Dodson was impressed. The refrigerator was a scary appliance, that cage on the back holding in a nest of killer bees, the ones that kept buzzing on and off.
Isaiah grunted, struggling to remove what looked like a midget kettle barbecue.
“What’s that?” Dodson said.
“Condenser,” Isaiah said. He put it aside and maneuvered another one into the vacated space. “This one might be in worse shape than the one I took out.”
“Where’d it come from?” Dodson said.
“One-oh-four. Got it out of that fridge.”
“The door was open?”
“No.”
“What, you picked the lock? Used a bump key?”
Isaiah didn’t answer, focusing a little too hard on what he was doing. Dodson smiled. “Damn, Isaiah,” he said, “if I’d have known you was into thievery we could have robbed the whole building.”
“I’m not into thievery.”
“You are now.”
Isaiah could be an asset, Dodson thought. Someone to be used and profited from. All those awards on the wall and now he was repairing the fridge. No telling what else the boy could do.
When the fridge was humming again, Isaiah went to clean up and when he came back, Dodson was cutting up some defrosted chicken. He was stripped to the waist, his body thin like a cell phone and hard as a railroad spike, illegible tats on his chest. A swarm of scars covered his left arm and back. They were shiny and welted, some circular like bullet holes, others ragged blotches. Isaiah wanted to ask about them but didn’t.
“Stir that for me,” Dodson said. A soup kettle had something that looked like mud bubbling in it.
“What is this?” Isaiah said.
“A roux—stir the muthafucka ’fore it burns—stir faster and scrape the bottom—yeah, like that.”
Isaiah stirred the mystery mud while Dodson chopped some vegetables and smashed a few garlic cloves with the back of a knife. “I’m a bad muthafucka in the kitchen,” Dodson said. “Don’t even have to be soul food. My lasagna is off the planet. You ever seen that show Iron Chef? It’s like a contest, got these dudes called Iron Chefs. They like the Michael Jordans of the kitchen. They go up against these other chefs from all around the world and they some bad muthafuckas too. So then they give ’em a secret ingredient like ham hocks or corn on the cob and they gotta make four or five dishes with it. Cats is bad ass too. Them dudes make all kinds of crazy shit. Bobby Flay? That motherfucker can turn a soup bone into a birthday cake. I need to get on that show. I believe I could give Bobby a run for his money.”
Dodson poured hot chicken broth into the roux, added the chicken, some cut-up chorizo, the vegetables, the garlic, a few spices, and what looked to be a dried leaf. Then he put on some rice, measuring the water by eye. He did all this with a kid’s enthusiasm. Stirring, tasting, adding salt and pepper. “Lupita Tello, you know her?” Dodson said. “I was hittin’ that ’til she moved to the Valley. Girl wanted to be a chef, taught me how to cook, said I had a knack for it. You know, different techniques, what tastes good with what. Even my old man liked my cooking. I had something going on the stove he be looking over my shoulder talking ’bout, what you got happening there, Private? You make enough for the troops? Muthafucka was in the marines. Didn’t know how to talk to you unless he was giving you an order. You will make your rack every morning rain or shine. You will be back in this house by oh five hundred. Muthafucka liked to you will me to death.” Dodson checked the rice and trimmed the stems off some okra. “Yeah, he did a few tours in Iraq,” he said. “They be banging for real over there. Make our shit look like kindergarten. Messed him up too. He was drinking that vodka like strawberry Kool-Aid, went to work drunk every day. He was an inventory manager at Best Buy ’til they fired his ass for sleeping in his car. He took the whole family back to Oakland, that’s where I’m from.” Dodson threw up some gang signs. “Northern Cali, baby, West Coast on the Bay.” He woot-wooted like a train. “You got any hot sauce?”
“Cupboard on the left.”
The mystery mud was a gumbo. Thick and rich, served over rice with okra fried crisp, the color of maple syrup. Isaiah ate like food was new to him, taking cautious bites and nodding his head. “Good,” he said, “real good.” But he couldn’t taste a thing. He felt self-conscious, Dodson watching him, looking for more of a reaction.
“That okra’s good, ain’t it?” he said. “Soak it in vinegar first, get the slime off.”
“Yeah, that’s good too.”
After he’d eaten all he could stand, he pushed the rest of the food into a pile so it would look like he’d eaten more. He thanked Dodson and went to his room to do his homework. All his classes were Advanced Placement. Environmental science, calculus, computer science, human geography.