PRELUDE
The Fall of
Luther
Indianapolis, Indiana.
Back in the Day.
The streets have their own
legends, their own magic, and for a brief moment, Luther White was
the heir apparent to both.
"Listen here, keep that motor
running." Staid snorts of smoke poured from Luther's nose and mouth
like a dragon's exhalations as he puffed on a cigarette. Cutting
his eyes at CashMoney's rayon shirt as if he were ashamed to know
him, Luther slid along the gray vinyl car seat with the coolness of
shadow. His twin Caliburns glinted in the moonlight as he tucked
them into his waistband.
Everyone knew there was a street
tax to be paid if they wished to operate in Luther's neighborhood.
If rent wasn't paid, he came a-calling with his Caliburns. Costing
a fortune, the 9mm Springfield Armory custom-ported stack autos –
with the frames, slides, and some other parts plated in 24K gold,
with gold dragons rearing up along the contrasting black grips –
were his trademark. He rarely had to do more than brandish them for
his point to be made. Tonight a stronger counter argument was
called for.
CashMoney drummed his fingers
along the steering wheel of his Chevy Nova. He wore what
barbershops called the Perfecto cut, his hair like sculpted topiary
with its precise parts and molded crown. His drawn face held an air
of sadness, his brim pulled low on his head to shade his dull brown
eyes. The car's cassette player was broken so he rolled the dial on
the dash, getting mostly static. As if there were any other choice
for music other than WTLC, unless you wanted some of that easy
listening rock garbage.
Luther ground the cigarette out
with his heel, the sparks skittering into the slight breeze. Little
set the rundown four bedroom house apart from the other rundown
homes in the neighborhood, yet Luther strode toward it with
determination and purpose. His brown leather jacket remained opened
enough to reveal the gold chain along his black turtleneck. Life
was all about façades and impressions and Luther took extra care to
make sure his appearance remained slick. His brown eyes brimmed
with ambition. Sideburns, thick but tight, framed his wistful
sneer. He could almost see his reflection in his polished
knobs.
Fall Creek was a natural ley line
that helped carve up Indianapolis, one of those tracks your mother
warned you about that people crossed at their own peril. On one
side were large historic homes, one-time summer houses for those
who lived in downtown Indianapolis; the playground for old money.
On the other, around 30th and Fall Creek Parkway, a neighborhood
spiraled downward with streets which ought to be named after local
reverends and civil rights activists. Luther knew nothing about
ancestral memory, his imagination not given to neither fancy nor
spiritual stirrings. The idea of ley lines or connecting high
places of power or sacredness was the stuff of superstition. It
definitely wasn't part of his world at all. His world was gray and
concrete and real as the dollars that fueled it. Light from the
open door of the old house swathed him and he disappeared
inside.
Barely old enough to drive,
though rumor had it that he was one of the best getaway drivers for
rent, CashMoney viewed himself as half an apprentice to Luther.
Truth be told, his admiring eye transparently masked a covetous
gleam. Barely in his twenties, Luther had already earned the rep
and done crowned himself king of the streets. He lacked the
ruthlessness and deep hatred for women that made career pimps, but
he loved the street hustle. His resume stretched back to his early
teens when he ran numbers, setting up a string of pea shake
gambling houses using his uncle's reputation for muscle.
CashMoney's less-than-ambitious
thoughts idled around trying to figure out how to get Yolanda
Jenkins to give it up. He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat,
regretting his last three beers. Fishing a joint from his pocket,
CashMoney kissed it and hoped they could stop off at Burger Chef
later. A hot minute later, he butted the remainder as shots touted
a break in the evening's festivities.
Luther backed out the doorway
with as casual a stride as possible for a man as cautious as he. A
high yella, stone-cold fox flickered into his peripheral vision.
Her large breasts pushed her shirt straight out, exposing her flat
belly over her tight jeans. With Asian eyes and long black hair,
she would have stood out anywhere; however, here, she almost made
Luther trip over himself. Their eyes locked on one another, her
haunting beauty captured him in its spell. He shook himself to stay
focused on business. Luther clutched the bag full of money and
tumbled into the passenger's seat. Maybe he didn't have to push up
on Green's people, but a message had to be sent.
"Floor this
motherfucker."
Luther banged on the front door of the
rowhouse apartment then stepped back. Cupping his hand, he blew
into it to check for any telltale smoke or drink on his breath.
Getting with one of these church girls required some effort; still,
it was worth it to have the proper woman to raise his future. He'd
changed clothes twice before coming over, because Anyay's mom was
no joke. A serious Christian woman – in church every time the doors
were open and was known for falling out with the Holy Spirit every
Sunday morning – she wasn't about to put up with a trifling fool
showing up on her doorstep. Her massive forearm shoved open the
storm door, but she kept her other hand on the knob of the house
door. A florid woman with a body more brick wall than brick house
stood between him and the fresh face of Anyay who peeped from over
her shoulder.
"Hello, Mrs Watkins. I was
wondering if Anyay was in."
"She is." Mrs Watkins pulled the
door closer behind her, further shielding her daughter from his
gaze.
"Would it be possible to speak to
her for a minute?" His voice strained with politeness, not used to
asking for anything, much less the added tone of deference. He
hoped the gesture would be noticed.
Tilting her jowly face at him,
her expression locked in stony inscrutability, Mrs Watkins weighed
her options. She had dropped her guard once around him before and
Anyay had a newborn to show for it. The situation twisted her heart
since she knew it wasn't right to keep a daddy from his own son.
Too many men simply ran at the prospect of fatherhood and at least
this boy seemed to want to put in the effort. Not that she'd give
him an inch. Even the rakish angle of his cap screamed that this
man-child was too cocky for his own good. When he relaxed, he
favored his father, not that he'd know since he never knew the man.
However, Mrs Watkins came up with the boy's grandma. He was four
years old when he went to her, and even then she knew he had an
anger in him only soothed by running wild. The poison of the
streets sopped up into him like gravy into a biscuit.
"You ain't coming in my house and
Anyay ain't leaving the porch. The baby's asleep and you got ten
minutes."
"Thank you, Mrs–" he said to her
back, the slamming porch door cutting him off.
Anyay lowered her head as her
momma passed, hiding her excitement while appearing properly
repentant for past indiscretions.
The stairs creaked in protest as
Mrs Watkins climbed them. "Ten minutes," a dismembered voice
reiterated.
Anyay opened the door and slipped
out.
"Girl, check you out. Your momma
ever going to give you a break?"
"Not as long as we're living
under her roof." Anyay leaned against the porch door. Her thin arms
crossed in faux impatience. Her face caught the moonlight,
rekindling her freshness, as if unsullied by his, or any, hands.
Reddish-brown braids cascaded down to her shoulders, a T-shirt
draped along her lithe body. Though longer than most dresses, she
still had to wear pants around the house, much less to come to the
door. Momma's rules.
"I'm working on that."
"I'm serious, Luther. We need a
proper home. You need a proper job, not all this rippin' and
runnin' you call a life."
"You knew I was in the game when
you got with me, baby." Luther trotted out his tired defense.
Tonight, with her looking as beautiful as she was, searching him
for more, he knew she was right.
"I know, but still… we got
responsibilities now." The glint in her voice matched her
no-nonsense eyes. Anyay dared to dream of a better life for them,
her words a fine razor of guilt. She had no interest in changing
him, she only wanted for them to be a family. And get away from the
streets.
"How's he doing?"
"King is great. Misses his
daddy."
"Can I see him?" Luther's face
lit up despite his cloak of cool nonchalance. Even the idea of the
boy broke him down in ways he couldn't explain – not to CashMoney,
not to his boys, and barely to himself. Good ways.
"Can you be quiet?"
"Ain't that how we came up with
him in the first place? Your mom's at her prayer meeting, but
decides to come home early."
"Guess the Holy Spirit was
whispering to her that night," Anyay said, her large eyes glancing
up at him as her head nodded down. It was a look, a meaningful
gaze, reserved only for Luther. She was his in ways she couldn't
explain – not to her momma, not to her girls, and barely to
herself. Good ways.
"Yeah, the Holy Spirit's got a
mouth on Him. But I wasn't 'bout to leave before I got done. Man
puts in the work, he expects his paycheck."
"Luther…" she said in her "you're
terrible" voice.
"Where is my little
man?"
"Come on."
Luther trailed Anyay into the
house. Around her, the bravado he wore as armor melted into
meaninglessness. The desperate gasp his life so often became
reduced to a measured breathing. He could relax. Even a king had to
rest his head some time.
His mouth open, head turned to
the side while drool leaked from him like an untightened faucet,
King James White slept blissfully unaware on the couch. A
coordinated outfit of a light green set of pajamas – matched down
to his socks. Luther couldn't have his son crawling about in
hand-me-downs. The infant had a purity about him that swelled
Luther's heart with the knowledge that he was a part of making him.
King was his legacy and he had to do right by him.
"I was about to take him
upstairs. We expected you earlier."
"Yeah, I had some unexpected
business that needed straightening out." He stuffed a handful of
yards into her palm. If he couldn't be present in their lives the
way either of them wanted, the hundred dollar bills would make sure
they wanted for nothing.
"How much longer will you have…
business?" Despite the sad, disapproving quality to her voice,
Anyay folded the bills and slipped them into her purse. In the end,
she was a practical woman with bills to pay, but she hated herself
for accepting the money. Luther came up behind her and wrapped his
arms around her.
"One more matter to settle and
I'm out, I swear. If I can't hand things off in the proper way,
everything will fall apart. I'm trying to put together something
that will last."
"I know, baby. I know. The
important thing is that you're here now."
"I gotta book."
"But you just got here." She
pulled from his embrace, facing him but backing away. Only when she
pouted like this did her young age reveal itself.
"My ten minutes are almost
up."
"Go then, you'd rather be with
the streets than with me, anyway."
Luther rolled his eyes then
sighed to himself. "Come here." True, his duty was to the game.
There was magic in its call, a magic he had long ago embraced. It
was as if his Indianapolis had two sides to it: the day-to-day
world only the squares knew and the magical underbelly, the world
of wonder he knew. She may never share in his world, but he could
one day join her in hers.
Anyay turned around.
"What?"
"Come here." He folded her into
his arms and kissed her. "I'll be back, you hear?"
In front of the shopping strip which housed
Preston Safeway, the Crown Room, and Nell's Beauty Salon, Antwan X,
with his militant Afro and corduroy bell bottoms, passed out flyers
to the next meeting for those interested in the ever-in-the-offing
revolution. Sure, he'd done a stick-up or two in his day – hell,
last week – however, always with The Cause in mind. Like the griots
of ancient Africa, he knew the history of the neighborhood.
The rivalry between Luther and
Green was the topic of many a corner conversation. Luther ran wild
with robberies and number running, setting up pea shakes in the
neighborhood. Green's trade leaned toward whores and drugs, leaving
the occasional body in his wake (but only of those in the game,
such was his code). How the two came to cross each other, no one
was quite sure since their respective business interests rarely
intersected. Probably little more than professional jealousy, the
battle of street reps. The latest reports were not found in any
paper, not even the Indianapolis Recorder, the city's black newspaper. No, for the
discerning ear, word of their exploits traveled the vine from
barbershop to barstool.
"Now, Speedbump was the craziest
brother I ever knew." Antwan X ironed the freshly pressed stack of
flyers with his hand.
"Speedbump? I never heard of no
Speedbump." CashMoney, still sporting his red Chuck Taylors, was
all about getting some of that herb. He had been a legend on the
ball court – the tales of his athletic exploits grew in the
retelling – until he messed up his knee over some nonsense after a
game. Money. A woman. Drugs. One of the usual suspects.
"Old school cat. Used to run the
streets with Bird and Green."
"Hard to believe Green's still
around."
"Green always around. He
eternal," Antwan X reassured him.
"So why'd they call him
Speedbump?"
"Cause the fool would run into
the middle of the street every time he got chased. Always get hit,
bounce off people's windshields. Get up like it was
nothing."
"What about Bama?"
"Now he was country crazy. He'd
walk straight up to a fool and pop him. Did that shit on some
police once. Folks kept their distance from him cause they never
knew what he was going to do next or what would set him off."
Antwan X smiled at the memory of the story. The roll-call of street
kings; their exploits burned brightly but briefly. The smile
curdled on his lips as he recalled their all-too-eventual
fates.
"It's a small neighborhood."
CashMoney offered a hit off his joint to Antwan X, who waved him
off. A sadness fastened itself to the times that begged a
drug-induced numbing to get through. Anyway, if he was to get to
philosophizing, he preferred to do it in the throes of a
high.
"What you mean?"
"I mean, we got Luther and we got
Green." He leaned his head back and released a puff of smoke
against the backdrop of the moon and away from Antwan X. "These two
are running wild and the streets ain't big enough for 'em
both."
"Green's no joke."
"Neither's his girl." CashMoney
flicked his tongue along his teeth then spat.
"Morgana?"
"Fine. Ass. Sister. If I'm lying,
I'm dying."
"I don't see how you can work for
Green," Antwan X said.
"Baddest mother this side of
Nasty Mike. Even Bama don't cross him."
"Bama ain't Luther." Antwan X
nodded over CashMoney's shoulder. "Speak of the devil…"
"Be straight, baby." CashMoney
booked inside without turning around, as if a student not wanting
to be caught smoking by the principal.
The confidence of Luther's gait
suggested that if he stopped, the neighborhood's orbit would have
spun off its axis. Every day brought changes to the neighborhood he
loved so much. Neto's Bar closed up, another bit of his childhood
devoured as shop owners who'd built up a life moved out.
Woolworth's, Roselyn Bakery, Meadows Music – they were here now,
but for how much longer as working people left the area? No one
owned anything in the neighborhood anymore. No ownership, no stake.
But his name rang out and everyone beckoned occasion from him. So
fuck everyone else, he had to go for his.
"All right now, brother, all
right now." Antwan X clasped Luther's hands.
"Brother, Antwan." He crossed
some Panthers because he had no interest in their revolution.
Antwan X was neither a Panther nor Nation of Islam, choosing to
call himself an independent intelligencer. He read a lot, spoke a
lot, and spread a lot of the same "power to the people" bullshit.
However, Luther still stepped lightly – nuff respect due and all
that. Luther's rueful eyes followed the back of a man crossing the
street. "Who was that?"
"One of Green's people. You been
making a lot of noise with them. Here you go, brother." Antwan
handed him a flyer. "Check us out when you get tired of having the
man's boot on your neck. Can you dig it?"
"Right on. How's your
boy?"
Antwan X raised his gloved hand.
"Live righteous."
Luther returned the clenched fist
and disappeared behind the black-tinted windows of the Crown Room.
The darkened back room of the Crown Room was Luther's home away
from home. A lone light hovered over the pool table and created an
optical illusion. Until their faces or hands leaned into its
protective glow, they were shadows in the darkness, voices from the
spirit world for all any other knew. It was the way he preferred to
conduct business. CashMoney chalked his cue stick, cocky but
already high. Merle, already full of drink, shifted his eyes from
the scene to the barkeep. Luther knew his days running the streets
were coming to a soon end if this were the class of consigliere
left to him.
"Damn." Luther's ball pulled up
short.
A mild smirk on his face,
CashMoney always took Luther's money on the table but never talked
crazy about it out of respect. A cigarette dangled from his lip,
the last inch of which was ash waiting to drop off. How CashMoney
managed to smoke so much of his cigarette yet keep his ashes from
falling remained a mystery. Everyone had their own gift. CashMoney
leaned in for his shot. "Couple o' cats in here looking for
you."
"You know them?"
"Nah."
"What'd they look
like?"
"They had heat on
them."
"Green's boys. Green like Spring.
Green like dollars. Dollar bills. Cash money." Merle folded his
arms and laid his head down next to his drink. He drooled into his
craggily auburn beard. A black raincoat draped about him like a
cloak and his huge bald spot reflected like a chrome cap.
"So what you think?" Luther asked
CashMoney.
"Maybe sit him down for a
parlay."
"Parlez. It's French," Merle
interjected.
"Why you even let him in here?"
CashMoney hated the crazy-ass white boy, yet Luther listened to him
more than any other member of his crew. "He smells like
piss."
"That's cause I had to pee. And
my gentlemen's gentleman is shy. My drawers are like his… home
court advantage."
Luther stumbled across Merle
during one of his Thanksgiving turkey giveaways. Every so often,
Luther gave back to the neighborhood he called home. It bought him
a measure of goodwill – positive PR never hurt – but it was also
his responsibility. Part of the code he lived by. Hundreds of hands
reached up to the back of the truck – anxious, desperate, and
greedy – then a ragamuffin of a white dude hops in to help hand out
the frozen birds.
"They won't fly, you know. Even
if you drop them from a helicopter."
"Get the fuck out of here, old
man. We got this."
"Green's penumbra falls even on
the Pendragon. And a squirrel's always got to get his
nut."
CashMoney was ready to lay a beat
down on him then and there, but Luther stayed his hand. In some way
he couldn't explain, he was drawn to the homeless man. Like they
were meant to be together, Merle always having advised him. Luther
suspected the man knew more than he let on, the mystical gleam in
the man's eye dancing with delight in its secrets.
Plus, Merle made him
laugh.
"So what you think,
Merle?"
"When you put the toast in the
toaster who pops up? Jeeeeeeeeesus." CashMoney slammed his cue
stick into the table, his patience nearing its end. Merle didn't
acknowledge his outburst. "I think you can have a truce if you play
things right. Too much noise on the streets brings the man down on
all of us." Merle turned to CashMoney. "Makes it hard for Sir
Rupert to find his nuts."
"Why you listen to this Hee
Haw-lookin' motherfucka? He better not be still talking about
his–"
"Sir Rupert's his squirrel,"
Luther insisted.
"That's not any
better."
"Go on."
"That's all." Merle leaned out of
the ruinous light. "You want the streets calm, call for the parlez.
That's the best play."
Luther, too, stepped out of the
light. The image of the vaguely Asian-looking black lady crept into
his mind, unbidden, like a spell of enchantment. Passion stirred in
his loins at the idea of her, pushing aside stray thoughts of Anyay
and King. "His girl's awful fine."
"Who? Morgana?" CashMoney
asked.
"Morgana." Luther repeated the
name in little more than a whisper, savored the sound of it, caught
up in the spell of her.
"Best to not think too hard on
her," Merle said.
"She's always had a thing for
you," CashMoney said.
"For real?"
"It's what I heard."
"What about Anyay?" Merle sat up,
lucid eyes fraught with concern.
"What about her? I'm not saying
I'm trying to lay the broad, just rap with her for a minute. See
where her head's at. Get in Green's head a bit. Where she
stay?"
Merle sighed with resignation.
"You have the Pendragon spirit, true, true. Betrayed by yourself or
those closest to you, such is your curse. Father, son. Son, father.
The path is unclear."
"There he go with that crazy talk
again," CashMoney said.
"I'll tell you this plain enough:
if you get with her, there will be no truce."
"You tell me where she stay and
won't be no need for a truce. I'll book," Luther said.
"She stay on Sussex Avenue, over
by the Meadows Apartments." Merle cocked his ear as if listening to
a voice on an unfelt breeze. "Hmm, that might not have been in my
best interest."
"I dunno. Maybe I will sit down
for a parlay."
"Not the right man," Merle
muttered. "Not the right man, indeed. He falls before his own
nature. Perchance the son." Merle staggered into the light then
back into the shadows before departing the room entirely. "Coming,
Sir Rupert."
The lure of the city was that
there was always something new to conquer. One last score, then he
was out, Luther swore. His weakness was that he had a way of making
things fall apart, of never being strong enough to hold things
together. The spade King Midas, but whose touch turned everything
to shit.
CashMoney, his spirits raised
with the departure of the drunken would-be soothsayer, exchanged
skin with Luther then chalked up his cue stick. "My man. Always
finding yourself in situations, usually involving some tail. You
got your hands full there, boy."
"What's up on the score?" Luther
had been planning the bank heist for a while. True, it was a
neighborhood bank, but money was money.
"They pick up the money once a
week."
"Cash money?"
"Like my name."
"Guards?"
"Four. Two in front, two in back.
Three revolvers, one 12-gauge." CashMoney studied him. "Think you
can take them?"
"I still got my Caliburns." Their
weight grew heavy in his shoulder holsters.
"Welcome to the revolution,"
CashMoney said.
"Save the militant bullshit.
After the parlay and the score, I'm out."
Luther had little more than stepped into
Morgana's pad before their lips met. Women weren't hard to get. His
rep was whispered on the lips of those in the know and he flashed
just enough for folks to know he had money. Events careened at him.
Half the time he was the sole conductor of his life. The other half
he felt caught up in circumstances beyond his control; at least,
that was the lie he told himself when he found himself in
situations he knew there'd be severe consequences for. He preferred
to live in the minute.
"What about Green?" He asked not
out of any worry about being discovered, but wanting to know that
his conquest was complete.
"He out of town. Besides, Green
don't own me. Would it matter if he did? Wouldn't you simply enjoy
taking me even more if I were his?" Morgana issued a small smile.
Being around her intoxicated him. Though he had never touched the
stuff before, they did a line of cocaine. He hated the
muddleheadedness of it, the slow creeping nausea and the lack of
control that came with not being focused. He thought nothing of her
then, breaking up a bud and rolling a fat, tight number.
The sounds of rutting animals
soured the night. Their bodies pressed together, unbridled. Their
passions flared with little thought for the next day. With each
thrust he erased himself. Other than CashMoney and Merle, all the
people he came up with were gone. In his heart, he knew his time
was almost done, but as long as he breathed, there was time to
rekindle his old fires. From the confines of her warm embrace, he
answered the siren song of the streets and hoped to get out before
his ship crashed against the rocks.
Piercing a fog of memory, Luther slowly
recalled the past evening as the unfamiliar surroundings alarmed
him. Already the spirit of regret churned in his belly. It took a
few moments for the figure who loomed over him to coalesce into
view.
"Baby, you gots to go."
He hadn't felt Morgana stir nor
heard her get ready. Her back to him, she fitted gold hoops into
her ears. Her hair styled into Afro puffs, she wore a gold one
piece jumpsuit dotted with maize colored swirls. Turning, she
revealed a cruel smile, a cat in the afterglow of finally devouring
a mouse it had long toyed with. Whatever spell last night held him
in sway had been a heady one. She slipped on a pair of sunglasses
to hide her cold, calculating eyes.
"What's happening?" Luther
asked.
"Green on his way
over."
"Shit. I thought you said that
fool was out of town?"
"He was. But he just called. Said
he'll be here in a few."
Shit shit
shit, Luther thought as he threw on his clothes and tucked
his Caliburns into his shoulder holster. Not that he was afraid of
Green, but he hated needless drama. A deal gone bad, a
confrontation on the street, those were the cost of doing business.
Emotional stuff – and Lord help him if Anyay heard about this –
exhausted him to no end. And no matter her protestations to the
contrary, another man in her bed would drive Green to… emotional
stuff.
His leather jacket wrapped around
him, he rammed his probing tongue past her dispassionate lips. Her
kiss was dismissive at best.
The first rays of dawn punctured
the night, the closest thing to a peace time the streets ever knew.
Freaks finally called it a night and young ones scrambled about to
get up in order to tune into Cowboy Bob's
Cartoon Corral. Going over plans for the heist, he thought
of King and pulled a pack of Kools from his inside pocket. He had
barely drawn out a cigarette when he noticed the car. A brand new
two-door Cadillac Coupe DeVille – red with a white vinyl top – its
454 big block with a four barrel carburetor idled loudly. The door
was open, displaying its opera lights. A lone figure leaned against
it.
Green.
Luther stifled a grin. There were
few things more dangerous than a young man with a loaded gun, light
trigger finger, and nothing to lose. His blood raced. Adrenalized.
He finished firing up his cigarette, cocksure and slow, as he sized
up the man with the hint of a goatee and his dark skin. Green had
the look of a dude who'd done a couple bids in prison, not some
county lock-up. His suit was cross-checked with gold and green
stripes. Emerald silk lined it and his matching cuffs. Gold rimmed
shades encompassed much of his face. A gold, minky velvet coat
rested on his shoulders, leopard fur trimmed it from his collar to
the bottom and around to the back. A matching fedora angled on his
head.
"If it's not the Spade King."
Green's voice was like bark being scraped.
"Green." Luther walked up to him,
hands in plain sight, but unafraid.
"Here on business?"
"I'm not on a hustle. Just
visiting a friend."
"A man needs to be careful of the
friends he chooses. They may not always have his best interests at
heart." Green sauntered toward him, inexorable and deliberate, yet
heavy with promise. "You're a soldier in a war you don't even
understand. You fight just to be fighting."
"What you trying to lay on me?
What about you?"
"Live for the Spring, die in the
Winter; in between, I soldier."
"Business as usual."
"It's never personal." Green
stepped closer, his breath smelled of freshly mowed grass. "I heard
you wanted to parlay."
"I'm getting out of the
game."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"Mm-hmm." Green took a moment to
mull over things.
Luther wanted to read the man's
eyes but only saw his own image darkly reflected in the shades.
Green's thoughts, like so many of the deepest players, were ever
his own.
"I'm looking to tie up a few
loose ends before I move on."
"You really think that's how it
ends for soldiers like us? That we get the wife, the kids, the
white picket fence and the happily ever after? You don't get to
just walk away. You get till you get got. Blood simple."
"That so?" The weight of his
Caliburns pressed against him, begging to be used. He desperately
wanted to end this farce and draw down on Green.
"You drawing on me violates the
parlay," Green said, though unafraid, as if reading his thoughts.
"A man is only as good as his word."
"I have a simple proposal. I turn
the pea shakes over to you for a taste. Ten per cent off the top,
consider that my pension."
"That'd all been fine except for
one thing."
"What's that?" Luther
asked.
"There are always consequences to
our choices and the friends we choose to make."
"We're still at
parlay."
"I know that. But I can't help
things if a man can't control his own troops."
The shot ripped through Luther's
side like a molten thrust of a blade. He spun, drawing a Caliburn
in the same balletic movement. CashMoney stood there, gun in hand.
Luther squeezed the trigger, with only a resounding click in
response. Unsure of what to expect, CashMoney flinched at first but
with the click, returned a knowing grin. Luther scuttled to the
side, but CashMoney fired off a quick three shots, the first two
hitting him in the chest, the third going astray.
It caught Green in the
arm.
CashMoney's face blanched in
response, lowering the gun immediately.
"Oh shit, Green, I–"
"Chill, little man," Green said.
His flesh began to re-knit itself, thin vines extending out as if
covering a house then assuming the appearance of flesh. "No harm
done, but you owe me for the cost of fixing my coat."
"You still staking me?"
"Done." Green reached into his
Caddy and tossed CashMoney a small duffle bag. He inspected the
contents, finding the cash and product to his liking. "Welcome to
the game."
Morgana watched the street pantomime of
police and ambulance lights while people scampered back and forth
in vain, attending to the fallen king. As promised, CashMoney
retrieved her gifts before anyone arrived on the scene. Opening her
keepsake chest, she placed in it the twin Caliburns, joining the
bullets she had removed from them. Such a disgraceful and ignoble
death for a king.
She patted her belly with the
knowing of an expectant mother.
Long live the king.