Smoke

by Joe Ide

  EVERYONE HAS A STORY TO TELL. WHAT’S YOURS?

  BeHeard

  Voice-to-text software

  There was utter silence. Everyone was stunned. Adder was blank, leaning back with his arms folded. He thought a moment, his brow furrowed. “That was really good,” he said, like he didn’t believe it was possible. “You’ve got the account.” He nodded at Stimson. “Keep that guy.” He got up and walked out, his entourage buzzing as they trailed him.

  The group stayed silent until the BeHeard crew was well away. Brad started to speak but someone shouted, “Let’s hear it for Stimson!” And everyone applauded for fuck sake, clapping like they were in a goddamn romantic comedy. Even Walsh had joined in. The doofus was half smiling, confused, like he didn’t know how to feel.

  Walsh nudged Brad with his elbow. “Good thing Stimson stuck to his guns, and like the man said: keep that guy.” He left.

  Brad was in his office. His tie was on the floor. The Tums were gone. He’d been pacing for twenty minutes. Keep that guy? Good thing Stimson stuck to his guns? Shown up again by a dimwit has-been. How humiliating, and he hadn’t even gotten credit for the idea! He opened the cabinet and poured himself a shot of sixteen-year bourbon, a gift from a client. He’d been running Stimson’s ads through his mind. Both the Skechers and Bayer ads involved black characters. Clearly, this was Lebron’s work, but who was Lebron? They would have to spend time together to do this kind of work, but Stimson had no partner. “Who is this guy?” Brad said to the room.

  It wasn’t a creative exec. There were only two black execs and they had their own work to do. An outsider? Unlikely. Who would do this quality of work and then give it away to Stimson? Had the doofus paid for it? With what? He’d taken two salary cuts. Brad downed his drink and poured himself another. Maybe Lebron was somebody under the radar, he thought. Someone on staff, an assistant maybe, a prodigy like Seth Adder. Brad had a feeling the Skechers ad was created by someone relatively young; the BeHeard commercial by a person with an appreciation of history. A millennial then.

  Brad remembered the black man he’d encountered in the men’s room. He wasn’t on staff or Brad would have known him. He was the right age and had a street background. Wasn’t hard to imagine him standing at the curb, hailing a cab that drove right past him, and the man probably had relatives who had lived through the civil rights era. You’ve seen him someplace before, Brad. Where?

  A vague memory was forming in the haze. Brad pictured himself standing at the elevators. Stimson was there, and he introduced his new intern. His new black millennial intern! This guy was Lebron, the creative genius behind those ads! Brad had Estie get him a list of the new interns. The one assigned to Stimson was named Juanell Dodson. “Well, Mr. Dodson,” Brad said aloud. “You and I are going to have a little talk.”

  It was the morning after the BeHeard success, Dodson was still high, still wishing he’d been in the meeting to see the reaction. Stimson said they’d have to give him an assistant now. Cherise was beaming when he told her. They shared a bottle of sparkling rosé and followed it up with a two-hour love fest. He wanted her to say she was proud of him, but she didn’t.

  When he got to the office, Stimson wasn’t in yet, probably waiting for Marge to fold his sandwich in wax paper. A call came in from HR. All interns were to convene for a special announcement. Room 8, 16th floor, ASAP. Attendance was mandatory.

  Room 8 wasn’t a conference room. It was a spacious office. Modern furniture, sitting area, nice view. Brad was seated on the sofa. No one else was there.

  “I think I’m in the wrong place,” Dodson said.

  “No. You’re exactly where you should be, Mr. Dodson. May I call you Juanell?”

  “If you feel like it.”

  “Please call me Brad. Have a seat.” Dodson took the chair across from him.

  “Would you like water? Coffee? A soft drink, perhaps?”

  “No thanks. I’m good.” I’m busted, Dodson thought, but he wasn’t upset. He’d be fired from a position he wasn’t getting paid for. Cherise would be disappointed, but he didn’t regret anything he’d done.

  “I know you did those ads, and they were brilliant,” Brad said.

  “Stimson came up with those ads, not me.” Dodson had a rule. Never cop to anything, no matter what it was. He’d had a lot of experience talking to the police.

  “I understand your reluctance to come forward,” Brad said. “I’d probably do the same myself.”

  “Ain’t no need for ceremony. I’ll say my goodbyes and be outta here in ten minutes.”

  “No, that’s not quite what I had in mind.” Brad smiled like he had your number, like he had a surprise. Dodson hated that. “This is a special situation, Juanell. Very special, and if you play your cards right, you’ll be set up for years to come.”

  Look at this chump, Dodson thought. Was he actually trying to hustle the hustler’s hustler? Watch yourself, son. You don’t know who you fucking with.

  “I want you to come forward as the creator of those ads,” Brad said.

  “Like I said before, Stimson created those ads.” Brad’s running a game, Dodson thought. If he came forward, Brad would say he didn’t know Stimson was using someone else’s work. That meant Brad was partnered up with Dodson all along. He just didn’t know it. Together they created those ads and together they were the future of the company. The board would be ecstatic.

  “Come forward and two things will happen,” Brad said. “Stimson will get fired, and you’ll get his job. A two-year contract that can’t be canceled with an option for a third. A hundred twenty-five thousand to start with full benefits. And by the way, this is your office.”

  Dodson was wowed but a hustler is always cool. He didn’t smile, he didn’t say anything.

  Brad grinned. “Well, do we have a deal?”

  Dodson’s impulse was to say fuck yes, we have a deal. Instead he replied, “I need to think on it.” It was another rule. Never give in too easy. You’ll be seen as weak. Like they have you, like they know your price.

  “What is there to think about?” Brad said. “Let’s be serious, shall we? Look, I’m a straight shooter and so are you.” Dodson let that pass. “Given your background, nothing like this will ever come your way again. I’m not giving you a job, I’m giving you a career. Try to understand.”

  “Try to understand?” Dodson said, getting chesty. “Don’t talk down to me, Brad. You better raise up your attitude, or I’ll walk the fuck out.”

  “This is a one-time offer, Juanell,” Brad said, heatedly. “Leave and it’s gone forever.”

  “You know that’s bullshit. If you want me this much today, you’ll want me more tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure?” Brad said. “I’ve been playing this game a lot longer than you have.”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “If you blow the deal, won’t your family be disappointed?”

  “My family is my business.”

  It was a risk, but if he played this out, Brad might up the offer. He imagined Cherise’s face when he told her her husband was no longer a bum, he was an executive in a big company making real money. “Unless you’re firing me, I’ll be at work in the morning,” Dodson said.

  “Accept the deal right now and you’ll get a signing bonus,” Brad said quickly. “Ten thousand dollars before you leave the building.” He’s desperate, Dodson thought. Playing it out was the right move. He got up and went to the door. “You have twenty-four hours,” Brad said.

  “No,” Dodson replied as he left the room. “You have twenty-four hours.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Magic Trick

  Isaiah took a chance and drove the bike into town. The red and white paint and gleaming chrome were more than conspicuous. He used backstreets and parked in an alley. He took the three hundred dollars in emergency money out of his shoe. He went to the local motorcycle shop. He bought a Cordura motorcycle jacket with a high collar that covered your neck. He bought gloves that went
over his wrists and a helmet with a smoked face shield. There was a mirror in the store. He was satisfied. The outfit hid his most identifiable feature. His blackness. He made another stop and bought a TracFone. He had to tell Grace what was happening, a call he didn’t want to make.

  He went back to the guest house, got his laptop, the spare key to the Mustang and a few other things. The saddlebags were handy. He drove the Electra Glide to the Mustang’s hiding place. It was a rough ride. The bike wasn’t built for off-road. He drove the car to a second hiding place and walked back to the bike. He mounted up, realized something and sat there. He was afraid, of course, but the PTSD was gone and along with it, the self-loathing, bitterness and depression. No doubt it was temporary, the adrenaline and exhaustion giving him a reprieve. At the moment, he needed safety and rest. He didn’t know where to go. He could think of no place in town to hide and he had no camping gear.

  One of the last places cops look for you is the place you’ve already fled. They assume that you want to get as far away as possible. Isaiah parked the Harley in the woods behind the guest house. No one had seen him arrive, and no one had followed him. He was certain this time.

  He entered the guest house and shut the door. He went into the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He sat down at the breakfast table, put his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He wanted to get in bed but despite his precautions, he was still afraid. This was where he was arrested and handcuffed, where he imagined himself in prison. He would nod off for a moment and awaken with a start. This happened a few times, and then he heard the front door open. He was too exhausted to run, but he had to. He got up and started for the back door. Were deputies waiting out there? He stopped.

  “Isaiah?” said a tiny voice. It was Juana, the Ortegas’ little girl.

  “Isaiah! I’m so glad to see you,” Mr. Ortega said. “Please come in.” Mrs. Ortega appeared and insisted he have coffee and fresh conchas she’d made herself. Isaiah smelled cinnamon and warm bread.

  “I’m on the run. The sheriff is looking for me,” he said.

  “Don’t worry. We would be happy to have you,” Mrs. Ortega said. Mr. Ortega wasn’t so sure.

  Juana and Alicia were tugging at Isaiah’s sleeves, wanting him to play. He didn’t know why, but it moved him nearly to tears. He had his coffee and conchas, Mrs. Ortega promising him a muy bueno supper. She offered him their daughters’ bedroom. The girls could sleep with their mother. They giggled as they led Isaiah to their room. There was a sign on the door: FROG PARKING. VIOLATORS WILL BE TOAD. The girls swiftly removed their most prized possessions. A few stuffed animals, a bracelet made of candy, play money, a plastic bride and groom from a wedding cake and an Oscar the Grouch doll that the girls said reminded them of their grandmother Imelda.

  He wanted and didn’t want to call Grace. He longed to hear her voice, but there was a lot he didn’t want to tell her. He called.

  The first thing she said was, “Oh, Isaiah! Everybody liked my paintings! Most of them sold! I even got a review in the Ojai newspaper!” She broke down and cried. He let his own tears fall, some of them for himself.

  “I’m so happy for you, Grace. I wish I was there to celebrate.”

  “We’ll celebrate together! I’m coming up to see you, don’t you remember?”

  “Yes, we’ll celebrate together.” There was a pause. They’d been talking for twelve seconds, and she knew something was wrong.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” Isaiah knew how to lie but not with Grace. If he was a spy he’d be in Leavenworth by now.

  She said in a low voice, “Don’t do this to me, Isaiah. I don’t need to be protected.” He was about to say I’m not protecting anything but didn’t. It would compound the lie and sink them both.

  “I’m into something. I’ll tell you about it when I see you. I’m almost done.”

  “That’s a relief, because I’m leaving tomorrow,” she said. Tell her, Isaiah. Tell her not to come!

  “Can’t wait to see you.”

  “Yeah, me too,” she said, and the call ended. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t tell her. He was too wrung out. He’d call her early, before she left.

  He passed on the muy bueno supper and stayed in the bedroom. It was another addition to his long list of rocks and hard places. Cannon was looking for him, but he couldn’t leave town until Crowe and Warren were locked up. He brooded on it. Juana knocked on the door. She’d brought him a bowl of carna guisado con papas. A rich beef stew with warm homemade tortillas. He finished the bowl and wished he had more.

  Before you do anything else, he thought, you have to figure out what Crowe and Warren are up to. Yes, they’re here to kill someone, but that’s not really helpful. If you can figure out who their target is, maybe you can predict their next move. What would be their motives? he wondered. Blackmail? That made no sense. Why would you blackmail two ex-convicts who worked menial jobs? What would they have that you could possibly want? Had someone insulted them? Threatened them? Who insults and threatens serial murderers? Passion? Unlikely. Serial killers are obsessive, but they don’t fall in love. The only other option was revenge. Someone from their pasts had done something so egregious they deserved to be slashed to death. But was this person from Crowe’s past, his partner’s, or both?

  He called Billy.

  “Are you okay? We were really worried about you,” Billy said.

  “Where are you?”

  “My house. We’re waiting for my mom to get home. There was nowhere else to go.”

  “I need Crowe’s files. The last three years.”

  “Why do you want them?”

  Isaiah’s patience had left the building a long time ago. “I need them, Billy, and I need them right fucking now!”

  “Sure thing! Coming right up.”

  Billy had uploaded the records to Dropbox so Isaiah could retrieve them there. Crowe and his partner were killing together, Isaiah thought, which meant they had a close relationship. Isaiah skimmed Crowe’s parole reports, concentrating on his personal data. A clue was on the intake information form under “Known associates.” A few people were listed, including Crowe’s half brother, Warren Long. Isaiah called Billy again. He wanted Warren’s records too.

  The man Isaiah had seen with Crowe and Warren’s mugshot were one and the same. Warren had a lengthy criminal history of his own. He was Crowe’s only family. Warren’s last charge was for sexual assault. It happened here in Coronado Springs. He was tried and convicted in the Pumas County courthouse. So who in that process deserved to die? A police report caught Isaiah’s attention. An officer had stopped Warren. His vehicle matched the description of one seen in the area of the assault. Warren led the officer on a high-speed chase, nearly causing a fatal accident. The officer was finally able to execute the PIT maneuver, the suspect’s vehicle going off the road and crashing. Despite numerous warnings, Warren refused to surrender and fled.

  The officer chased him for approximately a quarter of a mile, catching him in a dry wash known as Alabaster Creek. Warren resisted and the officer subdued him. The report said, “The suspect sustained minor injuries.” Isaiah looked at Warren’s mugshot again. The man was badly beaten. His right eye closed, lips swollen and numerous bruises on his face. One shoulder was lower than the other. That didn’t happen in the crash. Warren’s car was a 2003 Ford Taurus. Airbags had been mandatory since 1998.

  Isaiah imagined what had really happened at Alabaster Creek. After a quarter-mile chase at seven thousand feet, Warren had collapsed, barely able to breathe. He was in no condition to resist, but the officer pounded on him anyway. Isaiah had seen this kind of thing on video. The officer chases a suspect, gets him down and helpless, but beats him up anyway. Why? Most people concluded the cop was either a sadist or a racist, and in too many cases that was true. But in a number of the tapes Isaiah had seen, the cop was pissed off, furious in fact, because he’d risked his life to catch a worthless asshole. He
might have left his wife a widow, his kids fatherless or a bystander lying dead on the street. The officer was frightened by the chances he’d taken and embarrassed because he’d been frightened. The officer who had pursued Warren Long was Sheriff Ronald Cannon.

  Isaiah nodded as he imagined Cannon’s state of mind. Warren had not only assaulted a woman that Cannon probably knew, he’d done it in Coronado Springs, the sheriff’s hometown, the one he’d sworn to protect. Add in a nervous system flooded with angry adrenaline, and you could expect a little extracurricular punishment.

  Cannon had testified at Warren’s trial. Warren cursed him and the public defender so adamantly he had to be taken from the courtroom. Cannon. Of all the people in the world Warren could kill, he’d chosen the sheriff as his next victim. How does this happen? Isaiah thought. You work hard to unravel the case and end up with a revelation that puts you in life-threatening jeopardy. He wondered why his options so often came down to one, and it was always the equivalent of cliff diving into the kiddie pool or running with the bulls in a loincloth.