Wrecked Page 2

  He hauled Sneaky to his feet and slammed him against the wall. He leaned in close, nose-to-nose. “You think this is bad, asshole? This is nothing. This is a day at the beach. This is Disneyland. I’ll put you in so much pain you’ll be beggin’ for me to slit your throat.” Hawk put his hand around Sneaky Pete’s jaw, his fingers like the claws of a crane, squeezing so hard Sneaky’s cheeks were almost touching. Hawk screamed into his face, spit flying out of his mouth. “NOW START TALKING MOTHERFUCKER OR I SWEAR TO GOD I’LL CUT YOUR GODDAMN DICK OFF AND HANG IT AROUND YOUR NECK!” Hawk banged Sneaky Pete’s head against the wall. “DO YOU HEAR ME? DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME?” Hawkins kept banging and screaming. “TELL ME WHAT I WANT TO KNOW AND TELL ME RIGHT FUCKING NOW! OPEN YOUR GODDAMN MOUTH AND TELL ME!”

  “Hold it, hold it, Hawk,” Jimenez said. “You’re gonna kill the guy.” Richter was standing in the doorway, an unfeeling motherfucker if there ever was one, and even he was incredulous. Hawk was breathing hard, glaring into Sneaky’s eyes. Sneaky looked back at him, in pain but unafraid. More blank, like. Stoic. A tough motherfucker.

  “Fuck it, “ Jimenez said. “Owens, find a table where we can lay him down. Did somebody bring a bucket?”

  “It’s in the van,” Hawkins said.

  “Get it. Fill it with water. And see if you can find a towel too.” Hawk let go of Sneaky and let him slump to the floor.

  “You gotta admit,” Jimenez said. “The guy’s pretty tough.”

  “What’s this asshole’s name again?”

  “Isaiah. They call him IQ.”

  Chapter One

  Motherlove

  Isaiah hadn’t seen Grace since he’d met her in TK’s wrecking yard. He’d helped her remove a wiring harness from an old car. He was intrigued by her, but she’d given no indication that she had the slightest interest in him. It was a month later when he saw her again, standing in front of an art supply store talking to her friend. He’d watched them awhile, and when the friend left, he wanted to say hello but was too intimidated. Instead, he sent Ruffin to smooth the way, the slate-gray pit bull with fierce amber eyes that scared the hell out of most people. The dog ran over to Grace and sat at her feet and she responded the same way she had at the wrecking yard. She smiled, big and warm and glad, kneeling down to scratch him behind his ears. Ruff was usually standoffish with people, but you could feel the connection between them, like sister and brother reuniting after years apart.

  “Hello, beautiful,” she said. “How are you, huh?” Ruffin could hardly sit still, waggling with his butt still on the ground and mewling with happiness. She stroked his head and beamed at him. “How are you, huh? You doing all right?”

  “Hi,” Isaiah said as he approached. She gave him a quick glance and went back to stroking the dog.

  “Hi.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “It’s going fine.” Her voice was flat, not a hint of friendliness or anything else, the pale green eyes giving nothing away.

  “Did the wiring harness work okay?”

  “Yeah, it worked okay.”

  “Good. That’s great.”

  He had reached the limits of his conversational skills and a couple of awkward, endless moments went by, the girl holding the dog’s big head in her hands. He felt her sadness again. He recognized it from before. Like his, far away but imminent, anguish buried in a shallow grave.

  “It’s Ruffin, right?” she said.

  “You have a good memory.” At the wrecking yard, she’d chided him because the dog was unruly and hadn’t been neutered. “I did some training with him,” Isaiah said. “Got him fixed too.” If she was impressed there was no sign of it. “I’m Isaiah,” he said, getting desperate. “Isaiah Quintabe.” He knew her name but didn’t want to say it because it would sound creepy. She thought a moment, like she was gathering her memories of him, deciding if he was okay.

  “Grace,” she said simply. She was wearing worn jeans and a chambray shirt over a gray T-shirt. She smelled faintly of turpentine. He remembered the pocket watch tattoo on her forearm. It was an antique, the numbers in an ornate font and nicely done too. Crisp lines, subtle shadowing, the sheen on the bezel just right, the time frozen at five after eleven.

  Isaiah said the only thing he could think of. “So you’re an artist.” She looked at him sharply, a little alarmed.

  “How do you know?”

  He rushed to explain. “In the wrecking yard you had paint on your shoes and a Royal & Langnickel T-shirt. They make paintbrushes. I just happened to notice, that’s all. Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” She looked like he’d taken her wallet and given it back. “Gotta go.” She scratched the dog one more time, turned, and walked away, the dog trotting happily beside her.

  Isaiah wanted to say goodbye or ask if he could walk with her or invite her for coffee but those things were beyond him. “Ruffin? Here, boy.”

  The dog stopped, looked wistfully at Grace, and reluctantly came back. Isaiah snapped on his leash and watched her. She was walking fast, like she was escaping. Had he done something threatening? Was he giving off some kind of weird vibe? Was he so bumbling she had to flee so she wouldn’t laugh in his face? Probably. She was an artist. Cool. White. Creative. She probably hung out with other cool, white, creative people. Actors or documentary filmmakers or somebody who raised seven different kinds of heirloom cucumbers or had a line of yoga pants or made crazy sculptures out of old dental chairs, and if there were some black guys in her circle they were probably named Zado or Ska and they had dreadlocks and walked around barefoot and wore white peasant shirts and sacred beads from a monastery in Machu Picchu and had tats that meant fight the oppressor and performed at poetry slams or played the timbales in a reggae band.

  Grace was almost a block away, just turning into an apartment building. Isaiah got in the car and drove past it. It was an old stucco low-rise called the Edgemont; scarred with gang graffiti, front steps scuffed down to bare wood, the burglar bars weeping rust. He parked the car and went furtively to the intercom. He checked the list of names. G Monarova resided on the top floor. #406. Monarova? What kind of name was that?

  He drove away wondering what had gotten into him. Twice now, he’d been clearly rejected, and here he was almost stalking her. It was ridiculous. Why was he so intrigued? Okay, she did remind him of himself; removed, wary, her eyes searching for a crack in your armor, trying to see inside you, see what was really going on. Those weren’t exactly attractive qualities. Dodson had told him about meeting Cherise and how he’d been hit by the thunderbolt like Michael Corleone when he saw the shepherd girl in Godfather II. It bordered on the mystical, being so drawn to someone you didn’t know; longing to be with her after two minutes of conversation. No, Isaiah thought, this is crazy. What was he going to do, knock on her door with a bouquet of flowers? This was some kind of errant brain wave or a whim of imagination. Drive on, he told himself. By this time tomorrow you’ll have forgotten all about her.

  Isaiah was meeting Dodson at the Coffee Cup, a neighborhood institution stuck between a dry cleaners and a Mexican market. He was nervous about it. They were going to talk about partnering up, the conversation long overdue. Dodson had been busy with his new baby. He’d sold his half of the food truck to Deronda and was presumably living on the proceeds. He’d promised to bring in high-profile cases with serious paychecks and Isaiah could sorely use one. As usual, his client fees were dribbling in, along with the usual assortment of casseroles, cookies, needlepoint homilies, leftover Christmas presents, home repairs, and knitted woolen scarves so perfect for the California weather. The whole Erwin family had painted the house. Javier had installed a new water heater. Mr. Yamasaki had reroofed the garage. Things that needed doing but didn’t pay the bills.

  “There’s my hero,” Verna said. She said that every time he came in, which was almost every day. Awhile back, he’d saved her from a robbery, and she wouldn’t let him forget it. Verna was a wizened sprig of a
woman who must have been in her eighties. She wore a waitress’s uniform even though she owned the place and arrived before dawn to bake her fresh goodies. Danish, muffins, cinnamon rolls, and sourdough bread from a starter that was forty years old. Her croissants were what Isaiah craved. Verna said her recipe only had two ingredients. Warm snowflakes and a tub of butter.

  Isaiah was still embarrassed about the conversation with Grace. He was apparently less appealing than a four-legged creature that ate dog food, shed like a dying Christmas tree, couldn’t speak English, and crapped all over the yard. He was twenty-six years old and couldn’t carry on a conversation. Pitiful. Just pitiful. On the other hand, the nut he’d chosen to crack was as hard as the sidewalk and cold as a bag of frozen peas. Maybe pick someone easier next time, someone who already liked him. Maybe Winetta Simpson, a neighbor who was always inviting him over for coffee and a chat. He’d felt bad about turning her down all the time, so he’d gone over there once. She greeted him at the door with a bottle of Crown Royal, glittery purple eye shadow, and a negligee that looked like a lace tablecloth thrown over a buffalo.

  Since the 14K Triad case, Isaiah had handled the usual assortment of neighborhood woes. Store thefts, break-ins, lost children, wife-beaters, bullies, and con men. The only halfway-interesting case involved a girl who’d been accused of hanging her boyfriend and making it look like a suicide. There wasn’t enough evidence for an arrest but the boyfriend’s family was sure she’d done it. Isaiah made some initial inquiries and discovered the boyfriend was a meth dealer who stalked his estranged wife, beat his twin girls, and had kiddie porn on his laptop. Isaiah decided the world was better off without him and turned down the case.

  “What’s flamin’, son?” Dodson said. He strolled in like the landlord; an icy breeze with an attitude, condensed of stature but walking large. He’d gained a few pounds but was still thin and roped up; immaculate in a white T-shirt, jeans, and a modest gold chain. “So what’s up with you?”

  “Nothing special. How’s Micah?”

  Dodson made a face like he was remembering a car accident. “Man, that baby is work. You know he can’t do nothin’ for hisself? Can’t even hold his oversize head up. You got to watch him all the damn time.”

  “You didn’t know that going in?”

  “Knowing and doing is two different things. You know Cherise makes me wash my hands every time I pick him up? I don’t keep my toothbrush that clean, and the kid is always spittin’ up and he farts like he’s full of propane. I couldn’t believe it the first time I changed his diaper. He don’t eat nothing but mother’s milk and his shit’s the same color as hot dog mustard and got birdseed in it.”

  “Birdseed?” Isaiah said.

  “It looks like birdseed,” Dodson replied, “and for some reason, we’re always hurrying and rushing around, why I couldn’t tell you. Damn baby ain’t no bigger than a pot roast and he ain’t goin’ nowhere. And everything’s a damn crisis. The boy gets a rash on his ass, and Cherise and her mama carry on like he had a tumor on his neck. I said, what are y’all worried about? Everybody gets a rash on they ass at one time or another. I got a rash on my ass right now.”

  “How’d that go over?” Isaiah said.

  “Like I farted at a funeral, and Cherise done lost her sense of humor altogether. Other night, I was changin’ the boy’s diaper, trying to keep it light, you know how I do. I said, ‘Cherise, check this out. The baby’s got a hard-on, and he takes after his daddy too!’ Girl didn’t crack a smile and her mama looked at me like I was Crip Walkin’ on her grave—and check dis. I got to use my inside voice. The fuck does that mean? I am inside. And pictures! Lord have mercy. It’s like we got to record every minute of that li’l nigga’s life. Might as well get a movie camera and set it on forever.”

  “So you’re not enjoying this at all?”

  “Sometimes,” Dodson said, thoughtful now. “But mostly when it’s just me and him. Like when he’s asleep and I’m carrying him on my shoulder. All that other stuff goes away.” Dodson went quiet a moment, like he was feeling the love and wonderment of having a child.

  The moment was too heartfelt for Isaiah. He fiddled with his spoon. “So we’re partners.”

  “I’m ready,” Dodson said, coming out of his reverie. “But we need to talk about some other things first. Are you on social media?”

  “No,” Isaiah said, perishing at the thought.

  “Do you advertise?”

  “No.”

  “Have you got a list of former clients?”

  “No.”

  “Do you keep books?”

  “No.”

  “Do people owe you money?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” Dodson said. “How can you not know?”

  “I don’t keep track. I figure people will pay me sooner or later.”

  Dodson looked at him like he’d flunked his GED. “If this is business, we got to run it like a business.”

  Over the next couple of weeks, Dodson got a Facebook page up and running and had his nephew design a simple web page. Isaiah was shocked when he found out Dodson had named the partnership.

  “IQ Investigations?” Isaiah said. “Where did that come from?”

  “The company needs a name. What are people supposed to tell each other? You need help, go to Isaiah’s house?”

  It’s a company now? Isaiah thought. The word smacked of cubicles and secretaries and employee handbooks. At least Dodson hadn’t inserted his own name. That would have been too much.

  “After we get going, get some size to us?” Dodson said. “I want my name on the door.” He made Isaiah write out a couple of lists. The first was his former clients, Dodson saying the best contacts were the ones you already knew. The second list was all the people who owed Isaiah money and how much.

  “It’s a lot of people,” Isaiah protested.

  “You got a memory like a tape recorder. Just write the shit down and quit whinin’ like a bitch.”

  Isaiah almost snapped back but managed to restrain himself. He wished they’d talked about the partnership in more detail. How long would it last? A year? Five years? Was it ’til death do us part? There should have been a trial period, and what happened if you wanted out? Could you just cut the cord, no hard feelings? That didn’t seem likely.

  Dodson got serious about collections. He called, wrote emails, badgered and harassed and made house calls on the recalcitrant. Tudor was a mortgage broker and a wealthy man. Isaiah had tracked down a young couple that had wrecked one of Tudor’s rentals, and Tudor had never paid a nickel for his services. Dodson went to his office.

  “Pay him?” Tudor said, dusting imaginary lint off his shiny gray suit. “Why should I pay him? I hold the mortgage on his house. And that other one too, for that kid, Flaco.”

  “And you think that entitles you to what? Not paying your bills? I’m not leaving this office ’til I have a check for the full amount.”

  “Is that so? Well, you might need a sleeping bag and some groceries because you’ll be here a long time.”

  “And you might need a security guard to guard your house at 674 Piru Drive,” Dodson replied. “Be a shame if somebody broke all those fancy windows, kicked down your door, and made off with your bling collection and that raccoon coat your wife wears in the summertime.”

  “It happens to be mink,” Tudor said. “Are you threatening me, young man?”

  Dodson went into his gangsta stance, chest to chest, his head tipped to one side, weight on his back foot, hands down but curled. “You’re goddamn right I’m threatening you. That’s our livelihood right there and if you take food out of my baby’s mouth I’ll flush your whole life down the toilet.” Dodson left with the check.

  He started contacting former clients, introducing himself and explaining the new situation. “We’re here,” he’d tell them. “No need to stress yourself out. When life throws some bullshit curve ba
ll at you, me and Isaiah will catch it for you and throw it right back.” Make it an opportunity like they did on the shopping networks. If you don’t have that dress that goes from work to date night with hubby? Ladies, do we have the answer for you.

  Dodson presented Isaiah with an Excel spreadsheet. There was a list of client names, dates, payments, accounts receivable. This was exactly what Isaiah feared. Being controlled by the bottom line. But his fear took a backseat when he saw how much money Dodson had collected and how much was still owed.

  “That’s incredible,” Isaiah said.

  “It’s a damn shame is what it is. And these people over here said they already had deals with you.” Some handwritten notations were on the bottom of the page.

  Orlando Suarez Clean carpet. Three rooms only

  Billy Phan Build doghouse.

  Adam Papadakis Reupholster sofa.

  Louella Barnes Reindeer Christmas sweater

  “Reindeer Christmas sweater?” Dodson said.

  “Maybe it’ll be nice,” Isaiah answered feebly.

  “I saw it. Louella’s eyes are bad. The sweater will come down to your belly button and only got the antlers on it. I told her she should go buy you one at the store if she can get there without getting hit by a bus.” Dodson sipped his coffee, more sugar in it than a Snickers bar. “And from now on, no more sweaters, cupcakes, gardening, plumbing, or any other damn thing. Everybody pays real money. Are we agreed?”

  Isaiah felt rushed. “Okay. But only what they can afford.”

  He thought his decision would be final but Dodson said, “But most of ’em can’t afford diddly. How about this? We set a minimum. A hundred bucks.”

  “Too much. If you’re making minimum wage that’s almost a whole day’s pay. That could be rent money or food money.”

  “Or lottery ticket money or Miller High Life money. People are taking advantage of you, Isaiah. They don’t think before they call you, they just call you. What the hell were you doing looking for Winkie’s cat? It was under the house and she could have looked under there herself—and what about Cheesy Williams? You helped him with that insurance thing. Took you two whole days.”