Next day he went back to work at the House, which had moved to another fucked-up apartment on Seminole. He told the fellas he went to see his people in Oakland. With his last money he bought some product and served it up to the fiends just like before. For some reason he thought things would be different but they were exactly the same. The fucked-up atmosphere, the fellas talking shit and doing nothing, the dope fiends killing themselves one rock at a time. He served it up for a week and a day until everybody was down to two-dollar chips and the crackheads were buying from the Locos.
It was Sedrick that asked Kinkee, “When’s the reup happening?”
“That’s some classified shit, nigga,” Kinkee said. “Above your lowly-ass pay grade, you feel me? I’ll let you know when I let you know.”
Dodson was outside wondering why the air smelled like dirt, weeds, and dogshit no matter where the House was. Kinkee was there, pacing back and forth and talking on his cell.
“Come on, Stokely,” he said, “we down to kibbles and bits out here. Tell Junior we need some product. When? Now, shit, why you think I’m callin’? Well, can you tell me like in a general way-above my pay grade? See, you fuckin’ with me now. Wednesday? You couldn’t say that at the start? Damn, man, why you always got to grind on people? That shit ain’t funny. What? No-no-no-no, I ain’t disrespecting nobody, Stoke, don’t take that shit personal.”
Deronda sat on the edge of the foldout, wiping her nose with one of Dodson’s T-shirts, Isaiah leaning back against the bookshelf with his hands in his front pockets. “It’s like crazy dangerous,” she said. “But it seemed like a movie, you know? Like it was a game or somethin’, but when Dodson left it got real to me. There’s a million ways he could get himself killed.”
“Wait a minute,” Isaiah said. “He left?”
“I texted him four five times but he don’t answer.”
Massive hands wrung Isaiah’s chest like a dishrag. If there was gunplay the police would get into it and if Dodson got arrested it was over. Dodson’s phone had Isaiah’s number in it. The key card to the locker was in his wallet and Dodson would rat him out before he got to the police station.
“Where does Junior live?” Isaiah said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN I’m Not Doing It
July 2013
Cal said who gives a shit at least a dozen times a day. About Bobby Grimes, the crew, the album, his career, the phone calls from his business manager telling him the IRS had a tax lien on the house. He was just too tired, too drugged, and too confused to do anything about it except take more drugs. He was sunk in a hopelessness so deep he’d forgotten what he was hoping for. Cal heard voices coming from outside, Bobby’s the loudest. He was always the loudest. Throwing his weight around, cutting everybody off at the knees. Cal thought about going down there and putting him in his place. Tell him to shut up and send him out for Krispy Kremes but then he’d have to listen to the man talk and if there was ever a reason to stay in the bed it was Bobby talking. Besides, who gives a shit?
Anthony didn’t know how he was going to get through another meeting, if that’s what you could call it. Standing out in the driveway like a bunch of valets after the dinner rush, Bobby talking in his usual pompous, pretentious, bullying way. You’d think at some point he’d get tired of himself but that hadn’t happened since Anthony had known him. He’d interned with Bobby while he was in business school and after graduation he was kept on as Bobby’s executive assistant. At the time it seemed like a good idea. Learn the music business, network, find a career path. But Cal needed someone to keep him organized and Bobby said take Anthony, he could organize a room full of naked babies. Anthony thought it would be temporary but other opportunities for a glorified flunky were other glorified flunky jobs and none had the perks of working for a rap star.
“Anthony, are you listening?” Bobby said. “This is about your future too.”
“Yes, Bobby, I’m listening.”
Hegan was watching from the BMW. Charles was muttering at Bug, something about fucking up his phone. Isaiah and Dodson were leaning against the Audi, Bobby in front of them, pacing back and forth, nodding sagely, hands clasped behind his back. “Calvin wants evidence that Noelle was behind the plot to kill him,” Bobby said, “and if he doesn’t get that evidence he will stay locked up in the house, causing untold damage to his career as well as serious problems for his colleagues and his record company. We can agree on that, can’t we, Mr. Quintabe?”
Isaiah had complicated things tenfold but Anthony admired him. Calm, watchful, not giving anything away, and how he looked at Bobby like he was a desk or a lamp.
“Now what I’m going to suggest here may seem extreme,” Bobby said, “but I believe at this point, extreme is our only recourse. As I said before, Calvin wants evidence that Noelle is behind the plot to kill him and what I’m proposing is that we manufacture that evidence.”
“You mean run a game on him,” Isaiah said.
“Please let me finish before you make a judgment,” Bobby said. “Now let’s say you were to tell Calvin you have a recording of Noelle and Skip making a deal. A bad example but you understand what I’m getting at. Of course, Calvin would want to hear that recording but you would tell him the police have seized it as evidence and Noelle will be arrested shortly. Therefore, you have accomplished your mission and Calvin is perfectly safe to go about his business without further worry.” Bobby put his palms out, cutting off Isaiah’s reply. “Yes, I understand, you’re a man of scruples,” he said. “I applaud you for that but this impasse must be broken for all our sakes.”
Anthony knew what was coming next. True to form, Bobby plopped down a thick envelope on the hood of the Audi. Some bills fanned out, all hundreds.
“If you could see your way clear to helping us resolve our problem,” Bobby said, “I’m prepared to give you twenty thousand dollars in cash.”
For once Anthony hoped Bobby’s shady tactics would work but Isaiah was still unreadable. The entire Las Vegas Strip was flashing in Dodson’s eyes.
“Thank you, Bobby,” Dodson said. “That’s a very generous offer. Don’t you think so, Isaiah?”
“Bear in mind,” Bobby said, “Calvin will still be obliged to pay you the fifty-thousand-dollar bonus and you’ll already have twenty thousand from me. What do you think, Mr. Quintabe? It’s a win-win for everybody concerned.”
“Can’t do it,” Isaiah said.
“Why not?” Bobby said.
“Why not?” Dodson said.
“Take it, fool,” Charles said, “you know you want the money.”
“I said why not,” Isaiah said. “I’m not running a game on Cal.”
Anthony was enjoying the back-and-forth but this had to end. “Look, you’re not being fair or realistic,” he said. “You haven’t made any progress on the case and there’s no reason to believe you will. You’re stuck, admit it. Come on, Isaiah, it’s time for everyone to move on.”
“I’ve got a new lead,” Isaiah said, shooting a quick glance at Dodson.
“A new lead?” Bobby said. “What new lead?”
“He’s bullshitting,” Charles said.
“Shut up, Charles. What new lead, Mr. Quintabe?”
“There’s a man who knows Skip,” Isaiah said. “I’m meeting him tonight at JC’s, a bar in Long Beach. Around eleven.”