Booze rolled off him and got to his feet. “What you got to say now, pen-day-ho? It better be your muthafuckin’ prayers.”
Junior came out of the apartment, the Sig in one hand, a folding knife in the other. He cut the zip tie off Booze and then kicked Dodson hard. “Prepare yourself for complete denigration, muthafucka,” he said. Dodson was curled up in a ball, trying to suck in air through a throat the size of a nail hole. He had one arm over his head, the other across his gut, Junior kicking him again and again saying: “You—will—now—cease—to—res—pirate—un—til—you—are—de—ceased—for—life.”
Through his half-closed eyes, Dodson could see Booze limping back and forth, vibrating with homicidal energy, the revolver in his hand. “Try to rob me?” he said. “Put a gun to my head? You done, nigga, you finished. It’s lights-out, you feel me?”
“Advance your agenda, Booze,” Junior said. “Terminate this peon with prejudice.”
Dodson couldn’t believe he was helpless and about to die. He tried to speak, plead for his life, or say it’s me but he couldn’t get a word out. Booze was standing over him, the revolver aimed at his head.
“Die, bitch,” Booze said. He cocked the gun, the sound like a skull cracking. The gunshot was loud as a thunderclap, the shock wave jarring the air, two more shots right after it and then… silence.
As far as Dodson could tell he was still alive. Was Booze fucking with him? Dodson waited, the stillness amazing. Slowly, he unfurled himself, gasping, the pain clouding his vision, the cordite smell strong as crack fumes. Booze had his head on the floor, his ass up in the air like a stinkbug. Junior was in the fetal position, blood leaking out of him, a rust-colored stain expanding on the carpet. Isaiah was standing ten feet away with his mouth open and Booze’s .357 dangling by his side, one finger through the trigger guard. Dodson struggled to his feet, staggered into the apartment, and came out with the Adidas bag. He picked up his gun, grabbed Isaiah’s sleeve, and yanked him down the hall. “Let’s go,” he croaked. They ran to the end of the hall, crashed through the fire exit, and took off in different directions, neither of them looking back.
The news was on. Police were milling around the Sea Crest, yellow tape closing off the building. A middle-aged reporter was doing a standup, his suit sagging in the heat, his comb-over like a beach ball covered with a handful of straw. “Around ten o’clock this morning,” the reporter said, “police say a resident of the Sea Crest apartments in Bluff Park and another man were shot outside the resident’s door. Both victims were transported to Long Beach Memorial, where the resident was described as critical, the other man in stable condition. Police have no motive for the shooting but believe it may have been gang-related.”
Isaiah stood with his forehead against the apartment wall, a slide show blinking behind his eyes. Blink. Running into the hallway. Blink. Two men standing over Dodson screaming and kicking him. Blink. A gun lying on the carpet. Blink. Picking it up, running toward the men. Blink. One of them saying Die, bitch and cocking his gun. Blink. Shooting him. Blink. The other man shooting back. Blink. Shooting him. Blink. Bodies on the floor.
“I had to do it,” Isaiah said. “I had to.”
The clothes he was wearing were in a gutter, the gun at the bottom of the LA River, the Explorer parked in the Vons lot. He’d taken a twenty-minute shower and used a pumice stone to get off the gun residue. He hadn’t seen any cameras or witnesses but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. And Dodson. Did he tell anybody about the robbery besides Deronda? Did Deronda tell anybody? What if Dodson got busted and gave him up? He knew he should get out of Long Beach but he was too terrified to leave the room.
Eighty-five thousand dollars of Junior’s money was on the coffee table. Banded tens, twenties, and hundreds stacked in separate piles. Dodson would have been celebrating if he wasn’t nauseous, deaf from the gunshots, and bruised all over his body. In a way, the injuries were a good thing. They distracted him from being scared out of his mind. Did Booze and Junior buy the accent? Did they see he wasn’t a Mexican? Did they recognize the gun? Did they recognize him?
Dodson’s phone buzzed. Deronda picked it up. “Says nine-one-one-star-sd-star-eleven,” she said. “What that’s supposed to mean?”
“Nine-one-one means an emergency meeting,” Dodson said. “You gotta come or get a beatdown. Sd means Sedrick’s crib. Eleven is eleven o’clock.” Dodson closed his eyes. If he didn’t go it might be suspicious but if he went he might be killed. The obvious thing was to book but where would he book to? Take the Greyhound to Oakland and start all over again? And what if he was free and clear? He’d have left his hood for nothing.
“What are you gonna do?” Deronda said.