IQ(64)

Dodson had a key card to the front gate at the storage place and a key to the padlock on the locker door. He borrowed Deronda’s brother’s Tacoma, backed it up to the locker, and took out three loads of merchandise he thought would move fast while Deronda sat on a box of books poking at her phone.

“This shit is for you too,” Dodson said. “Get your ass up and help me.”

“I just got my nails done,” Deronda said. “Can I do something with my elbows?”

Dodson had rechecked the prices on the paint sprayers. Isaiah had raised them and on everything else too. “Fuck your nails,” Dodson said. “Help me with these tools.”

They held a garage sale. Nona volunteered her backyard in exchange for two pairs of shoes. Word spread there were bargains to be had and the yard got busier than Walmart on Black Friday. Didn’t matter what the deal was as long as it was cash. The tools went fast, people knowing they were valuable even if they couldn’t use them. They were sold out of everything by suppertime.


Dodson lay on the foldout smoking a joint, cash scattered around him like leaves off a dead tree. Deronda was dancing to Tupac, holding a bottle of Dom by the neck that fizzled when she twerked. When we ride on our enemies I bet you motherf*ckers die. When we ride on our enemies bet all you motherf*ckers die. She eased up some, afraid her skintight jeans might bust a seam even though they were new.

Isaiah came in, his jaw so tight he looked like his teeth might explode. “What did you do?” he said.

“I moved the merchandise,” Dodson said. “What do you think I did?”

“Those tools are mine. I want them back.”

“You don’t use none of ’em. What are you gonna do, build a house?” Dodson nodded at a loose wad of cash on the coffee table. “That’s your cut less my ten percent sales commission.”

“The tools weren’t yours to sell. Go get them.”

“Fuck you, Isaiah. Go get ’em yourself.”

Deronda had never seen anybody this pissed off. If Isaiah’s eyes were butcher knives they’d be chopped to shit by now.

“Go get my tools.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t give me orders.”

“Go get them now.”

Dodson got up slowly, dusted off the weed ashes, and handed the joint to Deronda. She could smell his anger, feel him like a fever. He went over to Isaiah and stood in front of him.

“Gimme one more order,” Dodson said. “One more.”

Deronda wanted to see some shit happen. Dodson was all grumpy and irritated at the garage sale, not even enjoying the action. Maybe a fight would snap him out of it. He was chest to chest with Isaiah now, sparks from an arc welder where their eyes met. She thought Tupac was getting louder. When we ride on our enemies I bet you motherf*ckers die. When we ride on our enemies bet all you motherf*ckers die. Deronda saw something change in Isaiah’s expression. Not like he was scared, like he was thinking. For some reason that made her afraid. Isaiah turned around, scooped up his money, and went into the bedroom.

“You was a * when I met you and you’ll be a * all your life,” Dodson said.

“Punk-ass Einstein muthaf*cka,” Deronda said.


Isaiah crept out of the apartment while they were sleeping, taking only a suitcase of necessities and his laptop. He used Marcus’s ID, checked into the Wayside Motel, and got a room around back. It smelled like Pine-Sol and dust and a fly was tapping against the window. It was a relief to be here. No TV, music, or weed. The quiet was soothing and lonely.

Isaiah changed the padlock on the storage locker to an Abus Extreme Security steel padlock. A core-hardened lock body, seven-disk cylinder, and twenty-five thousand pounds of tensile strength. You’d need dynamite to bust it open. A week went by. Isaiah passed the time working on the merchandise still in the pipeline. His hatred for Dodson was searing his stomach lining, but the longer he waited the more Dodson would sweat. Once Dodson was out he’d cut him off completely.


Dodson and Deronda were watching TV from the foldout, surrounded by a landfill of empty liquor bottles, Heineken cans, fast-food wrappers, magazines, dirty dishes, shopping bags, shoes, and pizza crusts. Piles of laundry were everywhere like somebody was separating clothes at the Goodwill. It was Isaiah’s apartment so who gave a shit? Iron Chef was on. Dodson’s favorite show.

“Will you look at that?” Dodson said. “Got a football player out there trying be a judge. Unless the secret ingredient is Gatorade what the f*ck does he know?”

“We almost out of money,” Deronda said, “and the rent’s coming due.”

“Oh shit, it’s that chick who always says it needs more crunch. That’s all the f*ck she knows about—crunch. Wait, see what she says—see? What’d I tell you? Look at Morimoto. If he wasn’t on TV he’d be slappin’ the crunch off that bitch right now.”

“Dodson.”

“I hear you, damn.”

“Well, what are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes you do.”

“Girl, I said I don’t.”

“But you do.”


Isaiah got texts. Where u at? Call me. Holla back. You go someplace? We got business. Now what, Dodson? Isaiah thought. What are you gonna do without your punk-ass Einstein? You being disrespectful. Call me. You better answer this. Last chance or we got a problem. Fuck you, Dodson. Fuck you.