“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?
“Hellooo, Officer,” the guy said.
“What are you doing here, sir?” Martinez said. The guy didn’t move his big Charlie Brown cabeza and stared straight ahead like the answer was over there in the azalea bushes. “Sir, I asked you what you were doing here,” Martinez said.
“I’m not doing anything,” he said. “I’m just sitting here. I’m not breaking any laws.” New beads of sweat were appearing on the guy’s face like time-lapse photography of morning dew.
“Do your kids go to school here?” Martinez said.
“Ohhh no, no kids for me,” the guy said, like he’d narrowly dodged that bullet.
Martinez bent down and looked in the window, his eyes darting around the interior of the truck, holding on the bowling bag a moment before coming back to the guy. “License, insurance card, and registration, please,” he said. The guy dug the stuff out and gave it to him. “Any outstanding warrants?” Martinez said.
“What was I doing, Officer? I wasn’t doing anything.”
“Any outstanding warrants?”
“No, no warrants.”
“Put your keys on the dash and stay in your car.”
“I wasn’t doing anything. Jesus Christ, I’m just sitting here.”
Martinez kept Boyd’s license and headed back to his patrol car. If this asshole made him late he’d charge him with everything he could think of.
Boyd grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and shook it like a pissed-off chimpanzee in a cage, yelling: “FUUUCK!” Everything was going so good too, not like the other times when he’d done everything on impulse.