IQ(38)
Homegirl, something on her head like a scarf, different colors, the car was a—shit, I don’t know. License plate number B R—shit.
Latino guy, pickup truck, twenties? Wearing a brown shirt, writing on the door, ARGO Construction? AGRA? AFCO? License number 2 U—shit.
Hundreds of cars later, he was getting the hang of it. He had to block out the engine noise, the exhaust fumes, the glare of the sun, the stares from the drivers, and the kids yelling hey, mister, are you a bum? And see. Not think about seeing or telling himself to see, just see, cutting everything out of the frame except the car and taking a snapshot with his eyes.
American car, big, green like pea soup, white guy, glasses, thirties or forties. What was he wearing? Shit. License plate X R 7 G U—shit.
Buick Regal, gold color, black guy, fifties, bald, double chin—what else? Dammit, there was something else. License plate R 7 5 3 B—9—C9? C8? Shit.
New Prius, blue, Latina woman, twenties, wearing scrubs, oval sunglasses, parking pass on the mirror, license plate 5 6 7 M 8 9—shit, almost had it.
Acura TSX, black, late-model, blacked-out windows, rims, white kid, twenties, white T, red-and-gold cap, Trojan logo, X R 7 0 9 4 D.
He stayed out late every night and walked. It was better than not sleeping or standing on the balcony staring at nothing. Take Henderson all the way to Shoreline Drive and look across the LA River at the Queen Mary, all lit up, people partying over there. Or take PCH to Martin Luther King and eat greasy Chinese food at the Mandarin Palace. Snoop, Nate Dogg, and Warren G did their demo right across the street at VIP Records. It was closed now but it used to have a full-time DJ who knew your beats and played them as you walked in the door. Every night a different route: Cambodia Town, East Village, Rose Park, MacArthur Park, Downtown. Along the way he memorized gang graffiti. Barrio Viejo, Crip Violators, Headhunter Crips, Boulevard Mafia, Latin Time Playboyz, Mid City Stoners, Sons of Samoa, Asian Boyz, Sure?os Locos 13. A coded street map growing in his head like tree roots. He quit school. He only came home to shower and sleep. He ate when he remembered to. He quit his jobs and forgot about money. He was obsessed.
When he wasn’t on the retaining wall, he walked up and down Anaheim asking anybody who’d talk to him if they’d seen a late-model silver Accord with a Lakers decal in the back window and maybe some damage on the right front bumper. Nobody knew anything. He began to observe and memorize randomly. See, hear, smell. Watch for changes.
Different ad on the bus bench. OutFast Bail Bonds. The plants in Louella’s window are wilted. Wonder if she’s okay? Liquor store put up another Bud Light sign. Mr. Singleton’s having fish tonight. Price of regular at the Shell station went up a half cent. The neighbor’s TV sounds better, got a new one. Another scratch on Aldo’s lowrider, he must be pissed. The homeless kid’s little dog has a different collar.
Weeks went by but Isaiah learned nothing new about the Accord or the driver. He was worn down and exhausted, his feet so swollen his shoes didn’t fit. He felt like a Styrofoam cup bobbing around in the harbor, moving but not going anywhere. The investigation was over and he knew it. To do any more was futile. Marcus’s killer would get away scot-free.
It was a blistering day. Isaiah had walked for hours in a self-induced trance. He could do that now. See without seeing, hear without hearing. There was no point being observant anymore. It only reminded him that he’d failed. He didn’t stop because he had nothing else to do. When he got home he went straight to the fridge and grabbed one of Dodson’s Dr Peppers. He popped the top and guzzled it, the bottom of the can aimed at the ceiling. Dodson came in. Isaiah choked and spit up some soda. “I’ll pay you back,” he said.
“Ain’t nothing to worry about, drink up,” Dodson said.
“I’ll go to the store right now,” Isaiah said.
“Don’t nobody give a shit about a damn Dr Pepper. You got bigger problems you need to think about.”
“Problems like what?”
“Like being broke. You think I didn’t notice when you was short on the rent? Don’t worry, I covered it.”
“It’s temporary. I’ll get another job.”
“Be real. You know you ain’t going back to washing dishes,” Dodson said. He got himself a Dr Pepper and poured it in a glass. He’d been thinking a lot about how to use Isaiah in some kind of hustle. It didn’t occur to him until right this minute to let Isaiah figure that out for himself. “I can’t carry you,” Dodson said. “You don’t make some money we’ll both be out on the street. You need to think about options.”
Isaiah shrugged. “I have,” he said.
“No, you been thinking about regular options, nine-to-five options, minimum-wage options. I’m talking about criminal options.” Dodson drank some soda and belched. “Boy with your brain gotta have a few ideas.”
CHAPTER NINE
Game Bred
July 2013
Dog breeders of any particular breed are like a club. They share the same love for the Dalmatian, the malamute, or the pit bull, or whatever their chosen breed. They compete against each other at dog shows. They socialize, sell dogs back and forth, and read about each other in the blogs and trade magazines. There are rivalries, jealousies, controversies, and more gossip than you’d see on the E! channel. Ask any breeder about another breeder’s dogs and you’ll get a long list of conformation faults, health problems, and poor bloodlines. Everybody knows everybody else’s business.