“What’s this?” Isaiah said, staring at the amount.
“Junior was carrying eighty-five thousand for the reup. I gave five thousand to Deronda right after the robbery. That’s half of the rest.”
“This is way more than forty thousand.”
“I bought muni bonds. Seven percent coupon. You can’t get that anymore. They didn’t mature ’til a few days ago or you would have had your money sooner.”
“You couldn’t tell me this before now?”
“I wanted to surprise you. Oh, I almost forgot.” Dodson tossed Isaiah a set of keys.
“What are these for?” Isaiah said.
“You catch the Lakers last night?” Dodson said. “Kobe was hurt and coasted for most of the game. Cherise said it was old age and he should retire before he made a fool of himself. I told her Kobe was saving himself up so he could score when it counted. Six minutes to go in the fourth quarter, Kobe scored twelve straight and won the game.”
“What’s going on, Dodson?”
“Talk to Tudor, he’s got the paperwork. I made a down payment with my half. Your check should cover the balance and then some. You might want to start a college fund. That shit is expensive. Cherise got student loans won’t be paid off ’til my children need student loans. Did I tell you Cherise is pregnant? Yeah, found out yesterday.”
“Congratulations.”
“Holla at Flaco for me,” Dodson said, turning for the door. “Tell him I seen some fine-ass females over there.”
Isaiah leaned against the doorway holding the check and watching Dodson stroll across the street to his car, a hitch in his stride.
Isaiah stood on the roof cradling the urn of Marcus’s ashes like a newborn. The sun was dipping behind the skyline, amber and pink on the bellies of the gray clouds fading into darkness. Isaiah opened the urn and tossed the ashes into the air and like a frosty breath they vanished into the breeze, blessing the house and the neighborhood and the city and then on into the jet stream and out into a world that surely needed it.
Isaiah went inside, heated up some soup, and ate it standing at the counter. The house was quiet, not unusual, but something was different. An emptiness-no, that wasn’t right. Something removed maybe, like when Dodson took his awards off the wall to make room for his big TV. Even if you didn’t know what was there before you knew something was missing.
Isaiah was still brooding on it in the morning as he sat in the armchair drinking his espresso and reading his emails. It was only when, on impulse, he put on The Best of the Temptations and heard the opening bar of “My Girl” that he realized Marcus was gone. Which made sense when you thought about it. His ashes were in the wind, why wouldn’t he go with them? Why hang around if his little brother with the gift from God only needed the memory of him? Which wasn’t absolution but Isaiah hoped it was at least forgiveness.
Epilogue
Isaiah had scraped off the Audi’s chin spoiler chasing the pedophile. He went to the wrecking yard to find a replacement. He hadn’t been there in a long time and it was good to see TK, same as ever. TK told him there were two Audis over in the German section. “When you get back, I got a good one for you,” he said.
There were a dozen ways to get to the German section but Isaiah chose the old race course route, remembering how he’d been late on this turn and early on that one. He was coming around the mountain of tires when he saw it lined up with a bunch of other wrecks. It had been there awhile, covered with a thick coating of dust, grass growing around the wheels sunk in the dirt. The front fenders and the hood were missing, the engine bay empty, the interior gutted and full of cobwebs. Isaiah circled the car like it might wake up and bite him. Most of the back window was blown out but there in the left-hand corner on a mosaic of shattered glass was the stem of a purple L on a quarter moon of gold.
Acknowledgments
My thanks to Craig Takahashi, Dagmara Krecioch, and Gene Ferriter, who made contributions to this book that went above and beyond friendship. And to Andy Leuchter, whose counsel and infinite patience were invaluable, and Pat Kelly, writer, friend, and spiritual adviser. A reluctant nod to my brothers, Jack, Jon, and James, for enthusiastically keeping my head from swelling no bigger than my hat size. I am also deeply indebted to my editor, Wes Miller, for making me a better writer in spite of myself; to Francis Fukuyama, whose kindness and generosity have changed my life; and to Esther Newberg and Zoe Sandler, their unwavering belief overcoming every obstacle and opening every door. And to my wife, Diane, who dreams my dreams.
About the Author
JOE IDE is of Japanese-American descent. He grew up in South Central Los Angeles. His favorite books were the Arthur Conan Doyle Sherlock Holmes stories. The idea that a person could face the world and vanquish his enemies with just his intelligence fascinated him. Ide went on to earn a graduate degree and had several careers before writing his debut novel, IQ, inspired by his early experiences and his love of Sherlock. He lives in Santa Monica, California.
