IQ(65)

Isaiah was at Vons pushing his cart down the water aisle when he ran into Deronda.

“Where you been, Isaiah?” Deronda said.

“Around.”

“You moving out?”

“Why would I? It’s my apartment.”

“How come you ain’t called Dodson back?”

“Got nothing to say.”

“He wants to know when the next job is.”

“Don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean I don’t know.”

“Swear to God,” Deronda said, “Dodson ain’t gonna mess around no more. He’s gonna play it straight, no bullshit. He told me he’s sorry about the tools and everything. He’s trying to get ’em back right now.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying. It’s a hundred percent true.”

“Now you’re lying about lying.”

Isaiah stopped and put a twelve-pack of water into his cart. Deronda stood close and pressed herself into him. Her breath smelled like Hennessy and Juicy Fruit. “I ain’t gonna mess with you no more, I promise,” she said. “You gonna be the boss like you was before. I’ll be good, you won’t even know I’m there.”

“Do what you want,” Isaiah said, moving on.

Deronda followed him, whining like a five-year-old denied her Froot Loops. “I cleaned up the apartment,” she said. “I put your awards back up on the wall and everything. Dodson said let bygones be bygones.”

“Dodson would never say that or anything like it.”

Deronda stopped and stamped her foot. “Dang, Isaiah, help us out. You know we broke.”

“Not my problem,” he said. He walked away. Let them twist in the wind a little while longer, get really desperate. And then make them an offer they can’t refuse.


Another two days and five more texts went by. Isaiah went to the storage locker to wrap some packages. Dodson was waiting for him. “Who the f*ck put this lock on here?” Dodson said. “I can’t get in.”

“You’re not supposed to get in,” Isaiah said. “It’s not your locker.”

“There’s all kinds of shit still in there and half of it’s mine.”

“It’s paying me back for the tools.”

Dodson walked away three steps, spun around, and came back to where he started. “I could drop a dime on you and wouldn’t think nothing of it,” he said.

“Drop a dime on me and you’ll be dropping one on yourself,” Isaiah said. “Don’t you want to do more jobs?”

For a moment it looked like Dodson was stumped. But only for a moment. “Oh it’s gonna be like that?” he said. “Well, go on and put your shit on the table and quit f*ckin’ around like a bitch.”

“I want you out of the apartment,” Isaiah said.

Dodson smiled like he admired the move. “I’m gonna be in that apartment ’til the day you die.”

“Then I’m not doing any more jobs.”

Dodson walked away three steps, spun around, and came back with the revolver pointed at Isaiah’s head. “You think you can do me like that? Starve me out, make me beg? You f*ckin’ with the wrong nigga.”

Isaiah glanced up and nodded at a security camera bracketed to a light pole. “They’re all over the place,” he said. “The one at the front gate takes your picture.” He turned his back and went toward the Explorer. “Let me know what you want to do.”


Dodson’s gun hand was shaking. He wanted to cap this condescending disrespectful muthaf*cka more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. He took a hop-step, swung the gun like he was throwing a fastball, and brought the barrel down on Isaiah’s head. Isaiah crumpled forward, fell into the Explorer, and slid to the ground. He curled up, groaning, holding his head, blood coming through his fingers. Dodson stood over him. “You think you out of this? You think you can walk away from me and take my manhood with you? I shoot myself ’fore I let that happen. You in, nigga, and you ain’t out ’til I say you out.”


Dusk. Wavering flames of light were coming through the ragged curtains. Isaiah lay on the bed with a bag of ice on his head. The bleeding had stopped. There was an ugly gash above his right ear, the pain throbbing like a hot electrode.

It was time to end it. Just end it.

He rested a day, put a new dressing on the gash, dropped a handful of Tylenol, and went to the locker. Dodson hadn’t touched the box of books, twenty-one thousand dollars of burglary money hidden in a carved-out copy of Manchild in the Promised Land. Isaiah called the landlord, gave him notice, and told him to keep the security deposit. Leaving would be painful. He’d fought hard to keep the apartment but he had to separate from Dodson before something really disastrous happened. Even if he somehow got Dodson out of there he’d be under siege and the war of wills would never end. He had to make a clean break. Besides, the apartment wasn’t home anymore and whatever was left of Marcus’s spirit had left in disgust. He wouldn’t have gone back there at all but he’d left Marcus’s ashes on the top shelf of the closet.


When he came into the apartment Deronda was on the balcony, her back against the railing, her arms folded across her chest, for once not talking or texting or bobbing her head to her earbuds and Crip-walking. She came in sniffling, her mascara smeared, cheeks wet with tears.