Joe Ide - IQ

She was interviewed on KHOP. The DJ asked her if she did anything special to keep her donk fresh and was she naturally thick or did she have to work at it and when was the last time she had some icing on that cake. The highlight of the whole experience was an actual photo shoot and getting her picture featured on the BMB advertisements. The ads showed a giant triple-decker burger dripping burger juice. Deronda was looking over her shoulder, her smile wide and inviting, her cheeks gleaming like polished mahogany and split down the middle by a DayGlo-pink bikini. The caption said:

THE BIG MEATY BURGER

LA’s Juiciest

You Know You Want Some

At the time, Deronda thought this was it, her launching pad. Somebody must have noticed her and seen her charisma and potential but nobody called, there were no more interviews or newspaper articles, and after a few months BMB changed the girl on their advertisements. Deronda stayed hopeful. Something was bound to happen, how could it not? Celebrity was her dream, her destiny, and somehow that made it okay, even sensible to do just what she’d been doing. Getting her hair and nails done, partying with Nona and them, and watching Jersey Shore and the Housewives of Atlanta and Bad Girls and Keeping Up with the Kardashians and the Housewives of Orange County and The Bachelorette . She made ends meet stripping at the Kandy Kane wearing nothing but the sash and tiara. Deronda’s father, a supervisor at Metro Transit for twenty years, urged her to find a new direction and stop frittering her life away but Deronda only got more stubborn and determined to wait for that white-hot bolt of lightning to come ripping out of the sky and blow her up large.

“Don’t you want to get out of the hood?” Deronda said.

“I don’t know,” Isaiah said. “Maybe.”

“Maybe? Shit, that’s crazy. I mean like, if I had your profile I’d be a brand by now.”

Isaiah turned off Anaheim onto Kimball.

“This ain’t the way to my house,” Deronda said.

“I’ve got to stop off at Beaumont’s,” Isaiah said. Beaumont’s was a corner store called Six to Ten Thirty. It sold everything from cold beer and microwave burritos to piñatas and Scarface posters.

“You know how they say nothing stays the same but change?” Deronda said. “Where is it? I don’t see no change.”

“Things can change and still be the same,” Isaiah said.

They were coming up on the Capri, a Section 8 apartment complex. According to HUD regulations you could only live there if the value of your bank accounts, stock portfolio, and real estate holdings didn’t exceed fifty percent of the median income for the area, which was around forty thousand give or take. There was a long waiting list.

A group of East Side Sureños Locos 13 were hanging on a strip of grass near the entrance, a spot chosen with care. There was a low cinder block wall for cover and banana palms to hide their straps in. A lot of the homies were in county lockup for gun possession. Most of the Locos were in their teens but hard-core killas for real, everybody in uniform today. Baggy shorts, oversize white T-shirts or football jerseys, and a splash of red. A wristband, a cap, a flag hanging out of a pocket. Red was their color.

“Check that out,” Deronda said, pointing with her chin at a Loco drinking from a forty-ounce bottle of Miller that looked like pee. “How’s he ever gonna be anything but a damn criminal with Locos 4 Life stamped all on his forehead?”

The Locos knew who Isaiah was but threw up signs and talked shit just as a matter of principle. One vato with a hairnet over his bald head was nodding all exaggerated. “This ain’t your hood no more, esé,” he said. “Drive your fucking ass on.” Isaiah looked at him neither afraid nor disrespectful. He’d grown up with some of the OGs but these youngsters didn’t care about anything. If you weren’t a Loco you were a victim.

Isaiah’s cell buzzed. He checked the number and hesitated. Some people were like the oldies you hear on the radio, evoking another time, another place, and who you were back then. The sound of Dodson’s voice and the rhythm of his speech stirred up a stew of memories burned black at the bottom of his heart. The last time they’d spoken was at Mozique’s funeral but it took a day or two before the burnt taste was out of his mouth.

“Who is it?” Deronda said. “It’s a girl, ain’t it?”

Isaiah thought about sending the call straight to voice mail but if Dodson wanted something he’d keep calling and maybe show up at the crib. He put the call on speaker. “Hey,” he said.

“Whassup, Isaiah?” Dodson said. “It’s been a long damn time. I ain’t laid eyes on you since we put Mozique to rest. That was a sad sad day, wasn’t it? Bad a nigga as he was I always thought he’d die by the sword and what happens? The boy wins the Trifecta at Santa Anita, drives over to Raphael’s to buy some weed, and gets hit by an Amtrak train. Just goes to show you, luck beats money any day of the week. You got some luck the money will come looking for you.”

Deronda rolled her eyes and said: “Oh no, is that Dodson?”

“Yes, this is Juanell Dodson and judging from the ho-ish quality of your voice you must be Deronda.”

“How come you ain’t in the joint?”

“I got no reason to be in the joint. My criminal activities are a thing of the past. I’m a legitimate businessman now, not that it’s any of your never-mind. Maybe if you focused more on your own sorry-ass situation you might be doing something more productive than booty clappin’ at the Kandy Kane.”

“You still selling them tired-ass counterfeit Gucci handbags out the trunk of your car?”

“No, I give ’em away free just like your tired-ass counterfeit pussy.”

Not in the mood for a ten-minute snap exchange, Isaiah said: “What’s going on, Dodson?”

“What’s going on is a case,” Dodson said. “An opportunity to help someone in need and possibly save a life.”

“Oh yeah?” Isaiah said. He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. He sounded condescending but couldn’t help himself. He could feel Dodson holding back, wanting to call him an uppity motherfucker with a freakishly large brain.

“The client wants to talk to you,” Dodson said. “He’s got money, unlike most of your people. I heard Vatrice Coleman paid you with some blueberry muffins she bought at the store.”

“I don’t have time for another case,” Isaiah said.

“Let’s meet somewhere, chop this up.”

“I said I don’t have time.”

“I ain’t asking you for your time, I’m asking for five muthafuckin’ minutes to hear me out.”

“I’ve got to go.”

“Go? Go where?”

“Away from you,” Deronda said. “He’s kicking you to the curb, moron.”

“I’ll see you later,” Isaiah said. As he ended the call he heard Dodson say fuck you, Isaiah.

A white pickup truck was parked in the red zone across from the school. Officer Martinez stopped his cruiser behind it, wondering if the guy didn’t see the sign that said NO PARKING IN RED ZONE. He hoped the guy was making a phone call and not high or drunk or jerking off. He’d be off shift in twenty minutes and didn’t want to stand around for an hour writing the guy up and waiting for a tow truck. Today was his thirty-first birthday. The kids were at his mother’s house and Graciella was waiting at home with a medium-rare rib eye, garlic mashed potatoes, and a see-through nightie no bigger than a Ziploc sandwich bag.

Martinez was hopeful until he saw the driver. The guy was nervous, sweating like a pig and looking at the school like it was a gallon of lemonade and he was dying of thirst. Nothing suspicious going on here, Martinez thought. Jesus Christ, is that BO?