IQ(27)

Junior bought kilos of raw cocaine from a cartel connection in Boyle Heights. He added his cut and sold it in halves, quarters, and eighths to block captains like Kinkee. Kinkee added his cut, cooked the cocaine into crack, and sold it rocked up to low-level dealers like Dodson, everybody doubling their money. On most days Dodson made more than his colleagues. He never hyped his product, didn’t make fun of his customers or demand a blow job, and he put a little extra in the bag when the quality was low.

The worst thing about the job was the working conditions. Serving it up to a sad parade of glassy-eyed dope fiends; twitching, scabs on their faces, brown teeth gapped as gravestones, rambling on about a situation with their associates or the government drone that was following them around night and day. Some of the customers lit up right in front of you, the crack fumes smelling like burnt rubber, clouds of it swirling into an atmosphere already thick with weed smoke, Thunderbird, and body funk. It was a wonder you didn’t get cancer just being there. Most of the fiends came and went as fast as they could but there were always a few more discriminating shoppers who held the rock up to the light and said is this the good shit?


Dodson was bored and restless. The House was more suffocating than usual and business was slow. Kinkee was down to kibbles and bits, the crackheads finding better product elsewhere. Dodson went outside to get a breath of fresh air that smelled like dirt, weeds, and dogshit. There wouldn’t be any new product until Junior did his reup run to Boyle Heights. Until then, it was a lot of waiting around. Dodson knew he needed a new hustle, something more worthy of his talents; something that wouldn’t get him arrested, shot, or killed by asphyxiation. What exactly that hustle would be he hadn’t figured out.

An hour went by and no more customers came in so Dodson went back to the apartment. He took a long shower, scrubbing himself with a loofah to get the stink off. Isaiah was almost never home. On the rare occasions when they were in the apartment together they were self-conscious and careful, like there were hidden rules and neither of them knew what they were. It wasn’t hard for Dodson to figure out who the apartment belonged to. There was an older guy in the photos on the bookshelf who was probably Isaiah’s brother, who was most likely dead and that was no doubt the reason Isaiah was so messed up. His face was either blank as Dodson’s math assignment or his eyes were tight and his jaw hard-set like he was about to smack somebody. He stayed out on the balcony for hours, holding his head in his hands or staring into the dark. Late at night, Dodson could hear him pacing around the bedroom talking to himself; low and fierce with some crying mixed in. Dodson was afraid the boy was cracking up.


When Dodson got out of the shower, he changed and went to the kitchen to get something to eat. Isaiah was on the floor messing with the back compartment of the refrigerator. There were tools, wires, and electrical parts scattered around him and his hands were black with grime. “What’re you doing?” Dodson said.

“Fridge had a leak on the low side,” Isaiah said. “Condenser’s shot.”

“I got food in there.”

“Everything’s in the sink.”

Dodson was impressed. The refrigerator was a scary appliance, that cage on the back holding in a nest of killer bees, the ones that kept buzzing on and off.

Isaiah grunted, struggling to remove what looked like a midget kettle barbecue.

“What’s that?” Dodson said.

“Condenser,” Isaiah said. He put it aside and maneuvered another one into the vacated space. “This one might be in worse shape than the one I took out.”

“Where’d it come from?” Dodson said.

“One-oh-four. Got it out of that fridge.”

“The door was open?”

“No.”

“What, you picked the lock? Used a bump key?”

Isaiah didn’t answer, focusing a little too hard on what he was doing. Dodson smiled. “Damn, Isaiah,” he said, “if I’d have known you was into thievery we could have robbed the whole building.”

“I’m not into thievery.”

“You are now.”

Isaiah could be an asset, Dodson thought. Someone to be used and profited from. All those awards on the wall and now he was repairing the fridge. No telling what else the boy could do.


When the fridge was humming again, Isaiah went to clean up and when he came back, Dodson was cutting up some defrosted chicken. He was stripped to the waist, his body thin like a cell phone and hard as a railroad spike, illegible tats on his chest. A swarm of scars covered his left arm and back. They were shiny and welted, some circular like bullet holes, others ragged blotches. Isaiah wanted to ask about them but didn’t.

“Stir that for me,” Dodson said. A soup kettle had something that looked like mud bubbling in it.

“What is this?” Isaiah said.

“A roux—stir the muthaf*cka ’fore it burns—stir faster and scrape the bottom—yeah, like that.”

Isaiah stirred the mystery mud while Dodson chopped some vegetables and smashed a few garlic cloves with the back of a knife. “I’m a bad muthaf*cka in the kitchen,” Dodson said. “Don’t even have to be soul food. My lasagna is off the planet. You ever seen that show Iron Chef? It’s like a contest, got these dudes called Iron Chefs. They like the Michael Jordans of the kitchen. They go up against these other chefs from all around the world and they some bad muthaf*ckas too. So then they give ’em a secret ingredient like ham hocks or corn on the cob and they gotta make four or five dishes with it. Cats is bad ass too. Them dudes make all kinds of crazy shit. Bobby Flay? That motherf*cker can turn a soup bone into a birthday cake. I need to get on that show. I believe I could give Bobby a run for his money.”