Righteous

by Joe Ide

  Dodson followed Isaiah around to the trunk of the car. The floor panel and the spare tire had been removed, making the compartment extra deep. Plastic storage boxes of various sizes were neatly arranged and labeled. HAND TOOLS. DRILL/CIRC SAW. SOLDER/WELDER. PRY TOOLS. LOCK TOOLS. RESTRAINTS, WEAPONS.

  “Damn, Isaiah,” Dodson said. “What’s all this?”

  “Tools of the trade,” Isaiah said. Something called the Determinator was in a yellow plastic case.

  “What’s a Determinator?” Dodson said.

  “It’s a grenade launcher,” Isaiah said.

  “Now you talking, son, I’m down with that.”

  “All I’ve got are fireworks grenades. They’ll burn the whole place down.” He opened the SURVEILLANCE box: Binoculars, monocular, variety of hidden cams and listening bugs, long-range mike, night scope, GPS tracker.

  “Where’d you get all this?” Dodson said.

  “You can get anything on Amazon,” Isaiah said. “Did you know they sell a flamethrower?” Isaiah found the WALL BUG: a mike that looked like a suction cup and a set of headphones and small transmitter. “You can listen through concrete with this thing,” he said. He crept up to the back door of the massage parlor and put the mike against it. He listened for a few moments and came back to the car. “Skinny and some others are in the back,” he said. “Three of them by the sound of it. The TV is on.”

  “Did you hear Benny and Ken?” Dodson said.

  “No, but Skinny lost Benny once already. They’re probably close by.” Isaiah paused a moment, that faraway look on his face. Dodson knew what that meant. Shit. I’m running behind, he thought. What’s next? Oh, I know. How! How we gonna get Ken and Benny out of there? Look at him. He’s playing it out in his mind. Frustrated, Dodson didn’t even ask.

  “Where’s Janine’s phone?” Isaiah said.

  Leo was at the crib, lying on his big round bed, wearing his black silk tuxedo socks and nothing else. He liked to say the black satin sheets were just like Hef’s. He was smoking a joint with Misty Love. She was from Eastern Europe somewhere; high cheekbones, glacial blue eyes, fake tits. She always had a look on her face like she was watching C-SPAN cover a golf tournament even when she was on her hands and knees. She once told Leo her last name, and he said: “How can you have a name with no vowels in it?”

  “Ven are you goink to marry me, Leo?” she said, passing the joint to him so slowly it was like a sloth climbing a tree. She did everything like that. Leo thought washing her face must take her a day and a half.

  “What’s that?” Leo replied. “I’m never goink to marry you. Leo the Lionheart needs a whole tribe of females to keep him satisfied.”

  “It’s pride.”

  “Pride? I got pride. I got more pride than that parade they have in West Hollywood. You know me and Zar got stuck in that last year? Yeah, they closed off all the streets and some oiled-up weight lifter with a spray tan hit my car with a sign that said Queen for a Day, and Zar grabbed him by his codpiece and—”

  “No, Leo, as usual, you are not lisnink correctly. I mean it’s a pride of lions. Pride means group. Like flock of birds or herd of sheep.”

  “Or a whole bunch of bitches. Maybe it’s different in Slobovia—”

  “Lithuania.”

  “But here in America we don’t pay our fiancées before the nuptials. By that time it’s more of a barter system. She gives it up and you buy her a car.”

  They heard Renee in the other room. “Cut it out, Zar, I told you before. Don’t you put it in there.”

  “Marriage is normal, Leo,” Misty said. “Vee are perfect together.”

  “Vee are? Since when?”

  Leo handed her the joint back and she took a hit like she was inhaling a noodle that was five feet long.

  “Tink about it, Leo,” she said. “The screwing is good, yes? Also, I am self-sufficient, I am not botherink you with my problems.”

  “Well, I gotta give you that. I remember when Charlie O gave you a black eye, and you beat him with that fireplace poker all by yourself.”

  “Here is bottom line, Leo. You don’t luff me, I don’t luff you. If we don’t luff each other we don’t fight. There is nutting to fight about.”

  “But if we don’t luff—”

  “Stop it, Leo. It is annoying.”

  “If we don’t love each other why do it?”

  “So vee von’t be lonely,” she said. “It is normal.”

  Leo’s phone buzzed. A text from Janine. broke up with benny just left him at massage parlor getting rocks off. has $$ for vig but won’t pay. asian flower massage hurry.

  “Hey, Zar?” Leo said, pulling on his black silk boxers. “We gotta go.”

  “You heard him,” Renee said. “Now could you get your skyscraper ass off of me so I can breathe?”

  The back room of the massage parlor had no ventilation and no ceiling fan. Ken and Benny were wedged in the narrow space between the washer and dryer. Benny was semiconscious and leaning on Ken’s shoulder. Everybody was sweating, but only Ken seemed to mind, the girls and the Red Poles used to heat and humidity.

  “Could we get some water, please?” Ken said.

  “You don’t need water,” Skinny said, grinning. “Pretty soon you never need water again.” The three Red Poles laughed.

  Ken couldn’t believe it. They were really going to kill him. Kill him before he’d lived any kind of life, before he could make it up to his daughters, before he could start over. “Let me speak to Tommy,” he said.

  “No, Tommy. Too late for that.”

  “He doesn’t need to do this. We’re not going to talk to anybody. Why would we? We’ll just disappear. He’ll never hear from us again.”

  “This way he know for sure. You shut up, okay? Or I shoot you right now.”

  Ken looked at Benny. He was despondent, cradling his broken arm like a baby born dead.

  “I wish I could see Janine,” Benny said, heaving and blubbering. “Just one more time…tell her…tell her I’m sorry.”

  “I warned her over and over again that you were a loser but she wouldn’t listen,” Ken said.

  Benny looked at him, the boyish face twisted with rage. “What about you, Mr. Van? I know I’m a loser, but I’m not evil—all those girls. Go to hell, Mr. Van. Go to fucking hell.”

  Isaiah was rummaging around in the LOCK TOOLS box.

  “How’re you opening that door?” Dodson said.

  “Bump key and the drill are too loud. I’ve got to pick it.”

  “You know they got guns in there, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Dodson looked chagrined. “I can’t go in there with you.”

  “What?”

  “I said I can’t go in there with you. If I get killed, Cherise’ll kill me again.”

  Isaiah looked at him.

  “I’m gonna be a daddy, Isaiah. I can’t get shot now.”

  “Fine,” Isaiah said. “Look in the weapons box. The red case.”

  Dodson found the red plastic case. The label said THE HEAT SEEKER. “The hell is this?” he said. He opened it and embedded in the gray foam were parts of a handgun. “Damn, Isaiah. I didn’t know you was strappin’.”

  Picking a lock was one more thing that had no relation to how they did it on TV. Isaiah shook his head when the CIA agent stuck a paper clip in the lock, twisted it around a little, and presto, the lock opened. In reality, you needed to know the mechanics of a lock and practice a thousand times; develop a touch for it because you’ll be doing everything blind. Hidalgo, the locksmith, told Isaiah that the people on YouTube who picked a lock in thirty seconds could do it because they were locksmiths. Hidalgo explained that the little peaks and valleys on a key were called cuts. When you put the key into the cylinder, each cut corresponded to a tiny spring-loaded piston, each the size of a large ant. They act as miniature dead bolts and are really what keeps the lock locked. The cuts elevate or lower the pins, aligning them so when you turn the key, they get out of t
he way and the lock can open. When you pick a lock, you’re trying to align the pins just like the key would.

  Isaiah inserted a tension wrench first, like an Allen wrench but flat. It kept the pins from springing back into place once they were aligned. Trial and error had taught Isaiah that the weight of one finger was just enough tension. The keyway was narrow so he chose a Deforest diamond pick, thinner than the standard S. He made an exploratory probe and counted five pins. He started with the one at the back, gently nudging and prodding, his eyes closed, visualizing what the pick was doing.

  “What’s taking you so long?” Dodson said.

  “Shut up, okay? I have to concentrate.” He found the pin and with a motion no bigger than drawing a grain of rice he felt it slip into place. He went on to the second. He was starting to sweat. He knew the plan was tenuous, reckless and maybe even stupid, but he kept seeing himself lounging on the cream-colored sofa with Sarita, drinking a glass of wine, talking easily, the Modern Jazz Quartet drifting gently from the stereo, kissing her, stroking her hair…

  “You know you got to get this open before Leo gets here,” Dodson said.

  “Will you please shut up?” Isaiah replied. “Load the gun.”

  Dodson opened the Heat Seeker case and began assembling the components. “Wait a second,” he said. “This ain’t no real gun.”

  “It’s a pepperball gun.”

  “Pepperball gun? Did you say pepperball gun?”

  “Semiauto, gas-powered, eight shots, sixty-foot range,” Isaiah said.

  “Them muthafuckas got Glocks,” Dodson said. “Semiauto, powered by gunpowder, ten shots, and the range is from here to East Long Beach. Are you crazy? Why don’t I just go in there and hit ’em with a salt shaker or a jar of mustard?”

  “Load it,” Isaiah said. The third pin fell into place.

  The Heat Seeker’s ammo was in a plastic envelope. Little round red balls. “This is what you talking about?” Dodson said, alarmed. “You got a golf club I can hit ’em with?”

  “They explode on impact,” Isaiah said, probing for the fourth pin. “A habanero pepper is rated at five hundred thousand Scoville units. These are rated at fifteen million.”

  “Uh-huh,” Dodson said. “So how many units is a bullet?”

  The white Benz pulled up and parked in front of Asian Flower.

  “You know what?” Leo said. “I might have been here before.”

  He and Zar got out and went up to the front door. It was locked, you had to get buzzed in. He could see the mama-san at the front desk. She had that what the fuck is that look on her face like most people had when they saw Zar.

  “Sorry, we closed now,” she said.

  “Then why does that big neon sign say open?”

  “No more girls. All busy.”

  “Busy? You mean forever? Who are they massaging in there, the National Guard? Open this door, bitch, and open it right fucking now.”

  “Sorry. We have private party.”

  “Everybody I know is a liar and you are the absolute worst I’ve ever heard. Are you gonna open this door or not?”

  “Sorry—”

  “Sorry what?” Leo said, rattling the doorknob. “There’s a flood in the building? You ran out of lube? Open the goddamn door before my friend kicks the shit out of it.”

  His nickname was Gujia, the Chinese word for skeleton. It used to bother him, people telling him he was too skinny and to eat more rice, but not anymore. Being hungry all the time gave him an edge. A hungry tiger is more alert than one that’s fat and happy. In ten minutes, Tommy would call and give him the go-ahead and then they’d take Ken and the kid out into the desert and shoot them. Gujia used to be bothered by the killing, but now he didn’t care; it was more of a chore than anything else, the victim just a floor he had to mop. The only people he could remember actually caring about were his three little sisters; stringy hair and sooty faces, no shoes, playing in the brown puddles on that filthy fucking rooftop. Only one was still alive. The second got sick. It could have been from the raw sewage that ran under their shack or from the water they drank out of a tin bucket or from the spoiled food they ate with their hands. Hard to say. She died without seeing a doctor. The other was a toddler when she fell off the roof. He remembered looking over the edge and seeing people clustered around her body. She was so dirty she blended in with the asphalt. The only thing he cared about now was his status in the triad and that was slipping away fast. He’d fucked up at the Lucky Streak and that wasn’t going to happen again.

  The alarm buzzer sounded, something was happening in the front. He looked up at the surveillance monitors and saw the giant kick in the door, the glass shattering, the lock ripped out of the doorjamb. The giant came in with the disco guy. The mama-san reached under the counter to get her Beretta, but the giant’s arm extended like an old-fashioned car antenna and shoved her into the wall so hard her eyes rolled back into her head as she slid to the floor. There was no other reason for them to be here except to get Benny.

  “Let’s go,” Gujia said. The Red Poles grabbed their weapons and ran into the hallway just as the giant and the disco guy entered from the other end. Everyone stopped and raised their guns; thirty feet away from each other, hard eyes unblinking, not fucking around. The hallway was red-lit and warm. Nobody moved, sweaty seconds going by.

  “Well, if it ain’t the beanstalk,” Disco Guy said. “Anybody ever tell you to eat more rice?”

  “You go now or we start shooting,” Gujia said.

  “I want Benny. Do you want to get him for me, or shall I get him myself?”

  “You try. See what happen.”

  “Do you Charlie Chans know who you’re messing with? I’m Leo the Lionheart and I’m not going anywhere unless you got Misty Love standing behind you with an ice pick.”

  “You bring giant again, huh?” Gujia said. “We not scared of him.”

  “You should be,” Leo said. “Does he look like he’s afraid of bullets? We were coming out of Dino’s one night, and Ray Santini shot him in the head. Zar didn’t even know he’d caught one until blood came out of his ears and fucked up my upholstery.”

  Gujia thought about Tommy and what he’d say if Ken and Benny got away. “I ready to die,” he said. “What about you?”

  Dodson was listening with the Wall Bug, Isaiah still picking the lock. “The Red Poles left the room, man, hurry up,” Dodson said. “Ain’t nobody in there now.”

  “Will you please leave me alone?” Isaiah said. One of the pins that was already aligned slipped back into its original position. “Dammit, see what you made me do?”

  “Stop whining and open the damn thing!”

  Isaiah remembered robbing a bicycle store; careening down an alley in reverse, a cop car on its way, Dodson yelling at him just like he was now.

  “I can hear ’em arguing with each other,” Dodson said. “You gotta get in there now!”

  “Shut up, Dodson!”

  Leo’s arm was getting tired from holding the gun straight out, and he was getting tired of all this bullshit; in a Mexican standoff with some punk-ass Chinamen who evidently didn’t know about Leo the Lionheart. Yeah, okay, he’d given himself the name but it was true. He had a heart as big as a cast-iron lung. Everybody in Vegas was afraid of him except Baby Dewy, the bouncer at the Spearmint Rhino, who had three metal plates in his head; the Klesko brothers, but they were hired killers; Sandoval “Sarin Gas” Gutierrez, a former MMA fighter who was said to live in a cave with his wife, a bighorn sheep; and Elmore the Dwarf, who made his living stealing purses off the backs of chairs. Creepy little dude, with his pudgy hands and oversize head. Say something about his height and he’d whack you in the nuts with a cut-down three-wood.

  “Am I ready to die?” Leo said to the skinny guy. “Is that what you said? Are you seriously trying to intimidate me? Shit. I been in more gunfights than you wax on–wax off motherfuckers will ever see in your fucked-up Chinatown lives, which might be ending real soon if you don’t bring
Benny out here. Try and get it through your thick, slant-eyed, undocumented heads that I’m a dedicated, lifelong, unrepentant lawbreaking motherfucker and I play by no one’s rules but my own and rule number one is Pay me my fucking money.” Leo squeezed the trigger.

  Isaiah was working on the last pin, trying to keep his movements small and delicate instead of ripping the fucking doorknob off. He had the flop sweats and couldn’t keep his hands dry. He had to wipe them off on his shirt and start all over again. “Dammit,” he said. Dodson had finally shut up but you could feel his anxiety growing, about to explode. And then, gunfire. Like an artillery barrage. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! On and on, deafening even through the door, punctuated by screaming girls and the shouts of the shooters.

  No point picking the lock now. Isaiah stood up and kicked the door in. “Gimme the Heat Seeker,” he said.

  “Fuck it,” Dodson said, holding on to it. “Just go.”

  When the shooting started, Leo leapt sideways into a massage room, Zar too big and slow to do anything but stand there. The Chinese guys were still shooting, backing out of the hall, two of them hit and staggering.

  “Get down, Zar!” Leo shouted. “Why are you standing there like a goddamn high-rise? Get out of the goddamn way!” Leo stuck his gun around the corner and kept shooting. “Zar, did you hear me? Get out of the way!” Zar was looking down like he’d spilled something on himself except it wasn’t gravy on his shirt, it was blood. “Zar, can you hear me?” Leo said. “Take cover!” It reminded Leo of an elephant, the way Zar sat down, not bending his knees, his butt going straight to the floor.

  “What the fuck, eh?” Zar said. He looked puzzled, like Leo had told him he’d never die so why the fuck was the world turning dark? Then his shoulders went slack and his chin fell on his chest. He was gone. Leo was stunned, and in a rare moment of self-awareness, he realized that Zar was the only person in the world that he could actually call a friend. He slapped in a new clip, roared like a wounded demon and stepped out into the hall.