Razorblade Tears

by S. A. Cosby

  “Goddamn, you quiet as a ghost,” Buddy Lee said.

  “Yeah, he’s a guest,” Mya said. Buddy Lee shifted from one foot to the other. He waited for Ike or his wife to say something else, but it seemed like their vocabularies had both run dry. Buddy Lee took a bite out of his sandwich. This kind of awkwardness made him restless.

  “Me and Buddy Lee going out. I’ll be back later,” Ike said finally. Ike motioned toward the door with his head. Buddy Lee slipped past Mya.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. He stepped through the doorway. Ike turned to follow him when Mya reached out and touched his arm.

  “Be careful. Don’t do nothing you can’t walk away from,” Mya said. Ike saw the blood-soaked tamper in his hands with bits of skull and brains sticking to the square metal plate at the end of the handle.

  “I won’t,” he lied.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Grayson fingered the bandage against his neck while he spoke into his cell phone.

  “Nah, we gonna fuck this dude up righteously. I’m talking scorched fucking earth. This boy ain’t gonna know what the hell hit him. You think you and Choppa and your crew can come down, too? We need to put the Breed beatdown on this fucker,” Grayson said. A series of high-toned beeps rang in his ear as Tank, the president of the Hurricane, West Virginia, chapter of the Rare Breed, yammered on about retribution, taking care of business, and Rare Breed forever, forever Rare Breed.

  “Hey, Tank, let me get back to you,” Grayson said. He clicked over to the incoming call.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m going to assume since I have not heard from you in two days you have not found the girl,” the voice on the other end said. Grayson bit down on the inside of his cheek before he responded.

  “No, we ain’t found your side piece yet. I’m glad you called so I can tell you that’s gonna have to wait. We got Breed business to take care of now. All because of you and these faggots,” Grayson said.

  “I thought I made myself clear the other day. Nothing is more important right now than finding Tangerine. Was there some miscommunication?”

  “No, you was clear, but now I got a missing prospect and a nigger out of Red Hill County who thinks he can hold a fucking machete to my neck and stay upright.”

  The voice sighed.

  “Elucidate the situation more clearly for me.”

  “What?” Grayson said.

  “Tell. Me. What. Happened.” The voice pronounced each word with an overexaggerated enunciation that made Grayson’s vision go stark white.

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid. Just because I don’t keep a dictionary by my nightstand don’t mean I’m stupid,” Grayson said.

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, I followed your suggestion and sent a couple prospects out to the punks’ house to see what they could see. When they got there apparently them boys’ daddies was in the house. One of them jumped the prospects, and the other snuck up behind them and knocked them out. When the one that came back woke up his brother was gone and so was the daddies.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Yeah. Now this prospect, he saw a truck in front of the house with the name of a lawn-care business on the side of the door. You wanna know who owned the truck?” Grayson said.

  “One of the fathers, I assume.”

  “You bet your fucking ass it did. Randolph Lawn Care. We rolled over there, but this motherfucker, he ain’t no square. He got jail ink. He done some real time. We won’t expecting that,” Grayson said.

  “Let me guess. He was able to ward off you and your brothers,” the voice said.

  “He got the drop on us, yeah. He don’t know it yet, but that’s the last time he ever gonna walk straight. We’re going back and we’re gonna fix him up right,” Grayson said. The voice didn’t speak for a long time.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Excuse the fuck out of me? I told you, this is Breed business now. Your little honeypot is gonna have to wait. That bitch been gone bye-bye for a long time anyway,” Grayson said. He picked up his mini-sledgehammer gavel and started tapping it against the table.

  “No, it’s still my business. Stop and think for a moment. The fathers of two dead sons are in their boys’ home weeks after the funeral. Why? Did your remaining prospect note any furniture being moved out of the home? Doesn’t seem like they were retrieving any family heirlooms. Then these two men, these grieving fathers, whoop your prospects’ collective asses, but instead of calling the police and reporting a break-in, they disappear with a hostage in tow. Then when you and your rolling gang of miscreants confront one of these grieving gentlemen, not only does he get the drop on you, he again does not alert the police. Now tell me, what does that say to you? And before you answer, consider what you told me about one of these men. A hard man who has done hard time. What do think all this means? Better yet, tell me what you would do, being the kind of man you are, if persons unknown killed your son?” the voice asked. Grayson pulled the phone away from his ear and laid it against his forehead for a few seconds before answering the voice’s question.

  “First of all, I wouldn’t have a gay son. Second of all, I already know this. Everything you just said, I’ve already thought about. That’s why I’m gonna put them ten toes up. We don’t need nobody poking around that thing that we took care of,” Grayson said.

  “How much did the prospect know about our arrangement?” the voice asked. Grayson relished the hint of fear in the voice when it asked that question.

  “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. He ain’t know shit.”

  “Good. Because you know he isn’t coming back, right? I know men like this. I’ve seen thousands of them over the years. They can’t resist their true nature. If they took him out of that house, that was the last sunset he ever saw,” the voice said. Grayson had figured as much himself, but hearing it from that soft-talking motherfucker made him nearly go blind with fury. He knew Andy wasn’t on this side of the dirt anymore. He didn’t need this arrogant asshole to explain that to him.

  “Now let’s extrapolate this even further. Let’s assume your prospect did give them something. Maybe something about the club. Maybe they asked him about the deaths of their sons.”

  “Shit,” Grayson whispered.

  “What is it?” the voice said.

  “I told them the name of the girl we was looking for,” Grayson said. His neck and ears became hot as a griddle. He could almost hear the smile on the other end of the line. The poor dumb biker had fucked up, and it was up to the sophisticated, intelligent owner of a smooth urbane voice to fix the situation. Again.

  “That’s actually to our advantage. If they have the name and they are pursuing their own shabby mission of revenge, one just has to follow them and see where they lead us. If they have her name, they may very well find her. Of course, if you hadn’t gone to the man’s place of business and tried and failed to threaten him, we would have the element of surprise. Oh well. Get a few of your best men to follow this Randolph. Then when they lead you to Tangerine you can take out all your pent-up aggression on all of them at your leisure. It’s the proverbial two birds with one stone. Until then, let them be. Just observe and report,” the voice said. Grayson tapped the gavel harder.

  “I’m gonna say something to you and I want you to listen to me good. You don’t run this club. I do. You think we’re your personal army. We ain’t. This is how it’s gonna go. We play your game for a little bit, but if it don’t look like we gonna find this bitch, I’m taking care of my business. My way. No more talking. You wanna cut us loose, do it. I don’t give a fuck. You can tell your daddy I said that, too. I don’t wake up in the morning looking to kiss your ass,” Grayson said.

  “No, you don’t. But you do wake up in a world where I can make one phone call to the ATF and have you behind bars for the rest of your life before my coffee is cold. I can even call in a few favors with my friends in the corrections department to make sure you spend that time being the paramour of a m
onstrously endowed subhuman.” The voice paused. Between the beginning and the end of that pause Grayson had an image of him shoving the gavel down the throat of the owner of that sophisticated voice.

  “I’ll look up this Randolph’s business license and get you his home address,” the voice said.

  “Yeah,” Grayson said in a strangled groan.

  “Get a couple of your guys on him. Tonight.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Buddy Lee turned off Grace Street and pulled into a pay-by-the-hour parking lot. The streetlamps were covered by swarms of moths and gnats that hovered around them like living clouds. He put the truck in park and waited for it to settle. Ike was leaning against the door with his face toward the window. When the truck finally stopped rattling, Ike sat up straight and rubbed his eyes.

  “You sleeping over there, hoss?” Buddy Lee asked.

  “Didn’t get much rest last night. I guess you got a nap today,” Ike said.

  “I caught a few winks,” Buddy Lee said. They sat there under the streetlamps as a car drove down the street with a sound system pumping out enough bass to liquefy their insides. They heard the disjointed chatter of the denizens of the city as they wandered up and down the sidewalks and through the alleyways. Ike thought it sounded like they were underwater listening to people on the shore. He pulled the napkin out of his pocket and stared at it.

  “I guess we should get to it,” he said.

  “What’s the plan? Just go in there and start asking about some girl named Tangerine?” Buddy Lee asked.

  “Yeah, but leave your knife in the truck. If LaPlata and Robbins are on our asses, we need to try and keep it quiet up in here,” Ike said.

  “That knife has saved my ass more times than I can count. I ain’t leaving it behind. Besides, I’m not the one running around breaking people’s fingers like wishbones,” Buddy Lee said. Ike cut him a look but Buddy Lee ignored it.

  “You ready?” Ike asked.

  “When the last time you was in a club?” Buddy Lee asked.

  “Michael Jackson was still alive,” Ike said as he climbed out of the truck.

  Garland’s sat at the corner of Grace and Foushee Streets. A large picture window with a neon sign in the shape of a pair of red shoes in the corner allowed red and green lights to spill out onto the pavement. Buddy Lee stopped in front of the entrance, spit on his hands, then ran them through his hair.

  “What are you doing?” Ike asked.

  “You never know. I might meet a filly with low standards in here,” Buddy Lee said. This time Ike did laugh. Buddy Lee smiled. The smile faltered after a few seconds.

  “Let’s do it,” he said as he opened the door.

  Garland’s had a long oval-shaped bar that bisected the club right down the middle. Tables and booths filled the club on the left side of the bar. On the right were blue and red velvet love seats and beanbags. Up and down the exposed redbrick walls black-and-white pictures of Judy Garland in full Wizard of Oz regalia competed with color photos of Judy Garland in early twentieth-century garb from Meet Me in St. Louis. A large flat-screen television above the bar was playing Judy Garland singing “Over the Rainbow” on top of a techno beat. A few men were sitting at the bar. When Ike and Buddy Lee came in, two Black men sitting at the bottom of the oval snapped their heads up, appraised them, then quickly lowered their heads again. To their right, three women—two Black, one white—were squeezed into one of the love seats. Ike and Buddy Lee plopped down on a couple of stools at the end of the bar.

  Ike took a quick look over each shoulder and scanned the bar. A group of clean-cut older white men sat in one of the booths with a tray of shot glasses in front of them. They raised their glasses and one of the men yelled out a toast.

  “Cheers, queers!” the man said as he and his companions downed their shots. They collapsed against each other amid a chorus of laughs. Ike put his head on a swivel. Two more young white men were holding hands at one of the tables behind him. The three women in the love seat were running their hands through each other’s hair.

  Ike gripped the edge of the bar.

  “I think this is a gay bar,” he whispered.

  “What?” Buddy Lee asked. He was squinting at the shelf of liquor bottles like a penitent who had just glimpsed heaven. Ike leaned over and put his mouth near Buddy Lee’s ear.

  “I think this is a gay bar,” Ike said.

  Buddy Lee spun around on his barstool. After one complete revolution he stopped and leaned toward Ike.

  “Well, shit, I guess that makes sense. I ain’t never been in a gay bar before. But it looks like they serve bourbon, so I guess it’ll be alright,” Buddy Lee said.

  “Let’s just ask the bartender if he knows Tangerine or the boys,” Ike said. His breath was coming in short harsh bursts.

  “Alright. You okay? You breathing like you running uphill backward,” Buddy Lee said.

  “I’m fine. Let’s just do it,” Ike said. Buddy Lee held up two fingers and waved at the bartender. After dropping off a pair of martinis to the two brothers at the end of the bar, he came over to Ike and Buddy Lee. He was a short Asian man with long coal-black hair that spilled over his well-defined shoulders. Ike thought his white T-shirt was three sizes too small.

  “Hey, gents, what can I do ya for?” the bartender asked.

  “I’ll have a Coors and a shot of Jack Daniel’s,” Buddy Lee said.

  “I just want a water,” Ike said.

  “Gotcha. You guys need any menus?”

  “No,” Ike said before Buddy Lee could respond. A few minutes later, the bartender, who told them his name was Tex, brought them their drinks.

  “Anything else for you guys?” Tex asked with a smile. Buddy Lee gave Ike a curt nod as he downed his whiskey.

  “Yeah. Let me ask you something. Did you know some guys named Isiah and Derek? I think they might’ve hung out here from time to time,” Ike said. Tex’s smile faltered a bit.

  “Yeah, I knew them. They were good guys. They used to come out for our Blacklight Night. Derek used to make us pierogies for our monthly Paint Night. Isiah wrote an article about us for his website. They were really good guys. I can’t believe what happened to them. It’s bullshit, man,” Tex said. Ike felt a lump rise in his throat like a whale breaching.

  “Yeah, it was bullshit,” Ike said.

  “Were you guys friends of theirs or something?” Tex asked.

  “They was our sons,” Buddy Lee said. He took a long swig off of his beer.

  “Aw, man. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, dudes.”

  “Thanks,” Ike said.

  Tex pulled a white rag out of his pocket and wiped the bar down in front of Ike and Buddy Lee. One of the three women from the love seat squealed with pleasure or surprise. Or both.

  “I gotta ask, what are you guys doing here? Isiah used to say…” Tex cut himself off.

  “What did Isiah used to say?” Ike said, knowing full well what his son probably said.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing. I just was wondering why you guys were here, that’s all.”

  “We trying to find somebody who might know something about what happened to them,” Buddy Lee said. He killed his beer.

  “Are y’all like, investigating?” Tex asked.

  “We just asking questions. The cops said they wasn’t getting nowhere. We just want to find out what happened to our boys, that’s all. We ain’t trying to cause nobody no trouble,” Ike said. That was partially the truth. He didn’t want to cause anyone any trouble. He just wanted to find the motherfuckers who killed his son. All of them. Every last one.

  “Yeah, they came by here. I don’t think it’s like people don’t want to help. It’s like, the cops come around here and people get nervous. Lots of folks here still on the down-low. They don’t want to get their names tied up in a murder case. Don’t get me wrong, Richmond’s a pretty good place to live if you’re gay or queer or whatever, but it’s still Virginia. The same people who love those statues on Monument Avenue would
n’t have a problem tying some of my customers to a fence, ya feel me?” Tex said.

  “So, you’re saying Isiah and Derek’s friends are a bunch of chickenshits,” Buddy Lee said. Tex shook his head.

  “You don’t get it, man. Things are better these days if you’re gay, but they ain’t great. You get outed and you might find out you suddenly have violated your company’s rules on parking privileges, so they fire you. I mean, it’s like being Black or Asian or Hispanic here in the Old Dominion. Things are better but—”

  Ike let out a grunt.

  “I say something wrong?” Tex asked.

  “Being gay ain’t nothing like being Black,” Ike said. The words came out slow and deliberate. Tex furrowed his brow.

  “I’m just saying we still in the South. Unless you straight and white you gotta watch your back,” he said. He turned his head toward Buddy Lee.

  “No offense,” he said.

  “None taken, I guess. I just never knew I had it so good being straight and white,” Buddy Lee said. He tried to make it come out lighthearted, but the truth in the statement anchored it to the ground. Tex glanced at Ike, but whatever he expected to see was absent.

  “You know anything about what happened to our boys? Did either one of them say anything about somebody threatening them or anything like that?” Ike asked.

  “Neither one of them ever said anything like that,” Tex said. He grabbed Buddy Lee’s empty bottle and headed for the trash can under the bar.

  “Hey, you know a girl named Tangerine?” Buddy Lee asked. Tex stopped.

  “She used to hang around here a while back. She comes and goes, ya know.”

  “You ever see her with the boys?” Ike asked. Tex glared at him for a second.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean with our boys.”

  “Oh. No, never did. Like I said, she floats in and out. She’s a party girl.”

  “Oh yeah? How hard do she party?” Buddy Lee asked. Now it was his turn to get a hard look from Tex.

  “You’d have to ask her that,” Tex said.