can relax. Ain’t nothing gonna happen to you here.”

  Three members of the Chink Mob rode in the silver ’99 Integra, the car lowered, black rims, dual exhausts chugging, a turbocharger sucking air. Wing drove, worried about the job. Kidnap a girl from a house? What kind of bullshit was that? What if her boyfriend was with her? What if she had a piece? Fucking Tommy was crazy. This shit was going to get him busted. He was twenty-one and already had two strikes. One more and he was off to San Quentin, share a cell with his brother in there for murdering a South Side Maravilla.

  “Shit, we made a wrong turn,” Huan said. He was in the backseat shaking his phone like it was the problem. “Go back—no, make a right.”

  “Damn, Huan,” Wing said. “All you gotta do is look at the blue dot. What’s wrong with you?”

  It was a little after eleven. The businesses on Anaheim were closed except for the Shell Station and the 7-Eleven.

  “I’m hungry,” Huan said. “Let’s get something to eat.”

  “You’re always fucking hungry,” Gerald said, the cigarette in his mouth bobbing up and down. He took the Glock out of his pants and popped the clip in and out for the tenth time.

  “Put it away, okay, Gerald?” Wing said.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Boss Man,” Gerald said, popping the clip in with a little extra snap.

  They came to a stop at an intersection, Gerald reading the graffiti on a road sign. “Who the fuck are the Locos?” he said. “I bet they ain’t shit. Fucking Mexicans got numbers, that’s all. Motherfuckers breed like rabbits. Man to man we’d fuck them up.” Gerald was like that, always talking shit, starting shit. You’d never know by looking at him; bald, soft, potbelly, nerd glasses. He looked like a nearsighted Buddha with an attitude.

  “We’re early,” Wing said.

  “Early for what?” Gerald said.

  “We’ve got to wait for people to go to bed. Not so many witnesses.”

  “You’re a pussy, Wing. The fuck are we gonna do, just drive around?”

  “Up there,” Huan said, “the burrito place is open.”

  Frankie was having nightmares again. Ramona gently dabbed the sweat off his face with a towel and made him change his T-shirt. Then she gave him another couple of trazodone and waited until he fell asleep. She and her mother had been taking care of him for years now, but she still couldn’t believe that this was her big brother. He’d been her idol. She was proud of him. He looked out for her and protected her and gave her status. Don’t mess with Ramona, ese, she’s Frankie’s sister. You touch her and Frankie will kill you for real. She wondered if you could love somebody and feel sorry for them at the same time. She wondered if she loved him for himself or the respect she got from being his sister and now that he was a nobody if she loved him at all.

  With Frankie gone from the scene, Ramona had become an outcast. Nobody calling her or texting her or asking her to go places. Most of that was her fault. When she was on top she was a bitch; starting arguments, fights, spreading rumors, talking down to people. Now the homegirls had dropped her completely, paying her back. Lately, she’d been hanging out with the fellas, thinking if she got their respect the girls would take her back, but that wasn’t happening. That bitch Pilar had taken over the crew. Everybody looked to her to see who was in, who was out, where they should go, if they should have a party. Get in good with her and maybe she’d get a second chance. The problem was finding her; Pilar liked to hang out at different places. It was humiliating, driving around looking for somebody to be her friend, but she was lonely and she had to do something before she went crazy. That fucking Pilar had to be somewhere.

  Ramona took her mom’s Sentra and drove around for an hour. She finally found the crew in front of the Capri where she should have looked in the first place. When she drove up they were standing around like they always did, hands in the pockets of their hoodies, smoking, drinking, restless. It always struck her as weird that the whole group of them couldn’t think of anything better to do. Pilar was talking louder than anyone else, her laugh a piercing, high-pitched cackle like something you’d hear at the zoo. Somebody should have told her you don’t wear supertight clothes if you’re built like a heavyweight fighter, and your boobs weigh thirty pounds apiece. If it wasn’t for the chola makeup her face was a dead ringer for Santa Claus.

  Ramona stuck her head out of the window. “What’s happening?” she said.

  “Well, look who’s here,” Pilar said. “Manzo’s mascot.”

  “Yeah, that’s funny,” Ramona said.

  Everybody looked at her like what’s she doing here. She used to be that way, on the inside, looking for a reason to keep you out.

  “Say, do you have to ask him to go to take a piss or can you just go?” Pilar said. The other girls laughed, made faces at each other.

  “I don’t have to ask him nothing,” Ramona said.

  “Are you guys doing it?”

  “I’m not doing it with nobody.”

  “I’m not surprised. Who would want to do it with you?” More laughing, the girls grinning like Halloween pumpkins, Ramona’s insides shriveling with embarrassment. She could feel her face flush. “Well, what are you doing here?” Pilar said. “How come you’re not home with your big bad brother?”

  “Fuck you, Pilar,” Ramona said. Suddenly it was quiet, the girls making uh-oh faces and saying oooh. Pilar smiled like she was hoping this would happen.

  “Oh yeah?” she said. “Come on out here and say that, bitch.”

  “She’s not gonna do nothing without Frankie,” that puta Margo said. Somebody threw a beer bottle and bounced it off the Sentra’s fender, the girls high-fiving the one that did it.

  “So come on, Ramona,” Pilar said. “What are you waiting for?”

  Ramona hesitated. How did she get into this? How could she get out?

  “I told you she’s not gonna do nothing,” that puta Margo said. The girls were yelling now, calling her a pussy and a bitch and telling her to put her money where her mouth was.

  No choice. Ramona got out, the girls eager for violence, something to break up the boredom.

  “Yeah, come on, Ramona,” Pilar said, gesturing like she was helping her park the car. “Come on and do something.”

  Ramona walked toward her, adrenaline and shame pushing her forward, not seeing the girls or hearing their yelling as she threw a punch that caught Pilar on the cheek and drove her back a few steps.

  “Ohh sh
it,” somebody said. “You fucked up for real.”

  Pilar’s face changed from Santa Claus to serial killer. Screaming, she charged, bulling her way through Ramona’s punches. She grabbed her by her hair with one hand and hit her with the other, the cholas egging her on like men at a cockfight.

  “Let go of me!” Ramona screamed.

  Pilar slung her to the ground and sat on her like a donkey, pushing her face into the grass, mashing and grinding, Ramona screaming Get off me get off me, dirt and grass in her mouth. She thought she was going to suffocate, but Pilar dismounted, kicked her a few times, and spit on her. “Bitch. The next time I won’t go so easy on you.”

  Ramona stayed still, too humiliated to get up, the girls talking as they moved away. Way to go, Pilar, teach her a lesson, put her in her place, stupid little bitch, she ain’t nothing without Frankie.

  “Let’s go to Tito’s,” Pilar said.

  “Okay,” that puta Margo said. “See you there.”

  When they were gone, Ramona stood up, spit the grass out of her mouth, and got in the car. She looked in the mirror. Bleeding scratches, bloody nose, pebbles embedded in her skin, one eye fat and closing. A clump of hair torn out. She started to cry. “Fucking bitches, fucking bitches.” Tears cut paths through the dirt on her face. Her anger was an electric chair, sizzling voltage crackling through her veins. She’d get them back. Those bitches would be sorry for this. She’d walk up to that fucking Pilar and put a bullet in her head and spit on her and ask those other bitches if they wanted some and watch them back away. Shit, Ramona, you’re fucking crazy. Shit, Ramona, you ain’t fucking around. Shit, Ramona, you’re just like Frankie. She’d go home, get her piece, go to Tito’s, and put that fat bitch in the ground. Yeah, Pilar’s brothers would retaliate and she’d go to jail but she didn’t care. She’d get her respect back and people would know: Ramona Montañez is on the block.

  They all ordered the Supreme, Gerald taking giant bites, his mouth so full he could hardly chew.

  “Damn, man,” Wing said. “Can’t you eat like normal people?”

  “Fluck foo,” Gerald said, beans and rice falling out of his mouth.

  The burrito place was small and warm. Red-checkered plastic tablecloths, straws in a jam jar, bottles of Tabasco and sriracha. Wing couldn’t taste the food, eating because he was nervous. The GPS said they were only four or five blocks away from the girl they were supposed to kidnap. Google Earth showed a fucked-up house with a chain link fence like every other crib in the hood. The main thing was to be cautious, no cowboy shit. Case the place. Not go in all at once, have Huan wait in the car with the engine running. That’s about all he was good for. Look at him, sitting there chewing and nodding like he’d eaten the burrito in a dream and the real thing was just as good.

  “East Long Beach ain’t shit,” Gerald said. “You see them Mexicans on YouTube? Got the guns, got the ink, talking all bad. It’s bullshit, man.”

  Just like our videos, Wing thought.

  A Mexican girl came in. “Hey, Tito,” she said to the guy behind the counter. “Did Pilar and them come in?”

  “They just left,” he said.

  “Did they say where they were going?”

  “No.”

  “Fucking beaners try to rap,” Gerald said. “That shit is lame, man. You can’t understand that shit, it’s all in Mexican.”

  “Could you give it a rest?” Wing said.

  Gerald didn’t hear him, talking with his mouth open, like a tree shredder full of garbage in there. “Them punk-ass Locos should come to Arcadia, see how the real niggas do it. They’d get their asses smoked.”

  “Or maybe you would,” the girl said.

  “You talking to me?” Gerald said.

  “Yeah, I’m talking to you,” the girl said. “Who’d you think?”

  Wing wondered what this girl was so mad about. She just got here.

  “You down for the Locos, is that it?” Gerald said.

  “Uh-huh. Who the fuck are you?”

  “The Chink Mob, bitch. You wanna get dominated, come on down to our hood.”

  “Never heard of you, and you ain’t dominating nobody around here.”

  “Come on, Gerald,” Wing said. “Don’t start no shit.”

  “She’s the one that started it,” Gerald said. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, stood, and walked over to her, Huan still eating, not even raising his head. “What happened to you?” Gerald said, looking the girl up and down. “Your old man beat you up?”

  “Fuck you, asshole.” The girl had some spine, not acting scared, not backing down.

  “Let it go, Gerald,” Wing said. He could see THIRD STRIKE written on the girl’s forehead.

  “What’s your problem, bitch?” Gerald said. “You don’t think I’ll fuck you up just ’cause you’re a girl?”

  “Well, come on and do it then,” the girl said, her hands out, palms up.

  This girl was crazy, Wing thought. Gerald was a head taller and outweighed her by fifty pounds. Did she want to get her ass kicked?

  “What are you waiting for, cabron,” she said. “Stop talking and do something.”

  “Gerald, don’t be stupid, man, come on,” Wing said.

  Gerald went nose-to-nose with the girl and grinned. “I’m gonna fuck you up, you wetback bitch.”

  “Get out of my face, motherfucker,” she said.

  Gerald walked into her, forcing her to back up. “Or what bitch? Or what?”

  The girl retreated a few steps, reached behind her, and found the gun stuck in the back of her pants.

  “She’s strapping!” Wing shouted.

  The girl tried to pull the gun out, but the sight got stuck in her waistband. Gerald gave her a hard two-handed shove, putting his weight into it, sending her crashing into the salsa table. She slid to the floor, pico de gallo, pickled carrots, a napkin dispenser, and plastic utensils crashing down on her. She tried to get the gun out, but Gerald kicked her a couple of times. She doubled up, groaning.

  “You got anything else to say, bitch?” Gerald said.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Wing said. The guy behind the counter was dialing his phone.

  “I want to take her gun,” Gerald said, pushing salsa around with his foot.

  “Fuck that, let’s go!” Wing shouted. He grabbed Gerald and yanked him toward the door. He looked back at Huan. “Put the fucking burrito down and LET’S GO!”

  Ramona sat in the mess, dripping vinegar, cilantro leaves stuck to her face. “FUUUUCKK!” she shrieked. She shot a glare at Tito, who disappeared into the kitchen. On her hands and knees, she searched around for her gun. “Motherfuckers, motherfuckers!” She found it, scrambled to her feet, and ran out the door.

  They were in the living room with the lights off, the music turned down. It sounded like Kendrick Lamar was rapping from a block away. Janine was sitting in the Barcalounger with her feet up. Deronda was lying on the sofa, her head on the armrest. It was mellow, not seeing anything but the glowing tips of their joints. Janine thought about Benny; where he was and what he was doing and why had he had to be such a fuckup. “You got a boyfriend?” she said.

  “No I ain’t got no boyfriend,” Deronda said. “Ain’t had one in a long damn time, unreliable muthafuckas.”

  “You gotta meet Benny,” Janine said. “Unreliable is his middle name.”

  “But it don’t matter and you love him, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Janine said. She really did love Benny, even if he was unreliable and a loser. She was unreliable and a loser too, and he loved her back. “He’s really nice, really sweet.”

  “Ain’t none of them kind around here,” Deronda said. “Believe that. I been looking everywhere for a good man, ain’t found a one yet.”

  “Isaiah’s a nice guy.”

  “Back in the day, he was on my list but not no more. He need to get himself some social skills, learn how to have some fun.”

  “Yeah, he is kind of weird. What’s wrong with
him?”

  “I don’t know. He’s always been like that. Maybe when he was a baby his mama dropped him on his head.”

  Janine saw the tip of Deronda’s joint get brighter, smoke rising ghostlike and hovering over the sofa.

  “My daddy’s a good man,” Deronda said. “Don’t get drunk, go to work every day. Been married to my mama for twenty-six years and ain’t played around once.”

  “I don’t know anybody like that,” Janine said.

  “What’s wrong with men today? Bunch of damn control freaks, always bossin’ you around. Get down on your knees. Bend over. How come the house ain’t clean? Makes me wanna do as little as possible. Then the relationship ain’t nothin’ but one long negotiation. Tit for tat. You want something from me, you gotta give something up. Buy low, sell high, and you don’t never get but half of what you wanted. How ’bout this for an idea? You take care of me, I take care of you. I give you everything, you give me everything. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Not a thing,” Janine said.

  Deronda sat up abruptly and stared at a window, the one on the side of the house. “You see that? Somebody’s out there. I seen a shadow.”

  “Oh shit,” Janine said, pinching out the joint. It’s Tommy’s guys.

  “See? There it goes again.”

  Janine got up, skulked over to the front window, and peeked through the blinds.

  “You see something?” Deronda said.

  “You know somebody with a little silver car that likes to park across the street?”

  “No.”

  “Somebody’s sitting in it, I think he’s eating something.”

  “The fuck they here for?” Deronda said.

  They’re here for me, Janine thought.

  “I know,” Deronda said. “They want the food truck!” She strode across the room and disappeared into the hall. “Them muthafuckas be messin’ with the wrong sista.”