by Joe Ide
“I’m coming, Cherise,” he said as he bounded down the stairs. “I’m coming.”
A Chinese man who looked like a boxcar and a couple of punk-ass gangsters had kidnapped her and brought her to a raggedy motel that smelled like mildew and roach powder. They sat her in a chair and zip-tied her hands in front of her. When they arrived, an old man in a suit was waiting for them. He tried to be pleasant but it just made him creepier, like her Uncle Foster, who smiled when he asked her if she’d like to see the bunny rabbit hiding in his pants.
“We will try to make you as comfortable as possible,” the old man said politely. “Assuming you behave yourself. But I must warn you, make a disturbance, even a minor one, and we will restrain you completely.”
“And I must warn you,” she said. “Hurt my baby and there won’t be a place on the earth, the sun, the moon, or anywhere else where I won’t find you and rip the heart out of your chest.”
They kept her there, waiting for something, the businessman stepping outside to make phone calls, the others watching TV. One of them was eating from a big bag of popcorn and was so relaxed he could have been at a baseball game. The boxcar man had a crust of blood below his nostrils where she’d kicked him with her bare foot. She was sorry she wasn’t wearing stilettos. He glared at her and nodded as if to say I’ll pay you back, bitch. She lifted her chin and calmly met his gaze. “You want to scare me you’ll have to do better than that.”
Cherise had always been able to stick up for herself. Early on, she’d learned from her parents and her church to forgive those who trespassed against you but to never submit, never let them take away your dignity. So she would not cower and would not shrink from menace, and somewhere along the line this blockhead son of a bitch was going to lose four or five pounds of flesh. But truth be told, she was terrified. These men hadn’t blindfolded her and they weren’t wearing masks. They’d kidnapped a pregnant woman and didn’t care if she could recognize them, which only meant they were going to kill her. She had to force herself to keep from crying and begging for her life. She’d never see her baby. A baby that was still in her womb but that she loved with every ounce of her being; a baby she’d longed for and prayed for and saw in her dreams. Somehow, she’d get out of this if she had to murder somebody to do it. And speaking of getting out of this, where was Dodson? He and that damn Isaiah had obviously stirred up so much trouble these hoodlums had to kidnap her. She summoned her faith, not in Dodson and Isaiah, but in her Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He knew her fear and knew her unborn child was in danger. She prayed. Save my baby. Take me, Lord, but please save my baby.
Tommy finished his phone call and came back in the room, the girl still very much defiant. She was unusual, Tommy thought. Not asking where they were or what they were doing; not pleading for her life or her baby’s life. She just kept looking at him like she was memorizing every line and contour of his face for future reference.
“Turn her chair around,” he said to Tung.
That the girl was pregnant was never a consideration. Tommy had a house on Victoria Peak with a panoramic view of Hong Kong, a six-thousand-square-foot condo in Beijing right next door to the Minister of Agriculture, and a house in the Menlo Park area of San Francisco, where all his neighbors were venture capitalists, internet moguls, or the CEOs of private equity firms, a Bentley parked in all three garages. He drank the best, ate the best, had every conceivable luxury and a string of willing, patient women on three continents. He wasn’t about to give that up because of some misplaced twinge of conscience. His primary concern now was getting this over with and leaving no witnesses. He glanced at his watch. “It’s time to go,” he said to the girl. “Do not call for help, do not try to escape, or there will be severe consequences. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do,” she said quietly.
Isaiah drove down Nona’s driveway into her backyard, the food truck parked there. As he helped Ken and Benny get out of the car, Janine burst out of the truck, ran to Benny, and hugged him. He grunted and cringed but hugged her back with his good arm. They cried, blubbering I love yous and I’ll never leave yous, so overwrought and heartfelt, Isaiah was as embarrassed as he was envious. He wondered how Sarita would react when they saw each other. A fraction of that emotion would be heaven.
Ken stood there, hoping, or maybe not hoping, Janine would acknowledge him. He was in tough shape; one eye shut completely, the other one closing, bruises on his cheekbones, a bleeding ear, and a lump on his forehead. There wasn’t much room left on his face for humiliation, but you could still see it, like something caustic and unbearable layered over his injuries. Isaiah felt sorry for him but that evaporated when he thought about the girls in the photos.
Janine helped Benny sit down on a lawn chair. “We should get him to the emergency room,” she said.
“No,” Benny said. “They’ll ask questions.”
“Questions about what?” Janine said. “You fell off your motorcycle.”
“I’m okay. I just need to lie down.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Benny, your arm is broken and who knows what else. You’re going and that’s it.” She finally glanced at her father. “Hi,” she said evenly. She took no note of his injuries. Ken hesitated a moment, waiting for her to ask if he was all right, but she didn’t.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said, but she had already turned her back.
“Can we take Benny now?” she said.
“Ken should go too,” Isaiah said.
She sighed like it was a huge pain in the ass. “I’ve got to get my bag.” She crossed to the food truck, Deronda standing at the door with her arms folded. “Thanks for everything,” Janine said.
Deronda smiled. “Fuck you.” They hugged.
“Fuck you too,” Janine said. “And you can’t aim for shit.”
Isaiah was surprised when Dodson drove Cherise’s Prius into the yard. Dodson got out, grim and deliberate. Something’s wrong, Isaiah thought. “You okay?” he said. “Why aren’t you with Cherise?” He knew why when Dodson drew a gun.
“Everybody drop your phones on the ground,” Dodson said. “Do it now.” Janine and Benny stared with their mouths open, Ken didn’t seem to care. Deronda was insulted.
“The hell you doing, Dodson?” she said.
“Shut up, Deronda.”
“Tell me what’s going on,” Isaiah said.
“Shut up, don’t ask me shit,” Dodson said, and raised the gun, elbow bent, the barrel aimed upward. “I said put your muthafuckin’ phones on the ground.”
“Dang, Dodson,” Deronda said. “What’s your problem?”
Dodson pointed the gun directly at her. “Put your phone on the ground AND DO IT RIGHT FUCKING NOW!” Deronda couldn’t do it fast enough, fumbling around until it jumped out of her hands like a wet bar of soap.
“I don’t have one,” Janine said, her arms protectively around Benny. “He doesn’t either.”
“You the one started all this, you dumb-ass bitch,” Dodson said. “You and that retarded muthafucka you call a boyfriend.” He looked at Ken. “And you. Shit. I should shoot your ass for being alive.” Ken had his head bowed and looked like he wouldn’t mind. “Everybody in the food truck,” Dodson said. “Deronda, you’re driving.”
Everyone gathered at the passenger door. Janine helped Benny in, Ken, right behind her, looking at the back of her head like he was telepathically apologizing.
“Sit on the floor and lace your fingers on top of your head,” Dodson said. “Fuck around in there and you die.”
Isaiah was last in line. “They’ve got Cherise, don’t they?”
“Get in the truck, Isaiah.”
“They want to make a trade.”
“That’s right, and I’m gonna make one.”
Dodson was panting through clenched teeth, each breath a shhh, spraying spit, desperation in his eyes, and Isaiah realized, He’d shoot me, he really would. He hesitated a moment. Should he play this out or try to take the gun away?
>
“Yeah,” Dodson said, taking a step back. “Go on and try some of that kung fu shit on me and see if I don’t put a bullet between your eyes. Now get in the goddamn truck.”
Deronda was in the driver’s seat. Dodson got in and glared, daring her to start something.
“I ain’t said nothing,” she said, and started the engine.
Dodson turned halfway around, the gun held close to his chest. Isaiah, Ken, Benny, and Janine were sitting in the aisle, their backs against the cupboards and appliances.
“Do anything but sit there and I will shoot you,” Dodson said.
“Dodson, we can work something out,” Isaiah said.
“Could we drop Benny off at the emergency room?” Janine said.
“I’ll go with you,” Ken said to Dodson. “Just take me.”
“What you need me for?” Deronda said. “Let one of them other people drive.”
They were all talking at once, pleading their cases, raising their voices. BLAM! Dodson fired a shot into the ceiling, filling the truck with blue smoke and the acrid smell of cordite, everybody shrinking like sea anemones poked with a stick, their hands over their heads, Janine whimpering Don’t hurt us, don’t hurt us.
“Shut up,” Dodson said. “Don’t say another damn word.” He looked at Isaiah, who was looking back at him. “My woman, my baby,” Dodson said. “You ain’t got shit to say about it.”
“We can work something out,” Isaiah said. They looked at each other until Dodson looked away.
Tommy had Tung scout locations for the hostage exchange. He found the perfect spot off Highway 38, between Llano and Piñon Hills, about eighty miles from LA. It was just another isolated, forgettable stretch of the scrubby desert that seemed to take up most of California. Tung found a dirt road that turned off the highway and led to what might have been a parking lot for trucks and earthmovers when they were working on the highway. The lot itself was roughly circular, deep tire tracks in the once-muddy ground, littered with piles of gravel, cinder blocks, and giant sewer pipes and hemmed in by high berms and brushy hills. The headlights on Tung’s Cadillac threw a harsh, alien light over the space, the girl in there with one of the gangsters. Ken’s Lexus parked next to it.
Dodson would be told where to turn at the last moment, the dirt road the only way in or out. He would be coming from LA, the east, and Tommy had posted pairs of spotters all the way back to the Cajon Pass. If Dodson brought the police, they’d know and tell him to keep driving. Members of the Chink Mob were out there in the dark, all heavily armed. In the unlikely event they needed more firepower, the lookouts could be called in. The wild card was the other black guy, the one they called IQ. He might try something but at this point what could he do? If he approached separately he’d be spotted and dealt with.
That idiot Gujia and the other Red Poles had gotten themselves killed so Tung had brought his cousins in, Longwei and Lok. Not official members of the triad but close associates. They were in the drug business, which Tommy stayed away from. Too much competition, too much heat, he’d said. Longwei was a little taller than Tung, Lok a little shorter, but the square proportions were the same. The cousins were wearing loud Hawaiian shirts and might have been the guys who played the ukulele at the hotel luau if it weren’t for their lethal, remorseless eyes and the hands like hockey gloves stuffed with rocks. Tung was frightening all by himself, but the three of them were like comic book villains. Cube Men with black belts in Wing Chun who moved like sumo wrestlers and were experts in hurting people. Tommy had seen Lok punch a guy in the chest so hard he shattered the man’s rib cage, crushing his lungs. The man died of asphyxiation.
Tommy had come to the conclusion that IQ and Dodson weren’t susceptible to bribes or threats. The only alternative was to turn them against each other. If Dodson came alone, the plan had worked. If IQ was with him, something was up their sleeves and Janine was in a safe house somewhere. Either way, one or both of the men would be tortured until they gave up her location. Tung was good at that.
The only thing Tommy was really worried about was the Chink Mob hiding out there in the dark. Mercenaries were inherently unreliable. For them it was about risk-reward, not loyalty. Tommy had warned them over and over again not to shoot until Janine was well clear of the others. Hurt her and Tung would execute them on the spot.
Tommy was standing near the center of the lot, smoking and talking to Tung. Tung was sitting on a pile of cinder blocks, looking like he was nesting on his offspring. A full moon hung in the vast desert sky like a klieg light waiting for the action to start. It reminded Tommy of a story his mother had once told him. There were once ten suns in the sky, and drought was everywhere, crops withering, people dying. Hou-Yi, a famous archer in Chinese mythology, shot nine of the suns out of the sky and ended the drought. Yi’s wife, Chang’e, stole a potion from her husband and flew to the moon, where she became a goddess and is said to be seen dancing during the Full Moon Festival. Tommy might have enjoyed the story if he wasn’t starving and his mother wasn’t a whore and a heroin addict.
“Everything is prepared?” Tommy said.
“Yes, Tommy,” Tung said.
“The girl is secure?”
“Yes, Tommy.”
Tommy was satisfied. He was heading back to Vegas. No sense being at the scene of the crime. “I’m going now,” he said.
“Don’t worry, Tommy,” Tung said. “Everything will be okay.”
Tung watched Tommy drive away in Ken’s car, thinking one day he’d like to give the orders, not giving a shit who got killed as long as it wasn’t him. Longwei and Lok came over and joined him, both wielding Uzis with fifty-round clips. They didn’t speak, they hardly ever did. What was there to say? We’re having a good year in the drug business?
Tung’s phone buzzed. One of the lookouts. “Food truck coming,” he said.
“Where are you?” Tung said.
“By the overpass.”
That was ten miles away. “Cars behind him?” Tung said.
“No. No cars.”
Tung raised his hand, a signal. Flashlights winked back from the dark. The Chink Mob was ready. Other lookouts radioed from mile eight, five, two, one, the last one at a quarter of a mile. Tung made the call.
“Yeah?” Dodson answered.
“You make left turn at big yellow sign.”
“What about Cherise?”
Tung ended the call and waited. Flashlights winked again. The food truck was turning off the highway. “He’s coming,” Tung said. He drew his weapon, an S&W .44 Magnum, the Dirty Harry gun. Longwei and Lok racked the slides on their Uzis. They saw the food truck’s headlights bump down the dirt road. Dodson was driving, the suspension creaking, cookware rattling, the bumper almost touching the ground as he pulled into the lot. He was alone. Tommy’s plan had worked. Still, they had to be cautious.
“Okay,” Tung said.
Dodson saw three big Chinese dudes standing out in the open. Behind them, about twenty yards away, a Cadillac was parked with its headlights on. Cherise was probably in there, no other place she could be. Dodson wanted to run the men down and go directly to her but restrained himself. He made a wide turn, stopping with his window facing them, the engine rumbling like a distant storm.
The Chinese guy in the suit stepped forward. “Hello, Missa Dosson,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”
“Fuck you,” Dodson said.
“Turn off your engine.”
“Show me Cherise.”
The guy gestured at the car. The driver got out, eating something wrapped in foil. He helped Cherise out of the backseat. She looked a mess but didn’t seem hurt.
“You okay?” Dodson said.
“Get me and my baby outta here, Dodson,” she said, sounding more pissed off than afraid. The driver helped her get back in and returned to the driver’s seat, the door locks thunking shut.
“You satisfied, Missa Dosson?” the Chinese guy said. “You make trade now. Fuck around, we shoot you no problem.”
“I’ll get ’em,” Dodson said. “Y’all be cool now, it’s a straight-up trade. No bullshit.” He turned and clambered back into the truck.
Tung smiled. Stupid guy. Did he actually think this would be on the up-and-up? Tung heard Dodson arguing with someone, shouting going back and forth, maybe with Ken or Benny. Hard to tell over the engine noise. Dodson returned to the cab.
“What’s the problem?” Tung said.
“They won’t come out and I don’t care what you say, I’m not shooting ’em myself.”
“You get out,” Tung said.
“Don’t shoot me now,” Dodson said. “I ain’t strapping.” He got out of the truck with his hands up. He looked over at the Cadillac. “I’m coming, Cherise,” he said. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”
Wing watched from the top of a berm, wondering why he wasn’t at home playing Call of Duty instead of squatting in the fucking dirt with a gun in his belt and sweating through his T-shirt, his ass hurting from the buckshot wounds. The sky was huge out here. Too huge. Let you know you were nothing in the scheme of things. A pixel in a high-def shot of the universe. Maybe somebody with a giant telescope was watching you from one of those stars and laughing his ass off because you thought you mattered to anybody but yourself.
