Dodson checked out the Ferrari, running his fingers over the pearlescent black paint and the buttery leather upholstery. “You know what this reminds me of? Cherise after she puts moisturizer on her ass cheeks.” Dodson kept talking about the Ferrari while Isaiah’s eyes swept over the house. The ground-floor windows were leaded, the massive oak front door shielded by a heavy wrought iron security gate. A bullet cam was set under an eave and aimed at the cul-de-sac. Another covered the driveway and a dome camera was mounted over the entry. Small red-and-white signs were posted in the shrubbery that said ADVANCED SECURITY, a high-end company. Isaiah knew their work. If somebody broke into this house he knew what he was doing.
The rapper’s house was on the next hill over. The man with the dog had his hunting binoculars trained on the two guys in the driveway. The taller one was clearly in charge. The way he was standing there, not so much looking around as he was studying; taking his time, nodding when he made a mental note, turning from the house to the cul-de-sac and back again to see what was where. He had focus. Hadn’t said a word since he’d gotten out of his car. The little guy climbing around the Ferrari couldn’t stop blabbing.
The tall guy definitely wasn’t another rapper. He might have been a friend but that didn’t fit either. He was nothing like the people who went in and out of that house. None of that swaggering bullshit. He was probably IQ, the guy he’d been warned about. What a stupid fucking thing to call yourself. The man thought about getting his sniper rifle out of the truck but there was no need for anything extreme at this point. The rapper would only get more reclusive, maybe even leave town. Anyway, what could this so-called IQ do? There were no clues to find, no evidence to follow. IQ. What a fucking joke.
The dog growled and surged against the spiked collar. Some asshole with a German Shepherd was walking on the other side of the street. What’s with the look? Oh you think that mutt would stand a chance? You’re lucky I don’t turn my dog loose. Two minutes and he’d kill and eat you both. Wait, I don’t believe it. Did that asshole just smile at me? “Hold still, Goliath,” the man said. “I want to take off your leash.”
Dodson rang the bell, Isaiah still looking around. Something was wrong, something in the air, something in those hills on the other side of Ventura Boulevard. He got the same feeling when he drove through Loco territory. That eyes were on him he couldn’t see, that bullets were coming ahead of their gunshots.
“Welcome,” Anthony said as he swung open the door. “It’s good to see you, Dodson.” He sounded almost relieved, like he was being rescued. He shook hands in the traditional way, confusing Dodson for a moment, but he finally got the hang of it.
“Good to see you too, cuz,” Dodson said, meaning it. “It’s been a long damn time.” There was no family resemblance Isaiah could see. Anthony was good-looking in a collegiate, white boy kind of way. Soft features, nerd glasses, a close-fitting sweater with different-colored triangles on it, and peg-leg pants.
“You must be Isaiah,” Anthony said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Good to meet you, Anthony,” Isaiah said.
“Please, come inside.”
The foyer would have been a good-size room in anybody else’s house. An ornate gilded mirror and a white travertine floor reflected light from a huge chandelier, a dramatic marble staircase sweeping up to the second floor.
“You always keep an AK in the umbrella stand?” Isaiah said, looking at it.
“Remind me not to come over here when it’s raining,” Dodson said.
“It’s a long story,” Anthony said. “Part of the reason you’re here. Cal’s going to meet us in the game room.” Isaiah saw anger and exasperation in Anthony’s eyes like he’d been forced to work overtime too many nights in a row. Anthony led them through the house, walking fast like he was late for something, more chandeliers lighting the way. “In case you’re wondering, I’m Cal’s majordomo,” he said. “I deal with the lawyers, publicists, and promoters. I organize his schedule and run interference with his record label and whoever else wants a piece of him.”
Isaiah knew houses like this existed but he’d never been inside one. The sheer quantity of overstuffed furniture, marble flooring, life-size paintings, exotic statuary, burnished woods, heavy drapery, and gilded mirrors made the house feel like a furniture store after everyone had gone home.
“I don’t know what Dodson told you,” Anthony said, “but the situation here is at the breaking point. Cal hasn’t been out of the house for three weeks and then this craziness happens over the weekend. Now the place is an armed camp. He wanted me to carry a gun but I refused. To be honest, I’m sorry I called you but Cal insisted. The whole thing is so ridiculous.”
As they entered the game room, Dodson said, “What game do you play in here, polo?” The sprawling space looked sparse even with the pool table, foosball table, card table, craps table, pinball machine, three TVs, fireplace, two wet bars, and islands of white leather furniture expansive enough to seat the Lakers’ front line. A glass wall with a sliding glass door looked onto a brick patio and a gas barbecue the size of a buffalo. The pool was postcard blue, the lawn almost too lush and green to be real; a full-size basketball court off to one side.
“I know,” Anthony said.
The Moody brothers came in together. Junebug, aka the Bug, was one of those people who could make a room look smaller. He was bald, purple-black like an eggplant, and wide as a Sub-Zero refrigerator. Most of the weight was around his middle but he looked more fearsome than fat, a.357 Magnum in a shoulder holster adding to the effect.
“You must be the Bug,” Dodson said. “It’s a pleasure to meet your notorious ass.”
Bug ignored him and walked up to Isaiah, heat coming off him like a hot stove with some Kush in the oven. “You him, huh?” he said. “The great IQ?”
“My name is Isaiah,” Isaiah said.
Bug held his meaty paw in the shape of a handgun, shooting it for emphasis. “Well, I’m gonna tell you straight up,” he said. “You might be something in Long Beach but you ain’t shit up in here. Get disrespectful and your shit is over, you feel me? Cal’s my nigga. You fuck this up and oh my GOD I’ll put a hurtin’ on you.”
Isaiah looked at him like he’d come to the door selling five-dollar candy bars you could buy at the store for a dollar. He hated threats. Some asshole like Bug demanding respect as if bullying was a quality to admire like wisdom or kindness.
“What? What?” Bug said, metronoming his head. “You got nothin’ to say? You a muthafuckin’ mute? Don’t just stand there, nigga, say something.”
Dodson stepped between them with his palms out. “Ease up, Bug, everything’s cool.” There wasn’t much Dodson was afraid of and he could handle himself better than most. He was featherweight boxing champ at Chino State Prison, beating a whole string of wiry little tattooed Mexicans. “Ain’t no need to get hostile,” he said. “We here on business.”
“Was I talking to your pip-squeak ass?” Bug said. “Get the fuck out my way.”
“Charles,” Anthony said, “could you call your brother off?”
Charles looked at Bug, who huffed through his nose and went to the bar. “We handle our shit in-house, you feel me?” Charles said. “We don’t need two outside niggas meddlin’ in our shit.” Charles was long and lanky, a sloucher whether he was standing up or sitting down. He had a triangular face, mean eyes, and a goatee that came to a point. When the females saw him coming they said here comes the devil.