Righteous

by Joe Ide

  The heat wave was tormenting the city. The sidewalks were abandoned, the playgrounds and parks empty. Road-rage fights were reported on every freeway and air-conditioned shelters were provided for old folks. Tune in to any radio station and all you heard was hydrate hydrate hydrate. Isaiah went to the locker and burned his fingers on the padlock. He opened the sliding door and got a blast of hot, musty air as repellent as his dread. He did a long, slow scan, his eyes picking their way over the workbench, the trash can, the bins of scrap lumber, the pegboards, tool racks, the drill press, and the lathe. There were some old window frames and a couple of doors leaning against a wall. Unbeknownst to the storage company, Marcus had installed crossbeams near the ceiling so he could store lengths of two-by-four. Six-foot-high metal shelves lined the twenty-foot wall, laden with rows of cardboard cartons and plastic bins with lids marked TAX RECORDS, INVOICES, RECEIPTS, CORRESPONDENCE, BANK STATEMENTS, going back a number of years, as well as Isaiah’s school records, awards, and old photos. There were also miscellaneous boxes, piled with a hodgepodge of souvenirs, trophies, favorite toys, things that were meant to be fixed, cassette tapes, fishing equipment, shoes too good to throw away, and a bunch of other stuff you’d find in a typical garage.

  Lots of places to hide money. Isaiah considered gridding the locker, go through it systematically like the police would, but that would take a long time. Okay. So I’m Marcus. Where would I hide the money? Well, who are you hiding it from? A thief, of course, but that was easy to do. No thief would go through the whole place or cart the entire contents of the locker away. The main threat was Isaiah, and if that was the case then where would Marcus not hide the money? Sometimes they worked together so it was unlikely to be hidden in or around the tools, the construction materials, or the workbench. The walls and ceiling were corrugated metal so they were out. The floor was cement. That left the cartons and bins. Isaiah had stayed away from Marcus’s business. It was boring for a boy in Advanced Placement classes and Marcus was territorial about his work; that belonged to him. So maybe start with the business records.

  Isaiah went down the row, diligently riffling through the cartons one by one. He got impatient and shook the boxes instead to see if he could feel or hear something that wasn’t paper. In the box marked TAX RECEIPTS ’07, he felt something with some weight to it slide back and forth. It’s nothing. A stapler, something like that. He opened the carton and underneath a sheaf of file folders was a fireproof box about the size of a dictionary. Clawed hands twisted Isaiah’s intestinal tract, his scalp felt like spiders were crawling on it. No, it couldn’t be. It was birth certificates, passports, Social Security cards, stuff like that. Isaiah lifted the lid and the smell of old leather mixed with fabric softener wafted out like poison gas. Nothing but money smelled like that.

  Crammed in the box were twenty and hundred-dollar bills, rolled into neat bundles and bound with rubber bands. An eyeball count: twenty, forty, fifty—eighty grand? Isaiah’s first reaction was that it was some other kind of money. Marcus had found it or won the lottery or—no, that was ridiculous. There was no other conclusion you could come to. Marcus robbed Frankie.

  Isaiah shut the box and closed his eyes. It was as if Marcus was dying all over again; Isaiah’s perfect image of him hit by a meteor, smashing it to pieces. So Marcus had a hidden side. A side capable of getting a gun and ambushing Frankie and shooting him, however accidentally, and leaving him for dead. But why would he do it? That part was even more bewildering than the robbery itself.

  Isaiah went home, put the fireproof box on the coffee table, and flopped down in the easy chair. He stayed there, brooding at the gilded shafts of sunlight coming through the burglar bars. As the sun set, they turned hazy, fading into a pointillist painting of ever-darkening grays, the room dimming into blackness plush as velvet. Why? he thought. Marcus wasn’t materialistic so it wasn’t about buying things. He was a giving person so maybe one of his friends needed an operation or maybe it was for charity. No, that made no sense either. Marcus robbed Frankie so he could pay for a liver transplant or make a donation to the McClarin Park Community Center? No, it was something else. Marcus was a gambling addict? Not possible, Isaiah would have known. Marcus was in debt? To who? For what?

  Isaiah remembered when he was in high school. The brothers were having breakfast together. Marcus had his Shredded Wheat and coffee; Isaiah with a raspberry Pop-Tart and milk. They were having an argument they’d had a dozen times before.

  “There’s lots of other good schools, Marcus,” Isaiah said. “UCLA, SC, Davis, Berkeley.”

  “No. You’re going to Harvard.”

  “What if I’m not accepted to Harvard?”

  “You will be.”

  “What if I’m not?”

  “Then you’re going anyway. Harvard’s the best. Best students, best professors, best everything, and I want you to have the best.”

  Did Marcus rob Frankie so he could pay the forty grand a year tuition? A sickening thought, Marcus getting killed because his little brother had to have the best. Isaiah made some soup, ate half of it, and gave the rest to Ruffin. By the time he was a senior his GPA was 3.9. He’d scored twenty-two hundred on his SATs and in the thirties on the ACT. He’d won all kinds of awards for academic achievement, was involved in extracurricular activities and community service and had recommendations from counselors, teachers, even a city councilman. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was going to get a scholarship wherever he went, including Harvard. The fact was, Isaiah didn’t need additional money to go to college. Oh sure, some extra would help but he could work part-time to make his expenses and Marcus would have contributed whatever he could. It made no sense, Marcus risking his life, abandoning his conscience, and maybe going to prison just so Isaiah could have new clothes or a car. It wasn’t enough of a reason.

  These questions had absolutely no effect on Isaiah’s roiling hatred or his determination to find the killer. He wondered if Marcus would approve. Probably not. Marcus was pragmatic. He’d say he was dead after all and couldn’t you be doing something more productive with your time? Isaiah wondered if the people who killed their daughters’ rapists felt better afterward. He doubted it. Eliminating whoever caused your pain didn’t eliminate the pain itself, but that was an intellectual perspective and one that had no effect on his intentions. He would catch the man who took his brother’s life and the punishment would be terrible and brutal and oh how that murdering son of a bitch would suffer.

  The anger reenergized him. He opened the box again, looked at the money, and closed it. Okay, he thought, start over. Assuming it wasn’t somebody random, the only suspect left was Seb. The tidy man in the glen plaid suit had the intelligence and the means but no motive. Why, of all people, would he kill Marcus? Isaiah couldn’t imagine a reason. On the other hand, Seb had been deceptive about knowing Marcus and why would you do that unless you had something to hide? Could have been instinctive. A criminal’s response. No, Officer, I didn’t see anything, I don’t know anything, I don’t remember anything. Can I go now?

  Isaiah had hit a wall. There was no lead to follow, no evidence to find, not even an idea worth thinking about. Marcus used to say when you’re stuck and you feel like there’s no way forward, go the other way. Go back to the beginning.

  In the morning, Isaiah went back to the corner of Baldwin and Anaheim where Marcus was run down, and the world had changed forever. He took Ruffin with him. Chastened by the girl’s comments, he’d speed-read a couple of books on dog training. He’d found an all-positive method that was simple in concept. Reward the behavior you want, ignore the behavior you don’t want. A lot better than shouting commands a thousand times, the dog confused. What was that, Master? Did you just say no? No what? No walk? No pull on the leash? No stand here? No turn? No eat the dog turd? I’m not a mind reader, asshole. Ruffin always barked at other dogs, so if they were approaching one, Isaiah held a treat in front of his nose to distract him, and when they passed the dog without i
ncident, he got the treat and an enthusiastic Good boy! If he barked, Isaiah said nothing, and there was no treat either. The dog picked up on it fast. Same about jumping up. If he did, Isaiah turned away and gave him the cold shoulder. If he approached and immediately sat down, he was rewarded. Sitting had become automatic, the default position, no treats required. Isaiah took Ruffin to the park so he could get used to people, the homeboys admiring him, playing tug-of-war with him. He took the dog to the animal shelter and let him romp with the dogs there.

  “You’re not such an idiot after all,” Harry said.

  When Isaiah reached the intersection it was like looking at the photos of the Accord. Everything normal, cars driving by. Where’s the memorial? Why isn’t the road closed? Isaiah shut his eyes and saw the accident happening again. The two of them talking, Marcus asking him what he wanted for dinner as he stepped into the intersection, the car hitting him so hard it was like a cheap special effect. One second he was there, the next he was broken and bleeding and sprawled on the pavement. Isaiah remembered kneeling beside him and screaming for help and telling Marcus everything would be okay and Marcus not moving or saying anything and people telling him an ambulance was on the way.

  A cop got there first. He took one look at Marcus and got on his radio. We’ve got a 10-57, requesting backup. Isaiah learned later that a 10-57 was a hit-and-run. Then the paramedics came and told him to stand back and that they’d do everything they could, one of them talking on his radio. The victim is a male, twenty-five years old, hit-and-run. He has multiple lacerations, impaired breathing, head injuries, fractures to his left arm and leg, and possible internal bleeding. The paramedic had already decided it was a hit-and-run and so had the cop. Later, an APB had probably gone out for the Accord, but that would have been the extent of the investigation. It wasn’t a homicide, and you couldn’t assign detectives to look for an individual car in a city choking with them. The conspiracy to kill Marcus had gone off as planned.

  But what if the cops hadn’t bought it? What if they hadn’t been so quick to assume that it was an accident and suspected it might be a homicide? What would they have done then? They’d have looked for a motive. A struggle with a business rival, a crime of passion, life insurance, revenge. But what did that have to do with Seb? Except for the notation in the workbook, there was no evidence Marcus had ever met Seb, and even if he had, what could he possibly have done to warrant being killed? There had to be a nexus somewhere, but where would you even start looking? Only Seb knew the answers and only Seb could give them up.

  Chapter Eleven

  Frankie the Stone

  Ramona was in the morgue. Manzo had viewed the body. Neither Frankie nor her mother could deal with it. It was late morning, and the living room was too small for the crowd. People were standing around talking about normal things. What they’d seen on TV. What was on sale. What somebody said about somebody else. Manzo didn’t blame them. How much could you say about Ramona?

  Frankie was on the couch, his mother clutching him, crying.

  “Ella no hace daño a nadie,” she sobbed. “Ella era una buena chica.”

  Did she really believe that? Manzo wondered. That Ramona was a good girl and that she never hurt anybody? Where’d she been all this time? The shooting had only happened last night, but the mantel had already been cleared for Ramona’s photograph, two black ribbons crossing the top corners of the frame. It was taken when she was a student at St. Anne’s; ten, eleven years old, a tooth missing from her sinless smile, a gold crest on a dark red sweater vest, a prim white collar. Next to the photo, incense sticks were burning in a silver bowl of uncooked rice. Manzo had seen that before but still didn’t know what it meant.

  Frankie looked like the only survivor on a minefield, the charred bodies of his comrades all around him, their flesh cooking in the flames. Manzo stayed back, not knowing what he’d say to him. It wasn’t his fault but he felt guilty anyway. He could have done things differently. Trying to control Ramona had only made her fight back harder and made her look bad to the cholas. He should never have slapped her. He should have talked to her more, not lectured so much. He should have asked Pilar and them to give her a break.

  Manzo glanced up and almost flinched. Frankie was staring at him, his eyes splintered with red veins and grief.

  “You were supposed to take care of her,” he said.

  The room went quiet, the people an audience now. A kid came running in and his mother hissed at him.

  “She went off on her own, Frankie,” Manzo said. “There was nothing I could do.”

  “I trusted you,” Frankie said.

  “I know and I’m sorry,” Manzo said. “I couldn’t be with her all the time.”

  “Why did you let her do stupid things?”

  “I didn’t let her, she just did them.”

  Frankie thought for a moment and then nodded at one of the old ladies. “Tía, cuidar de ella,” he said. “I’ll be right back, Mom.” He got up. “Let’s go,” he said, people making a wide path for them as they left the room.

  They came out of the back door and stood in the yard. “Who did it?” Frankie said, lighting a cigarette.

  “Ramona sent me a text before it happened,” Manzo said. He got out his phone and read the message. “‘Chink Mob in our hood. I got this.’”

  “Who the fuck is the Chink Mob?”

  “Alphonso said they’re from Arcadia,” Manzo said. “Look, Frankie, I did my best, okay? It wasn’t good enough but I tried.”

  Frankie smoked and stared at a rusty lawn mower stuck in the weeds. “You know what?” he said. “I’m like throwing the blame on you but it’s my fault. I couldn’t take her under my wing because I was too sick, too fucked up.”

  “That’s the way she was, Frankie,” Manzo said. “You can’t blame yourself.”

  “You see that picture of her, the one in the living room? She was a good girl, she was smart, she was doing good in school and everything.” Frankie bowed his head, covered his face with a hand, and wept, his voice hiccupping out of his throat. “She was my sister, man, my little sister. I was supposed to take care of her.”

  “It’s not your fault, Frankie.”

  “They shot her. They shot my little sister.”

  Manzo didn’t try to comfort him. It felt phony and wrong. He just wanted to get out of there, away from Frankie’s conscience, he had his own to deal with.

  “I loved her, man,” Frankie sobbed. “I loved her.”

  Did he? Manzo thought. He’d learned a long time ago that people say all kinds of shit but love is what you do. Frankie let Ramona hang with the fellas, ditch school, drink, smoke weed, and party all night. He bragged to her about who he’d shot and taught her how to use a gun and flashed thick rolls of cash and drove her around in his lowrider, Cypress Hill blasting out of the Fosgates, Ramona sitting tall, queen of the hood. Was that love? No. That was for yourself. That was ego.

  Frankie raised his head, took a long breath, exhaled through his mouth, and smeared the tears off with the heels of his hands. “Come on,” he said. There was a stack of junk piled up next to the shed; half sheets of plywood, two-by-fours, stacks of flowerpots, a roll of chicken wire, paint cans, dented rims, rocks, and cinder blocks. “Help me move this stuff,” Frankie said.

  Frankie worked like Ramona was buried underneath the pile. Pulling things off, tossing them aside, working up a sweat, breathing like a winded dog. A big plastic storage bin was underneath the junk. Frankie pried off the lid. There were five pistols and as many assault rifles. Different makes, different calibers. They were grimy because of the gun oil, patches of rust here and there. Frankie picked up a handgun, opened the ejector, and blew into it. He wasn’t stooping anymore; he was standing erect, his shoulders squared. Life was returning to the hollows of his face, and you could feel something moving around in that damaged brain, something with fur and teeth coming out of its den. “Get everybody together,” he said. “The park. Now.”

  His voice
was so different Manzo was startled. It was El Piedra’s voice. Frankie the Stone. Violence had destroyed him. And violence was bringing him back to life.

  “Why?” Manzo said.

  “We’re going to Arcadia.”

  Thirty-eight members of the Sureños Locos 13 met in McClarin Park. Frankie made a long, rambling speech, everybody paying attention out of respect. They were going to avenge Ramona, his little sister, who was killed in their own hood. Everybody but Manzo was down for it but he wouldn’t say it out loud. One more mission to nowhere that wouldn’t do anything except get a few of them killed and a few more locked up for a decade or two.

  At eight in the evening, twelve cars full of armed homies caravanned north on the 605 through Downey, Montebello, Temple City, and into Arcadia, the city’s hood like any other. Manzo wondered if there was a big factory somewhere that manufactured fucked-up apartment buildings, raggedy houses, liquor stores, and strip malls just for poor people. He stayed well behind. If they wanted to get pulled over, they couldn’t have done any better if they’d mounted a machine gun on Alphonso’s pumpkin-orange ’68 Chevelle, the doorsills two inches off the ground, blasting “Ride of the Valkyries” out of a Crossfire eight-thousand-watt amp and enough subwoofers and speakers to break eardrums in Dodger Stadium. But hey, they looked badass, didn’t they?

  According to social media, the Chink Mob hung out in an area just off Foothill near the 210. The Locos dispersed and drove around, sometimes passing each other and shrugging. They saw CM gang signs, but there were also tags from Wah Ching and the Four Seas Mafia. Mostly what they saw were a lot of Chinese people minding their own business. Manzo wondered what the fuck they were supposed to be looking for. Some homie carrying a sign that said I BELONG TO THE CHINK MOB?