by Joe Ide
“Yes. I do. Janine is a serial liar, and hopefully it’s a story she made up to get money from me. She’s done it many times before. On the other hand, she might be telling the truth and if she is, she’ll need help—oh, I’m sorry, Isaiah, I’m just assuming you’ll drop everything you’re doing and go.”
“I’m not doing anything,” he said, even though he had cases and was in the middle of investigating Marcus’s murder. He’d tell her about it when he brought the killer to justice. Surprise her. Impress her. Make her forget the difference in their ages.
“And there’s something else,” Sarita said. She hesitated, filling the moment with a deep breath. “As soon as my sister asked me for help I was bound by attorney-client privilege. Anything she tells me has to stay between the two of us. If I go to the authorities about this now or later it’s breaking that confidentiality, and I’ll probably get fired.”
“Why?” Isaiah said.
“Attorneys keep secrets, that’s what we’re paid to do. If it’s made public that I broke confidentiality, the firm’s other clients might wonder if their secrets were at risk—and I could be prosecuted.”
“Prosecuted? For what?”
“Aiding and abetting. Bringing you into it could be seen as part of a cover-up, which I am not asking you to do.”
But she was, Isaiah thought. At least she was thinking about it. It was understandable, her loved ones at risk. He’d have done anything for Marcus and vice versa. The law wouldn’t have mattered. “That’s no problem,” he said, “and if anything happens it’s all on me. You and I never spoke.”
“I feel terrible about this,” Sarita said.
“Don’t.”
“It’s a lot to ask.”
“If you hadn’t asked I’d have volunteered.”
“I want you to know there’s the real possibility of reprisals.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Isaiah said, happy there was a heroic aspect to it.
The night was warm and clear. She took his arm, and he felt a live current sparking where her skin met his. It seemed so obvious and unnatural Isaiah thought she had to be feeling it too—didn’t she? He was sensitive to emotional vibes in his cases, but this was a whole other magnetic field.
“We have to see each other more often,” she said.
“Yeah, that’d be good,” he said. Wait. Was it his imagination or was she slowing down? He kept the same pace to see if it was really happening and it was. She’s stretching this out.
“Are you going to stay in Long Beach, Isaiah?” she said.
“I don’t know, maybe,” he said, thinking she could be living in a luxed-out condo on the other side of those walls.
“You don’t have to stay there, you know. There’s people with problems everywhere.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said. Was she saying she didn’t want to be stuck with someone who lived in the hood? That if he lived somewhere else he’d have a shot?
Sarita held on to his arm and relaxed a little. “I’m so glad to see you,” she said. He didn’t know what to say and nodded. This was turning out way better than he’d hoped. He wished he could enjoy it, but the sense of betraying Marcus was pounding in his head like that Mexican polka band.
They got back to the hotel, Isaiah sorry it wasn’t someplace farther like Pasadena or Glendale. Sarita put her arms around him and hugged him tight, the feel of her body and the smell of citrus and cypress trees making him woozy, thoughts of Marcus vanishing into the starless LA sky.
“Thank you, Isaiah,” she said. “Thank you so much.” She leaned her head back and looked at him, her eyes full of—was that longing?
“I’ve got to go,” she said, stepping away. “Call me, okay?”
Isaiah was at once deflated and hugely relieved. The pressure of being with her was like a test of personality and social skills. He thought about saying goodbye, but somehow that seemed lame. She turned and went back inside. Isaiah watched her through the hotel’s tall windows, the cascading chandeliers casting mood lighting on the lobby. She walked quickly, heels clicking on the marble floor. She turned a corner and was gone.
He drove home kicking himself for all the things he did and didn’t say. He’d heard women liked men who made them laugh, and he hadn’t done that once, not that he knew how. What did you do, tell a joke? Marcus would have made her laugh. He could find something funny at a funeral, and he’d have put his arm around her, comforted her. He could do that without sending out the wrong vibe, and he would have been wise and helpful and given her sound advice. Even now, Isaiah couldn’t think of any. Instead, he’d nodded and spoken in monosyllables, couldn’t even carry on a conversation. Another mystery. What were you supposed to talk about? The weather? Afghanistan? Taylor Swift, whoever that was? And what was that he’d said? That’d be good? She was inviting him to spend more time together, and all he could think of to say was That’d be good? He’d cringe about that for all eternity, and then there was that look, that last longing look. Was that for him or Marcus? How were you to know? Maybe she was telling him she wished he was more like Marcus. Big shoes to fill. Shaq’s shoes to fill. He knew he had a long way to go, and rescuing Sarita’s sister was a good way to start.
The next morning, he sat in his easy chair, drinking an espresso and listening to Segovia, the music as warm and yearning as he’d been last night. His phone buzzed. A text from Sarita. She was insisting on paying him. Her father had started a college fund when she was a child, which she hadn’t touched because she’d always been on scholarship. Interest and dividends had been compounding all this time and she was loaded.
No arguments. I’m paying you and that’s that.
Doesn’t paying me make you more involved?
I’ll pay you in cash.
Can’t do it. If I needed a lawyer would you charge me?
That’s different.
No it’s not. It’s exactly the same.
Isaiah, for the sake of my conscience, you must let me pay you.
Isaiah thought a bit before he replied.
I won’t take your money but you can pay my partner.
You have a partner?
After her argument with Benny, Janine went to the MGM Grand to play video poker. She dreaded seeing her dad and needed time to not think about it. The Chinese considered red a lucky color so she was wearing her red panties. She had a dozen pairs and wore them whether she was gambling or not. The ancient fêng shui masters had put a curse on front entrances so she entered the MGM from the New York New York side and took the walkway. You used to have to go through the mouth of a gigantic gold lion to get in until management found out a Chinese gambler would rather crawl through a ventilation duct. Washing your hands was part of the regimen and no bumping shoulders, hard to do at the crap tables. Books were never mentioned because book sounded like the Chinese word for lose. The west side of the casino where you could see a door was more auspicious, and eight was a lucky number so she always chose the eighth machine from the end. Eight in Chinese sounds like the word for prosperity. Fours of any kind were to be avoided. Four sounds like death. Benny said by the time you got through all that you forgot why you were there.
She played some but couldn’t get into it so she went to the pub and had a couple of beers. She thought about hurtling into the landfill and getting sucked into a black hole of rotting garbage and rat turds. Cold fingers spidered up and down her spine. She had to go see her dad.
Ken Van lived in the Red Rock Country Club, an exclusive community with a golf course, private lakes, and McMansions distinctive as Quarter Pounders painted Band-Aid beige. It was late when she pulled in the driveway and parked behind his Lexus. He’d be working now. There was a twelve-hour time difference with Hong Kong and Macau. She let herself in and went down the hall. She could hear him in the study, talking on his cell.
“No, I’m afraid there’s been a mistake,” he said, like it was probably his fault. “I was expecting four parcels, not three—something happened? Oh, I see, o
f course.” This was how he usually sounded, apologetic or like the problem was tiresome and you were in this together. “That’s understandable,” he said. “Yes, okay, no, please don’t worry, I’ll make some adjustments.” For once she wished he’d say What’s your problem, you fucking moron? But he had that Chinese thing about avoiding confrontation. That, and he was a wimp. Tommy Lau, supposedly his partner, walked all over him, and he never said a thing. “All right then,” her dad said. “We’ll talk soon.” He hung up and muttered like the caller might be able to hear him, “You lying son of a bitch.”
Janine approached the door and peeked in. Her dad was at his desk, hunched over his laptop like he couldn’t read the fine print. She’d always thought he was handsome; trim in that chestless, bootyless Asian man way, fifty-six years old and not a wrinkle on his face or a trace of gray in his jet-black hair. She thought he looked like that guy who hosted Iron Chef and did kung fu moves while he shouted Pork bellies!
“Hey, Pop,” she said.
He was startled and then annoyed. “What are you doing here?” he said.
“Good to see you too.”
“You want a loan, don’t you?”
“What? No, I don’t want a loan. I just came to get a few things. God.”
She left and went outside. A sandpaper breeze was rasping through the palm trees and rippling the surface of the swimming pool. She thought about going back to the study and telling her dad she owed twenty-seven large to Leo, and that he was going to throw her in a landfill if she didn’t have the vig. He wouldn’t believe her, she’d lied to him too many times before and even if he bought the story he wasn’t going to give her fourteen cents, let alone fourteen hundred. He’d say It serves you right or It will teach you a lesson and then he’d be pissed that any daughter of his got talked into paying twenty percent. Why didn’t she bargain harder, didn’t she know she was Chinese?
She only had two options. One, she could buy a hazmat suit and wait for Leo to find her. Two, she could steal from her dad. It was almost life or death, wasn’t it? The problem was he never kept cash in the house. Once he tried to pay for a fifteen-dollar pizza with his American Express Black Card. The delivery guy refused it, saying there was no such thing as a titanium credit card.
She went back to the motel, parked in the lot, and sat there awhile. The radio was on, music and chatter fading in and out of her consciousness. When she left the apartment, Benny was sitting on the sofa, limp like he’d been shot, too drunk to wipe the snot off his upper lip, his eyes clouded over with doom and hopelessness. What would she tell him? She couldn’t ask her dad because it was too humiliating? He’d say, Oh yeah? Try spending a night in the landfill. She thought about coming up with a lie, but he’d know. They watched each other lie to people all the time. They even lied as a tag team, one of them starting some bullshit about getting money from a lawsuit and the other finishing it without even a look passing between them.
Her brain was tired of grinding and switched its attention to the radio. The same guy who did the voice-overs on action movies was talking about an identity theft protection service; going on and on about how thousands of people were being victimized and how you were next and how the thieves were making billions of dollars.
Identity theft. Now there’s an idea.
Her dad’s clients weren’t just fat cats, they were whale fat. The kind of fat the casinos flew in on a private jet and comped a suite bigger than a big house with an infinity pool on the balcony and a private butler with room service from Nobu twenty-four seven because they knew you could drop a half mil playing baccarat and not even call your accountant. If you’re going to steal identities, Janine thought, you couldn’t do better than the people on her dad’s laptop.
Isaiah was excited about his mission to Vegas. He couldn’t have imagined a better way to advance his relationship with Sarita. He could show off his detective prowess and be the knight in shining armor. What could be more emotionally charged than saving her sister? He couldn’t wait to get started.
It was 10 p.m. on the first Friday of the month, a cool mist in the air. Isaiah drove past a dozen food trucks parked end to end on Abbot Kinney, a funky, narrow street in Venice Beach. Art galleries, clothing boutiques, upscale restaurants, and grain-fed food stores mingled with dive bars, auto body shops, and graffiti-scarred apartment buildings. It was a place to go when you wanted to feel edgy and hip. The street was crowded, long lines of people waiting to get a Korean fusion taco or a slice of Uncle Tetsu’s cheesecake. Isaiah tried to think of a dish he’d stand in line for and the only thing he could think of was a can of Alpo for Ruffin. He spotted the truck he was looking for, D&D’S DOWNHOME BUTTERMILK FRIED CHICKEN. Now all he needed was a place to park.
“Kelly?” Dodson called out. A blond girl in white cutoffs and a USC sweatshirt came up to the service window.
“I’m Kelly,” she said. “I forgot to ask. Is your food gluten-free?”
“Free as the last day of our probation,” Dodson said, knowing that wasn’t true. The whole gluten-free thing was a scam, and he admired whoever’d thought it up; telling people something natural in your bread and breakfast cereal messed up your immune system and then selling them food without it. That was like selling cars without wheels so you wouldn’t get into a crash.
“What about the chickens?” the girl said. “Are they cage-free?”
“Cage-free?” Dodson said. “Our chickens live in a condo with a farmyard in the back. Did I tell you they’ve never seen a hormone shot?” Dodson bought the chicken on sale at Vons. Getting busted didn’t seem too likely unless the girl had a chemistry set in that Whole Foods shopping bag. He gave her a warm Styrofoam box and plastic utensils. “Y’all have a nice evening now, and if you enjoy your meal please like us on Facebook.”
“Stop talking to everybody and hurry your ass up,” Deronda snapped, poking at the chicken bubbling in the fryers, her head scarf dark with sweat. I’m two plates ahead of you.”
“What I’m doing here is called public relations,” Dodson said. “Something you wouldn’t know about.”
A brand-new food truck would set you back a hundred grand, but the eighteen-foot 2001 GMC Workhorse with a hundred and sixteen thousand miles on the odometer that smelled like baked-on grease and burnt tortillas had cost sixty-eight nine, Dodson talking the owner down from seventy-two five. Deronda, who was working at Rite Aid at the time, emptied her 401(k) and got a loan from her dad. Dodson sold his portfolio and borrowed from every person he knew who wasn’t terminal or under the age of twelve. He wished he hadn’t put all the burglary money into Flaco’s condo. Cherise would never let him hear the end of that.
The truck came fully equipped except for the paint job. The partners argued about it, eventually settling on canary yellow with D&D’S DOWNHOME BUTTERMILK FRIED CHICKEN on the side in big brown letters and two crossed drumsticks like a coat of arms. They both had their own thoughts about which D was who.
“Here you are, sir,” Dodson said, handing out another box. “If you enjoy your meal please like us on Facebook. What’s that? Free as the last day of your probation. Did I tell you our chickens never had a hormone shot? You hope it’s what? As good as your mother’s? Give your mother a taste of that and see if she don’t show up asking for the recipe.”
“Goddammit, Dodson,” Deronda said. “Just give out the box and go on to the next person.”
They’d decided by mutual consent that Deronda would stick to cooking and stay away from the service window. One customer wanted a refund for his order because it was too salty.
“Ain’t no refunds up in here,” she said. “The hell you think this is, Walmart? You bought it, you eat it.” Another customer complained that the mac and cheese was too greasy. “Cheese is grease,” she said, like he was a moron. “The macaroni don’t do nothin’ but hold the grease—what? Yeah, you write a bad review and see if I don’t come lookin’ for your ass.” Which the guy quoted word for word on Yelp.
People we
re getting tired of waiting, leaving for a mahimahi taco or Vietnamese sandwich. “What’d I tell you?” Deronda said. “That’s cash out the window right there.”
“You see I’m hurrying, don’t you?” Dodson said. “Shit. I need the money more than you do.”
The overhead on the truck was a backbreaker and the baby was due next week. Dodson had tried to convince Cherise to hold off getting pregnant until business was doing better, showing her an article in the Star about a woman in Appalachia who had a baby when she was sixty-seven years old. There was a picture of her wearing a shawl and a frontier dress holding a baby wrinklier than she was. The father, who had a scraggly beard and a three-tooth grin, was giving the camera double thumbs up.
“See there?” Dodson said. “Ain’t no need to rush into it.”
“Don’t be stupid, Dodson,” Cherise said. “That baby belongs to the woman’s granddaughter and you know it. Now get over here and do your duty.”
The crowd had dwindled to a handful of foodies, bikers, and people with the munchies. Dodson was exhausted. He leaned against the fridge and wondered if going legit had been a mistake. He’d questioned himself about the decision a hundred times, but in the end he knew he was too old to keep hustling. It was undignified and not worthy of his talents. That, and Cherise threatened to leave him if he didn’t get his shit together. Compared to adulthood, selling crack was easy.
“Why you standing there?” Deronda said. “Let’s clean up and go home.” For security’s sake they parked the truck in Deronda’s backyard, right under her bedroom window where she slept with her dad’s Kel-Tec fourteen-round pump-action tactical shotgun.
Deronda scraped the flattop thinking she’d be making more money at Rite Aid and with benefits too. But she could never go back there, stocking shelves all day, customers asking you stupid questions, cameras all up in your business, a half hour for lunch. Her boss was a white boy named Brian who had more zits than face and began every sentence with “As your supervisor—.” She could always go back to stripping at the Kandy Kane. Alonzo, the manager, called her from time to time saying her booty was a national treasure and why wasn’t she out there sharing it with the world? But she was done with that. She never understood how a whole group of men with hard-ons could sit in the same room together. Another reason was her son, Janeel. He was almost ready for kindergarten, and she didn’t want one of his classmates saying his daddy saw Janeel’s mama buck-ass naked. Her dad had taken the boy to the San Diego Zoo for the weekend, and she was looking forward to having the evenings to herself.
