“Now I’ve heard from several sources that Cal is having serious problems, which I’m guessing means drugs,” Shonda said.
“Calvin’s always had a drug problem but now he’s crazy too,” Noelle said.
“Crazy? Crazy how?”
“Let me put it this way. Wake up tomorrow morning and begin your day the way Calvin does. Start with a handful of Focalin, Fentanyl, Klonopin, and Wellbutrin and a dozen Krispy Kreme Originals and wash it all down with Spicy V8 and vodka and if you weren’t crazy before you’ll be crazy later that day.”
“I guess you would be,” Shonda said. The audience laughed and clapped. “Now a little birdie told me you have a new project in the works,” she said.
“How do you know about that?” Noelle said.
“It’s my job to know.”
“Well, it’s still in the planning stages but when it comes to fruition, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Of course it is. You know you’re my girl. Can we talk about my handbags now?”
The interview ended. Isaiah stood up. “I’m going,” he said.
“You’re not gonna eat the Danish?” Dodson said.
“I don’t like Danish.”
“You don’t like espresso neither?”
“I already had mine.”
“Well, go on and get the fuck outta here then. I guess your brutha taught you everything but manners.”
“Don’t talk about my brother.” Isaiah stood there like he had in the bedroom at the old apartment. Angry beyond words, fists clenched at his sides with nothing to punch. He knew now why he’d come.
“What’s your problem?” Dodson said. “You pissed off about the case? You should be. You know I had a nightmare last night? I was stuck in a bowl of dog food and guess who was coming to dinner?”
“Flaco Ruiz,” Isaiah said. “Do you know who he is?”
“Yes, I know who he is,” Dodson said. “He was that boy who got shot when them two Locos was chasing me through the taquería. They killed his parents and he caught one in the head. Is that what you been grindin’ on all this time?”
“Wait. They were chasing you? That’s unbelievable.”
Dodson didn’t look remorseful or even embarrassed. He looked like Dodson. Unfazed, unworried, ready to go if you were.
“Do you know what happened to Flaco?” Isaiah said. “Do you care?”
“What I care about is my business,” Dodson said.
“Flaco has brain damage and he’ll be disabled for the rest of his life.”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“What about it?”
“I didn’t shoot the boy or his parents.”
“You started the war. You started the war when you robbed Junior.”
“I played my part. So did you. So did a lot of people.”
“Doesn’t your conscience bother you, or do you even have one?”
Dodson finally reacted, raising his chin, the too-cool expression hardening into belligerence. “You better check yourself, son. You ain’t no angel sitting on my shoulder. I got one up there already and what he says to me ain’t none of your concern.”
Dodson took the dishes into the kitchen. Isaiah stared at the TV. He’d waited a long time to confront Dodson. Unload some of the guilt, make him feel like a scum-of-the-earth lowlife criminal. Dodson was supposed to confess, ask for forgiveness, and offer to make amends but instead he was offended like Isaiah was an asshole for bringing it up. Isaiah was angry but mostly what he felt was an overwhelming sadness. This was what Dodson was like. This was what people were like. So what if you fucked up and ruined someone’s life? You came through without a scratch. Isn’t that all that matters?
A commercial for Tylenol was on. A grandfather was holding his grandchild up in the air and was whirling him around, the voice-over saying how Tylenol was the number one doctor-recommended pain reliever for everything you do. Isaiah had taken a lot of Tylenol in his time until he found out the generic was a fraction of the cost.
Isaiah went still. A realization was surging into his bloodstream. He went through the logic again and almost allowed himself a smile.
Dodson came out of the kitchen drying his hands with a towel. “I thought you was leaving,” he said.
“I know,” Isaiah said.
“You know what? That you’re leaving?”
“The inside man. I know who he is.”
Brian Sterling’s instructions went like this: Cal was to go to the Amos Center building at 453 Capital Way, a half block south of Ventura Boulevard. The tenants were lawyers and financial consultants. Anyone who saw him go in would think he was there on business. Once inside, Cal was to cross the lobby and go past the elevator to the hallway on the left. At the very end, there was an emergency exit. Cal should proceed through the exit and walk straight across the alley to the parking garage of Dr. Freeman’s building. Brian would be waiting there to escort him up the back stairs to the side entrance of the office.
Except Dr. Freeman’s office was in Beverly Hills and the second building was under construction. Nothing in the parking garage but empty space. Skip was parked in the alley between the two buildings in an ancient, nondescript Corolla. The rapper would pass right in front of him. The plan was to drive in after him, shoot him, and drive out the far exit. It had taken a long time to find exactly the right setup.
The car radio was on, the Dodgers game. Skip was wearing brown corduroy pants and a gray hoodie he’d bought at the Goodwill, the bill of his cap tilted down to put his face in shadow. He’d been wearing latex gloves since he’d stolen the Corolla. The Glock 18c and a ski mask were under the seat, the Beretta in an ankle holster. His phone was mounted on the dash, the Uber app on the screen, leftovers of a McNuggets meal on the seat beside him. He’d leaned the seat back to lower his profile but still had a clear view over the dashboard, and his mirrors were adjusted so he could see behind him. He pretended to doze, his arms crossed and resting on his chest, gloved hands hidden in his armpits. If someone happened by he was just your average Uber driver, taking a break and listening to the ball game.
He was ready.
Cal was in his walk-in closet, which was only slightly smaller than the racquetball court. He was checking himself out in the three-sided tailor’s mirrors. Fortunately, he’d only burned up a fraction of his meaningless wardrobe. For his meeting with Dr. Freeman he’d chosen Dolce & Gabbana five-pocket walking shorts, an Alexander McQueen piqué logo polo shirt, and Jimmy Choo Sloane paisley jacquard slippers. Casual but letting Dr. Freeman know he had money and was no ordinary patient. If he drove there himself he was almost sure to get lost so his plan was to tell Bug he had a toothache and needed to go to the dentist-now, nigga. No, not in five minutes and no, he didn’t need to tell the fellas, just get in the fucking car. Do it like that. By the time anybody knew he was gone he’d be gone.
All things considered, Cal was feeling good. Drugged and not too sharp but pretty good. He was tired of being crazy and confused and staying in his room. It was time to put this shit behind him.
He was ready.
Isaiah, Anthony, and Dodson were downstairs in the kitchen, standing around the center island where Cal ate the barbecued tempeh and saw the giant pit bull come through the doggie door.
Isaiah was uncomfortable. He felt like he was jumping the gun. The case-breaker was visible now. Something shiny under rippling water.
“Okay, what’s this about?” Anthony said.
“How long have you been seeing Noelle?” Isaiah said.
“I’m not. Where’d you get that idea?”
“You’ve been seeing her all along, maybe while she was still living here. Makes sense. You make a nice couple.”
“Well, thanks, but you’re mistaken and I asked you where you got the idea of us being together.”