IQ(17)

As Dodson was doing the riff about Kanye, Mr. Ingram put his hands on his knees and pushed himself out of his chair. This was all he needed, as if five classes of health ed with kids who had mustaches and got more sex in a weekend than he did in an entire year weren’t enough to ruin his day. He walked over to Dodson and put his hand on the mike. He tried to sound outraged but it came out like a plea. “Okay, Mr. Dodson, I need you to stop now,” he said. “This is a school assembly, isn’t that obvious? We’re here to educate, not provide you with an opportunity to hustle up business.”

Dodson looked saddened, as if Mr. Ingram had been stricken with some rare disease. “It’s a hustler’s world, son,” Dodson said, “and if you ain’t doing the hustlin’? Somebody’s hustlin’ you.”


The assembly was over. Dodson came off the stage and handed out his business cards to the kids filing by. “W W W dot Juanell Dodson Rent to Own,” he said. “That’s all one word. Just fill out the application form and we’ll be in touch.” Isaiah was still standing at the back of the auditorium, waiting to be noticed. Dodson kept passing out cards until there were no more kids and the auditorium was deserted. He went up onstage, got his briefcase, and fussed with it for effect.

“You know I’m here,” Isaiah said, coming toward him. “You saw me when I came in the door.”

“Isaiah!” Dodson said, like Isaiah was an old girlfriend he’d run into at a party. “What a surprise. Did you enjoy the presentations? I thought it went well, didn’t you?”

“I need to talk,” Isaiah said.

“Oh I’m sorry but I’m in a bit of a rush. Can we do it next week?” Dodson came down off the stage and walked right past him.

“Come on, Dodson, quit messing around,” Isaiah said, trailing him.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Dodson said. He quickened his pace. Make Isaiah hurry up, reduce him to a kid chasing after his mom.

“I want to talk about that case,” Isaiah said.

“Case?” Dodson said. “I have a lot of cases at the moment. Could you be more specific?” You had to be careful with Isaiah. Push him too far and he’d walk away from the table no matter what it cost him.

“The case you told me about,” Isaiah said. “The one with the client who can pay.”

“That could be any one of my clients. They’re a very exclusive group.” Dodson knew he was reaching Isaiah’s limit but couldn’t resist. It wasn’t like this uppity, condescending muthaf*cka didn’t deserve it. “Oh wait, I remember now,” he said. “Yes, yes, it’s a very complicated situation. It’ll take me at least five minutes to explain and I’m afraid I don’t have the time.”


There wasn’t much to look at on the drive over to the client’s house. Ivy-covered berms and concrete walls blocked the view on either side of the freeway. Not that you were missing much. Come in on an airplane and all you’d see is borderless urban sprawl clear to the horizon. Long Beach, Compton, Carson, Torrance, Westwood, Studio City—just names on a map.

Isaiah drove, resisting the urge to speak. Dodson was messing with him. After the assembly he didn’t say anything about the case, making Isaiah ask and giving him a vague answer. Then he’d made a call and said they had to go meet the client right away, not telling him who the client was. Then he wouldn’t let Isaiah crack open a window, saying it would mess up his hair, his cologne stinking up the car. It smelled to Isaiah like somebody’d put fruit-flavored chewing gum, a new leather glove, and a man’s sweaty balls into a blender and put it on pulverize. Now Dodson was picking his teeth with a toothpick and bobbing his head to Tupac, music he insisted would clear his mind for the case.

In one of his previous incarnations, Dodson was a record producer. His most promising protégé was a Charles Barkley–looking kid who called himself Da Chunk. Chunk had a song that went to number one hundred and ninety-eight on the rap singles chart. It was titled “Where’s My Samitch, Bitch?” Dodson wrote the lyrics:


I be at the strip club, gettin’ me some hot rub,

tokin’ on a big dub, hungry for some big grub.

Split to the crib, nuttin’ in the fridge,

ho was doin’ sack time, woke her up double time.

(chorus)

Where’s my samitch, bitch? I said!

Where’s my samitch, bitch? I said!

Where’s my samitch, bitch? I’m hongreee!

Where’s my samitch, bitch?




“Could we listen to something else besides Tupac?” Isaiah said.

“Yes, we could, but this is who I want to hear right now,” Dodson said. “Tupac’s my boy. Did you know he went to art school in Baltimore? Studied jazz, acting, poetry. Moved to Oakland when I was comin’ up. Pac was an icon in my hood. I played his records every day.”

“I remember. Drove me out of my mind.”

“This album right here, Don Killuminati? It’s a classic, didn’t come out ’til after Tupac was dead and gone. The music world lost a giant that day.”

“He was just one more thug to me.”

“Now you showing your ignorance.”

“You mean he wasn’t a thug?”