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  “I do,” Cherise said, “and don’t get smart with me and don’t eat when I’m talking to you.” He sighed and put down his spoon. She went on. “Financially we’re getting by, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be working. I am not your banker, I am your wife and I expect you to be upright and productive.”

  “That might be a little much right now,” Dodson said. “How about I go for the upright part and leave the rest for later.” Cherise was glaring at him and drumming her nails on the table. She used clear polish she applied herself and only added color during the holidays. When her guard was down and she wasn’t upset about something, her voice reminded him of the jazz singer Shirley Horn—sultry and smooth, like good bourbon poured over warm molasses. Whispered in his ear, it made his heart do the mambo and increased his sperm count by fifty or sixty percent. Now she sounded like Patty LaBelle after she lost her makeup bag.

  “Let me ask you something,” Cherise said. “Do you want to live with a woman who ignores you, doesn’t talk to you, and will only have sex with you on your birthday, assuming she hasn’t thrown you out?”

  Dodson thought the first two sounded all right. The third was alarming. “No,” he said. “I think that would be very unpleasant.”

  “I expect you to have a job by the time I get home,” she said.

  “By the time you get home—today?”

  “Yes, today.”

  “That ain’t enough time to fill out an application,” Dodson complained.

  “It is if you get out of that damn bathrobe, brush your hair and walk fast,” Cherise said. She got up and came around to his side of the table. He thought she was going to hit him but instead, she leaned over and gave him a lingering kiss, the one that said you’re my hero and if you get this right, the nagging will stop and I will bone you to sleep for the rest of your life. As she went out of the door, she said, “Today, Juanell. No excuses.”

  After she left, he finished off the bowl of Cocoa Puffs. He would have had another but the box was empty. He went into the living room, sat on the sofa and turned on the TV. He thought better with some background noise. The voices made him feel he wasn’t alone. Nine-to-five jobs were out, he decided. He imagined what his résumé would say. Dope salesman of the year 1996–97. Regional distributor of counterfeit Gucci bags. Assisted unlicensed private detective in saving his girlfriend from some crazy motherfuckers from Abu Ghraib. No legit business would hire him unless everybody else in the job market was struck down by the measles or got run over by a fleet of giant buses. The only possibilities left were criminal. He could join El Cuchillo’s car-theft ring or sell fake lottery tickets for Alonzo or be security at one of Big Hanja’s massage parlors. Probably not what Cherise had in mind.

  There wasn’t time to be fucking around but he went to the park and smoked a J. He only had one choice. One terrible, humiliating choice. He couldn’t do it. But he had to do it. Couldn’t do it. Had to do it. Couldn’t. Had to. He picked up the phone and dialed. Then he disconnected. Dialed. Disconnected. Dialed. Disconnected. He thought of Cherise. “Fuck it,” he said and made the call.

  He was waiting in a booth at the Coffee Cup. He drank decaf so his anxiety and growing sense of shame wouldn’t turn him into ashes. Ten minutes went by. Twenty minutes, each passing second a reminder he was being deliberately disrespected. At thirty-two minutes, he couldn’t take it anymore. He got up just as all eyes went to the front door. A woman came in, dressed for a New Year’s Eve party at Kanye’s house, hair in elaborate curls, bling jingling.

  She grinned when she saw him, sashaying over, doing a little dance move, her famous backside like two potbellied pigs fucking under leopard-skin tights. She set her Gucci bag on the table and sat down. Dodson gave it a quick once-over. The stitching was even and clean, the hardware solid metal, no chips or dark spots, GUCCI nicely engraved on the buckle. The logo pattern was the way it was supposed to be; one G facing forward, the other G facing backward. The letters were evenly spaced, the font was correct. It was the first authentic Gucci bag Dodson had ever seen.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Deronda said, not sorry at all. “Business, you know how it is. Busy, busy, busy. Making money is hard work, ain’t it? Oh, I’m sorry. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  Dodson and Deronda had a long antagonistic history, and over the years it had only grown worse. They sniped at and diminished each other at every opportunity, and they were very competitive. His up was her down and vice versa. Their last spat had been over their brief but fractious partnership in a food truck, D&D’s Downhome Buttermilk Fried Chicken. They’d come together by necessity. Dodson had the financial know-how and it was Deronda’s grandmother’s recipe.

  Unfortunately, working together in close confines hadn’t been thoroughly thought out. They both insisted they were the boss and the other was useless. They criticized, complained, argued and yelled at each other every day. The food quality flagged, the reviews got sketchier. They got short with the customers. Dodson remembered one notable encounter. Deronda was at the service window and not in a good mood. A young couple arrived and the woman said, “We don’t eat meat, eggs, gluten or soy. What should we get?”

  And Deronda said, “The fuck out.”

  Dodson hadn’t been able to stand it anymore and sold his half of the business at an after-Christmas price. He thought he’d gotten off the Titanic early but Deronda proved to be a sharp businesswoman, a surprise to them both. All she needed was her independence. She’d made the truck a success, eventually acquiring six trucks that roamed all over the city. They were listed among the top twenty-five in LA, and she’d done interviews for KCAL and KTLA and the Long Beach Press-Telegram. She was making good money and had put her son, Janeel, in private school. Dodson tried to convince himself she’d cooked the books, but that was bullshit since no books had been kept.

  “How are you, Dodson?” she said. “How’s everything in your unemployed world?”

  “Everything’s aight,” Dodson said, looking down and stirring his decaf with his finger.

  “And how’s Micah? Is he doing all right? Getting fed and everything?”

  “The baby’s doing fine.”

  She got out her phone and called someone. While the other end was ringing, she said to Dodson, “Could you get me a caramel macchiato, please? Skim milk. I’m trying to keep my figure.” Dodson got the drink and came back but Deronda kept talking for another five minutes. After she ended the call, she checked herself in a compact, patted her hair and said magnanimously, “Now what was it you wanted to talk to me about? Refresh my memory.”

  “I need a job,” Dodson mumbled.

  Deronda leaned forward and cupped her ear. “I’m sorry, you’re talking very softly, Dodson. That’s not like you. Could you say that again?”

  Dodson cleared his throat. He took a deep breath so he wouldn’t reach over the table and choke her to death. “I said, I need a job.”

  “My, my, my,” Deronda said. “Life is full of surprises, ain’t it? Is this the same Dodson that’s always disrespected, called me names and questioned my judgment and intelligence? Was that you?”

  “I don’t think so. You must be talking about somebody else.”

  “Oh, it was you, all right. You even made fun of my boyfriends.”

  Dodson shrugged. “Melvin couldn’t even read. What’d you expect me to do?”

  “You’re lucky I have a forgiving nature,” Deronda said, “or I’d kick you to the curb like the mangy scoundrel you are. Now if we can get back to business. What kind of position were you looking for? Management? Finance? Human resources?”

  “I just need a job.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, nodding. “Well, I believe I can help you with that. I happen to have a position on truck number four—that’s four out of six, in case you haven’t heard.”

  “What kind of position is it?” Dodson said.

  “The lowest one I can possibly think of,” she said. “It pays minimum wage wit
h no benefits of any kind. When can you start?”

  “Now.”

  “Excellent,” she said. “Nothing like an eager beaver. If you work hard and keep your ass to the grindstone, I think you’ll go far. I’m always looking for people like yourself—you know, desperate with no prospects. My assistant will call you. Have a wonderful day now.” She was laughing as she went out the door.

  Dodson had always prided himself on being cool, but somewhere during the conversation it had flaked away like dandruff. He almost brushed off his shoulders. He would take a nap before he went to work. Maybe he’d dream about dignity and see what it felt like. Sometimes you get an image of yourself as you are. Not what you used to be, would like to be, hope to be, deserve to be or anything else. Just you as you are. Dodson saw himself as if he were looking in a window; a twenty-nine-year-old ex-convict wearing big rubber gloves, galoshes and a do-rag soaked through with sweat and smelling like burned fried chicken and Tabasco sauce. He saw himself wiping down every surface, sweeping and mopping the floor, emptying the garbage, disposing of the cooking oil, sanitizing the ice machine, cleaning the coolers, appliances, cutting boards, fryers and steam table. He saw himself looking at his phone and reading Deronda’s texts. Be respectful to your superiors. Zero tolerance policy on weed. Hard work is the only way for advancement.

  He couldn’t believe he’d reached yet another low point in his life. A graph of his ups and downs would start in the upper left-hand corner and step jaggedly but steadily down to the lower right corner and drop right off the page. The problem was—and always had been—direction, an outlet for his uniqueness, a vehicle for his energy. A place for his abilities. Since he was a kid, he’d been on the lookout for his destiny but nothing had ever seemed right. Maybe he didn’t have one. Maybe he’d be one more humdrum, half-ass homeboy who dreamed big and ended up in a small life.

  He tried to make a mental list of his accomplishments; a blank page except for a few things, mostly when he was running with Isaiah. He’d done some good, the work a useful outlet for his street acumen and quick wits. They’d partnered briefly, but Dodson’s need for independence had overshadowed his judgment and he’d left. Another mistake. Another turning point where he should have gone left instead of right. He had to get back with Isaiah. The hard part would be convincing him.

  Isaiah was prideful, prickly, too smart to be a homo sapien and he didn’t like people second-guessing him. And he couldn’t be hustled. There was no way to do this except go straight at him. Dodson would have to remind him what a great team they were and that everything couldn’t be solved with a freakishly large brain. Yeah, they argued a lot but the competitiveness sharpened their wits, hyped up their motivation. Maybe Isaiah didn’t see it the same way but that was the truth of it.

  The immediate problem was a way in. Dodson had always been too cool to reach out but this was an emergency. His sex life had already been reduced to a kiss on the cheek and a long flannel nightgown. If he touched Cherise’s body in a way that wasn’t in passing, she gave him a look so threatening his balls took cover in his intestines.

  Then he heard Beaumont was shot. It was a sad excuse, shameful in fact, but a bad pretext was better than none and a reason to make contact with Isaiah. The thing at the Hyatt had gone well. Hustling Marlene was easy, but Isaiah didn’t seem grateful; he looked resentful. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he? He was the same hardheaded egocentric motherfucker he’d always been but it was time the boy faced facts. He needed a partner whether he wanted one or not. Reaching out would cost Dodson a little more stature with himself but he was barely off the ground as it was.

  Dodson finished for the night, locked up the food truck, and headed for his car. He had that urge again. To visit Beaumont and Merrill. It was strong. He didn’t so much resist as he did let it happen. He drove to the hospital. It was late and he was tired. What the fuck was he doing? He entered Intensive Care and walked down the hall toward Beaumont’s room. A couple of patients slogged past with a mobile IV, others were on gurneys in curtained cubicles, a nurse in green scrubs was staring intently at a clipboard; a voice from the intercom: “Code blue, code blue, level A, twelve eleven, code blue code blue.”

  Dodson slowed his pace. What are you going to say, Dodson? Whassup, Merrill? How’s it going? He stopped. He saw Merrill huddled with a doctor and a nurse just outside Beaumont’s room, talking seriously, Merrill listening and nodding. Dodson’s embarrassment thermometer spiked up to bird flu levels. It was rare for him, not knowing why he was doing something. “This is crazy,” he said to himself. He turned quickly and went back the way he came.

  Dodson showed up at the house unannounced again.

  “Okay,” Isaiah said. “What’s going on?”

  Dodson immediately got chesty. “Ain’t nothin’ goin on. I’m here to help your ass.”

  “I don’t need any help.”

  “Yeah, I noticed how good things were going with Marlene,” Dodson retorted. “You charmed that girl’s thong off.”

  The phone rang. Isaiah had called Jasper four times and the little shit had finally called back. The little shit said, “I can’t make it.” He was eating something sticky. “I’m doing something.”

  “Where are you?” Isaiah said.

  “Friend’s place.”

  “Then get home now.”

  “I can’t right now, okay? I’m doing something.”

  “Listen to me, Jasper. I’m doing this for your sake so—”

  “It’ll take me too long,” Jasper whined. “I’ll have to catch the bus.”

  “I’ll come to you,” Isaiah said. “Give me the address.”

  “You can’t now. We’re rehearsing.”

  “Listen to me, you idiot,” he said. “I’m trying to keep you out of prison. Do you understand? Prison. There are people in there who will turn a spoiled little asshole like you inside out with a broom handle. Now give me the damn address.”

  Chapter Eleven

  SHIT

  Isaiah drove. “I’ll tell you again,” he said. “I don’t need your help.”

  “Yes, you do,” Dodson said.

  “Don’t I get a say in it?”

  “Not if you’re wrong.”

  “Wouldn’t I know it if I was wrong?” Isaiah said.

  “Sometimes you do and sometimes you don’t,” Dodson replied. “I don’t want to re-litigate the matter but shall we count the number of times I saved your ass from certain death? With Walczak and them I got shot for my troubles, and by the way, you never thanked me for that.”

  “I came over to see you,” Isaiah said, defensively.

  “I know you came over to see me,” Dodson said, “but you should have said something like, ‘You know what, Dodson? The only reason I’m here today is because you’re a bad-ass muthafucka and sometimes I think I’m invincible but the fact of the matter is, I’m not. The fact of the matter is, I get in over my head but I won’t admit it because I’m prideful to the point of stupidity and I think my freakishly large brain will get me out of anything, which I continue to believe in spite of all evidence to the contrary. My other shortcoming is people, especially women. When it comes to the fairer sex, I am deaf, dumb, blind and lucky beyond measure to have a girlfriend of any kind, let alone Grace.’”

  Isaiah looked at him. “You think I should have said all that?”

  “Or something like it,” Dodson said. Isaiah’s phone buzzed.

  Dwight was sitting up in bed, his phone on speaker, one hand twirling the stiletto like a cheerleader’s baton. He couldn’t wait to get out of this cramped, one-bedroom shitbox. There was no room for all his clothes. Suits and dozens of shirts were neatly hung on the curtain rods. They looked like racks at the dry cleaner. The tiny closet and all the drawers were full, piles of neatly folded clothes in and on anywhere there was space; plastic boxes overflowing with underwear, socks and T-shirts.

  “Where are you?” Dwight said.

  “On my way to Jasper’s rehearsal,” Isaiah said.r />
  “You’re in for a fucking treat, believe me. What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Isaiah said.

  “It means, have you made any fucking progress,” Dwight said, raising his voice. “I’ve got to tell Angus.”

  “Making any progress doing what?” Isaiah snapped back. “Chasing the alters around? Talking to them when they have nothing to say? Trying to find evidence that doesn’t exist? Tell Angus, yeah, I’ve made all kinds of progress.” He hung up.

  Dwight bellowed and threw the stiletto. It tumbled through the air end over end and stuck in the drywall with a thunk. The knife was custom made, carbon steel, five-and-a-half inches long, its tip, sharp as a hypodermic. Stilettos were illegal to carry in most of the US. Dwight kept it under his jacket in a tube-like scabbard on his hip. He practiced whipping it out. It took him less than a second.

  A true stiletto had no cutting edge, it was strictly for stabbing. The method taught by the scherma di stiletto siciliano or the school of Sicilian fighting in the sixteenth century was to plunge the blade into your opponent and twist it around to cause maximum damage. It was Dwight’s preferred method too, the one he’d used against seven of Angus’s enemies and the one he’d like to use on that prick Isaiah. Stick it through his eardrum and puncture the one on the other side.

  His temper was a problem though, coming in bursts like a cannon with a fuse a half inch long. Angus was always restraining him and saying something shitty at the same time. “For fuck’s sake,” he’d say, “you can’t kill everybody. Use your fucking head—like Tyler. I wish I had two of him and one less of you.” Tyler, Dwight thought. So long, asshole. He wished he could have been there to watch that know-it-all prick bleed out on the floor.

  Dwight grew up in Stoddard, Arizona, off Highway 85, about 150 miles southwest of Phoenix. Take your eyes off the road to read a text and you’d pass right by it. There were no good parts of the Sonoran Desert but Stoddard was an infected toenail or an unwashed ball sack. He couldn’t figure out what the town was doing out there. Were people farming? Farming what? Cactus? Gila monsters? Rocks? There was no manufacturing or tourists or lakes where you could water-ski. All the trees were plastic and only grew at Christmastime. Everybody lived in crap houses and crap trailers and there was nothing to do but drink, do drugs and try to get a blow job from anybody with lips.