IQ(7)

Boyd got forty-one months for attempted rape at the Snake River Correctional Institution and he had to register as a sex offender. He was supposed to ask his parole officer for permission to leave the state and reregister when he got to California but he hadn’t done either. Now his name would come up on the computer and the cop would look in the bowling bag and that would be it, game over. They’d lock him up with the black guys and the Mexicans and he’d have to sweat it out, hoping nobody would find out about his record. Somehow, murderers were okay but normal guys like him got beat up or raped, usually at the same time. He wasn’t going to let that happen. Not again.

In the side mirror, Boyd could see the cop standing next to the patrol car talking on his radio. You could tell from his expression he was hearing something bad. Boyd tried not to move his upper body as he reached over and unzipped the bowling bag just enough to slip his hand inside and close his fist around the warm slim handle of the boning knife.


Beaumont came out of the storeroom with Margaret Cho tucked under his arm. The Korean comedian was wearing a red miniskirt and black fishnets, her hands defiantly on her hips, back arched, her lips pooched out like she’d just shouted f*ck you at somebody who’d picked on her back when she was an overweight nobody. When Beaumont got to the front of the store he saw Isaiah at the magazine display reading the LA Times. He was so still he reminded Beaumont of the egrets that stood in the tide pools waiting for a meal to swim by. A hoochie-looking girl with a backside like two hams in an Easter basket was looking into the cooler.

“Can I get a soda, Isaiah?” Deronda said.

“Get what you want,” Isaiah said.

Beaumont stood with his arm around Margaret like she was his adopted daughter. “Here she is,” he said. “Put her together myself.”

“Who’s that supposed to be?” Deronda said.

“I didn’t realize you was into Asian women,” Beaumont said, hoping Isaiah would say why he wanted the thing but he didn’t.

Deronda and Margaret squinted at each other. “I know who that is,” Deronda said. “That’s the waitress at the Mandarin Palace.”


Isaiah found the cutout on eBay, the seller saying he could make one of anybody or anything. People, pets, plants, landscapes, body parts. Margaret Cho was no problem. It cost eighteen dollars plus four-fifty more for the Dr Pepper, Red Vines, and peanut butter cheese crackers Deronda had put on the counter.

Isaiah fished a wad of cash out of his front pocket and separated some bills. He could have ordered the cutout himself but if UPS had left it on his doorstep somebody would have stolen it. Isaiah knew people who didn’t do anything but steal packages left by the UPS trucks.

“I appreciate your trouble,” Isaiah said.

“Wasn’t no trouble,” Beaumont said, “I was happy to do it.”

Isaiah was self-conscious around Beaumont. He was there when Isaiah was the wonder boy and when his brother Marcus was killed and the war terrorized the neighborhood and he’d seen Isaiah rebuild his life and become a man everybody but the hoodlums admired. Beaumont was among his fans but Isaiah didn’t like that he knew about his past and things he was ashamed of.

“You’re looking good, Isaiah,” Beaumont said. “Glad to see it.”

“Thanks, Beaumont. I’ll see you later.”

Isaiah picked up Margaret and headed for the door. Beaumont couldn’t let it go. “What does somebody do with a thing like that?” he said.

“It’s a present,” Isaiah said.


Boyd was driving back to his apartment when he saw her walking down Kimball. She was a little older than he liked but she was skinnier than Carmela and her hair went halfway down her back. No one was around, the heat driving everyone indoors. Back at the school, Boyd thought he was done for but the cop got a call on his radio about shots fired and an officer down at an address in Cambodia Town. Boyd was pissed about leaving Carmela but if something happened to her the cop would know who did it.

The skinny girl was yakking on her phone now. Boyd unzipped the bowling bag all the way and it opened like a mouth.


Isaiah came out of the store and started toward the Audi parked at the curb. He stopped to let a girl walk by. She was probably in middle school, a twig of a thing in her pipe-stem jeans, down vest, and Ugg boots, never mind the heat. You wore your best clothes until you wore them out. She was talking on her pink cell, laughing as she said: “I mean like seriously, right? Ramón isn’t even into her.”

Without a moment’s break in her conversation the girl smiled at Margaret and continued on her way. Isaiah chirped open the Audi just as a pickup truck crept by at walking speed. It was a white Silverado, ten years old, blue racing stripes on the side that were peeling off, a big dent in the quarter panel. The engine was stuttering. Fuel injectors, Isaiah thought. The man at the wheel was wearing a cap with a logo on it. He was missing a front tooth and his face was shiny with sunburn. He was staring at something. Isaiah should have guessed what was going on. Why was the man driving so slow and if he wasn’t looking at Isaiah or Deronda who was he looking at? But in the moment, Isaiah missed all that. He was distracted, thinking about how he needed a payday case and trying to fit Margaret into the backseat while Deronda talked at him wanting to know if he was getting some from the waitress at the Mandarin Palace and if mu shu meant dog in Chinese.