Righteous

Book 2: An IQ Novel

by Joe Ide

Genres: Cultural Heritage; Private Investigators

Synopsis

In this hotly anticipated follow-up to the smash hit IQ, a New York Times Critics’ Best of the Year and nominee for the Best First Novel Edgar Award, Isaiah uncovers a secret behind the death of his brother, Marcus.

For ten years, something has gnawed at Isaiah Quintabe's gut and kept him up nights, boiling with anger and thoughts of revenge. Ten years ago, when Isaiah was just a boy, his brother was killed by an unknown assailant. The search for the killer sent Isaiah plunging into despair and nearly destroyed his life. Even with a flourishing career, a new dog, and near-iconic status as a PI in his hometown, East Long Beach, he has to begin the hunt again-or lose his mind.

A case takes him and his volatile, dubious sidekick, Dodson, to Vegas, where Chinese gangsters and a terrifying seven-foot loan shark are stalking a DJ and her screwball boyfriend. If Isaiah doesn't find the two first, they'll be murdered. Awaiting the outcome is the love of IQ's life: fail, and he'll lose her. Isaiah's quest is fraught with treachery, menace, and startling twists, and it will lead him to the mastermind behind his brother's death, Isaiah's own sinister Moriarty.

With even more action, suspense, and mind-bending mysteries than Isaiah's first adventures, Righteous is a rollicking, ingenious thrill ride.

Release date: October 17, 2017

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 336

Sample

Chapter One

The dance floor was a street riot under a disco ball, hands sprouting out of the crowd waving green light sticks and six-hundred-dollar bottles of Ciroc, go-go dancers in fur bikinis and fishnet body stockings writhing like tentacles of smoke, the air warm and close, soggy with the smells of alcohol, musky colognes, and pheromones.

It was Saturday night at Seven Sevens. The DJ was dropping a dubstep, the bass deep and pounding as the earth’s pulse, a nasal whine snaking through the syncopated beats while a Buddhist monk on speed chanted The world is mine the world is mine the world is mine, the music accelerating, synthesized strings spiraling upward, keening into what they called trance, the breathy beat driving faster and faster, the dancers frenzied as warring ants, the energy so extreme it threatened to crack the walls, and then mercifully, a break, the keening winding down, the beat decelerating into a thumping, head-bobbing tom-tom.

An Asian girl was on the DJ stand, held in a column of vaporous light like Scotty had just beamed her down to work the turntables. Her gleaming black hair thrashed like a horse’s tail, a yellow star on her red belly shirt, her denim shorts so short Benny said he could see the outline of her junk. She shouted into the mike, jubilant and fierce: “Whassup my people! This is your queen kamikaze, the heat in your wasabi, the gravy train in the food chain, the champagne in the chow mein, I’m DJ Dama, baby, that was my set, and I’m gettin’ up outta heeerre, PEACE!”

  

Janine Van came down from the DJ stand and moved through the crowd. She loved this part, people woo-hooing, whistling, clapping, high-fiving her. A group of drunk college boys howled at her like love-struck coyotes, the brothers checking her out, leaning back with their hands on their chins. Hey, being a hottie never hurt. DJ Young Suicide was up next, not even looking at her as he went by. Prick. Like she was a scrub, not worth acknowledging. Yeah, that’s aight, he’d wake up one day and be Old Suicide and she’d be headlining at the Marquee club.

Janine had chosen Dama as her DJ name because it was different and the Chinese word for weed. She had a following in LA and San Francisco but especially here in Vegas, her hometown. The club gave her the early set, opening for Suicide, DJ Twista, and DJ Gone Viral, but that wouldn’t be for long. Chinese tourists were discovering her. They loved seeing one of their own do something besides play Ping-Pong and solve math problems. You’d think Jeremy Lin invented noodles the way they carried on.

The pay was good, seven hundred and fifty bucks a set, not bad for a twenty-one-year-old who’d only been mixing professionally for eleven months. She played two sets a week, enough for most people, but the slots and blackjack tables were disappearing her paychecks as fast as she could cash them, and now Leo had her and Benny by the Ben Wa balls. They’d only borrowed five grand but they hadn’t paid the twenty percent vig in four weeks and now the five was nearly nine; fourteen hundred for the vig alone.

Once in a while they tried to stay away from the tables; kick the monkey off their backs and focus on their careers. Janine on her DJing, Benny a rising star on the motocross circuit. For two or three days they’d have a lot of sex and smoke a lot of weed until the monkey came back like a silverback gorilla, and they’d be off to the casinos pledging to manage their stake more professionally this time, which made no sense if you were going to spend it all no matter how big you won or how fast you were losing. A few months back, Benny’s sponsor dropped him because he hadn’t shown at a couple of meets. He couldn’t afford the maintenance on a sophisticated racing bike so to solve the problem he and Janine gambled more, and didn’t even talk about quitting. They played whenever they had money. On Christmas Day, they both had pneumonia and twenty-seven dollars between them but they played nickel slots at the Rio until security threw them out for coughing up loogies fat as slugs and spitting them into plastic cups.

Janine loved Benny. God, she loved him. He was funny and sweet, and an Olympian in the sack. He wasn’t especially smart but he listened to her and was good to her, hard-to-find qualities these days. But Benny was also a lousy gambler, more than half the debt was his. Janine resented it, Leo considering the two of them as a single deadbeat unit. He was diabolical like that, knowing Benny would never leave Vegas, and if she did she’d be leaving him with the debt and breaking both their hearts. She hoped Benny was lying low. Leo was a mean son of a bitch. If he had you down he’d hurt you and smile while he was doing it.

  

Leo had snitches all over town. Lots of people owed him money and were happy to rat out their friends for a little extra time. Leo caught Benny at the Siesta Vegas Motel going to the vending machine for a Mountain Dew. He took Benny’s key and they went back to the room, Balthazar trailing to make sure Benny didn’t bolt.

“Do you have my vig or don’t you?” Leo said. “And don’t bullshit.”

“Soon, Leo, I swear, really soon,” Benny said, shaking his head at the same time. “My grandmother’s estate is out of probate and the lawyer says he’ll have a check for me in a few days, a week tops.”

“You told me that one already,” Leo said. Leo couldn’t have been anything else but a loan shark. Large rose-tinted aviators perched over a rodentlike face and a permanent smirk, his long, greasy hair swept back over his ears. His fashion sense tended toward paisley disco shirts with jumbo collars; nobody telling him that seventies retro was not now and never had been in. Leo was a gold-medal asshole, giving you shit even when you paid him off, and he didn’t seem to care that everybody, including the people he called friends, would rather hang out at the morgue than have a drink with him.

“All I need is a little more time,” Benny said. “You know, like a grace period.”

“Grace period?” Leo said. “Who do you think you’re dealing with, the Stupid People’s Credit Union? Grace period? That expression is not in my daily lexicon, and in case you haven’t noticed, I’m a criminal. A dedicated, lifelong, unrepentant, lawbreaking motherfucker and I play by no one’s rules but my own and rule number one is Pay me my fucking money.”

“You know I don’t have it,” Benny said. “Look around.” The motel room that Benny and Janine rented by the month was a dump to begin with, but with all their damp, random, unlaundered shit piled up everywhere the place was hardly livable. Benny used to park his motocross bike inside, but he kept it at Ray’s now so Leo wouldn’t take it. Janine stored her DJ equipment in Sal’s garage.

“Gimme what you’ve got on you,” Leo said.

“Aww, come on, Leo,” Benny said. “That’s my rent money.”

“Give it,” Balthazar said, “or I’ll break your fucking neck, eh?”

Balthazar was from Saskatchewan, right across the border from Montana, the difference being Montana grew brown trout and buffalo instead of terrifying freakazoids. Balthazar was seven feet tall with a jutting chin and comatose eyes set under a Frankenstein forehead; his body cobbled together with parts from an orangutan and an office building. Benny wondered where he got his clothes. He’d joked about it, asking Balthazar if the guy who made his pants also made circus tents. Balthazar swatted him with a hand that was more like a foot. “Don’t be a smart-ass, eh?”

Benny gave up his wallet, his last eighty-three dollars in there, money he’d won at the Lucky Streak, a dive over in Henderson. He liked to play there when he was bummed or stressed out. The casino was smoky as a forest fire, frayed felt on the blackjack tables and lots of senior citizens in Hawaiian shirts shuffling around on walkers. Sign up for the comp club and get a free six-pack of Pepsi, but you could play craps for a dollar, even in the morning, and for $3.99 you got two eggs, two slices of bacon, two sausages, toast, and a Belgian waffle.

“Take your clothes off,” Leo said.

“What?”

“You heard me. Do it or Zar will do it for you.”

“Hey, wait a second, you’re not gonna—you don’t want to do that, Leo, I’ve got diarrhea!”

“Don’t be disgusting, and leave your boxers on. I don’t want your corn hole smelling up my car.”

“I know I owe you but you don’t have to humiliate me.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m doing this for fun.”

As Benny stripped, Leo said, “Look at you, you fucking loser. Don’t you believe in doing your laundry? Your socks don’t even match. You and your plastic wallet and your fucked-up haircut and that stupid-ass puka shell bracelet. Why Janine hooked up with a dud like you is one of the world’s great mysteries. One of these days in the not-too-distant future she’s gonna realize she could pick a better boyfriend out of a lineup and leave your ass flat.”

“My wallet isn’t plastic,” Benny said.

  

Benny rode in the backseat of Leo’s white Mercedes, more like a limo than a car and quieter than the motel room at four in the morning. They drove out of Vegas proper and through North Las Vegas, a Whitman’s Sampler of housing developments, all of them different but the same. Now they were in the desert, so dark you could only see what the headlights saw, not even a gas station out here.

“Where we going, Leo?” Benny asked for the fifth time.

“Like I told you five times already,” Leo said, “you’ll see when we get there. Where’s Janine?”

“Playing a gig at the War Room.”

“Can’t you open your mouth without telling a lie? She’s at Seven Sevens, her name’s on the fucking sign.”

“Come on, Leo, be reasonable. If you mess me up I won’t be able to pay you back.”

“Not from the tables, not the way you play. Like I told you before, you need to get the money from someplace else.”

“I will, Leo, I swear on my little sister. Did I tell you she’s got cancer?”

“Your sister is older than you and she died of cancer. Remember we went to the hospital to hit her up for a loan?”

They made a turn and drove through a parking lot, vast and empty, ominous in the yellow floodlights; the place where the girl looks back, sees the killer, and starts to run. They stopped at the end.

“Get out of the car,” Leo said.

“You go, I’ll wait here,” Benny said.

Balthazar reached back with his orangutan arm and smacked him. “Get out of the car, eh?”

As soon as Benny smelled garbage he knew where he was. He’d come here on a school field trip when he was eleven years old. A dork who looked like SpongeBob in orange coveralls gave them the tour. “The Apex Regional Landfill is one of the biggest in the world,” he said, like it was the Grand Canyon. “The pit covers three hundred and sixty acres, it’s two hundred feet deep, there’s five hundred million tons of refuse in there so far, and when it’s filled to the top it’ll be a billion! That’s right, kids. A billion tons of trash! What do you think of that, young man?”

“I think it stinks,” Benny said.

  

Balthazar pushed Benny toward the landfill, Leo leading the way with a flashlight. Benny felt the air pressure change; gases from the moldering garbage creating its own atmosphere of heat and rot.

“Don’t, Leo, please don’t do this,” Benny said. “I’ll get the money someplace else, I swear on my—”

“Swear on your what?” Leo said. “Your two-year-old niece that’s got syphilis? Your mom that’s dying from ass tumors? Shut the fuck up.”

Benny remembered the huge pyramids of trash and garbage, the valleys so deep they could swallow you up, and all of it splattered with seagull shit and crawling with a million rats.

“I could die down there, Leo.”

“Yeah, if you’re lucky.”

“Please don’t do this,” Benny said. He could see the edge of the pit, the smell was so strong it was almost gelatinous. He was crying now. He tried to backpedal, but Balthazar grabbed him by the neck, lifted him like he was hanging him on a coatrack, and walked him forward. “Don’t do this, I’m begging you,” Benny said. “I’ll rob a bank, I’ll go to the bus station and suck dicks in the men’s room.” He was blubbering like a child, the words so wet they were barely words. “No, please, Leo, please, ple-ee-eese.”

“The vig by Friday,” Leo said, “or tell Janine she’s next.”

“Okay, now that’s over the line—”

Leo nodded and Balthazar shoved Benny into the blackness, his scream cutting in and out as he bumped and tumbled down the slope, hardly making a sound as he landed wherever he landed. Leo waited for Benny to groan or call for help but he couldn’t hear anything except garbage bags flapping in the breeze. Leo wondered if Benny had broken his neck.

“I warned him, didn’t I?” he said, a pinhead of regret in his voice.

“He’s lucky, eh?” Balthazar said. “We could have shot him first.”

Chapter Two

Isaiah was in Beaumont’s store buying a cranberry juice when his cell buzzed. He didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?” he said.

“Isaiah, is that you?” A woman’s voice.

“Yeah, this is Isaiah.”

“It’s Sarita.”

Isaiah’s heart seized up. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. “It is?” he said.

“Yes, it is,” she said, laughing. “It’s been so long. How are you?” Her voice was happy and relaxed and confident. It was breathtaking.

“I’m fine,” he said. “How are you?”

“I’m good, Isaiah, but listen, I’m sorry I don’t have time to talk right now, but I’d like to get together and catch up. Would that be all right?”

He had to clear his throat before words would come out. “Yeah, sure, that’d be great.”

“I know this is short notice but how about tomorrow night, around eight? I’ll be at the Intercontinental Hotel in Century City. Do you know where that is?”

“No,” he said, “but I’ll find it.”

Dizzy with excitement, Isaiah hurried out to his car, wishing he didn’t have so much on his plate. Somebody broke into Miss Myra’s house and stole, among other things, a brooch her mother had given to her when she was on her deathbed, honeycombed with cancer, a rattle in her throat as she hummed an old spiritual about going home. The brooch was a flimsy thing; painted metal and colored glass, not even pawnable, and nobody but Miss Myra would wear it. Any self-respecting thief would have tossed it away. Finding it would mean searching the storm drains, dumpsters, and alleys near her house. Then there was Doris Sattiewhite, a checkout clerk at Shop ’n Save who was being stalked by her ex-husband, Mike. He’d show up at her work, get in line, and pay for something with pennies and nickels so she’d have to count it while he said I’m coming for you, bitch. You hear me? I’m coming for you.

Raymond Marcel, aka Rayo, was thirteen years old, and lived in a foster home with a woman who kept a padlock on the refrigerator and a crowbar under her pillow. Rayo was built like Shrek and was three times the size of anybody in his class; a lifetime of abuse and a passion for bullying festering in his angry, broken spirit. His favorite victims were members of the Carver Middle School Science Club. A delegation from the club showed up at Isaiah’s door and pleaded with him to do something about Rayo. They were afraid to go to school, afraid to leave school, afraid all the time. Unfortunately, the club president said, as she tried to get her backpack off while she held on to her tuba case, the club could not, at the present time, afford Isaiah’s per diem. However, they could offer him a promissory note, payable when their startup went public, or, the club president went on to say as she tried to extract some hair from her braces, the club could act as Isaiah’s eyes and ears around the neighborhood. Operatives, as it were. Isaiah said he’d consider it and the meeting adjourned.

He wasn’t looking forward to any of it. The problems were important but mundane, as challenging as cleaning the stove, and now Sarita called out of the blue. He’d experienced a lot of anxiety during his cases but in those situations he could figure a way out or solve the puzzle and end whatever it was that was making him anxious. This was different. He didn’t understand the situation or even if there was one, and if there was a puzzle to solve he couldn’t identify it.

A ’66 Dodger-blue Chevy Nova rolling on chrome twenties pulled up in front of the store, the engine loping at idle, a 327 small-block by the sound of it. Rap music was pounding like it was trying to break a window and get out of the car. Isaiah wasn’t a fan of rap to begin with but this had accordions and trumpets in it and sounded like some pissed-off Mexicans shouting over a polka band.

Two members of Sureños Locos 13 and a girl named Ramona got out of the car. Isaiah’d had a recent run-in with them and they warned him they’d fuck him up if they caught him on the street. Ramona was fifteen or sixteen. She had pink streaks in her blue-black hair, her stark, penciled-in eyebrows angled over young eyes, pink lipstick outlined in plum, sleeve tats crawling up her arms into a white tank top, her pants called fifties because they were fifty inches wide, the hems stapled to her fridge-white sneakers so she wouldn’t step on them. Her vibe was different than her male colleagues. Hard as them to be sure, no doubt she’d stab you with a bottle so she wouldn’t break a nail, but there was something desperate about her, like she had something to prove and was in a hurry to do it.

“What’s up, motherfucker,” she said. “Remember me?”

One of the fellas wore wraparound shades and a Raiders cap. The other guy, Vicente, was smiling and cocky, a hairnet over his bald head. “Are you stupid?” he said. “Shit, if I was you, I’d be long gone. This is Loco soil, ese.” He swept his arm across Chuck’s Check Cashing, Lo Mejor Jewelry and Loans, Carlita’s Bridal Shop where all the dresses were piñata colors, and Z&Z Trading; racks of handbags, sweatshirts, and stuffed animals in front of the store.

“Are you ready for a beatdown, motherfucker?” Ramona said.

Vicente stepped in close. “What about it, bitch,” he said. “Are you?”

  

Beaumont was looking between the Bud Light sign and the Red Man poster, watching the Mexicans mess with Isaiah. Damn hooligans. Think they can intimidate everybody and take what they want. It really pissed him off and he was afraid for Isaiah too. Beaumont went back to the cash register, reached under the counter, and brought out the .45-caliber Colt Commander he’d brought home from Vietnam. There was rust around the end of the barrel, and rice paddy mud still encrusted on the grip. He wondered if the damn thing would fire.

  

“Look,” Isaiah said, trying to buy time. “I messed up, okay? I meant no disrespect.”

“You came into my house, you fucked with my brother,” Ramona said.

“If it was up to me?” Vicente said. He made his hand into a gun and pointed it at Isaiah’s head. “Pow.” Vicente was leaning back on his right foot and lowering his right shoulder, about to throw a punch. Ramona and Raiders Cap were fanning out, caging him in the vestibule. Nothing else to do but get off first. The main thing: Stay off the ground. You could fight off your back with one opponent but not three.

Isaiah dropped the cranberry juice, the bottle shattering on the pavement, Vicente’s eyes going with it. Isaiah stepped into him with a slashing right elbow, catching him across the nose, the sound like ice cracking. Isaiah brought the elbow back the other way, the point of it hitting Vicente in the temple. His eyeballs froze and he fell over like a tree but Ramona was coming at Isaiah with a wild roundhouse. Isaiah blocked it with an inside-out forearm and punched her in the solar plexus. She fell to her knees, gasping. But Isaiah was off-balance now and couldn’t block Raiders Cap’s hammer fist, the blow coming down on his forehead and knocking him back into the door. Raiders Cap jammed his forearm into Isaiah’s throat and pushed like he was trying to move a wall, teeth clenched and growling, sweat squeezing out of his pores. Isaiah could feel his trachea buckling. He stiffened his fingers into an adze and stabbed Raiders Cap in the left eye. Raiders Cap screamed, turning his head and backing away. Isaiah hit him where his jaw met his temple and kneed him in the balls. Raiders Cap collapsed, but Vicente and Ramona were on their feet now and charging Isaiah. They bulldozed him into the door and dragged him to the ground.

“Kill him,” Ramona said. “Kill this fucker.”

  

Beaumont watched, feeling helpless and stupid, the heavy pistol in his arthritic hand. Firing an M16 at little guys in black pajamas you could barely see wasn’t the same thing as shooting a gangbanger at point-blank range with a gun that might or might not fire. He was fumbling for his phone when another car pulled up next to the Nova. A Chevy Caprice, a ’95, around in there, black with a blacked-out grill and black wheels. Darth Vader’s car if he was a cop. A Mexican man got out. He was older than the others and dressed nice. Khaki chinos that fit him like regular pants, black polo buttoned at the neck. He looked tired and irritated, but he had a nobility about him, like that Indian chief on the buffalo-head nickel.

 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Manzo said. He moved the three gangsters aside like he was parting curtains. “Get up,” he said. He put his hand out and pulled Isaiah to his feet.

“The fuck, Manzo?” Ramona said. “He’s the one that came to my house and fucked with Frankie.”

“You don’t think I know that?” Manzo said, giving Isaiah a look. “We already talked about it.” Manzo still had the welts and bruises from their talk.

“What’s talking got to do with it?” she said.

“You better shut up, chica,” Raiders Cap said.

“I don’t see why he gets off without no punishment. That’s bullshit.”

“Did you hear what happened to Néstor’s daughter?” Manzo said.

“Néstor? Who’s Néstor?” Ramona said.

“She’s my goddaughter, and do you remember when that crazy white boy was setting fires all around the neighborhood?”

“I don’t know, I guess so.”

“And remember when somebody broke into the school where my son Nikki goes and stole all the computers?”

“Yeah, I remember, but—”

“And remember when Jorge who brings in our weed got busted for distribution and was looking at fifteen years?”

“The fuck we talkin’ about, Manzo?”

“We’re talking about Isaiah. He stopped the guy that was going to rape Néstor’s daughter, and he caught the guy that was setting the fires and he got the school’s computers back, and he busted the cops for entrapment so they had to let Jorge go.”

“Who gives a shit, Manzo?” she said. “You can’t go soft just because—”

Manzo backhanded her so hard her head did a Linda Blair, and she collapsed like somebody had yanked out her skeleton. The blow was so sudden and violent Isaiah and the other Locos made ooh faces.

“Listen to me, Ramona,” Manzo said, standing over her. “I’m telling you again. You can’t just do shit because you feel like it. You gotta think about consequences. You gotta weigh the pros and cons. If you fuck Isaiah up and he leaves the neighborhood who would be better off? Néstor’s daughter that didn’t get raped? The people who didn’t get their houses burned down? And what about you? If Jorge was in the joint there wouldn’t be no weed to sell and you’d be working at Taco Bell.” Ramona was lying on her side with her hands over her face, blood seeping through her fingers. Manzo nudged her with his foot. “Are you listening?” he said. “This shit is important. If you want to get somewhere, like in the hierarchy? Then you gotta be more than a soldier. You gotta be smart. You gotta have foresight. You gotta use your fucking head. In other words, think, bitch, and if you ever call me soft again I’ll kill you.” He looked at Vicente and Raiders Cap. “And that goes for you assholes too. Didn’t I tell you about shit like this? Don’t you pendejos understand anything? We’re businessmen now, okay?”

“Okay,” Raiders Cap replied meekly.

Manzo shifted his eyes to Vicente. “Are you hearing me, Vicente?” he said, demanding a response. Vicente looked at him, sneering and defiant. He drew the moment out, deliberately testing Manzo’s patience.

The tension was about to boil over when Vicente said, “Sure, Manzo. Whatever you say.”

Manzo glanced at Isaiah, went to his car, and drove away.

“What a fucking asshole,” Vicente said. He and Raiders Cap picked Ramona up by her armpits, her head lolling like a baby’s.

“When you gonna learn, chica,” Raiders Cap said. “You don’t get no slack because you’re Frankie’s sister.”

She looked at Isaiah with half-open eyes, blood bubbling from her lips. “I’m not finished with you, motherfucker.”

  

Isaiah lay back on the sofa, held a bag of ice to his head, and took another ibuprofen on top of the three he’d already swallowed. He had bruises and abrasions all over his body. It hurt every time he inhaled but there were no broken bones. He thought about Manzo. A week ago, they’d had a fight that could have ended up with one of them dead. He was surprised the gang leader hadn’t joined in the beatdown. And what was all that stuff about rescuing Néstor’s daughter and the stolen computers? Why was Manzo making excuses for him? There had to be something else behind it, some kind of Michael Corleone calculated agenda. Manzo had a rep for that, thinking three steps ahead of the pack, plotting for the long run.

Isaiah wouldn’t be meeting Sarita for another three hours, but he started getting ready anyway, a cauldron of anticipation bubbling inside him. She was Marcus’s girlfriend back when Isaiah was in high school, and he’d always had a crush on her. Soft and mink-slinky, the color of coffee with two creams and smart enough to go to Stanford Law on scholarship and pass the bar on her first try. Thinking about her eyes was corny, but Isaiah couldn’t help it. Shining like buffed copper, knowing and kind, seeing past your outside and into your heart. That was why she didn’t care that Marcus was a handyman a. . .