Isaiah came in, his jaw so tight he looked like his teeth might explode. “What did you do?” he said.
“I moved the merchandise,” Dodson said. “What do you think I did?”
“Those tools are mine. I want them back.”
“You don’t use none of ’em. What are you gonna do, build a house?” Dodson nodded at a loose wad of cash on the coffee table. “That’s your cut less my ten percent sales commission.”
“The tools weren’t yours to sell. Go get them.”
“Fuck you, Isaiah. Go get ’em yourself.”
Deronda had never seen anybody this pissed off. If Isaiah’s eyes were butcher knives they’d be chopped to shit by now.
“Go get my tools.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t give me orders.”
“Go get them now.”
Dodson got up slowly, dusted off the weed ashes, and handed the joint to Deronda. She could smell his anger, feel him like a fever. He went over to Isaiah and stood in front of him.
“Gimme one more order,” Dodson said. “One more.”
Deronda wanted to see some shit happen. Dodson was all grumpy and irritated at the garage sale, not even enjoying the action. Maybe a fight would snap him out of it. He was chest to chest with Isaiah now, sparks from an arc welder where their eyes met. She thought Tupac was getting louder. When we ride on our enemies I bet you motherfuckers die. When we ride on our enemies bet all you motherfuckers die. Deronda saw something change in Isaiah’s expression. Not like he was scared, like he was thinking. For some reason that made her afraid. Isaiah turned around, scooped up his money, and went into the bedroom.
“You was a pussy when I met you and you’ll be a pussy all your life,” Dodson said.
“Punk-ass Einstein muthafucka,” Deronda said.
Isaiah crept out of the apartment while they were sleeping, taking only a suitcase of necessities and his laptop. He used Marcus’s ID, checked into the Wayside Motel, and got a room around back. It smelled like Pine-Sol and dust and a fly was tapping against the window. It was a relief to be here. No TV, music, or weed. The quiet was soothing and lonely.
Isaiah changed the padlock on the storage locker to an Abus Extreme Security steel padlock. A core-hardened lock body, seven-disk cylinder, and twenty-five thousand pounds of tensile strength. You’d need dynamite to bust it open. A week went by. Isaiah passed the time working on the merchandise still in the pipeline. His hatred for Dodson was searing his stomach lining, but the longer he waited the more Dodson would sweat. Once Dodson was out he’d cut him off completely.
Dodson and Deronda were watching TV from the foldout, surrounded by a landfill of empty liquor bottles, Heineken cans, fast-food wrappers, magazines, dirty dishes, shopping bags, shoes, and pizza crusts. Piles of laundry were everywhere like somebody was separating clothes at the Goodwill. It was Isaiah’s apartment so who gave a shit? Iron Chef was on. Dodson’s favorite show.
“Will you look at that?” Dodson said. “Got a football player out there trying be a judge. Unless the secret ingredient is Gatorade what the fuck does he know?”
“We almost out of money,” Deronda said, “and the rent’s coming due.”
“Oh shit, it’s that chick who always says it needs more crunch. That’s all the fuck she knows about-crunch. Wait, see what she says-see? What’d I tell you? Look at Morimoto. If he wasn’t on TV he’d be slappin’ the crunch off that bitch right now.”
“Dodson.”
“I hear you, damn.”
“Well, what are you gonna do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes you do.”
“No I don’t.”
“Yes you do.”
“Girl, I said I don’t.”
“But you do.”
Isaiah got texts. Where u at? Call me. Holla back. You go someplace? We got business. Now what, Dodson? Isaiah thought. What are you gonna do without your punk-ass Einstein? You being disrespectful. Call me. You better answer this. Last chance or we got a problem. Fuck you, Dodson. Fuck you.
Isaiah was at Vons pushing his cart down the water aisle when he ran into Deronda.
“Where you been, Isaiah?” Deronda said.
“Around.”
“You moving out?”
“Why would I? It’s my apartment.”
“How come you ain’t called Dodson back?”
“Got nothing to say.”
“He wants to know when the next job is.”
“Don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I mean I don’t know.”
“Swear to God,” Deronda said, “Dodson ain’t gonna mess around no more. He’s gonna play it straight, no bullshit. He told me he’s sorry about the tools and everything. He’s trying to get ’em back right now.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not lying. It’s a hundred percent true.”
“Now you’re lying about lying.”
Isaiah stopped and put a twelve-pack of water into his cart. Deronda stood close and pressed herself into him. Her breath smelled like Hennessy and Juicy Fruit. “I ain’t gonna mess with you no more, I promise,” she said. “You gonna be the boss like you was before. I’ll be good, you won’t even know I’m there.”
“Do what you want,” Isaiah said, moving on.
Deronda followed him, whining like a five-year-old denied her Froot Loops. “I cleaned up the apartment,” she said. “I put your awards back up on the wall and everything. Dodson said let bygones be bygones.”
“Dodson would never say that or anything like it.”
Deronda stopped and stamped her foot. “Dang, Isaiah, help us out. You know we broke.”
“Not my problem,” he said. He walked away. Let them twist in the wind a little while longer, get really desperate. And then make them an offer they can’t refuse.
Another two days and five more texts went by. Isaiah went to the storage locker to wrap some packages. Dodson was waiting for him. “Who the fuck put this lock on here?” Dodson said. “I can’t get in.”
“You’re not supposed to get in,” Isaiah said. “It’s not your locker.”
“There’s all kinds of shit still in there and half of it’s mine.”
“It’s paying me back for the tools.”
Dodson walked away three steps, spun around, and came back to where he started. “I could drop a dime on you and wouldn’t think nothing of it,” he said.
“Drop a dime on me and you’ll be dropping one on yourself,” Isaiah said. “Don’t you want to do more jobs?”
For a moment it looked like Dodson was stumped. But only for a moment. “Oh it’s gonna be like that?” he said. “Well, go on and put your shit on the table and quit fuckin’ around like a bitch.”
“I want you out of the apartment,” Isaiah said.
Dodson smiled like he admired the move. “I’m gonna be in that apartment ’til the day you die.”
“Then I’m not doing any more jobs.”
Dodson walked away three steps, spun around, and came back with the revolver pointed at Isaiah’s head. “You think you can do me like that? Starve me out, make me beg? You fuckin’ with the wrong nigga.”
Isaiah glanced up and nodded at a security camera bracketed to a light pole. “They’re all over the place,” he said. “The one at the front gate takes your picture.” He turned his back and went toward the Explorer. “Let me know what you want to do.”
Dodson’s gun hand was shaking. He wanted to cap this condescending disrespectful muthafucka more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. He took a hop-step, swung the gun like he was throwing a fastball, and brought the barrel down on Isaiah’s head. Isaiah crumpled forward, fell into the Explorer, and slid to the ground. He curled up, groaning, holding his head, blood coming through his fingers. Dodson stood over him. “You think you out of this? You think you can walk away from me and take my manhood with you? I shoot myself ’fore I let that happen. You in, nigga, and you ain’t out ’til I say you out.”