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  Dwight’s family lived on a scrawny ranch and raised a scrawny herd of cattle. They were a lot of fucking work. You needed two acres of pasture to feed an animal for a year. There was a vast tract of federal land around the ranch but it was mostly desert so you didn’t need two acres, you needed a whole bunch of fucking acres and somebody had to herd them there on a broken-down ATV that stalled out and left you stranded in the middle of an unwashed ball sack.

  Dwight tried really hard, but he could never quite clean the cow turds off of his whole person. There was always a streak on his sleeve, a clod on his boot, a smear on his pants. Delighted, the kids at school nicknamed him “Shit.” Not “Dwight’s a Shit” or “That Shitty Dwight,” just Shit. That’s all. SHIT. Even his friends called him that.

  “Hey, Shit, howya doing?”

  “You going to the game, Shit?”

  “You know where I can score, Shit?”

  Maybe that was one of the reasons Dwight was always angry. He was the kind of guy who looked for a fight, wished for a fight; who hoped some asshole would underestimate him and get the beating of his life. Dwight wasn’t big, but he seemed big and nobody who knew him messed with him. In a playground brawl he’d try and kill you. Literally, kill you. Even if you could win the fight, who’d want to get into it with somebody who wanted—not to break your nose or give you a black eye—but sincerely wanted you dead? The county sheriff called him the Tasmanian Devil, which Dwight thought was a lot better than SHIT.

  Dwight always carried a weapon. A knife, screwdriver, box cutter, rock, brass knuckles, anything really. When he was fourteen years old, he broke his older sister’s jaw with a roll of pennies in his hand. His father started to whip him with a piece of garden hose he kept around just for that purpose. Dwight ran into the shed and as his father came after him he clocked the fucker right between his eyes with a shovel. There was a trench in the yard where a sewer line had been dug up. Dwight rolled his father into it and would have buried him if his mother hadn’t stopped him. Dwight took his dad’s money and car keys and got the fuck out of Stoddard.

  He went to Phoenix. He hung out around 19th and Thunderbird, staying away from the Circle K even in the daytime, no point going there unless you’re looking to score meth. He robbed street people, broke into apartments and smashed and grabbed. He stole old cars and sold them for scrap. He worked menial jobs like sweeping up and taking out the trash but only if he could rob the place. He slept under a bridge with the bums and the winos. They were noisy and had stupid fights but at least they didn’t bother him.

  He liked gun shows. Walking up and down the aisles, past table after table and display after display, gawking at the neat rows of weaponry. The handguns, rifles, shotguns, assault rifles, machine guns, antiques and exotics, each with a convenient price tag he couldn’t afford. The guns had locks on them so you could pick one up without waiting for a store owner to open a display case. You could aim it, admire it, work the ejector, slide back the bolt, pull the trigger, ask questions—anything you wanted except take the gun home. He imagined shooting people and how cool that would be. No discussion, no argument, no negotiating, just give me the fuck what I want or catch a hollow point in your solar plexus. He thought about all the people he would blast, starting with his father. He’d put that hose in that fucker’s mouth and shoot him through the nozzle.

  Angus must have been watching him, this kid with a dirty face and raggedy clothes, drooling over the guns but never buying anything. Angus made him an offer. Buy a gun with Angus’s money and get paid a commission. Dwight’s first reaction was disbelief. Somebody was actually going to pay him for that? It was perfect and easy and fun, and after a few purchases, he made enough money to buy his own fucking gun! He chose a pre-owned Smith and Wesson Model 29 .44 Magnum revolver, the Dirty Harry gun. It was heavy and only held six rounds but it never jammed and all you needed was one shot to kill anything in America. He shot the shit out of that gun. Half of everything in the desert had a fucking hole in it and there were enough dead rabbits and ground squirrels to feed every carnivore in Africa.

  He got along with Angus—sort of. He was demanding, always yelling, and the ugliest fucker Dwight had ever seen. But he paid well enough. Pretty soon, Dwight was making trips from Arizona to California by himself and doing other things for the old man as well. Dwight was the guy on the ground, the middleman, the one who made the sale, picked up the money and took all the risks. Back then, he liked it. He was young, full of testosterone, and was hooked on violence.

  Angus had a rival. A middle-aged woman who called herself La Balla. She wore mariachi clothes, including the wide-brimmed white hat and a cluster of fake red carnations behind her ear. Her third husband, a three-time loser, drove her around the neighborhood in a neon green 1972 Lincoln Continental convertible. She was dismissive of Angus and was taking a lot of his gang sales.

  Angus sent Dwight to teach her a lesson. Underneath her outfit, La Balla wore a corset. She had to. Nobody who was five-two and chunky could have a waist like a ballerina. That worried Dwight. He didn’t want to use a gun for his first kill. He wanted to feel it, make it personal. He thought about a knife but it might be blocked by a metal stay or an eyelet or a heavy layer of spandex. That’s when he came up with the idea to use a stiletto. That’s why the weapon was created in the first place. To pierce chain mail and leather armor. Not having an edge allowed it to penetrate deep.

  Dwight caught La Balla walking from her car to her house. It was dark and he hid behind a cypress tree that shaded her porch in the daylight. As she opened her bag to get her keys, he stepped up behind her, cupped his hand over her mouth and said, “Buenos noches, bitch.” The stupid fucking hat was in his face. He reached around, stabbed her in the chest, twisting the blade for maximum damage. She flopped around like a tied-up alligator before she slumped to the ground. It seemed to take a long time.

  Angus was furious. “I told you to teach her a lesson, not kill her!” he bellowed.

  “I taught her a lesson,” Dwight said. “I taught her how to die.”

  Everything was more or less okay until Tyler entered the picture. Angus took to him right away; a decorated ex-marine, smart, easy to like, and he knew ordnance. He was good-looking too. The son Angus never had. Angus treated him respectfully, never once calling him a nitwit or dimwit or numbskull, hardly ever raising his voice and asking him his opinion when he was making a decision. And get this: Tyler got a percentage of the profits. Angus made him a fucking partner! All the years Dwight had put in and he was still on a fucking paycheck. Dwight decided that one way or another, that old fuck would get his.

  Dwight wasn’t looking forward to telling Angus that Isaiah hadn’t gotten anywhere. He’d go into one of his rants and blame whoever was in the room. It didn’t matter, Dwight thought. Isaiah wasn’t going to figure out what happened that night. Nobody could. Not unless they were there.

  The address was a two-story commercial building on the funky side of 7th Street. It might have been respectable thirty years before, but now it was dilapidated and listing, bricks missing from the façade, paint peeling. The first floor was an abandoned plumbing-supplies distributor; the second floor had mattresses over the windows. The stairs were narrow and steep. The door on the landing was covered with stickers for various bands. No doorknob, just pliers sticking out of it. Weed smell instead of air. As they reached the top of the stairs they were assaulted by a brain-splattering cacophony that bore no resemblance to music; more like cats in a garbage can getting kicked across a parking lot.

  “The fuck is that?” Dodson said. “I bet you any money there ain’t no bruthas in there.”

  The lead singer was dressed in black leather pants, black tank top with an AC/DC logo, shag cut, black-black hair, requisite tats and bare dirty feet. She was strangling the mike and screaming something unintelligible. A chica was on bass—fifties pompadour, wraparounds, black tights, gangsta flannel.

  On guitar, a man in his fifties—chinos, a pin
k polo shirt and a Rolex. He rocked back and forth, eyes closed, as if playing the same three notes over and over again took his full concentration. He was probably financing the band. Jasper was on drums, headbanging while he banged on the drum kit seemingly at random. He was like a hyperactive kid with no talent and a double dose of Ritalin. All he was making was noise.

  “The fuck is he doing?” Dodson said, cringing. “I know dogs with a better sense of rhythm.”

  “Cut, cut, cut,” the singer said. “Fuck, Jasper, stay on the goddamn beat. You’re the fucking drummer, for Christ’s sake. You are the beat.”

  “I’m on the beat,” Jasper mumbled dolefully. He picked a bottle of beer off the floor and guzzled it.

  “She’s right,” said the chica. “You’re all over the fucking place.”

  A girl was watching from the shadows. “Leave him alone,” she said.

  “Eat ass, Lydia,” Chica said, sneering. “And you’re a lousy lay too.”

  “You’re really bad, Jasper,” the older guy said. “I mean really bad.”

  Jasper threw a drumstick at him. “Fuck you, gramps. Go somewhere and have a heart attack.”

  “Take ten,” the singer said. “Maybe when we get back Jasper will play better, fat fucking chance.”

  Jasper stayed and hung his head, the others dispersing into the warren of rooms. The shadow girl, Lydia, went over to him, put her hands on his face and kissed him. “You were playing great, babe,” she said. “Don’t pay any attention to that bitch.” Jasper saw Isaiah and groaned.

  “I’ll see you later,” Lydia said. She kissed him again and left.

  Jasper led Isaiah and Dodson into an anything room. Broken furniture, card table, old amps, a three-legged keyboard, cardboard boxes, clothes, DJ equipment—anything. “Who’s this guy?” Jasper said, sneering at Dodson.

  “You mean me?” Dodson said. “You better get respectful, son, or I’ll beat you to death with them drumsticks.”

  Jasper smelled like beer and cigarettes. He picked up his jacket and searched around in the pockets. Suddenly, he was alarmed. He turned the pockets inside out. “Shit, man! My ring, man. My fucking ring! It’s gone.”

  “I’ll buy you another one,” Isaiah said, meaning it.

  “No, man. It’s the ring Lydia bought me! It was like this cool skull!”

  “Later, Jasper.”

  “No! I’ve got to find that fucking ring!” Jasper shouted. “Lydia saved up to buy it. She’ll be pissed.” He started throwing things around and looking in stupid places. “Where is it? Where is it?”

  “Jasper, we don’t have time for this,” Isaiah said, nearing violence. “The ring could be anywhere.”

  “No, no! I have to find it!”

  “I know who’s got the ring,” Dodson said casually. Isaiah looked at him.

  “You do?”

  “Remember I was tellin’ you about women?”

  They found the chica out on the fire escape, smoking a joint. “Who the fuck are you guys?” she said.

  “Give the boy his ring back,” Dodson said.

  She huffed. “I don’t have any ring. What are you, a cop?”

  “It wasn’t the so-called singer,” Dodson said. “Jasper plays bad so she steals his ring? That makes no sense. And it wasn’t gramps either. What’s he gonna do with a cheap-ass skull ring? No, it was you, bitch.”

  The girl puffed up and stepped forward. “Did you just call me a bitch?”

  “You act like a bitch and that’s what I’ll call you,” Dodson said. Fearing a fight, Isaiah stepped between them.

  “Okay, that’s enough.”

  “Get out the way, Isaiah,” Dodson said, moving him aside. “You said Lydia was a lousy lay,” he went on. “You used to be together, didn’t you? Jasper took her away from you. You was jealous and stole the ring because Lydia gave it to him. Now quit messing around and hand the damn thing over.”

  Chica’s face flushed. “I’m telling you, I don’t have it.” Isaiah realized Dodson was right.

  “Could be in her bag,” he said.

  Dodson shook his head. “Have you ever known a woman who would leave her bag somewhere in a house full of people? She doesn’t have one. The ring’s in her shirt pocket.”

  “Oh, really?” she said. “How do you know?”

  “You’re wearing tights. Will you give him back the ring now?”

  Jasper was ecstatic to get the ring back, but didn’t say thank you and insisted on going back to the condo before he would talk. Isaiah said no, they’d talk outside. They came out of the building. Weirdly, Jasper focused on the scraggly azalea bushes planted around the perimeter of the building. They were flowering despite their condition. Jasper shivered and hugged himself.

  “Christ,” he said. “Why do they grow those fucking things?”

  “What’s wrong with azaleas?” Dodson said. “I kind of like ’em myself.”

  “Let’s talk now, Jasper,” Isaiah said. Jasper was on the phone.

  “Hey, Ma,” he said. “Did you do my laundry? Well, I couldn’t find my Slayer T-shirt and I need it…no, that’s Black Sabbath, stupid. I said Slayer. Christ, don’t you know anything?”

  “Jasper, get off the phone,” Isaiah said.

  “Just have it ready when I get home, okay?”

  “Jasper, get off the phone.”

  “What do you mean, you’re not home?” Jasper said. “Where the fuck are you?” Isaiah grabbed him, got him in an arm lock, and pushed him face-first into the building, the phone clattering to the pavement.

  “OWWWW SHIT!” he yelled. “That fucking hurts, dude!”

  “What did you see that night?” Isaiah said. His teeth were clenched.

  “OWWWW SHIT!”

  “Talk to me or I’ll snap it off and you’ll never play the drums again, which wouldn’t be a bad thing. Now answer my questions.”

  “Okay, okay! Let go of my arm!” Jasper shouted, but Isaiah kept his cheek mashed against the bricks.

  “What do you know about Tyler?”

  “Him? He was an asshole,” Jasper said.

  “Because?”

  “Because he was messing around with Christiana. He wanted to break us up.”

  “You wanted him dead, didn’t you?” Isaiah said.

  Jasper didn’t hesitate. “Sure,” he replied. “We all wanted him—well, maybe not dead, but fucked up, that’s for sure.” Isaiah cranked his arm higher. Jasper howled. “OOWWWWWW SHIT!”

  “Did you have anything to do with hiring the killers?” Isaiah said.

  “Me? Fuck no!” Jasper said. “Are you crazy? I party, man, ask anybody! They’ll tell you the same thing!”

  “Did you hear anything from the others?”

  “No! No! I didn’t!” Jasper said. Isaiah looked at Dodson.

  “He’s lying,” Dodson said.

  “OOWWWWW SHIT!”

  “What happened that night?” Isaiah said.

  “I wasn’t there!” Jasper said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I wasn’t there, dude—OOWWWW SHIT! There was all this shit going on and everybody was freaking out! Not my problem. I stayed away.” Isaiah held him there, looked at Dodson again. He shrugged.

  “Let me fucking go!” Jasper screamed. “You’re breaking my goddamn arm! Pleeease!” Isaiah let him go, the kid grimacing and rubbing his arm. “Fuck you, asshole!” he said. Then, to Dodson, “You too, you fucking shrimp!” He picked up his phone and made a call while he hurriedly walked away.

  “Did you believe him?” Isaiah said. “That he wasn’t in on the murder?”

  “I tend not to believe anybody,” Dodson said, “especially when there’s four or five of the same muthafucka. One thing I know, he couldn’t have done it by himself.”

  They drove in silence. Isaiah was dreading the next conversation. Dodson didn’t say anything but you could feel his smug satisfaction like cool air blowing in from the dash vents.

  “You were right about the ring, okay?” Isa
iah said.

  “Yes, I know,” Dodson said. “This is not a new experience. I’m frequently right but I suppose you would know that better than anyone.”

  “The case is over,” Isaiah said. “Jasper was my last hope.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. “I think we’ve got a tail.”

  Four or five cars back, a ten-year-old Camaro was changing lanes when Isaiah did, keeping the same number of cars between them and following when he made a turn. “I think those are the killers,” Isaiah said.

  “I should have took the bus home,” Dodson said.

  Isaiah wanted a better look at them. He moved into the empty right lane and clicked on the turn signal. The Camaro moved over too. There were no cars between them so it had to pull up right behind him. He saw them clearly.

  “Two women.”

  “We in trouble now,” Dodson said.

  “They’re having some kind of argument,” Isaiah said.

  “Prob’ly about how to kill us.”

  Isaiah made the turn and then another into a maze of deserted streets; he didn’t want to run over anybody. He accelerated hard, the Kia’s engine straining. Then he made a tire-screeching right, then a left, then another right, driving too fast to look back, then a snap turn into an alley, where he rolled to a stop and turned off the lights.

  “You left them in the dust.” Dodson chuckled. “Don’t nobody keep up with my boy.” The Camaro turned into the alley, the women were laughing.

  “Who the fuck are they?” Dodson said. “Wonder Woman and her sister?”

  Isaiah was embarrassed but had to shake them. His advantage: he knew the neighborhood and they didn’t. He drove on into traffic, changed lanes a couple of times, putting some cars between himself and his pursuers. He came to a red light at Long Beach Boulevard, didn’t stop, and made a sharp right.