“It’s my job to know.”
“Well, it’s still in the planning stages but when it comes to fruition, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Of course it is. You know you’re my girl. Can we talk about my handbags now?”
The interview ended. Isaiah stood up. “I’m going,” he said.
“You’re not gonna eat the Danish?” Dodson said.
“I don’t like Danish.”
“You don’t like espresso neither?”
“I already had mine.”
“Well, go on and get the fuck outta here then. I guess your brutha taught you everything but manners.”
“Don’t talk about my brother.” Isaiah stood there like he had in the bedroom at the old apartment. Angry beyond words, fists clenched at his sides with nothing to punch. He knew now why he’d come.
“What’s your problem?” Dodson said. “You pissed off about the case? You should be. You know I had a nightmare last night? I was stuck in a bowl of dog food and guess who was coming to dinner?”
“Flaco Ruiz,” Isaiah said. “Do you know who he is?”
“Yes, I know who he is,” Dodson said. “He was that boy who got shot when them two Locos was chasing me through the taquería. They killed his parents and he caught one in the head. Is that what you been grindin’ on all this time?”
“Wait. They were chasing you? That’s unbelievable.”
Dodson didn’t look remorseful or even embarrassed. He looked like Dodson. Unfazed, unworried, ready to go if you were.
“Do you know what happened to Flaco?” Isaiah said. “Do you care?”
“What I care about is my business,” Dodson said.
“Flaco has brain damage and he’ll be disabled for the rest of his life.”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“What about it?”
“I didn’t shoot the boy or his parents.”
“You started the war. You started the war when you robbed Junior.”
“I played my part. So did you. So did a lot of people.”
“Doesn’t your conscience bother you, or do you even have one?”
Dodson finally reacted, raising his chin, the too-cool expression hardening into belligerence. “You better check yourself, son. You ain’t no angel sitting on my shoulder. I got one up there already and what he says to me ain’t none of your concern.”
Dodson took the dishes into the kitchen. Isaiah stared at the TV. He’d waited a long time to confront Dodson. Unload some of the guilt, make him feel like a scum-of-the-earth lowlife criminal. Dodson was supposed to confess, ask for forgiveness, and offer to make amends but instead he was offended like Isaiah was an asshole for bringing it up. Isaiah was angry but mostly what he felt was an overwhelming sadness. This was what Dodson was like. This was what people were like. So what if you fucked up and ruined someone’s life? You came through without a scratch. Isn’t that all that matters?
A commercial for Tylenol was on. A grandfather was holding his grandchild up in the air and was whirling him around, the voice-over saying how Tylenol was the number one doctor-recommended pain reliever for everything you do. Isaiah had taken a lot of Tylenol in his time until he found out the generic was a fraction of the cost.
Isaiah went still. A realization was surging into his bloodstream. He went through the logic again and almost allowed himself a smile.
Dodson came out of the kitchen drying his hands with a towel. “I thought you was leaving,” he said.
“I know,” Isaiah said.
“You know what? That you’re leaving?”
“The inside man. I know who he is.”
Brian Sterling’s instructions went like this: Cal was to go to the Amos Center building at 453 Capital Way, a half block south of Ventura Boulevard. The tenants were lawyers and financial consultants. Anyone who saw him go in would think he was there on business. Once inside, Cal was to cross the lobby and go past the elevator to the hallway on the left. At the very end, there was an emergency exit. Cal should proceed through the exit and walk straight across the alley to the parking garage of Dr. Freeman’s building. Brian would be waiting there to escort him up the back stairs to the side entrance of the office.