IQ(20)

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 f*ck 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 * 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 muthaf*ckin’ 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 f*ck 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.

“Nobody’s meddling,” Dodson said, “we got an invitation from your boy.”

“Don’t mean shit to us,” Charles said.

“You work for him, don’t you?”

“More or less.”

Calvin Wright, aka Black the Knife, came in, a little unsteady on his feet. “More or less?” he said. “Is that what you do, Charles, more or less? You ask me you do less.” Cal was bloated, unshaven, his cornrows undone. He was wearing mirrored aviators, a black bathrobe plush as a fur coat, and velvet slippers with gold tassels on them. A big marmalade cat was lounging in his arms. The cologne smell was like a force field.

“Cal,” Anthony said, “this is Isaiah Quintabe and Juanell Dodson.”

“It’s about damn time,” Cal said. “Which one is Mr. Q?”

“My name is Isaiah,” Isaiah said.

“Oh it is, is it?” Cal said. “Well, I don’t give a f*ck, Mr. Q. I’ll call you whatever I feel like calling you and if you don’t like it you and your name can get the f*ck up outta my house.”

Isaiah’s eyes flared and he started to reply but Dodson cut him off. “It’s a genuine pleasure to meet you, Cal,” Dodson said. “I been following your music ever since Up from Nothin’, got every record you ever made. Did you know The Scene got a list of the top one hundred rap records of all time and they had you in there second? What kind of bullshit is that? How they gonna say Biggie’s album is better than yours? I canceled my subscription right on the spot. Biggie wishes he could spit good as you.”

“Well, I don’t know about all that,” Cal said. “I mean like Biggie’s an OG, a forefather, I got much respect for the man.”

“I do too but second? You know that ain’t right.”