Smoke

by Joe Ide

  “No, he’s not,” the sheriff said. “I called Crowe’s parole officer and he told me Crowe was in Sacramento right where he was supposed to be. Saw him in person.”

  “Crowe and his buddy tried to kill us,” Billy said.

  “Be quiet, Billy, I’ve had enough of you,” Cannon snapped. He looked at Isaiah. “I did a search on you, Mr. Quintabe. You’re supposedly a smart guy and quite the detective. For somebody they call IQ, I’m surprised you got involved with these two knuckleheads.”

  “You’ll just have to see,” Isaiah said. The three of them led Cannon into the woods and along the path, Isaiah explaining what happened. They reached the gulley, but there were no footprints, no scuffs in the dirt, the pine needles were undisturbed, the surrounding foliage looked like surrounding foliage.

  “I don’t see anything to indicate a knife fight happened here,” Cannon said. “I don’t see anything at all.”

  “They cleaned up,” Isaiah said.

  “Is this after the fight or before?” Cannon sneered. Isaiah didn’t say anything. Without evidence, what would be the use? They tried to find the spot where the other man had attacked Billy and Ava, but everything looked like everything else. The path was the path, the trees were the trees. They couldn’t find the man’s knife or any blood on the ground.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Cannon said.

  When they got back to the house, Cannon said, “You’re all under arrest for lying to a police officer and filing a false report.”

  “But—” Ava began.

  “Shut your mouth, young lady, and don’t open it again until I tell you to. I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Quintabe. I don’t know what you’re up to, but this is pretty stupid for a guy they call IQ.” Cannon used snap ties to cuff their hands behind their backs. He ushered them to his SUV. He took their belongings, put them in paper bags and tossed them on the passenger seat.

  Cannon drove, the prisoners squeezed together in the backseat. The doors were locked and the meshed partition was up, but not all the way. The air-conditioning, Isaiah thought. The sheriff is letting the cool air through. He doesn’t want you to die before he locks you up.

  They had gone less than a mile when Cannon said, “Oh, hell.” A traffic accident. A pickup had T-boned another car. A third car had swerved to miss them, run over the curb and smashed into a chain-link fence. People were hurt. Cannon radioed the dispatcher and said he was on the scene. He stopped the car but kept the engine running. “Don’t leave, kiddies.” He got out and and walked toward the accident, talking on his radio.

  “I’m sorry about this, Isaiah. I really am,” Billy said.

  “Me too. We really screwed things up,” Ava said.

  “The best thing you can do is shut up so I don’t kill you right now,” Isaiah said. The engine idled, the air-conditioning droned steadily. Billy coughed. Ava cleared her throat.

  Isaiah couldn’t believe it. He’d come all this way to get locked up, charged with felonies and sent to prison with a bunch of guys he’d sent there. A wave of paralyzing hopelessness washed over him. The PTSD had won. He would never be himself again. He would be nothing. He would be—Snap out of it, asshole. Grace is coming. He had to escape, call her and warn her off. He took a careful look around the car. He looked at Ava. She was long-limbed and Olive Oyl skinny. What did she weigh, a buck-oh-five? The partition had been lowered, but the gap was a little more than a foot.

  “Ava, do you think you can get through there?” Isaiah said.

  She stared at the partition a moment. “Let’s find out.” She got her head and shoulder through the opening, tearing a button off her shirt. That was the hard part. The rest was wriggling like a salamander and squeezing herself through.

  “Way to go,” Billy said.

  It took a lot of grunting and maneuvering, but she got her back turned to the passenger-side door and opened it. She nearly fell out but righted herself. She went around to the driver’s-side door. Again, with her back turned, she found the switch that unlocked the back doors. Isaiah and Billy scootched out. They took the paper bags that held their belongings and ran for the guest house.

  They had to get the snap ties off. Isaiah kept his toolbox in the garage. It was on the floor. He had to sit with his back to it, open it and, with directions from Ava, find the wire cutter. Then he stood back to back with Billy. Ava directed Isaiah’s hands until the wire cutter found Billy’s snap tie. Isaiah snipped them off. Billy freed Isaiah and Ava.

  “We’ve got to get moving,” Isaiah said. “Cannon might be on his way right now.” They hurried out to their cars. They heard a siren, getting closer and louder. Ava and Billy drove off in Ava’s car. Isaiah got in the Mustang and sped away.

  He drove out of town a ways and then onto a logging trail he’d scouted before, driving slow, wincing every time the oil pan scraped against the ground. He came to a clearing and parked. He rested and drank some water. He got his phone out to call Grace and stopped. It was the biker couple he saw about the dog.

  “Be cool, Isaiah,” Ned said. He had a gun and so did Cherry.

  “Move it. And don’t make me shoot you,” she said.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Blackula of East Long Beach

  Brad had few if any scruples. He routinely took credit for work done by others, for which he was universally despised. What he couldn’t stand was being shown up, whether in public or in private. If the quality of someone else’s work exceeded his own, he was outraged. If they did something noteworthy before he did, he went apeshit, as if it were a personal insult, a measurement of his own competence and abilities. His lack of character or any semblance of ethics was an industry joke, an anecdote to tell over lunch, passed from one person to another until it was common knowledge. Do you know he…I heard he…I’m not kidding, he actually…No shit? That really happened? How does he get away with it? Why does management stick with him? Are they blind?

  Management stuck with Brad because he was good with clients. He smoothed, appeased, promised and bent reality to suit whatever the client wanted to hear. He also lied with impunity. Brad was consistent with management’s image of a tough, take-no-prisoners executive who got shit done. People said Brad didn’t speak softly. He carried a big stick and a spare. But he got results. His creative teams produced great work whether they were credited or not.

  Brad was well aware of his reputation. He alternately wore it as a badge or hid it away, depending upon the circumstances. Sometimes he passed over his ruthlessness as a necessary attitude for success. But in his rare reflective moments, he knew his personality was a reflection of his shitty past. Day to day, it didn’t seem to matter. Like everybody, his past was intertwined with his present so seamlessly it was all one flow. You were you and that was all.

  The same people were at the meeting. Brad was confident. Whatever Stimson’s scam was, he couldn’t possibly pull it off twice. Sixty-second commercials took weeks to come together. The room was buzzing, everyone eager to see what the doofus came up with. Even Walsh seemed excited. Brad heard people were calling Stimson “Don,” after the Don Draper character in Mad Men. Ridiculous. And the amazing thing was, nobody was suspicious. They were blinded because they wanted that asshole to succeed. After the Skechers ad, they said Stimson was reborn, that this was his comeback, that he was returning to his old self again. Bullshit, Brad thought. Even when Stimson was his “old self” he’d never done anything remotely as good as the Skechers ad.

  The doofus came in, carrying a stack of storyboards. Storyboards? This was prehistoric, Brad thought. Didn’t the putz have a computer? Everyone smiled and greeted him. He was embarrassed, red-faced, hunching his shoulders.

  “Okay, let’s get right to it,” Brad said. “What have you got, Stimson?”

  “Uh, I’m going to put these down in order. There are a lot of them.” People got up from the table, and Stimson laid down the storyboards going from left to right, everyone lining up to see them in the correct order. Brad watched.
The staff reacted to the first ones with puzzlement, and as they moved along, there were curious smiles, and when they reached the end they looked—what would you call it? Surprised, yes, but something else. They were moved.

  What was going on? Brad thought. He was at the end of the line with Walsh. As they went from one storyboard to the next, Brad pitched the commercial to himself.

  Point of view. The screen is dark. We hear footsteps walking over rough ground, a light breeze is blowing, leaves are rustling. The footsteps stop, and suddenly, something lifts and there’s light! Blue sky, puffy white clouds and shimmering aspens. It’s a gorgeous day! Another angle. A hawk is perched on a falconry glove, shaking its head, a man’s weathered hand just removing its hood. The same hand unties the tether around the hawk’s leg. The man, nearly choked with emotion, says, “Okay, old friend. I’ll miss you.” The man lifts the glove and the hawk takes off, the man shouting in a trembling voice, “Go boy! Go! Go! Go!” The hawk soars. We can feel its exuberance and power as it glides effortlessly over pristine forests, sparkling lakes and majestic mountains. And as it disappears into a breathtaking sunset, the graphic:

  FLY FREE

  Bayer Aspirin

  Reduces the risk of stroke by 22%

  The room was nearly silent. Newberg said, “It’s beautiful, Stimson.” And everyone burst out talking, their praise effusive, shaking their heads as if to say, whoda thunk it? That sly dog. He’s been waiting in the weeds to fool us all. Walsh was staring at the last board. He touched it with his finger. He too was moved.

  “Well done, Stimson. Well done indeed,” he said.

  “Thank you, Ted. I really appreciate you saying that.”

  Walsh said quietly to Brad. “Another one of your ideas?” Brad shrugged modestly.

  “I guess so. I don’t like to take credit in front of the staff. Listen, about Stimson’s pension. I still think—”

  “Renew his contract,” Walsh said, and he left. Brad could barely suppress the torrent of outrage churning in his guts or the need to slap the shit out of Stimson. The room was clearing.

  “Stay, Stimson,” Brad said. They were the only ones left. Stimson didn’t seem happy or smug, like he should be for pulling this bullshit off twice and making a fool out of him. “We’re renewing your contract,” Brad said. “Congratulations. I guess you’ll be getting that Winnebago after all.”

  “That’s great,” Stimson said, almost inaudibly. Still, no happiness. What an oddball. “Thank you,” he said. Brad gave him a look and stalked out of the room.

  Brad had just entered his office when Walsh called. Strange. They were sitting next to each other five minutes ago. Walsh said a situation had arisen, an emergency. He explained and added, “This is a top priority, Brad. You and Stimson get on this immediately. Don’t let me down. I’ll be very disappointed if you do.” The call ended.

  Brad was stunned. Walsh saw them as a team! The old geezer had gotten it in his head that they’d come up with the Skechers and Bayer ads together. Okay, maybe it was because he took credit for the ideas, but that was irrelevant at this point. Walsh’s tone was as alarming as it was clear. If we lose this account, I’m not taking the blame. Do you understand, Brad? His job is at risk. Can you believe it? After what he’d done for the company? He took the autographed baseball out of its box and turned it around in his hand. Of all the great pitchers in the history of the major leagues, only one had thrown two no-hitters back to back. Johnny Vander Meer in 1938. Not Nolan Ryan, Pedro Martínez, Randy Johnson, Sandy Koufax or anybody else. Three in a row? Everybody in baseball, past and present, agreed that three in a row would never happen. But it had to, Brad thought. Or you’re done.

  Stimson rode up in the elevator. Brad had called him up to his office. The anxiety was killing him. He never imagined this arrangement with Dodson would morph into a bizarre version of Cyrano de Bergerac. Dodson was elevating Stimson’s career, a career he didn’t want and wanted out of. Now he was the Golden Boy when all he wanted was to drive down the highway with Marge in a Winnebago, Brad in the rearview mirror giving him the finger. What could that mean little prick want now? The receptionist told him to go in.

  “There’s an emergency, Stimson,” Brad said. “BeHeard is a major company and our biggest client. As you know, or maybe you don’t, they create software programs for marketing, financial management, automation, resource deployment, retention tools and a number of consumer products. The bad news is, BeHeard may be leaving us and taking their business to Ogilvy. The loss would be devastating.”

  “That’s too bad,” Stimson mumbled pointlessly. Brad breathed a deep sigh and went on.

  “You have to come up with a killer campaign,” he said, almost adding you and Lebron.

  “But I just did the Bayer commercial,” Stimson said.

  “Doesn’t matter. The company needs you so you’ll do it.”

  “What’s the product?”

  “Voice-to-text software.”

  “Voice-to-text software? But it’s—”

  “Not sexy, I know,” Brad said. “People use it primarily for dictation—and other things too, emails, texts, keeping notes. Technologically, BeHeard is marginally better than its competitors, but numbers won’t help us here. All the programs do virtually the same things. And they’re boring.”

  “Voice to text,” Stimson said distantly. It was the assignment nobody wanted. Voice to text was a simple product everyone knew about. There was nothing to add, no image to project, no advanced features to laud. It was like advertising flowerpots or manila envelopes.

  “We need a hook,” Brad continued. “We need warmth, emotion, something human. The relevancy factor goes without saying.”

  “Warmth, emotion and relevance,” Stimson said blankly.

  “I need it on Friday,” Brad said, and this time it was true.

  “Friday? That makes no sense. How could they possibly expect a presentation on Friday?”

  “They don’t,” Brad replied. “One of my spies tells me Ogilvy is making a presentation to BeHeard on Monday. If we make ours on Friday, we’ll beat them to the punch.”

  “Is anybody else working on it?” Stimson asked.

  “Dunheath and Navarro are on vacation, and the other creatives are in critical stages of their own campaigns. A warning, Stimson. If we lose the BeHeard account, I’ll have to cut staff. People you know. People that are your friends.” Brad couldn’t believe he was saying the words. “Is there anything I can do for you?” Stimson seemed more struck by the offer than the assignment.

  “Um. No. Thank you.”

  “That will be all,” Brad said. And the putz walked zombie-like out of the room. “This is ridiculous,” Brad said aloud. He was actually dependent on the doofus! Can you imagine? Everything you’ve worked for is riding on that moron. And the worst part? If you get fired, you’ll have to listen to your brothers.

  Dodson was sitting at Stimson’s desk, reading through the BeHeard brief. Stimson was staring at the wall of dirt as if there might be a tunnel he could use to escape. “Voice-to-text software,” Dodson said. “What do they expect you to do with that?”

  “Something miraculous,” Stimson said. “I ran out of miracles when I was born. I know I have no right to ask you this, but could you take a shot at it? I’ve already had my contract renewed, but if we lose BeHeard, Brad will cut staff. People I know and care about. People I’ve known for years. Their jobs depend on this commercial.” Dodson didn’t answer. “I realize I’m really taking advantage of you,” Stimson added.

  “Don’t nobody take advantage of me. I do what I do for my own reasons,” Dodson said. “But I’ll give it a try.”

  Cherise was thrilled for her husband. She was overjoyed he was enthusiastic and going to work every day. She’d never seen him like this, except when he was partnered with Isaiah. She wanted to congratulate him, say she was proud him, that she knew he had it in him. But telling him those things would seem condescending, as if she was surprised her husband coul
d handle himself in the mainstream. In truth, she was surprised. In fact, she was blown away. The Skechers ad he’d come up with was smart, clever and funny as hell. Where in the world had he found these new capabilities? His idea for the Bayer commercial was inspired. Of course, she had to seem like she’d known it all along, that this was what she expected. So she kissed him when he went out the door, made sure supper was waiting, even if it was takeout, and listened attentively when he talked.

  The family Cherise had always wanted was falling into place. A beautiful child and a husband who was a good provider and a responsible adult. What worried her was the future. She worked at a large law firm and saw it every day. People putting in sixty-to seventy-hour weeks, everything else a distant second or third. Marriage, kids, fun, love. They became obligations, more like chores. Ah, hell, I forgot her birthday. Ah, hell, the kid’s soccer game is in twenty minutes. Ah, hell, it’s fucking date night. Work was more satisfying. The objectives were clear, the methods were tried-and-true. You did it and were done. Home was a morass of grueling relationships and conflicting agendas. Judging by Cherise’s superiors, a great career was a four-lane highway to living parallel lives. Is that how the Dodsons would end up? One more married couple going through the motions?

  Juanell was brash, impulsive and freewheeling. He was independent and resentful of authority. Some people thought outside the box. Dodson had no box. Most of the time, he believed he was the smartest person in the room, and most of the time he was wrong, unless you were on the street somewhere. In that context, he was Warren Buffett or Stephen Hawking. There should be a statue of him in the Hustlers Hall of Fame.

  Dodson was also loving and fiercely loyal to those he cared about. Other people were a different story. He wasn’t helping Stimson because they were friends. He was helping him because it would prove to himself and to his family that he could hang at Apex or anyplace else. She’d been wrong to doubt him. But what worried her most was the day of reckoning. It would be hard, soul-wrenching and a lose-lose for everybody concerned. Whatever happens, Cherise thought, don’t break his heart.