by Joe Ide
Wing looked over at Gerald, antsy, grinning like the deranged clown he was. If he racked the slide on his gun one more fucking time Wing was going to take it away and shoot him with it.
“Fuck, man, the shit is going down,” Gerald said, like it was Christmas morning. For some unknown reason, Huan was Tung’s driver, his hands probably sticky with salsa or ketchup or fish sauce, fucking up the steering wheel and stinking up the car. Wing watched the black guy get out of the food truck with his hands up.
“Who’s he?” Gerald said.
“Tommy kidnapped his wife. They’re exchanging her for—don’t you listen to anything?”
Longwei frisked the black guy and made him lie on the ground. Tung said something and Longwei and Lok approached the truck.
“I want to go down there,” Gerald said.
“Why?” Wing said.
“I want to get into it. Throw some lead, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“No, I don’t,” Wing said. “I truly don’t.”
Longwei opened the truck’s door on the passenger side, pointing the Uzi ahead of him. Lok was trying to see in through the service window, tapping his gun barrel on it.
“You come out!” Longwei shouted. “Everybody! Right now or we start shooting!” Nothing happened. “You fuck around we kill you all!” Still nothing. Longwei started climbing into the cab and a burst of gunfire bent him in half and blew him backward. In the same instant, a salvo erupted from the service window, Lok hit multiple times, twisting and falling to the ground. Tung was about to shoot but more gunfire shattered the front windshield, knocking chunks off the cinder blocks. Tung ducked and got behind them.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” Wing said.
“Fuck it, I’m gonna shoot,” Gerald said.
“Don’t. What if Janine’s in there?”
In the next instant, all the truck’s doors flew open and men came spilling out, more than you thought possible, most with assault rifles, firing in every direction as they ran for cover. They were Mexican and they were shouting Venganza por Ramona! Los Locos te destruiran, motherfuckers! Los Locos por siempre, tu putas! Matarlos por Ramona!
“The fuck?” Gerald said as he started firing at them. “Who are them guys?”
“That girl you shot?” Wing said. “Her people. The Locos, remember?”
One of the Mexicans threw the black guy a gun as he ran by. He joined the others, who were spreading out, yelling and pointing at where the shooters were, flanking them, racing from rock pile to rock pile. None of that helter-skelter shit. These dudes had a battle plan. Venganza por Ramona! Matarlos por Ramona! The Chink Mob was firing back, bursts of white flames and sleeting sparks erupting out of the blackness, the shots so loud they cleaved the night, more coming before the first ones faded, smoke hazing over the headlights’ broad beam, silhouettes bent low racing across the alien light.
“Man, I can’t hit shit from here,” Gerald said. He patted his pockets. “Shit,” he said. “Gimme your extra clip. I want to go down there.”
“Don’t be stupid, Gerald,” Wing said. “We should get out of here.” The Acura was parked off the road about a half mile down the highway.
“What? I’m not going nowhere,” Gerald said. “And who you calling stupid?”
“You, okay? You’re the stupidest motherfucker I’ve ever met! How you even stayed alive this long is a fucking mystery.”
“Don’t disrespect me, Wing,” Gerald said, pushing the nerd glasses up and crinkling his nose. “You know I don’t take that shit from nobody, not even you.”
“If you go down there you’re gonna get killed,” Wing said. “And for what? Tommy Lau? He doesn’t give a shit about you.”
“Who’s talking about Tommy Lau, man, the action’s down there. Hey, if you’re not going, gimme me your extra clip, will you?”
Wing felt like crying. He felt dumb and afraid and ridiculous, like he was dissolving, a drop of food dye in a glass of water. “Gerald, please, we need to get out of here.”
“Why are you being a fucking baby?” Gerald said. “Come on, hurry up, gimme your clip.”
“No, forget it.”
“Forget it? I’m not playing, Wing. Gimme the fucking clip.”
“Gerald, you’re gonna get killed!”
“No, I’m not.”
“Fuck, you’re dumb. Fuck you’re dumb!”
“Shut up, Wing, I swear to God.”
“Last time. Are you going down there?”
“Yeah, I’m going!”
Wing shot him. Gerald lurched, blood spurting from the center of his chest, his head wobbling, eyes wide and unseeing as he fell over and tumbled down the berm. Wing scrambled down the other side, got to the highway, and ran, the desert two-dimensional in the silvered darkness, like fleeing into a billboard for a scary movie, his sneakers slapping the asphalt. Wing was terrified he wouldn’t find the car. He had no plan except to drive until he ran out of money and then he’d walk until he couldn’t walk anymore and he was someplace far away, where he knew nobody and nobody knew him.
Frankie squatted in the food truck with Manzo and a bunch of other Locos, fitted together like chairs thrown in a closet. It was dark, the air feverish, dense with sweat and thundering heartbeats. Frankie felt alive again, like a man again, high on adrenaline, unafraid. El Piedra. Frankie the Stone. When the Chinese guy in the Hawaiian shirt opened the door, Frankie blasted him dead center and jumped out, firing a Glock. “Venganza por Ramona!” he screamed. Gunshots popped and flashed, but Frankie didn’t stop, yelling Ramona Ramona as if she was ahead of him, trying to escape. He stumbled over rocks and charged through the brush, thorns catching on his clothes and cutting his hands, the gunshots getting louder, bullets zipping past so close he could feel them ripping holes in the air. Manzo was somewhere behind him yelling Get down get down but Frankie kept running.
“Shoot him!” somebody yelled. “Shoot that motherfucker.”
Frankie ran on into the blackness, into a volley of bright bursts, his heart thumping like mortar fire, his breathing breakneck and gritty, tearing at his throat—and then he was hit, he couldn’t tell where. He staggered but kept going, a warm numbness spreading from the center of his chest, his vision shadowing, his legs too heavy to lift. He was hit again—and again, but he was laughing now, even as the blood spilled from his mouth, even as he fell to his knees and flopped facedown on the rocky desert floor. He was happy because he knew he was going to die.
Manzo threw Dodson a gun as he ran by. Dodson caught it, got up, and started running for the car. “Cherise!” he shouted. “I’m coming, Cherise!” Bullets were singing hornets, cracking sewer pipes and chipping cinder blocks, but he kept running; like a greyhound, low and stretched out, terror and love giving length to his stride. But it wasn’t enough. The Chinese guy was already in the car, the tires spinning, throwing up gravel as it roared across the lot. “Cherise!” Dodson screamed. “I’m coming, Cherise!”
Tung looked back and saw Dodson running after them, screaming and waving a gun. The car was on the dirt road now, bumping over the potholes, nearly at the highway. The gun battle was at a standoff, the Chink Mob had to stay whether they liked it or not, Tommy making them park the cars way down the highway. Tung breathed easier, he was getting away. He glanced at the girl. She was staring at him like she had in the motel room.
“Look the other way,” Tung said. But she didn’t.
“Hey,” the driver said. A big SUV with its lights off was coming toward them, blocking the road, some Mexican guys hanging out of the windows, waving guns. Where the hell did they come from? Shit, Tung thought, Tommy isn’t so smart after all. The old man had posted lookouts to the east. These guys had gone the long way around. The 385 all the way to Mountain Acres, across to Llano so they could come from the west. The SUV kept coming.
“What do I do? What do I do?” the driver said.
“Stop the car! Go in reverse!” Tung shouted. The kid hit the brakes but was too panicked to
do anything else. The SUV skidded to a halt, bumping bumpers with the Cadillac. IQ was driving. The Mexican guys piled out and ran off toward the battle. Tung had a moment’s relief, and then he saw a pickup truck behind the SUV, more guys jumping out of the cargo bed—no wait, those were girls. They rushed over and surrounded the car. They looked like some tribe out of a Mad Max movie, with their black lipstick and red head scarves and hoop earrings and tattoos on their forearms. They pounded on the car, waved guns, and spit on the windows, yelling about Ramona, whoever that was. A big girl with big boobs cupped her hands over her eyes and peered in at Tung.
“Where you going, motherfucker?” she said.
Isaiah got out of the SUV. The girls were dragging the driver out of the Cadillac. They beat on him, stirring up dust, their shoes sliding and scuffling across the dirt. Dodson came running up to the car. “Cherise! Cherise! You all right?”
Tung lowered his window halfway. He had his gun pointed at her. “I shoot her,” he said. “You let me go or I shoot her right now!”
Dodson looked like he was going to shoot Tung anyway.
“Easy,” Isaiah said.
“You okay, baby?” Dodson said.
Cherise looked more indignant than afraid. “I would be if blockhead here pointed that gun away from my baby.”
“Let her go and you can drive away,” Isaiah said.
“You hurt my fiancée you better say your prayers now,” Dodson said. “You won’t have the chance after I blow your muthafuckin’ brains out.”
“Wait,” Cherise said. “Did you just say fiancée?”
“That’s right, baby. It’s you and me forever.”
“Do you have a ring?” she said like a cop asking for ID.
“Yes, I do.”
“You let me go or I shoot her,” Tung said, putting the gun to her belly. “I shoot her right now!”
“Get that thing off of my child,” Cherise said, slapping the barrel aside. “You want to aim at something aim at me.”
“Let her go first,” Dodson said.
“No,” Tung said. “Me first. I let her go when I get away.”
“I’ve had enough of this,” Cherise said. She sidled away from him to the other door and got out of the car.
“Hey!” Tung said. He was flustered a moment and clumsily pointed the gun at Dodson. “See?” he said with a flaccid smile. “She safe now,” he said. “You let me go, right?”
“Give up the gun,” Isaiah said.
“No,” Tung said. “I keep gun.”
“What are you gonna do with it?” Dodson said. “Look around.” Gun barrels were pointed at Tung through every window, the homegirls grinning, happy to watch him squirm.
Tung took a moment to consider his options, which were none. He swallowed air, turned the gun around, and handed it to Dodson grip first. “Okay, you let me go, right? You promise.”
“Promise?” Dodson said. “Did anybody hear me make a promise?”
Cherise came around to Dodson’s side of the car. One of the girls produced a knife and cut off the zip tie.
“You sure you ain’t hurt?” Dodson said.
“No, I’m not hurt, no thanks to you,” she said, “but we’ll talk about that later.”
“This the one kidnapped you?” Dodson said.
“Uh-huh,” Cherise said. “This boxhead muthafucka dragged me out of my bed, hit me, tore my good robe, and endangered my baby.”
Dodson hesitated a moment. He’d never heard Cherise swear before. “What do you want me to do?” he said.
“Nothing,” Cherise said. “I’ll do it myself.” She took Dodson’s gun and fired into the lower part of the door. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! She would have emptied the clip but Dodson took the gun away. Tung was curled up and groaning, holding his bullet-riddled legs.
“I’ll have to check but I think you got him, baby,” Dodson said. “Isn’t there something in the Bible about leaving vengeance to the Lord?”
“Yes, there is,” Cherise said, giving him an unappreciative look. “I’ll have to ask Him for forgiveness but under the circumstances I think He’ll be all right with it.”
The shooting had stopped. Manzo and the Locos arrived. They were hyped and sweating, breathing hard, some smiling, glad they’d made it through. Manzo looked old and sad.
“You guys okay?” Isaiah said.
“Tico and Morales got wounded,” Manzo said. The gash in his head hadn’t healed over, the sutures still evident. “Lupe’s taking them to the hospital. Frankie’s dead.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
Manzo shrugged. “Frankie didn’t want to be here no more. If he didn’t go out this way it would have been something else.”
“Thanks for helping out.”
“Had to be done. The homies would have been on the warpath forever.” Manzo held Isaiah’s gaze a moment. “You still owe me,” he said. Then he turned and walked away.
Chapter Fifteen
Osso Buco
Dodson and Cherise’s baby was born two days later at the Hurston Community Hospital. Dodson chose to stay in the waiting room during the delivery, telling Cherise if he saw a bloody, slimy baby coming out of her vagina it might turn him off sex forever.
Isaiah came to visit them at the hospital. Cherise had that new-mommy glow, cradling the baby with its big head, munchkin face, and tiny perfect fingers, Dodson about to bust open with love and pride.
“You ever seen a baby that good-looking?” he said. “I might get the boy an agent, put his face on a box of Pampers, let him pay a few bills.”
“Did you name him Tupac?” Isaiah said.
“No, we did not,” Cherise said. “His name is Micah. From the Book of Micah. There’s a verse I love. What does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”
“That’s beautiful,” he said. Mercy was a rare thing these days when the tiniest slight was seen as disrespect, and if you hit me with a fist I shoot you with an RPG.
“His full name is Micah Isaiah Dodson,” Dodson said. “Got a ring to it, don’t it?” Isaiah didn’t know what to say. “Let’s go get some coffee,” Dodson said. “You want something, Cherise?”
“No. I have everything I need,” she said, lost in the baby’s eyes.
They went across the street and got coffee at Starbucks, took it outside, and sat on a bus bench. It was late. A cool, salty breeze was coming off the harbor, empty buses and roving cabs going by. Isaiah was more comfortable with Dodson now, not having to play a role or maintain his position. Something was up with him. He was uneasy but not about the baby. This was different. Something more immediate, something between the two of them.
“How you holding up?” Isaiah said.
“I’m aight,” Dodson said. “You know, getting ready to bring the baby home. That shit is dippy, man. Baby-proofing. My parents didn’t do none of that. My old man said if I hit my head on the corner of the coffee table it’d teach me to look where I’m going.”
“You don’t look so good,” Isaiah said.
“Yeah, I suppose not. It’s the food truck.”
“I’ll help you repair it.”
“No, that’s not it. Thing is, I shouldn’t have gone into it in the first place, but Cherise was on my case about doing something legit. Shit, man, I hate being locked in there all day. You know me. I can’t be tied up at the dock. I need to flow with the flow, kick up some waves, be what I be.”
“You’re not going back to hustling, are you?”
“No, nothing like that.” Dodson hesitated. Isaiah was getting nervous. Something was coming and he hated surprises.
“The case in Vegas?” Dodson said. “I don’t know what you thought, but I think we did aight, you know, working together.”
“Yeah, we did okay,” Isaiah said, thinking about all the arguments.
“Yeah, so, I was wondering how you’d feel about—” Dodson took a breath and looked down at the pavement. “Maybe, you know, partnering up.”
>
Isaiah was confounded. It was as if Dodson had told him he was joining the marines. “Partnering up?” he said, hoping he hadn’t heard right. “What do you mean?”
“I had your back at the massage parlor, didn’t I? And when we was fighting them Red Poles too. And remember back when I saved your ass from Skip? Dropped that roll of tar paper on him?”
“I remember.”
Dodson stood up, dumped his coffee into the street. “It’s not just the rough-and-tumble,” he said. “I could hustle up some bigger cases for you, get some clients with a profile, do some PR, make it a real business, make you a brand.”
“I don’t know, Dodson,” Isaiah said. “That’s not what I do.”
“You’d still be doing your pro bono thing,” Dodson said. “That don’t change. But let me ask you something. Do you want to be small-time forever?”
Isaiah had never thought of himself as small-time. It was something of a revelation, viewing himself in a wider context.
“And what about Sarita?” Dodson asked.
“What about her?”
“You really think she’s gonna be with somebody that lives in the hood and spends all his time busting bums and teenagers? That girl’s upscale, Isaiah. What, you think she’s gonna live in your world? You know that’s not gonna happen. You gonna live in hers, and them people hang on the high side.”
Isaiah remembered having the same thoughts himself. At the party in Century City, he felt like he’d snuck in, like he didn’t have a membership card.
Dodson went on. “Maybe I’m off the rails, but I’m guessing you’re as bored as me, fucking around all day with petty crime. You need to be working on cases got some scope to ’em, got some size, and who’s gonna go out there and get ’em for you? You? You gonna blow your own horn? Put yourself on the map? Shit. You got enough trouble just having a conversation.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Aight, I said my piece,” Dodson said. “If it’s wrong for you it’s cool. We be straight no matter what.”