IQ(72)

“I said drop the bag and put your gun on the floor,” Dodson said, pushing the gun in harder.

“Hey man,” Booze said, “y’all take it easy with that thing.”

“Look here, brutha,” Junior said. “Let me try and clarify your perilous circumstances. You are in danger of lifelong extermination if you proceed with this foolishness.”

According to Dodson’s airtight plan, Junior was supposed to be scared and cooperating, not scolding him like Auntie May with a bigger vocabulary. “Do what I told you, pendejo,” Dodson said, “or I’ll shoot this motherf*cker. I swear to God I will.”

“I don’t think that’s prudency on your part,” Junior said. “Repercussions will manifest beyond your ability to cope. Now I suggest you evacuate while you still have the mobility to maneuver your ass on outta here.”

“The f*ck you doin’, Junior?” Booze said. “Don’t you see this nigga got a gun to my head?”

“You think I’m playing, pendejo?” Dodson said. “You want your homie to die?”

“No he don’t, he definitely don’t,” Booze said. “Tell ’em, Junior!”

“Why do I have to justify my postulations to this farmworker?” Junior said. “If he was credible he would have proceeded with your death by now.”

“Oh I see what you doin’,” Booze said. “You want this nigga to shoot me so you can shoot him.”

“Give up the bag and drop the gun or I’ll pop him right f*cking now!” Dodson said, the plan turning to shit. He thought about turning the gun on Junior but that would leave Booze unguarded.

“Give it up, Junior, damn!” Booze said.

“This is what happens when you don’t consummate your duties properly,” Junior said. “You have formulated a problem of your own causality.”

“I’m gonna get you for this, Junior, I swear to God.”

Dodson knew he couldn’t shoot Booze in the head, not at this range. “This is your last chance, motherf*cker,” he said, knowing it was his own. “Give it up or he’s dead.”

“Becalm yourselves,” Junior said, talking to the both of them now.

“Junior, did you just hear the man say this is my last chance?” Booze said.

“This man is lying mendaciously, Booze. Can’t you ascertain a falsehood from a factuality?”

Cock the gun, Dodson thought, but before he could put his thumb on the hammer, Junior had darted back into the apartment and Booze was pushing off with his good foot, backpedaling into him, the big shoulder forcing his gun hand up, the momentum knocking him backward and to the floor. Booze fell on top of him, his rock-solid butt cheeks landing on Dodson’s midsection. Dodson felt an explosion of pain, every molecule of oxygen leaving his body in one breath. He doubled up and let go of the revolver.

Booze rolled off him and got to his feet. “What you got to say now, pen-day-ho? It better be your muthaf*ckin’ prayers.”

Junior came out of the apartment, the Sig in one hand, a folding knife in the other. He cut the zip tie off Booze and then kicked Dodson hard. “Prepare yourself for complete denigration, muthaf*cka,” he said. Dodson was curled up in a ball, trying to suck in air through a throat the size of a nail hole. He had one arm over his head, the other across his gut, Junior kicking him again and again saying: “You—will—now—cease—to—res—pirate—un—til—you—are—de—ceased—for—life.”

Through his half-closed eyes, Dodson could see Booze limping back and forth, vibrating with homicidal energy, the revolver in his hand. “Try to rob me?” he said. “Put a gun to my head? You done, nigga, you finished. It’s lights-out, you feel me?”

“Advance your agenda, Booze,” Junior said. “Terminate this peon with prejudice.”

Dodson couldn’t believe he was helpless and about to die. He tried to speak, plead for his life, or say it’s me but he couldn’t get a word out. Booze was standing over him, the revolver aimed at his head.

“Die, bitch,” Booze said. He cocked the gun, the sound like a skull cracking. The gunshot was loud as a thunderclap, the shock wave jarring the air, two more shots right after it and then… silence.

As far as Dodson could tell he was still alive. Was Booze f*cking with him? Dodson waited, the stillness amazing. Slowly, he unfurled himself, gasping, the pain clouding his vision, the cordite smell strong as crack fumes. Booze had his head on the floor, his ass up in the air like a stinkbug. Junior was in the fetal position, blood leaking out of him, a rust-colored stain expanding on the carpet. Isaiah was standing ten feet away with his mouth open and Booze’s .357 dangling by his side, one finger through the trigger guard. Dodson struggled to his feet, staggered into the apartment, and came out with the Adidas bag. He picked up his gun, grabbed Isaiah’s sleeve, and yanked him down the hall. “Let’s go,” he croaked. They ran to the end of the hall, crashed through the fire exit, and took off in different directions, neither of them looking back.


The news was on. Police were milling around the Sea Crest, yellow tape closing off the building. A middle-aged reporter was doing a standup, his suit sagging in the heat, his comb-over like a beach ball covered with a handful of straw. “Around ten o’clock this morning,” the reporter said, “police say a resident of the Sea Crest apartments in Bluff Park and another man were shot outside the resident’s door. Both victims were transported to Long Beach Memorial, where the resident was described as critical, the other man in stable condition. Police have no motive for the shooting but believe it may have been gang-related.”