IQ(73)

Isaiah stood with his forehead against the apartment wall, a slide show blinking behind his eyes. Blink. Running into the hallway. Blink. Two men standing over Dodson screaming and kicking him. Blink. A gun lying on the carpet. Blink. Picking it up, running toward the men. Blink. One of them saying Die, bitch and cocking his gun. Blink. Shooting him. Blink. The other man shooting back. Blink. Shooting him. Blink. Bodies on the floor.

“I had to do it,” Isaiah said. “I had to.”

The clothes he was wearing were in a gutter, the gun at the bottom of the LA River, the Explorer parked in the Vons lot. He’d taken a twenty-minute shower and used a pumice stone to get off the gun residue. He hadn’t seen any cameras or witnesses but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. And Dodson. Did he tell anybody about the robbery besides Deronda? Did Deronda tell anybody? What if Dodson got busted and gave him up? He knew he should get out of Long Beach but he was too terrified to leave the room.


Eighty-five thousand dollars of Junior’s money was on the coffee table. Banded tens, twenties, and hundreds stacked in separate piles. Dodson would have been celebrating if he wasn’t nauseous, deaf from the gunshots, and bruised all over his body. In a way, the injuries were a good thing. They distracted him from being scared out of his mind. Did Booze and Junior buy the accent? Did they see he wasn’t a Mexican? Did they recognize the gun? Did they recognize him?

Dodson’s phone buzzed. Deronda picked it up. “Says nine-one-one-star-sd-star-eleven,” she said. “What that’s supposed to mean?”

“Nine-one-one means an emergency meeting,” Dodson said. “You gotta come or get a beatdown. Sd means Sedrick’s crib. Eleven is eleven o’clock.” Dodson closed his eyes. If he didn’t go it might be suspicious but if he went he might be killed. The obvious thing was to book but where would he book to? Take the Greyhound to Oakland and start all over again? And what if he was free and clear? He’d have left his hood for nothing.

“What are you gonna do?” Deronda said.


A corroded spotlight put a feeble yellow circle on the patchy grass, Michael Stokely in the middle of it holding the sawed-off Mossberg like a tomahawk. “Junior’s in the ICU,” he said, “but I talked to Booze. He took one in the hip, went right through him. His people was there, all crying and carrying on. His mama was yelling at me like I’m the one that shot his ass.”

The Crip Violators were gathered in Sedrick’s backyard, the membership scattered around where the light faded to shadow. The OGs were sitting together on the picnic table. Others were on the rusty swing set and on the stoop and leaning against the beat-up van with one headlight. A few were in that pose you see in every group gangsta photo ever taken. Hunched down with a forearm on a knee. Dodson was standing near the gate. A sheen of sweat on his face, wet rings under his arms, his body a solid block of pain.

“I feel like I’m responsible for this shit,” Stokely said. “I was Junior’s security, you feel me? I’m supposed to keep shit from happening but it didn’t come down like that. Booze say it was two of ’em that did it. He didn’t see the shooter, just the muthaf*cka who did the stickup part.”

“Did he say who it was?” Sedrick said.

“I’m getting to it, nigga,” Stokely said. “Interrupt me one more time and see if I don’t put the Mossy up your ass and blow your muthaf*ckin’ brains out.” Sedrick seemed to become part of the lemon tree he was standing under, brothers laughing at him. “Booze say the muthaf*cka had himself all covered up,” Stokely said. “Had on a mask and shit but he was short like Dodson. A li’l midget muthaf*cka.”

There was some chuckling. Dodson almost bolted but he heard something in Stokely’s voice that made him stay.

“Now you niggas listen up,” Stokely said. “This here’s the key part to the whole episode. Booze say the stickup man was a Mexican. Said he had a red flag on him. Said he was muthaf*ckin’ Loco.”

A tsunami of testosterone engulfed the backyard, the entire membership in gangsta mode. On their feet, waving their straps, throwing up signs, tick tocking their heads. Muthaf*ckas is going down. Let’s go pop them niggas right now. The f*ck we sittin’ here for? It’s game on now, niggas, you feel me? Let’s go smoke some Mexicans, y’all. It’s time to get active, put a burner on them niggas, make they mamas cry. Dodson joined in, thinking, Thank you, Jesus. Thank you with all my heart.

Stokely held the shotgun high. “It’s payback time, you feel me?” he said. “We hittin ’em hard, scorchin’ the earth. It’s total annihilation by any means necessary. It’s war, muthaf*ckas. It’s a muthaf*ckin’ war.”


Amelio, Jorge, and Lil Genius came out of the Big Meaty Burger like they were in ankle chains. An XXL Everest Burger with bacon and a fried egg plus a large order of chili cheese fries tends to slow you down. They walked up the street to Jorge’s whip parked around the corner. They didn’t see the beat-up van with one headlight rolling up behind them until it was too late. The side door slammed open and two homies with blue flags over their faces and Tec-9 machine pistols emptied their clips, the sound like a couple of speed freaks pounding nails. Amelio took three in the back. Jorge caught one in the throat. Genius was hit in the forehead and died before he hit the ground. As the van sped off, a shooter yelled: “Yeah, muthaf*ckas, how you feelin’ now?”