Smoke

by Joe Ide

  “Where are the paramedics?” Grace said.

  “They take their time comin’ here,” Vivian said.

  Grace saw the little boy in the jumper. He was hanging on to his mother’s hand, watching Jerome writhe and bleed and cry. The boy was all of six years old. His face was blank, studious, like this was something he should pay attention to. A pang of sadness went through Grace. They went back inside. Mary and Vivian returned to the sofa. Grace stood there. She couldn’t get over what happened.

  “Whas’ the matter with you?” Mary said.

  “I can’t believe everyone was so matter-of-fact,” Grace said.

  “Welcome to the ghet-toe, honey,” Vivian said. “We see that shit every fucking day.”

  People from the suburbs would be disgusted by the residents of the Dolphin, Grace thought. Look at them, they’d say, so callous and bloodthirsty. Animals, they’d say. They can’t help it, they’d say. They’re just like that, they’d say. Yes, they’re like that because they see this shit every fucking day. That little boy in the jumper will see this shit every fucking day; stabbings, shootings, beatings, whores and pimps, drunks and crackheads, killers and crazies and abject cruelty. Grow up like that little boy, people of the suburbs. And see what happens to you.

  Mary got a text, looked at it sourly. “Spoon’s pissed. Wonders why we ain’t out on the block.”

  “Cuz my feet hurt,” Vivian said. “And if I see another dick today I’m gonna shoot myself in the pussy.”

  Dutifully, Mary and Vivian got their things together and dressed. Mary in a miniskirt and fishnets, Vivian in short shorts and patent leather thigh-highs. It dawned on Grace that these women weren’t being stoic. It wasn’t like they recognized the fucked-up nature of their lives and decided to accept it. There were no decisions, there was no recognition. This is what you did. This is what you do.

  “What are you looking at, bitch?” Mary said. “Where the fuck are my shoes?”

  Grace couldn’t imagine it. Standing on a street corner in those ridiculous clothes, yelling “Need a date, baby?” at the passing cars and getting in with some stranger who might beat you or rape you and driving into an alley and giving him a blowjob, furiously bobbing your head up and down with the shifter hitting you in the chest, this motherfucker taking forever to get off, the car heating up, sweat running down your neck, the smell rank, afraid you might choke to death. Yeah, try that, people of the suburbs, Grace thought. Try it twenty-five times a day and see what you become.

  Grace went out on the walkway and watched Mary and Vivian cross the courtyard toward the vestibule. They were talking easily with the occasional laugh, Mary putting her hand on Vivian’s arm. They could have been schoolteachers or bus drivers or traffic cops or anything but among the most brave, exploited, heartbreaking people Grace had ever met. If their lives ended in suicide she wouldn’t be surprised. She’d be surprised if they didn’t.

  The man in Sandra’s apartment left. Grace was caught off guard. She took a video but it was murky, blurred, and didn’t show his face. Was it Bobby? She ran after him but by the time she reached the street he was gone. “Fuck you, Grace,” she said. “Fuck you to death.”

  She was walking back to her car when she saw Spoon, coming the other way, doing that pimp walk thing and bobbing his head to his headphones. The sight of him made her angry, this unfeeling bloodsucking leech bastard strolling along like he was a human being. She stopped, reached down and found a gravelly fragment of cement just big enough to close her fist around. Spoon came closer, saw her and grinned.

  “’Sup, baby? Did you enjoy your cocktail?” Grace smiled. If Spoon knew her better, he might have recognized the smile as her evil one. She hit him in his stupid face, knocking his head sideways, the headphones flying off. He fell into a chain-link fence and slid down to the ground. He looked up at her, confused and in pain.

  “The fuck did I do?” he said, and she walked away.

  Chapter Ten

  The Stark

  Skip drove past Isaiah’s place. A FOR SALE sign on the front lawn, a blue sticker on it that said SOLD. There were flyers stuck in the door screen, litter on the lawn. No one home. Skip parked and thought about it. How would he find that asshole? Maybe he was in another city or had moved out of state. Skip didn’t know any of his friends or where he hung out. He fumed for a while and then looked at the sign again. On the bottom it read: TUDOR REALTY. Skip looked up the address and went over there. He told the woman at the desk he was interested in Isaiah’s house.

  Otis J. Tudor thought he was a big shot, sitting behind a glass desk the size of a dining table in a chair that was more like a throne. He wore a shiny green suit, gold chains, tinted glasses and alligator shoes.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hanson,” Tudor said, in a voice that suggested the pleasure should be yours.

  “Yeah, me too,” Skip said.

  “Miriam tells me you’re interested in the house at 221 Draper Street.”

  “Yeah, that’s the one,” Skip replied. Tudor was smiling, but he seemed suspicious. Maybe he’s reacting to your clothes, Skip thought. Worn-out jeans and a faded T-shirt that said ALPO and in smaller letters GRAVY CRAVERS, or maybe it was his shaved head or the dog-bite scars on his arms or the prison tats that showed above his collar. “Yeah,” Skip went on. “My friend used to live there, Isaiah—” He hesitated. He didn’t know how to pronounce Q Fuck’s last name. Stupidly, he said again, “Isaiah.”

  “Yes, he’s quite a young man,” Tudor replied knowingly.

  “Do you know where he is? I’d like to say hello.” You said it too fast, Skip, he’s onto you.

  “How do you know Isaiah?” Tudor asked. The smile had gone.

  “Uh, well, you know, around the neighborhood.”

  “Really?” Tudor replied, amused. “You lived in East Long Beach? Where?”

  “Uh, you know—over on that, uh, whaddayoucallit, big street.” Tudor wasn’t buying it. Skip kept trying. “Yeah, yeah, it was, uh—shit, I can’t remember. It was a long time ago.”

  Tudor pursed his lips and sighed. “All right, Mr. Hanson, if that’s your real name. What is it you really want?”

  “Forget it,” Skip said. He went back to the car, drove to the Dairy Queen and had a cup of soft ice cream. He was frustrated. How was he going to find that bastard? Who could he ask? It had to be somebody who wouldn’t be so suspicious, and he needed a better cover story. He finished the ice cream and smiled. He had an idea. He stopped at a drugstore and bought a box of business envelopes. He put in some ones and fives and sealed it shut.

  A Mexican woman was sweeping her walkway. Her house was right across the street from Isaiah’s. Skip had waited over an hour for something like this to happen. He got out of the car and walked toward her, smiling, giving her a friendly wave. The woman’s expression darkened. She stopped sweeping, wary of a stranger who looked like an ex-convict.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Skip said apologetically. He nodded at Isaiah’s place. “Isaiah, he helped me out, you know? That guy would help anybody. Even a bum like me that was broke and couldn’t pay him.”

  The woman relaxed a little and smiled. “Yes, Isaiah is a good man.”

  Skip tried to look sheepish. “Uh, here’s the thing, see. I was in trouble, you know? But I’m okay now because of Isaiah. I’ve got a job and everything. I’d like to pay him what I owe, but I don’t know where he is.” He took the envelope out and showed it to her. “Do you happen to know where I could find him? I really want to pay him back.”

  “Nobody knows,” the Mexican woman said. “Bad people are after him, and he left. Maybe he is hiding.”

  “Bad people?” Skip said.

  “Yes, there are many,” she said sadly. “That’s what happens when you are good. They try to stamp you out.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  The woman shrugged. “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Okay, thanks.” He turned and walked away, wondering what he would do
next.

  “You know what?” the woman said brightly. “Maybe Grace knows.”

  Skip stopped, turned around. “Grace?”

  “She’s his girlfriend. She works in a food truck, the one in the Vons parking lot.”

  Skip stood in line and watched Grace. She took orders, handed out Styrofoam boxes, took money and made change. She didn’t look too happy about it. Probably a smart-ass if she was with Isaiah. She was white, and that surprised him a little. She looked okay, nothing special except for the green eyes. They were striking, the kind you noticed, the kind you didn’t want looking at you. Other than that there wasn’t much to her. Skip was all adrenaline. Calm down, he told himself. But he couldn’t. The need to find the man who took his dogs away, took his life away, was overpowering. He was third in line. Then second.

  Grace was at work at the service window, tired and pissed off. Her heart was bleeding for Deronda. Her friend had worked so hard to make herself a success, to give Janeel a good life and future, and all of it was threatened by Bobby Fucking James. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. She wanted to be at Bobby James’s house choking him to death with an electrical cord.

  “Uh, let me have a three piece with macaroni salad and yams,” the man said.

  “Anything to drink?” Grace asked.

  “Lemonade.”

  “That’ll be sixteen twenty-five.” The man gave her twenty dollars. She made change, her artist’s eyes giving him a once-over. Scruffy, dirty-blond hair, a ghost of a soul patch, neck tats, stupid T-shirt, Crocs. A peculiar look on his face, eager and excited, too much for someone ordering fried chicken. Be alert, Grace. Something’s wrong here. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Name?” he said, like it was none of her business.

  “So I can call you when your order’s ready.” Duh, she thought.

  “Oh. Yeah. Sure. Um. Eddie. My name’s Eddie.” Isaiah had taught her about things like this, somebody stumbling over their own name. This asshole was up to something. A lurker maybe or some delusional asshole who thought a girl who sold fried chicken at a food truck had to be lonely. “It’ll be just a few minutes, Eddie.”

  “Say,” he said, like he just remembered something happy. “You’re Isaiah’s girl, aren’t you?” Ding, ding, ding, ding! Danger! Danger!

  “Isaiah? Who’s that?”

  “Come on,” he said with a coaxing smile. “No need to be embarrassed about it. Isaiah is a great guy.”

  “Sorry. My boyfriend’s name is Fritz.” She looked over his head. “Next in line?”

  “No, no, I’ve seen you together,” the guy insisted. “I’m a friend of his. Eddie! You know, Eddie! From the old days.”

  “Could you step aside, Eddie? I want to take the next order.”

  The guy acted like he hadn’t heard her. “Say, how’s he doing anyway? I was wanting to buy him a drink or something, catch up, talk about old times.”

  “I don’t know anybody named Isaiah, okay?” Grace said. “Now could you step aside, please? Your order will be ready in a few minutes.” She looked at the customer behind the man. “Oh, hi. Sorry, I’ll be right with you.”

  This moron was fucking oblivious. He kept pushing. “No, no, really, Isaiah will want to talk to me. Just tell me where he is and I’ll do the rest.” She was pissed now.

  “I don’t know any Isaiahs and your name’s not Eddie, asshole, and whatever you want it’s bullshit.”

  The guy’s smile was gone; his voice had teeth in it. “I just want to talk to him, okay? Tell me where he is, and I’ll go on my way.”

  It suddenly dawned on her. She knew who he was. “You’re a Stark, aren’t you?”

  “A what?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. You’re a white nationalist. A racist shit-eating Nazi pig asshole. Well, I’ve got news for you, dickhead. We’re not in your fucked-up clubhouse in El Segundo, we’re in East Long Beach where troglodytes like you are trespassing.” She grabbed some bills out of the register and threw them at him. “Here. Take this and buy yourself a new swastika, motherfucker. We don’t want you here.”

  Suddenly, the guy jumped up on his tiptoes and heaved his face through the window. He looked crazed. He looked insane. “Listen, you cunt,” he spat. “I know who you are, I know where you live, I know what you—” It happened so fast. One second, the guy was halfway through the window and the next, he was looking up at Michael Stokeley with a sawed-off shotgun jammed under his chin.

  “They all out of chicken, muthafucka,” Stokeley said. “And if I see you round here again, I’ll stick this in your eye and blast the back of your head off.” Stokeley shoved the guy away, and he hurried off. Odeal Woodson leaned out of the window.

  “Michael, is that you? What did I tell you about playing with guns? Go on home now. Shoo!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Flying Free

  Dodson got up early, dressed and left while Cherise was still sleeping. He didn’t want hugs, and he sure as hell didn’t want to hear her say, good luck, honey, and I know you’ll do great, honey. The last thing you need when you’re nervous and anxious is a goddamn pep talk. It was distracting, the other person trying to ease their own nervousness.

  The Apex Advertising building was all glass and aluminum. Nothing special, but he’d been less intimidated getting processed into Vacaville. He drove into the garage. The first thing he noticed were the executive parking spaces. RESERVED FOR E. NEWBERG. RESERVED FOR Z. SANDLER. RESERVED FOR M. LUPICA. That was cool. Like having your own table at Roscoe’s Chicken N Waffles. He was way early so he waited in his car and listened to Tupac. Mister Assault Rifle and Overdose Willy weren’t on his playlist.

  He went through the heavy revolving door and down a short staircase into the lobby. It was immense. You could play soccer in here if you didn’t slip on the marble floor and crack your skull open. He stood there a moment, watching well-dressed people going back and forth, filling the space with echoing footsteps and low chatter. He was glad he was wearing the suit. The majority of the people were white but there were lots of black and brown faces too. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

  Two security guards were sitting behind a reception desk as big as a fallen redwood, nothing on it but a clipboard. A white woman and a black man. Dodson chose the brother and stepped up to the desk. The man was doing something on a laptop and didn’t look up. Dodson waited. Did this guy know he was an imposter? An unqualified former crack dealer trying to hustle his way into a real job? The guard looked up, but he didn’t seem to register someone was there.

  “Identification,” he said. Dodson handed it over. The guard scanned it and checked a screen. There was a tiny camera on the desk. It blinked and the guard printed out a pass, your murky image and a bar code. The pass got you through the turnstile. The elevator took you up to your floor and your floor only. They didn’t mess around about security these days. Goddamn terrorists were everywhere and most of them were homegrown. Dodson’s appointment with Human Resources was at nine. He filled out forms, received a packet of information about the company and an employee handbook. It took a long time. He was told he should report to his new boss directly. His name was Arnold J. Stimson and his office was downstairs, B223.

  B223 was in the basement. Dodson rode down in the elevator, wondering if his tie was straight and swallowing dry. All the shit he’d been through and he was nervous about meeting some guy named Arnold J. Stimson? That fear of the unknown. He couldn’t shake it. He got off the elevator. There was a large bullpen, rows of desks, people on their cell phones, talking into headsets, shuffling papers and typing on their computers. Almost everyone was dressed casually, and there were all kinds of hairstyles. Buzz cuts, pompadours, tapers, dreadlocks, cornrows and seven different kinds of fades. Gloria was wrong. The makeover had been for nothing. He got directions to Stimson’s office: around the bullpen, left, then a right and down the hall. The hall was a long stretch of green carpet and harsh fluorescents, office doors and interior windows on one side. I
t looked institutional.

  Stimson’s office was at the very end. The reception area in B223 was small, like laundry room small. No one was at the desk, and there was nothing on it, not even a landline. Dodson knocked on the inner office door. “Excuse me? I’m supposed to meet Arnold Stimson.” There were noises. Squeaks and creaks like someone had suddenly sat up in an office chair. There was a pause. A man cleared his throat and said, “Uh, yeah, come on in.”

  Dodson opened the door. Arnold Stimson was standing at his desk, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes. He was in his sixties, verging toward fat, not enough hair for a comb-over. He wore a baggy gray suit and scuffed loafers. He’d apparently tied his tie while he was driving on the freeway. He had a look on his face like Dodson was a Jehovah’s Witness with an earnest smile and a handful of pamphlets.

  “Hello, I’m Juanell Dodson. Your new intern.”

  “Yeah, that’s, um, sure,” Stimson said. “I’m Arnold Stimson. I didn’t expect you so early.” It was a quarter after ten. Stimson put a hand on the small of his back and stretched.

  “Oh, man,” he groaned. “My back is killing me.”

  On the desk were a large monitor, a coffee mug that said YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE, some spreadsheets, pencils in a water glass and an open newspaper. It was dim in the office. Only the lamp was on. The furniture was spare. File cabinets, a drawing table, an easel, a small sofa and a coffee table. A dead rubber tree stood in the corner. The two men shook hands and sat down across from each other. Stimson’s chair squeaked and creaked. Dodson didn’t know what to say and apparently neither did Stimson. He glanced at the newspaper. “Senator Michaels has a son who snuck into Syria and tried to join the Taliban. They wouldn’t accept him because you have to be a Muslim and have a history of resistance.”

  “What was the son before he went to Syria?” Dodson asked.