IQ(71)

Isaiah swung the door open and shot the dog with the dart gun at point-blank range. “Get off him,” he said. The dog bawled, snarled, and lunged at him, Isaiah stumbling backward into the hall, the dog leaping at him, knocking him down, its jaws at his throat, thick spittle dripping on his face—and then it collapsed, its weight like a building on his chest. Isaiah heaved the dog off and stood up.

Dodson came out of the bedroom. “Where were you?” he sobbed. “That muthaf*cka was about to eat my ass alive! Goddammit, Isaiah, I told you I didn’t want to come here! I told you, I f*ckin’ told you!”

“Go get the gurney,” Isaiah said.

“That’s all you got to say? Go get the gurney?”

“Go get the gurney.”

Muttering and blubbering, Dodson staggered away. The dog was paralyzed but conscious, panting heavily with its eyes open. It looked like a dog now instead of a killing machine. Isaiah wanted to comfort it.

Dodson ran back in. “Skip’s coming,” he said.


Skip swung the truck into the yard, slid to a stop, a storm cloud of dirt and gravel peppering the house. “I’LL KILL HIM I’LL KILL HIM I’LL FUCKING KILL HIM.” He ran inside and a moment later the animal control truck came around the side of the house and sped off toward the happy lights of the Drop In Diner.

Skip would have gone after the truck but he saw Goliath collapsed in the hallway. He rushed him to a twenty-four-hour vet in Victorville who thought the dog was a Great Dane. The vet gave him oxygen and fluids and said he should stay overnight as a precaution but Skip took him home.

Skip’s new mission in life: Kill Q Fuck. He could go into witness protection and hide in the f*cking jungle but Skip would find him and shoot him and let Goliath go at him until there was nothing left but guts in a puddle of blood.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


Die, Bitch


April 2006

At ten o’clock in the morning, when most of the residents of the Sea Crest were at work, a Navigator and a Cadillac CTS rolled up in front of the building. Booze Lewis emerged from the CTS, got buzzed in, and crossed the lobby, wincing with every step. His foot was heavily bandaged and he was wearing a slipper with Velcro straps. He should have been on crutches but he didn’t want Kinkee taking his place again.

Booze limped down the hall toward Junior’s apartment, nobody behind him or coming out of the fire exit, everything like it always was. He was halfway there when some little midget muthaf*cka stepped out of the electrical room aiming a gun. He was completely covered up. Ski mask, shades, turtleneck, long-sleeve gangsta flannel, gardening gloves, and a red flag in his pocket.

“Don’t move, pendejo,” the midget said.

“You must be blazed on lean,” Booze said. “Do you know who you f*ckin’ with?” The midget got behind him, reached under his shirt, and took the .357 Magnum out of his shoulder holster like he knew it was there. Booze felt the midget struggling to get the five-pound gun under his shirt, fumbling around, getting frustrated. He didn’t want this muthaf*ckin’ dwarf to accidentally pull the trigger. “Y’all be cool now,” he said, “I ain’t going nowhere.” Booze was scared of accidents. He’d modified the trigger bar on the gun, bringing the pull down from the standard six pounds to two. A hair trigger. He was trying it out and accidentally shot his little toe off.

“Fuck it,” the midget said, dropping the big gun on the carpeted floor. “Don’t try nothing, pendejo,” he said, “or I swear to f*cking God I’ll pop you.”


Dodson had gone out with Lupita Tello for three months, long enough to pick up the accent and learn some vocabulary. Mostly things she called him. Pendejo, puto, pinche, cabron, and a few others. At the moment the only thing he could remember was pendejo.

“Put your hands behind you, pendejo,” he said. Booze obeyed, not unfamiliar with the procedure. Dodson looped a zip tie around his wrists and yanked it tight. “Let’s go, pendejo.” Dodson frog-marched Booze down the hall, raising his chin to see over the gangsta’s mountainous shoulder, his view partially blocked by the back of Booze’s head, the tiny knots of cornrows perfectly tied, shiny scalp between them, wet heat coming off him that smelled like almonds and coconut.

Booze limped like a man with one leg shorter than the other. “Hey, come on, dog,” he said. “Take it easy.”

“Shut the f*ck up, pendejo,” Dodson said. By the time they reached Junior’s door, Booze was whimpering, his face squashed with pain. “Get me in, pendejo,” Dodson said. “Be a f*cking hero and you’re f*cking dead.”

“It’s me,” Booze said, knocking on the door. Dodson could barely hear over his thundering heartbeat, his hands dripping wet inside the gloves. Another flash of panic. Nobody else in the gang had a revolver. What if Junior recognized it? The chain was rattling. Do or die.

Junior opened the door carrying an Adidas bag, the Sig Sauer in his belt. Dodson pressed the barrel of his gun into Booze’s temple. “Drop the bag and put your gun on the floor or I’ll blow his f*cking head off.”

Junior looked like he’d been asked to do something so ridiculous it was insulting. “Is this a jest or are you an ignoramus?” he said. “Your mind has depreciated extensively if you think your objectives will be finalized with this kind of activity. I think you need to reconsider yourself.”