Righteous

by Joe Ide

  Manzo parked in a strip mall. If something happened he’d get a text. He got tired of waiting, had a sandwich at Subway, took a nap, waited some more, and finally got a message. It was after midnight when everybody reassembled in the parking lot at Ralphs. Nobody saw any bangers. Frankie made another long, rambling speech, vowing they’d come back and get justice for Ramona. Everybody said they would but at that point, they just wanted to go home.

  Frankie had come with someone else and Manzo drove him back to Long Beach. “Shit, man,” Frankie said. “That was really messed up. We’ll come back on the weekend.”

  “Think about it, Frankie,” Manzo said. “Do you really want to do that? I mean, what are we gonna do? Come back here and shoot anybody who looks gangster? Ask somebody do they know where the Chink Mob is at? And if we find them, then what? Have a big fucking shootout and we all go to jail?”

  Cracks were appearing in El Piedra, the rock face crumbling, chunks falling off, his flesh turning gray as dirt, his body seeming to grow smaller. “Sorry, Frankie,” Manzo said. “I didn’t mean to bum you out.”

  “I have to do something for Ramona.”

  “Ramona’s gone, Frankie.”

  Frankie seemed to be weighing that for the first time. He sat there with his head down like separate dreams were coalescing into one sorrowful nightmare. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Ramona’s gone.”

  They drove without speaking, no music, just the thrumming V8. Manzo kept his eyes on the road, he didn’t want to look at Frankie anymore. They were almost home before he finally glanced at him. Tears were held in Frankie’s eyes. “All the shit I done, man,” he said. “How come I’m still here?” He looked mystified down to his core, his stare turned inward for an answer. The tears lost their tension and spilled over; streams of liquid crystal trickling down his old face. “It’s not right, man,” he said. “It’s not right.”

  No, Manzo thought. It’s not.

  Leo was really pissed now, chasing all over Vegas for Janine and Benny. What if word got out that he was losing his grip and people started thinking they could skate on him and not feel the consequences? A loan shark might as well be Wells Fargo if a default wasn’t punished immediately and with malice of forethought. And who were all these other people? Who were the black dudes? Who were the squinty people? Zar said they were Chinese, like you could tell the difference. Hold one up next to a Korean guy and the most you could say was that the Korean guy had more tickets for reckless driving.

  Zar had a thing about the Chinese. They’d be in some fucked-up town looking for a deadbeat, and Zar would somehow come up with a phone book.

  “Look at the Hos, Leo!” he’d say, marveling as he turned the pages. “Nancy Ho, Lian Ho, Warren Ho, Zi Ho—”

  “Crack ho.”

  “Look at how many Wongs there are! Bao Wong, Robert Wong, Mee Wong—”

  “What’s your point, Zar?”

  “If you’re Chinese you’re never alone, eh?”

  Leo liked to say he found Zar, like he was fishing in Lake Mead and Zar floated by in a reed basket. It happened at Leo’s hangout, a bar called Dino’s Lounge, a dive on the threadbare end of Las Vegas Boulevard. There was a big sign in the parking lot for a bankruptcy attorney that said BUSTED? on one side and ACCIDENTE? on the other. Leo had grown up in the neighborhood, if you could call it that. Third-rate motels, trash-strewn empty lots, crusty manufacturing plants and old commercial buildings that said DISCOUNT no matter what they were selling.

  The Dino’s crowd was mostly blue-collar and whatever was below that. The room was smoky and dark, inked-up waitresses, fifties porn playing, white girls painting their toenails. There was a Drunk of the Month contest, the contestants nominated by the bartenders, and if you guessed what suit of cards was under the Pabst Blue Ribbon cap you got a free beer.

  Leo loved Fridays, karaoke night, the crowd rowdier and drunker than during the week. He had a decent voice but his specialty was singing falsetto. His rendition of “Stayin’ Alive” was always a crowd-pleaser. He’d throw in a few disco moves during the chorus and when he hit that pose—hip cocked, one hand pointing at ten o’ clock, the other pointing at four—the bitches went crr-razy. He thought about wearing a white suit but decided it was too much.

  So it was after his performance, and he was standing at the bar when a guy named Larry approached him. Dockers, rigid polyester tie, a cap that said NATIONAL IRON WORKS that might as well have said SUCKER. Larry said he usually played casino games and didn’t know much about sports but his nephew was a towel boy for the Carolina Panthers. They were playing the Tampa Bay Buccaneers in the opener. The towel boy said the Panthers’ star quarterback, Cam Newton, was coming off injuries. He’d been sacked a lot, one hundred and eighty-five times. Larry said he wanted to bet Tampa Bay and he wanted to borrow a thousand dollars, and he promised to pay it back right after the game.

  “You are one lucky son of a bitch,” Leo said, his eyes wide like he’d never met anyone so fortunate. “Hey, I’ve been doing this for a long time, and let me tell you, the towel boys are the true insiders—wait, did you say a hundred and eighty-five times?”

  “Yeah, I did,” Larry said.

  “Cam should be in a wheelchair,” Leo said, shaking his head. “Say, do you mind if I bet the game myself?”

  Encouraged, Larry upped the loan amount from a thousand to twenty-five hundred. Leo did a quick credit check, confirmed the guy had been in his house for a year, and the deal was done. Leo could have told Larry what would happen. Cam, one of the best quarterbacks in the league, had been sacked a hundred and eighty-five times over three seasons; his average for sacks among quarterbacks was about middling, and no one in the press said he wouldn’t make it for the opener. The Bucs, on the other hand, were one of the worst teams in the NFL. They’d won four games in the previous season to the Panthers’ eleven, and their quarterback, Mike Glennon, was a journeyman. The Panthers won 20 to 14. Predictably, Larry didn’t pay after the game, not even the vig, and he didn’t answer his phone.

  Leo went to visit Larry-boy at his dried-up hacienda in a development called Rio de Oro, Leo thinking the last time there was a rio here, dinosaurs were drinking from it, and if there was oro around it must look like pea gravel. Surprisingly, Larry opened the door on the first knock.

  “Where’s my vig, asshole?” Leo said.

  “I don’t have it,” Larry said.

  Leo hesitated a moment. He thought he heard some defiance in Larry’s voice. He barged past him into the living room. There were a swayback sofa and two big-screen TVs; beer bottles, fast-food debris, and unopened mail scattered around on the smudged shag carpeting. Wife and kiddies had apparently had enough of daddy’s gambling away the grocery money.

  “I knew you were a loser the minute you walked into the bar,” Leo said. “Look at you. You and your stupid cap and crooked glasses and your sweatpants and your—wait, is that a wet spot? Damn, Larry, don’t you know you’re supposed to shake your dick off before you put it away?”

  “It’s beer,” Larry said, brushing himself with the back of his hand.

  “Sure it is,” Leo said. “I always drink beer out of my nut sack. Where’s my money, asshole?”

  “I just said I didn’t have it,” Larry said, the defiance still in his voice.

  Leo held his fist up to Larry’s face, his fingers threaded through a brass knuckle-duster. “Then I’m afraid I’ll have to make some radical alterations to your appearance, starting with your front teeth.” And then an honest-to-God monster came into the room, ducking his head so he wouldn’t hit it on the door frame. All he needed were some bolts stuck in the side of his head and he could pass for Frankenstein’s big brother. He was wearing cargo shorts that could have carried actual cargo and an old flannel shirt, torn at the elbows and big as a bedspread. The shoestrings on his sneakers were tied at the middle eyelet because they were too short to make it the whole way.

  “You don’t want to do that, eh?” the monster said. “Larr
y’s my friend.”

  Most people would have gotten the hell out of there, but Leo the Lionheart had never backed down from anybody in his life except that one time when Misty Love tried to stab him with an ice pick.

  “And you think your homo relationship means anything to me?” Leo replied. He gave Larry a shove. “This nonessential drag on the economy owes me money and rule number one is—”

  The monster stepped in close, Leo’s eyes about level with his nipples, assuming they were nipples and not army helmets or hubcaps. Leo thought a moment and said: “Tell me something, Lurch. Have you got a job?”

  “A job?” the giant said.

  “Yes, a job. You know, you show up somewhere, do something undignified, and they pay you minimum wage.”

  “Sure, I have a job.”

  “As what?” A battleship? A mountain? Hoover Dam?

  “I’m a bouncer at the Crazy Horse. Don’t make fun of me, eh?”

  “My apologies. I didn’t realize somebody of your magnitude would be sensitive to anything other than hand grenades.”

  Leo told him he was looking for someone to help him with collections, and Zar had the exact qualifications he was looking for. Leo told him he could ride around in the Mercedes and eat steak and lobster and live someplace where he didn’t get his hair caught in the chandeliers, and he’d get him some decent clothes, assuming they could find a tailor who specialized in ogres. By the time Leo was done with his sales pitch, Zar was in.

  “That’s great, eh?” he said. “Let me get my stuff.” Which turned out to be a backpack that fit him like a cupcake stuck on his spine. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  Leo looked at him, the monster all excited and smiling like a kid going to the water park. The faintest sigh of sadness whispered past Leo’s ear and was gone again. “One thing before we leave?” he said.

  “What?” Zar said.

  “Get the vig from Larry.”

  Leo called Charlie O and ordered up Misty Love and Renee. He took a shower for Misty’s sake and didn’t use the cologne she said smelled like overripe bananas. He thought about Janine and Benny, who under no circumstances would be allowed to escape their financial obligations. Didn’t matter how long it took or how extreme the measures, rule number one was like the eleventh commandment. The twelfth was Thou shalt not fuck with Leo the Lionheart.

  The Travel Inn was just off the highway. The traffic noise woke them up. They’d slept longer than they had intended. Dodson made a plane reservation and rushed around packing. Isaiah sat on the bed and talked to Deronda. She told him about the attack and the Chinese guys and the crazy Mexican girl getting shot and killed. Isaiah felt it before he thought it. Ramona.

  “Was she fifteen-sixteen, pink streaks in her hair?”

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  “Where are you?”

  “An undisclosed location, and by the way, who’s gonna pay for all the buckshot holes in my daddy’s house?”

  “Who put them there?”

  A slight pause. “That don’t matter,” Deronda said. “Shit wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t sent Janine here.”

  “Is she all right?” Isaiah asked.

  “Yeah, she’s fine. She wants to know if Benny and her dad are okay.”

  “Tell her I don’t know yet. You guys stay there. I’ll call you back.” The call ended.

  Dodson was ready to go. “What are you staying for?” he said. “Ain’t nothing to do here.”

  “I start something, I finish it,” Isaiah said. He was being an asshole again but couldn’t help himself. He didn’t want to be left alone.

  “I’m not even gonna talk to you,” Dodson said.

  Dodson was right. There was nothing else to do except call the police, but they’d have no better chance of locating Ken and Benny than Isaiah did, and if they somehow managed to find them, Ken would be unmasked as a sex trafficker and go to jail, where he’d be more vulnerable to an attack than if he was walking around on the street. Then the police would question Benny. Why were you kidnapped? What did you do to cause this? Did the kidnappers want something from you? Do you have a girlfriend? What’s her name? Her sister’s a lawyer? What’s her name? Benny would fold like a fresh slice of Wonder Bread.

  Embarrassed now, Isaiah said, “I’ll take you to the airport.”

  “That’s aight, I know how busy you are,” Dodson said. “I’ll take a cab.”

  Isaiah’s phone buzzed. A text. No message, just a picture of Ken and Benny seated on the floor. Ken was badly beaten, pulpy face, bleeding split lip, an eye swollen shut, ugly bruises on his face. Benny looked just how anybody would look if they crashed their motorcycle and rolled into the bushes. His head was back against the wall, face screwed up in pain. There was a big rip in his dusty leathers, and his shoulder sagged, broken or dislocated, his arm held against his chest.

  “Check this out,” Isaiah said, holding up the phone.

  “Damn,” Dodson said. “They fucked ’em up good.”

  The phone buzzed again. Unidentified caller, TracFone logo at the top of the screen. A burner.

  “How you doing, IQ?” Skinny said, a mocking smile in his voice. “How everything? Everything okay?” Isaiah put the phone on speaker. “How you like the picture, huh?” Skinny said. “I take good one.”

  “What do you want?” Isaiah said.

  “Boss want to meet you. Face-to-face.”

  “Why?”

  “He don’t like to talk on phone. Don’t worry. No trap.”

  “Bullshit,” Dodson said.

  “That’s your friend, Dosson, right?” Skinny said.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “We know ebreting.”

  In the background, you could hear voices. You couldn’t make out the words but the cadence wasn’t English. Dishes and silverware were being banged around.

  “Hey!” Skinny shouted. “You make too much noise!” But the noise continued unabated.

  Isaiah thought a moment, glanced at his watch. “Meet you in an hour at Caesars. I’ll text you the exact place.”

  “No. We pick place.”

  “Then no meeting.”

  Skinny had a muffled conversation with someone. “Okay,” he said.

  “If you’re late I’m leaving.”

  “Sure, sure, no problem.”

  The call ended.

  “What do they want?” Dodson said.

  “If I’m Tommy Lau,” Isaiah said, “I’m thinking things are getting out of hand. I’d say he wants to make a deal.”

  “You know they’re going to try something.”

  “There’s cameras everywhere, security people, lots of exits.”

  “What if they follow you?”

  “I’ll park at a different casino, walk over. They won’t have a car.” They looked at each other, the eight-hundred-pound gorilla sucking the air out of the room. “Are you coming?” Isaiah said. Dodson heaved a sigh that was almost a groan.

  “Aww, man, you can see the fix I’m in,” he said.

  “It’s cool,” Isaiah said, so much insincerity in his voice he almost called himself a liar.

  “It’s the baby, man.”

  “I know. It’s cool.”

  “Cherise needs me.”

  “Just go. Really. I’ll be fine.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Asian Flower Erotic Massage

  Tommy was in Ken’s bathroom, retying his red tie. He’d never worn any other color, not for luck, but because he couldn’t be bothered choosing ties. He’d sent Tung to Long Beach so Zhi was driving him to Caesars. Some men were already there doing reconnaissance, no surprises. Tommy hated problems like this; something you had to take seriously, but resolving it was tedious and gained you nothing. Liko was running the business now, but he was in over his head. Trafficking was mostly about logistics. Recruiting the people, collecting their fees, laundering the money, bribing the officials, getting transportation, housing and so forth. Over the years, 14K and the triads found ea
sier ways to make money, gradually shifting their interests to gambling, drugs, credit card fraud and other financial crimes, leaving the business largely to the snakeheads. Most were small operations, some family-run, others groups of common criminals. But Tommy realized the triads’ lack of interest had left a fortune on the table. Despite its problems, he got back into the business, gradually taking over a substantial part of the market in both California and Nevada. Some of the competition had been absorbed, the rest were visited by the Red Poles and forced to relocate. Tommy made lots of money.

  And yet he longed for the old days when it was all about action and audacity. Extortion, kidnapping, armed robberies, gunrunning, drugs, wars with other triads. Twenty-five years ago, he was chief lieutenant for Wan “Broken Tooth” Huok-koi, who ran 14K’s operations in Macau. Wan was flashy and arrogant. A real asshole. Custom-made pinstripe suits, cream-colored shoes, and a diamond pinkie ring big as a walnut. Wan modeled himself after John Gotti, but that was a joke. He looked like John Gotti’s Chinese pimp. When the police started cracking down on 14K despite all the payoffs, Wan got angry and ordered Tommy to blow up the police chief’s car. The chief wasn’t hurt, but somebody sitting at a nearby coffee shop was hit by shrapnel and killed. Wan and Tommy were arrested but for racketeering, not the bombing. Wan got fifteen years, Tommy seven, but they continued to run 14K from prison. The guard let them use cell phones, bring in liquor, food, hookers. One of the guards tried to enforce the prison rules and was shot on his day off.

  When Tommy was released, he left Macau, moved to Hong Kong and then to San Francisco, bringing some confederates with him and establishing his own branch of 14K. No one was upset, it happened all the time. The triad had no upper management. It was a loose association of splinter groups who helped each other with distribution, resources, enforcement, contacts, and intelligence, and unlike the Italian Mafia, there were no tributes, no paying a cut to the guys upstairs.