IQ(67)

“So he can’t get trapped in the elevator,” Sedrick said.

“So he can’t get trapped in the—who’s telling this story, nigga? Shit. See what kind of rocks you get this time—where was I? Oh yeah, so I get buzzed in, right? And I goes to the apartment, knock on the door. Junior checks me in the peephole, comes out with a shopping bag full of paper and that gun he likes, what’s it called?”

“Sig Sauer forty-cal,” Sedrick said.

“Who gives a shit, Sedrick? Okay, so now we go back to the lobby and it’s like glass across the front and we could see Stokely waitin’ in his car. So if he like nods in a certain way the coast is clear. If he nods another way we sit tight. That’s thinkin’ in the forefront, you feel me? So then Junior gets in my car and Stokely follows us in his car with that damn Mossberg because—”

“The Locos like to drive up on you and shoot you at a stoplight,” Sedrick said. “Can I get some stones now?”


Dodson went to the Sea Crest, found a side door the janitor used, and bump-keyed his way in. He walked Kinkee’s route to Junior’s apartment. It was in the middle of the hall. No way to sneak up behind him. If you came through the fire exit at the far end he’d see you coming. Dodson made a list and drew a couple of diagrams. It felt good working something out in advance, visualizing what would happen. It was like controlling the future, having that airtight plan.

Next day he went back to work at the House, which had moved to another f*cked-up apartment on Seminole. He told the fellas he went to see his people in Oakland. With his last money he bought some product and served it up to the fiends just like before. For some reason he thought things would be different but they were exactly the same. The f*cked-up atmosphere, the fellas talking shit and doing nothing, the dope fiends killing themselves one rock at a time. He served it up for a week and a day until everybody was down to two-dollar chips and the crackheads were buying from the Locos.

It was Sedrick that asked Kinkee, “When’s the reup happening?”

“That’s some classified shit, nigga,” Kinkee said. “Above your lowly-ass pay grade, you feel me? I’ll let you know when I let you know.”


Dodson was outside wondering why the air smelled like dirt, weeds, and dogshit no matter where the House was. Kinkee was there, pacing back and forth and talking on his cell.

“Come on, Stokely,” he said, “we down to kibbles and bits out here. Tell Junior we need some product. When? Now, shit, why you think I’m callin’? Well, can you tell me like in a general way—above my pay grade? See, you f*ckin’ with me now. Wednesday? You couldn’t say that at the start? Damn, man, why you always got to grind on people? That shit ain’t funny. What? No-no-no-no, I ain’t disrespecting nobody, Stoke, don’t take that shit personal.”


Deronda sat on the edge of the foldout, wiping her nose with one of Dodson’s T-shirts, Isaiah leaning back against the bookshelf with his hands in his front pockets. “It’s like crazy dangerous,” she said. “But it seemed like a movie, you know? Like it was a game or somethin’, but when Dodson left it got real to me. There’s a million ways he could get himself killed.”

“Wait a minute,” Isaiah said. “He left?”

“I texted him four five times but he don’t answer.”

Massive hands wrung Isaiah’s chest like a dishrag. If there was gunplay the police would get into it and if Dodson got arrested it was over. Dodson’s phone had Isaiah’s number in it. The key card to the locker was in his wallet and Dodson would rat him out before he got to the police station.

“Where does Junior live?” Isaiah said.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


I’m Not Doing It


July 2013

Cal said who gives a shit at least a dozen times a day. About Bobby Grimes, the crew, the album, his career, the phone calls from his business manager telling him the IRS had a tax lien on the house. He was just too tired, too drugged, and too confused to do anything about it except take more drugs. He was sunk in a hopelessness so deep he’d forgotten what he was hoping for. Cal heard voices coming from outside, Bobby’s the loudest. He was always the loudest. Throwing his weight around, cutting everybody off at the knees. Cal thought about going down there and putting him in his place. Tell him to shut up and send him out for Krispy Kremes but then he’d have to listen to the man talk and if there was ever a reason to stay in the bed it was Bobby talking. Besides, who gives a shit?


Anthony didn’t know how he was going to get through another meeting, if that’s what you could call it. Standing out in the driveway like a bunch of valets after the dinner rush, Bobby talking in his usual pompous, pretentious, bullying way. You’d think at some point he’d get tired of himself but that hadn’t happened since Anthony had known him. He’d interned with Bobby while he was in business school and after graduation he was kept on as Bobby’s executive assistant. At the time it seemed like a good idea. Learn the music business, network, find a career path. But Cal needed someone to keep him organized and Bobby said take Anthony, he could organize a room full of naked babies. Anthony thought it would be temporary but other opportunities for a glorified flunky were other glorified flunky jobs and none had the perks of working for a rap star.