Hard Exit, page 9
“No biggie,” he said. He squatted, grabbed the shaft of the spear with his thick right hand, and braced his left hand against the boat, locking his left arm and taking a deep breath. He grunted loudly as he yanked and twisted the spear at the same time, his huge forearm and absurdly overdeveloped bicep noticeably straining. Nothing appeared to happen. He pulled a lighter from his pocket, lit it, and held the flame beneath the protruding shaft, letting the flame melt the plastic for ten seconds. He pocketed the lighter, grabbed the spear, grunted, and pulled again. A high-pitched squeal emanated from the boat as he pulled the shaft from the plastic.
“There you go,” he said, handing me the shaft. Looking at the whole, he said, “A couple days, a few bucks, you’ll be back in the water, no problem.”
“Sounds good. Should we carry it through there?” I asked, gesturing toward the front door.
“Easier if you go in the side door, since it’s a two-man. The turn’s too tight through the front. Personally knocked a thing or two off the counter.”
He and I reentered the shop. I filled out the paperwork for the repair and thanked him. I went back outside. Game picked up the front end, I picked up the back, and as we rounded the corner, Game said, “Now that a racist.”
“Where do you think he hides his hood?”
“A fella can hate a guy like that on principle, but what up with that sorry-ass goatee?”
“Oh, come on, bet it works wonders with the ladies.”
“Man, that dude be getting any, Stephen King think her up.”
I laughed. We set the kayak down next to the side door, which was ajar. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The power-tool din made me understand why both employees were wearing orange foam earplugs. I waved the yellow work order at a stocky Latino wearing a navy T-shirt, filthy jeans, and tan work boots. After looking at me for three seconds, he killed the power on the jigsaw he was using to cut a hatch in the front of an orange one-man Skimmer. He pulled the white mask down below his chin, got out of the crouch he’d been in while using the jigsaw, set it down, and headed toward me. He glanced at the work order, nodded, and motioned to the other employee. They walked past me, stepped outside, and quickly reappeared, carrying the kayak across the room, and leaning it upright against the wall at the end of a line of five other kayaks—two orange, two yellow, and one sky blue. I nodded my thanks to the two of them, who were oblivious to the gesture.
I walked outside. Game was gone.
My stomach jumped. I rounded the corner and looked both ways down the alley but saw nothing that hinted at which way he’d gone. And he’d likely gone at a run. Oakville is only a few miles north of Compton, and he could be back among the MLKs quickly.
“Shit,” I yelled. I could pick either direction, having a fifty-fifty chance of guessing correctly but almost no chance of catching him. He was a fast, athletic teenager with a head start. I was a forty-two-year-old former athlete who’d kept himself in decent shape but who never had blazing speed. The Land Rover would increase my pace, obviously, but not my likelihood of finding him because he’d know I could follow him easily on the main streets, so he’d avoid them.
Game swaggered around the corner. I read his gait as his way of saying I’d messed up. He could’ve been—and maybe should’ve been—gone.
When he got close, he said, “Ain’t much of a bodyguard, Jack.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Then I’ve done my job.”
“Say it again, maybe it be true.”
“Why’d you come back?”
“Wrong question. Question is, ‘Why’d you run?’”
We walked toward the car.
“If you say so. Why’d you run?”
“Saw the van.”
“Which van?”
“From the other night. The white one from when we jacked the coke.”
“With the white guy selling? You sure?”
“Told you the back all messed up. You step inside, that piece o’ shit drive down the alley, and I saw the smashed back after it passed. Could be any van with a jacked right side, so I ran after it to see if it the same punk driver.”
“And?”
“Didn’t catch him. Gotta figure it him, right? I mean, you think he loan that nasty ride to people so they can tour Compton?”
“Not likely. Could’ve been another beaten-up white van. Gotta be others around here.”
“Yeah. Here and Oakville—all the same place. Barely got police forces. Clowns couldn’t find their dicks with help from a hooker and a microscope.”
That he would bring up the cops surprised me because our next stop was going to be the Oakville Police Station.
Game wasn’t pleased when I told him our destination, but he told me how to get to the station. When I parked in one of the spaces marked VISITOR, he didn’t get out of the car. I walked to his side. He cracked the door and said, “Ain’t going. Do what you gotta do.”
“Game, I can’t let you stay here alone.”
“Didn’t run when I had the chance. Ain’t going nowhere now.”
“Then why stay in the car?”
“Can’t expect me to sit in a room full of law.” It wasn’t a question. I waited for him to explain. After five seconds, he did. “Cops didn’t do shit to find the killers of Lawrence and Terrell. Just more Black-on-Black gang murders, so why bother, right?”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong, but how does their apathy toward finding the killers have anything to do with you getting out of my car?”
“Just let me sit here. I don’t know what I’d do surrounded by five-oh.”
The Oakville Police Station was in an immense limestone building that impressed from the outside, at least from a distance. The architect, I’m guessing, thought that the arched entryway, above which flew the U.S., California, and Oakville flags, aptly captured the gravitas of the proceedings within the building. And it once might have, but the overflowing trash can on the limestone walkway, the weeds growing through the seams of the stairs, and the grime smeared across the heavy front door and its handle suggested that the officers inside the building had bigger concerns than the appearance of gravitas.
I flashed my P.I. license to the desk clerk, who was unimpressed. Officer Moncrief—a doughy white guy with a bald head and jowls that looked like a kielbasa necklace—sneered at me as though I’d just proffered a used Kleenex.
“I’m here to inquire about yesterday’s shooting in the park,” I said and slid my license into the tray that he released through the Plexiglas he sat behind.
“I’m here ’cause I didn’t get into law school,” Officer Moncrief said, studying my license as though it could conceal an eternal truth. He flipped the license back in the tray and pushed the tray toward me.
“To whom should I speak?”
“Grammar your thing or something?”
“Is there an officer here who could answer a few questions about yesterday’s shooting?”
“Probably plenty, but not if you’re asking.”
Attempting to tamp down my burgeoning anger, I looked away from Moncrief. On the bench behind me and to my right sat an older Asian man whose soiled clothes suggested he hadn’t slept indoors in a while. I nodded to him, and he mouthed the words “Screw ’im.” I smiled, nodded again, and turned toward the officer.
“Have I offended you, Officer Moncrief?”
“No,” he said. I waited for something more, but nothing came.
“I’m a taxpaying citizen, and I have a few questions I’d like to ask.”
“We’ve established that, and now you’re just taking up my time.”
“Word is that the Oakville force is so corrupt that perhaps I’ve breached protocol by not offering you a bribe. Please forgive my impropriety.” I heard laughter from behind me.
“You’re trespassing,” Moncrief said, “and I’m beginning to feel threatened by your aggressive behavior.” I turned toward the man on the bench, as if to say, “You’re my witness,” but he shrugged, turned away, and put his index fingers in his ears.
“Out of curiosity,” I said to Moncrief, “if someone knew why the shooting happened, and if that same someone knew who, generally, the shooters were, what should that someone do?”
Moncrief continued to stare at me.
“Guy’s a moron,” I said to Game when I returned.
“You think? You needed to interview a pig to find out he a pig? You call that investigating?”
“Confirming what one suspects is, in fact, a form of investigation. In this case, I’m betting the cadet I spoke with last night at the park let it be known there was a P.I. snooping around—and that could, almost by definition, make the department look bad.”
Game stared at me for a few seconds, looking pensive. I waited. Nothing.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Thinking.”
I nodded and waited for nearly a minute before Game said, “Ain’t getting nowhere doing this your way. Cops ain’t even gonna try. Buy me some Popeye’s, then we do this for real.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning a five-piece with dirty rice, a biscuit, large Coke, then we worry ’bout dessert.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Game’s plan consisted of heading to the MLK crib in downtown Oakville, asking questions until we learned something useful about the shooting, and improvising our approach from there.
“So,” I said, after swallowing a forkful of dirty rice, “you have no more of a plan than I do.”
“You just got ignored by a cop. Least the people I question will have answers.”
“Okay, presuming I agree to interview your buddies—what information do you expect them to cough up? They’re out there looking for revenge, and I’m guessing you’re persona non grata with them about now.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It’s Latin for a person who’s not appreciated. I’m guessing your buddies accuse you of abandoning them in their time of need. You’re likely on the outs.”
“Ain’t like that. They know I been kidnapped, so we cool. But I’m gonna ask questions, see if they know something they don’t even know they know, then you and your license can figure out what’s important. It called investigating. You should try it sometime.”
“Instead, I’ll try this,” I said, snatching his biscuit from his tray and taking a bite out of it.
“Man, I gonna—”
“What? Buy your own?”
His face took on an odd look, and I thought he was searching for a retort, but he leaned in close and whispered, “Don’t turn around. da Posse just rolled up. O.G.s Meet you at your car. I’m going out the back.”
He stood and glided toward the exit farthest from the door that da Uptown Posse members had parked in front of. Thirty seconds later, two lanky men in their late-twenties—both wearing black ’do rags under red St. Louis Cardinals hats, white t-shirts, Nike basketball shoes, and baggy jeans—slipped into the booth next to mine. I knew enough about gangs to know that O.G. stands for original gangster—longtime members of high rank.
I was less subtle about my once-over than I should’ve been, and the two bangers stared at me. I nodded and finished the last of the biscuit. I washed the biscuit down with my Diet Coke, and I hoped I hadn’t made too large an impression.
I wiped a napkin across my mouth, stood without looking at them, threw out my trash, and went out the exit through which they had just entered. I walked around the building to my car, where I found Game crouched near the rear passenger-side door. We got in, and he quickly released the seat, dropping himself below the level of the window.
“Comfortable?”
“Long as I outta sight. Those O.G. in there, not soldiers. You in the wrong league here, so we play this how we got to. Plan’s changed.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Best you don’t know, but I gotta make a phone call you can’t listen to.”
“Nothing illegal, Game.”
“Right, you will do nothing illegal. You’re a professional with a license and a rich, famous, hot girlfriend you don’t even like, so you ain’t gonna risk nothin’. You gonna go back inside to get a to-go order or refill your drink so I can make a call.”
“Why don’t we just follow them when they leave?”
“Ain’t going nowhere—I let the air out their tires.”
“Great. This is your plan?”
“No, my plan needs a phone call, so get out.”
I hesitated but realized maybe he was right. I wasn’t getting anywhere and wasn’t likely to because the police wouldn’t cooperate, and I didn’t know anything about this world. I didn’t have any leads, other than one gangbanger having told me that other gangbangers were responsible for the shooting. And as much as I promised myself I’d make a good-faith effort to solve the park shooting, my real obligation was to keep Game safe. If the shooting wasn’t solved, it would be chalked up to yet another inevitable Black-on-Black killing, another casualty of the American Dream. Would the uncleared case bother the authorities? No. I was exhausted and making no progress, so I got out of the car. I headed into the restaurant to buy Mike and Rachelle lunch.
The two Posse members were still eating their dirty rice and chicken when I stepped to the counter and ordered two three-piece meals. As I waited for the food, I wondered if I’d just lost control of my life, but then I remembered the sham of a life I pretended to have control over. I hoped Game knew what he was doing because we could use all the help we could get. The two bangers finished their meals, left the trash on the table, and slowly walked out.
When I arrived at my car, I surreptitiously glanced across the parking lot at the cherried, metallic-red Impala the Posse members were standing next to. They would probably have called a low-level Posse member to change a single flat, but no one carries two spares, so they were going to be there awhile. I got into my car, and Game said from his reclined seat, “We good. Let’s roll.”
“Not going to tell me, right?”
“Man, you can be stupid. Why I tell you to leave so I can make a call if I tell you what I said later? Just trust me.”
We pulled to the curb in front of Mike’s house, a well-maintained two-bedroom with a portable basketball backboard and hoop in the driveway. Mike’s 1972 convertible electric-blue Corvette Stingray—with a vanity license plate that read: LOOM—was probably in his garage.
Rachelle was at work that Saturday, so she didn’t get to see that her son was okay, but as I watched Mike inhale the Popeye’s (after he told me I looked like hell), Game called her. I heard him go on and on about how ridiculous Amanda’s house was, and how he’d seen her naked, and how he’d gone kayaking at night, and how I was one messed up dude to be sad with everything I had in my life. Mike shouted at Game, through a mouthful of chicken, to show me some respect, but the kid was right, although not polite to impart his amateur psychological assessment within earshot of me.
I shushed Mike and said in a quiet voice, “I might’ve blown it. I let him make a phone call to his running mates so he could hatch a plan.” Mike looked surprised but didn’t say anything. He waited me out.
“I think we’re going to be stymied because the gangs aren’t going to go public with what happened, and the cops are less than worthless. They’re stonewalling, if not covering up. Game saw an opportunity to do things his way because Oakville isn’t my turf.”
“When in Rome, baby,” Mike said, wiping his mouth and putting his Adidas on his wooden coffee table, next to an issue of Sports Illustrated.
“I can’t endorse vigilante justice, Mike.”
“Do you know what the plan is?”
“No.”
“Then you aren’t endorsing shit.”
“The phrase ‘aiding and abetting’ mean anything to you?”
“Weren’t they a Ska band in the nineties?”
“I’m serious.”
“No, you're kidding yourself. You’re applying a moral and legal code that exists only in your head to an environment in which children die because they’re wearing the wrong color clothes. Or because they’re standing on a corner minding their own business and get hit by a stray. Or because a cop’s having a bad day. Do you think you could stop whatever Game has put in motion?”
“No. I don’t even know what it is.”
“Exactly, so how can you be responsible for it? You are neither aiding and abetting nor an accessory after the fact. At least not yet. As of this minute, you are a friend of mine who’s doing my female companion and me a large favor by looking after Game. Nowhere in our agreement did we say it was your duty to prevent Game from making a phone call. To that end, you allowed him to make a call. For all you know, he called his broker. Did you see him dial? No. Did you overhear his conversation? No. So, stop acting from a position of privilege, and start living the way most everyone else does. When the system doesn’t work—or because the system works as it does—people do what they have to do. Ride this one out until you bump up against something that truly concerns you, something you can’t overlook.”
“Ain’t on you, Jack,” Game said from behind me. I hadn’t noticed he’d stopped talking on the phone in the other room, and I didn’t know how much he’d heard. “You, as they say on Law & Order, just a innocent bystander. And a bodyguard.”
“I’ve kept you alive for one night, so my place in heaven is assured.”
“Believe what you gotta believe,” Game said.
“Time to go,” I said. “Say hello to Rachelle for me, Mike, and tell her Game is safe, though a pain in the ass.”
“Yeah, as if she doesn’t know that.”
Exhaustion overtook me on the drive home. I’d been awake for about thirty-four hours, and I was sure my lack of sleep contributed to my giving in to Game. I was so tired that I almost asked him to drive, but I set the AC to high and blasted the Rolling Stones.
Let it bleed, indeed.
When we arrived at the house, I parked in the driveway and decided not to disable the cars again because Game hadn’t run when he’d had the chance. I opened the front door and saw Amanda hoisting a bottle of Crystal to her lips and chugging. My bet was she waited to hear my key hit the lock before she raised the bottle, so I’d get the full effect of her acting out.
