CHAPTER TWO

 
 

Juneteenth Walker wanted more. Trapped in the corner of the fevered nightmare of his life, he suffered from the epiphany of a fuck-up's resignation: he was never going to rise higher. Baylon kept him on the crew out of what passed for goodwill, but Dred was the main man and if Dred got word of his latest fuck-up, he was done.

  The slow growth of keloided needle tracks trailed along his arm. Too many black moles dotted his skin. The spike rested in his vein though he'd already pushed the plunger. His head lolled back and the heroin rush took him to dark places. Images of a flesh-stripped baby sucking at the damp skin of the elongated tits of an emaciated old woman with too much paunch and lank hair danced in his mind's eye. The resounding closeness of the dark thundered in his ear.

  The picture of this scene froze like a bootleg DVD in need of cleaning before resolving into his present or at least not-too-distant past. Half-formed shadows entwined in the night. The dirty mattress stank of liquor and blood, the close squalor of rusted pipes and cracked plaster walls around him. A woman with a large nose and a numb smile gazed up at him in the approximation of a come-hither stare that at one time might have been sexy. Her body remembered her poise and flirting coyness despite her now-sagging skin and dusty complexion. Her toothless mouth wrapped around his engorged member, still mewling from his lap for a taster package. A transaction of flesh for a free dose. As if electric wires stabbed into his thigh, he convulsed, her filthy fingernails digging into him as she bared her gaping mouth full of his seed. Far from pleasing, the entire concerto of writhing flesh played out with the pleasure of him crawling along a hill of razor blades. Anything to divert his attention. To numb him.

  Junie tripped over a body in the debris-littered corridor. A series of doorless rooms lined the hallway. Alone with the ritual madness and his thoughts, a long drag from the cigarette helped him to ride down his high. It was almost time to get back on the clock and start grinding, if he still had a place on the crew. In a straight-up dope fiend move, after he screwed up the count, he blamed it on being jacked by a notorious street thief. He knew he had better keep hiding the truth because if Baylon knew, goodwill notwithstanding, they'd beat his ass before putting him out of his misery.

  Back in his spot, he set down the controller for his PlayStation and spat out the last of his sunflower seeds when Parker Griffin hit him up on his cell for them to do a run. For appearance's sake, he wanted to appear busy or, if nothing else, at least not at the immediate beck and call of Baylon as, after all, he was no man's errand boy. He told Parker to be at 30th and MLK and he'd pick him up in a half-hour. Nearly an hour later, practically punctual in his world, he saw the skinny man with a boy's face, with his eager eyes and teeth too large for his mouth. It was his hair, a Mohawk with the hair on either side of it braided into corn rows. Five-O would always be picking him up if he worked a corner.

  "'Sup, Junie," Parker said.

  Junie hated the nickname, but it wasn't as if he were in love with his given name, either. "'Sup, big man. You still got that hair."

  "What took you so long?" Parker changed topics. The last thing he wanted was to become one of those nondescript fools. He envisioned himself like Samson in the Bible; his strength, his image, was in his hair and he'd be damned if he'd cut it for a woman, much less a dude.

  "You interrupt a man while he's in mid-stroke, you should expect him to take a minute to get his rhythm back."

  "I heard that." Parker reached out to give him a pound.

  The easy acceptance of the lie pleased Junie. It meant that his rep was set. Truth be told, he already had five kids by five different baby mommas, none of whom he bothered to know. But he had rather informally taken Parker under his wing and enjoyed the way Parker clung to his words. Junie was overprotective of him to the point of being too quick to take knucklehead bullshit to the next level.

  For his part, Parker, though young, was anxious to prove himself both to Junie and to Baylon. It was just like Parker to admire a no-heart pretty boy with too much flash and too much to prove like Junie. He rolled with Parker's older brother – "Griff," as the right of the firstborn included the claim to his own name – and Parker worshiped both of them. It had been three years since Griff was killed.

  "Where we heading?" Junie asked.

  "Over to Breton Street. Night's boys playing our corners a little too close."

  Junie held his fingers up like a gun and squeezed off a few rounds.

  "Nah, nothing like that," Parker said. "Yet. He said we should just make our presence felt."

  "A'ight."

 

Jonathan Jennings Public School 109 – named for an early governor of Indiana – was a no-tolerance zone for the drug trade, not that the fact stemmed things beyond creating a neutral zone of sorts between the two major crews, Dred and Night. Dred's lieutenant, Baylon, had been tasked by Dred with establishing a west side beachhead which started with control of the Breton Court condominiums. Night's crew, helmed by Green, Baylon's equivalent in Night's organization, held down the Breton Court corner along with three of his boys and staked a claim to much of the west side of Indianapolis. Boys was the right word: all of the street games were run by would-be men who had "teen" in their age. Except for Green. Green was eternal. It was rare for a higher-up such as Green to be seen on street level, though if anyone would, it would be him. There was no getting in Green's head, he simply was who he was.

  Junie pulled his car into the parking lot of PS 109 and adjusted the rearview mirror so that he could get a full view of the situation. He had barely gotten Green's crew into sight when Green's baleful stare locked onto him. It was almost as if Green's grim countenance, his haunting eyes in particular, filled the mirror. Junie snatched his hand back as if burned.

  "Everything all right?" Parker asked.

  "Yeah. I just wanted to get up before we do what we do." Junie reached under his seat and pulled free a rolled sandwich bag thick with chronic. Two prerolled blunts sat on top. It was well known that Junie always held a bag filled with weed at almost all times. By his account, he simply liked to carry enough to have a party any time. He was a sharing kind of guy. Truth be told, he lacked the patience and dexterity to roll a simple blunt and often had folks roll him a couple as thanks for his generosity. Junie sparked one up then and without hesitation, passed it to Parker. "Pass me my business and pop that glove box for me."

  The act itself, being treated as an equal by Junie, got Parker up as much as the weed itself, but he retained his sense of cool. He handed him back the blunt and reached across to the glove box. It fell as open as Parker's jaw at the sight of the Taurus 85. "That live?"

  "They all live, remember that. You better tuck that away if you're gonna step with me."

  "Baylon said no beefing, just be a presence."

  "Then we'll be a strapped presence. I'm like a Boy Scout up in here. Always prepared. If shit jumps off, I want to be able to hold more than my dick, you feel me?"

  Cognizant of ever-present eyes, Parker kept the gun below the window line and slipped it into the large pocket of his oversized jeans. The pair exited the car escorted by a cloud of smoke. Parker's stride changed immediately. More than just the newfound weight in his pocket altered his gait. No, his entire bearing was different, like he'd gone from boy to man for real. He imagined himself as taller, harder, like one of those dieseled brothers in lock-up. His eyes narrowed as if daring any passing motherfucker to fuck with him. Yeah, the gun juiced him like he'd been popping Viagra all evening, and when he glanced over at Junie, he realized he'd found the secret to Junie's reckless, Chief Swinging Dick stride.

 

Decorative red posts lined the curb in front of the entrance to the Breton Court rowhouses, now seats for Green's men. Green stood, a proud tree shading his men under the umbrella of his presence.

  A Mexican family had purchased the gas station/convenience store as well as the restaurant beside it. The convenience store doubled as a fast food kiosk and, knowing their demographic, served Hispanic and Jamaican dishes. Marbles, two stores down in the mini-strip of shops, catered to folks' soul food needs. Strolling down the sidewalk fresh from a run to the convenience store for some burritos and Jamaican patties, King's steps hitched as he came upon the panorama. His street-smart eyes analyzed and broke down the scene.

  The name of the older of the two who crossed the street from the school's park eluded him. They walked toward the Breton Court condos from the east side keeping pace with King's approach from the west. No one needed reminding who was at the center. Green had been around as long as anyone could remember and stayed in because he had three things working in his favor: he was smart, he wasn't greedy, and he wasn't ambitious. Green always seemed to be someone's lieutenant, the shadow advisor/enforcer to whoever wore the crown. Yet he had little interest in the throne itself. Despite the warmth of late summer, Green kept a regal demeanor. A chinchilla fur coat rested atop his suit, gold like leaves in fall, which matched his pair of Robert Waynes. The duo passed Green's crew without comment, slow-stepping in front of them, chests puffed out in a preening dare to action. Like a fine conductor, Green's sole reaction was to hold out the palm of his hand; his well-trained orchestra didn't so much as flinch.

  Suddenly, the name of the older one came to King: Juneteenth Walker. They'd come up together, though Junie ended up doing a nickel in juvey rather than complete high school. Whether he realized it or not, Junie had the fallen crest of a man who'd been broken by time lost, reminding King of the man who was too old to be in the club: he had the right dress, talked the right talk, but had the air of being rather… pathetic. He stopped directly in King's path.

  "You on my corner," Junie said to King, but for Green's benefit. King remained close-mouthed as if too good to speak to them. "I'm talking to you, motherfucker."

  "Excuse me?" King neither broke his mild stare nor stepped away.

  "You heard me, motherfucker. Do you know who I am?"

  "I know who you are, Junie."

  Junie's heart swelled despite the use of the nickname, part with pride as he believed his name had began ringing out on the streets and part jacked up on adrenaline and weed. He spared a glance at Parker to see if he'd heard the same thing. Parker's hand itched, wanting an excuse to pull his newfound manhood. King displayed no emotion other than his eyes saying that he could care less what they thought of him. He was mindful of the territory boundaries. Gray zones were the most dangerous. To the west, Dred. To the east, Night.

  "I heard there was a misunderstanding over real estate over here," Parker said in a poor man's stagewhisper.

  "You heard wrong," Junie said. "We expanded into unclaimed territory. Think of it as a market correction."

  "Excuse me." King pushed the cold, coiling temper of his down to a deep place. Well, a deeper place. Unlike them, he had real responsibilities and folks who depended on him and didn't have the time or patience for machismo posturing so he moved to step around them. Green glared with baleful and empty orbs.

  "Punk-ass bitch," Parker said to King's passing side. "That's what I thought."

  "We'll finish this later," Junie echoed.

  "I highly doubt it," King said.

  Life came down to crossroad moments. Staring at Junie, waiting, eyes heavy with contempt, King had no interest in this little street performance, no matter whose benefit it was for; however, he wasn't going to be pushed around in his home court. He neither sought the street nor any of the foolish sense of self it engendered. But he could and would handle his business.

  "What'd you say?" Junie asked.

  "If I have something to discuss," the cold thing slithered up King's gut, through his throat, and found a home in his mouth before he could control it again, "I doubt I'll take it up with some scrub nigga. Your boy here talks too much shit. Ain't got no call to be talking to me like that, but now you done had your say, you want to be a man, you free to step to me any time." His back stiff with resolve, King waited for Junie to make the next move though he hoped for a quiet resolution. He just wanted to put his head up for the evening. The younger one had the natural youthful swagger brought by easy access to guns and leading to reckless courage, but Junie was a punk and would always be a punk.

  "You going to be seeing me later on." Though his voice was unconvincing, Junie brushed his hand against his shirt and revealed the outline of his piece.

  "We got a problem?" Green asked as if bored with the entire affair. His voice grumbled like branches snapping in a storm.

  Junie stepped forward, Parker stayed back and to his left. Green's men withdrew a few paces, backing up Green. Junie thought about stepping to Green, but a voice in his soul cried out knowing better. Junie waited a moment too long. Fear lit his eyes as he searched for the right mix of bravado and wit. "Nah. I think we understand each other."

  The French described the feeling he would experience for the next few days as l'esprit d'escalier: all the shit you thought of to say on your way down the stairs after your butt had been clowned in front of your boy. Junie couldn't meet Parker's eyes.

  "Too many eyes on us now anyway." Parker revealed the gun butt above his waistband. "You didn't see nothing."

  "You don't want me to see shit, don't do shit where I can see it," King said, the cold thing slowly wrestled under control before it pushed its luck in the calming situation.

  "Come on, man. I think our message has been sent." Junie hoped sheer attitude would be enough to stanch the wound of bleeding pride.

  Parker turned on his heel, glanced back and then spat at his feet. He'd have pulled his piece and dusted that fool in front of Green to show him they were men to be taken seriously, but he backed his man's play. They might think they punked him, but they'd soon know what it meant to cross Baylon's men.

 

The chorus of barks from the Rottweilers stirred with his passing, Baylon walked his prize bitch, an American Pit Bull Terrier. She never barked, the "surgery" saw to that. From a distance, she was a beautiful dog, but upon closer inspection, she was a stalking hematoma of a brute. A network of still-healing scars latticed her head and legs, with recently cleaned-out puncture wounds, she was a picture of barely suppressed rage spoiling for an excuse to explode.

  From his back patio, it was only a matter of getting to the end of the row of apartments – shielded from the prying eyes of the street by a row of perpendicular facing apartments – to confront the figure waiting for him. His lawyer wanted to look down his long nose at Baylon, but couldn't. In fact, he could barely meet his eye. Baylon studied him with his harsh squint, waiting for the payoff. It was barely perceptible, but the slight movement of his small Adam's apple came: the swallow of fear. He knew he had him.

  "Things are looking good, Baylon," he said, with his high-pitched, tense voice.

  "That a fact." Baylon approached with his flexing gait. Not quite the full pimping stroll, but enough to convey the fluid movement of his prison-built bulk. "Hearing's coming up."

  "It was only a juvey charge."

  "I'm not trying to see the inside of any jail."

  "I wouldn't worry about it. The DA's entire case hinged on one witness."

  "My nosey-ass neighbor."

  "Exactly. Word around the court steps says that your neighbor's up and vanished on them."

  "Word?" Baylon asked, nonplussed, eyes halfclosed in on-setting ennui.

  "Yeah, I figure that they'll be dropping formal charges shortly." The lawyer skittishly glanced about. "You got anything for me by way of payment?"

  "Yeah, I got you." Baylon reached his hand out to shake. The lawyer took his hand, palming his future fix, then backed away quickly from the bared teeth of the dog. Baylon smirked. "Do you know how you turn a perfectly tame pet into a ruthless fighter?"

  "Not really."

  "You chain it up, beat it, starve it, tease it, then beat it some more. That's the way life is. The sooner it knows it, the sooner it's ready to handle it. Then it's ready for the fight every time out."

  "Um, OK, then I guess I'll see you at the next date." His lawyer swallowed again.

  "Whatever, man." Baylon turned on his heel in a casual dismissal of the man. He had some fools to sit down with. A row of Rottweilers' snouts protruded from under his patio. They seemed every bit the innocent dogs seeking a petting hand. He'd seen those same snouts rip apart cats thrown their way. He walked past them, short, heavy chains attached to thick collars held them at bay. He usually kept them hungry, lean for the fight, but he spoiled them the other day. Other neighbors may have seen the feeding; hell, he wanted them to see. Even if no one did, he'd spread the rumors himself, building his rep, instilling fear, and quieting any other would-be heroes or nosey-ass neighbors.

  "That's a good bitch," he said to her.

  But she said nothing.

 

The houses were piled on one another, barely a few feet between them, with their fenced-in small yards. Every now and then, one of the houses had a boy sitting absently, bouncing a basketball between his legs. Two cars couldn't pass one another on the cramped streets if anyone was parked on either side. Junie kept his head low, his eyes darting from side to side, studying the mess of kids hanging out on corners. The low bass from a passing car roused his attention, so he scuttled down the sidewalk then crossed the street abruptly. If he were worried about being followed, he needn't have been. Everyone knew where he was heading. Junie knocked on the door of the two-storey home.

  "It's me."

  Parker opened the door. Excruciating silences and averted eyes shadowed their interactions – Junie hadn't spoken to him since the incident with King James White.

  Baylon stood down the hall in the living room and glared at them with drooping, yet condescending eyes. Abandoned by family – they gave up on him long ago – his people had been scattered by the game. His friends were either dead or in jail. His life was transitory, with him moving often. Cash up front, no name on anything; as far as the system was concerned, he swam underground. Junie reached out for a hand clasp, but Baylon glanced down at the expectant hand as if it were leprous, then found a seat in the living room. All of the furniture had been pushed back against the walls for maximum room to navigate. Junie and Parker turned at the clack-clackclack of paws on hardwood floors. Baylon's dog trotted past the open doorway. Junie couldn't help but think of a shark swimming in its tank.

  "What's the matter? You afraid of a little bitch?" Baylon asked.

  "Dogs make me nervous is all," Parker said.

  "Look here, Sideshow Bob." Baylon focused on Parker's Mohawk, so ragged it looked like a small village of crows nested in it. He snapped once and then pointed to the ground next to him. The dog came and laid down where he aimed his fingers. "You just have to know how to handle bitches."

  "What's her name?"

  "What the fuck I'm going to name a bitch for?" Baylon demanded. "Now, someone mind telling me what the fuck is going on?"

  "I'm a-tell it to you straight." Junie tapped his fist into his open palm. The loudest one in the room, by Baylon's reckoning, was usually the weakest one. Junie was too quick to step to a man and jump into foolishness, which usually led to a bigger mess and a greater headache. He was out of his depth and long overdue to be demoted. "Me and Parker went down to represent, just like the man said to."

  Parker nodded. Young and inexperienced, but he had potential. He was smart, anyone could see it in his eyes. If he put that mind of his in some books, he could be an engineer or a scientist of some sort. Not into a lot of the flashy bling nonsense, not overly ambitious, he took the long view on situations. Rarely speaking unless he had something to say, he also had a streak of crazy to him. It danced in his eyes, ready to step up, when needed, as needed.

  "So you went down to the school to scope out what's what…"

  "And it was just like you thought. Night's boys be out there grinding. Green his self out there overseeing."

  "Green? No shit?" No charge ever stuck on Night because Green took them when the police thought they had a case to make. Green's was the same old story: soldiers fell on their swords and the king survived. After his bit, and because he stood tall, Night promoted him to his number two man. Promote wasn't the right word. If the rumors were true, Baylon didn't understand Green at all. Green could step out on his own any time, but he preferred to defer to someone else when he could. It was like he was beyond ambition and was in the game strictly for the love.

  "True, true. Now, we's about to step to them when your boy comes up the street," Junie continued.

  "Who?"

  "King."

  At the mention of the name, Baylon's face tightened. A more perceptive eye might have noticed the slight hitch to his breath as if suddenly troubled by an old, dull pain he thought he'd learned to live with. "Go on."

  "I'm not saying King stepped into it, but he got caught up in some back and forth."

  "Even though you were there to deal with Night's boys." Baylon knew Junie thought all of his fast talking would save him. He wanted to tell Junie to save the bullshit, but he opted to indulge the little performance.

  "I done said Green was there."

  "So you…?" Baylon's voice trailed.

  "Sent a message to them through King."

  "And this… message… how do you think it was received?"

  "I would have to say… mixed," Junie said.

  "A mixed message?" Baylon lowered his head and rubbed his eyes as if that would stop the migraine that threatened to crush his skull in a vise. Speaking of skulls, he wanted to crack Junie's open if only to see what passed for brains in him.

  "I'm just saying, it wasn't as clear as I would have liked."

  "Are you trying to be cute with me, motherfucker, or just trying to piss me off?" Baylon got up and paced. Junie opened his mouth, but Baylon's curt gaze shut him up. "So what I'm thinking is that since our message may have gotten muddled in the delivery, we need to send a stronger message."

  "Parker and I are already on it."

  "You two sit still. I'm gonna need to think on this for a minute, see what's what with Dred, and get back with you."

  "Maybe if I was to explain it to Dred…"

  "You don't get to speak to the man." Baylon knew his control on the men was constantly being tested. Despite their failings, they had the nerve to question whether he could still run things. The shit stopped with him and it was only a matter of time before someone took him for weak and made their move. Or Dred would. So Baylon damn sure couldn't leave his fate in the less-than-capable hands of the Junies and Parkers of the world. Experience beat youth every time, and right now, their crew was way too youthful.

  "I think what Junie's getting at is that we want a chance to handle this ourselves," Parker spoke up. "Without bothering Dred. Show him, and you, that we can handle our own end. Like men do."

  "Like men do, huh? Is that it now?" Baylon itched for a drink, nothing alcoholic or anything like that. Just something to steady him. He imagined something civilizing, like a hot cup of tea. Something a gentleman would drink. He stood, his prize bitch cocking her head in trailing attention, anticipating his command. "Everyone had their say? Now let me tell you men something. Business is good. We have a quality product and a quality pipeline. We will always have competitors, but we don't need to escalate things to knucklehead level without cause. The right statement, the proper show of force should be… elegant. You two aren't suited for elegant, but that's all right though. You don't send a bull into a grocery store for eggs. But I tell you what, I'm gonna let you prove me wrong. Within reason, step up and move up. If not, I'll bring in someone, or someones, who can."

  Though quite likeable and charming most days, Baylon had grown quite disgusted at Junie. At the quality of soldiers in general, these days. If he passed for their muscle, that meant their shit truly was weak and Baylon hoped Dred hadn't concluded the same thing.

 

"Where is she?" Dred asked. This world could not contain him, yet it managed to hide her. The room was thick with smoke as he needed to get his head up, to reach the next plateau for his thoughts. Stoking the dragon, like a distant furnace, he needed to sow terror, to bury teeth of hate to raise an army. For now, he was at war and his immediate enemy had revealed himself, but Dred knew she also remained a loose end.

  The room had grown hot with closed-in heat. Thick tufts of smoke issued from his mouth. His mahogany skin glistened with perspiration – the cloying scent of chronic barely covering his mild BO – from the exertion of summoning. His vacant eyes viewed a dream, bending and reshaping it to suit his needs. That was the true magic, sculpting dreams and calling them forth. Which was why he loathed interruptions, preferring the clarity of his own thoughts.

  "You got a minute?" Baylon hated dealing with him when he was like this and hated entering the room even more.

  "I know she's out there."

  "Who?"

  "My moms. I know she's out there and she has one lesson left to teach me."

  "What's that?"

  "That's between a boy and his moms," Dred croaked, his voice cracked as it grew distant. "I'm conjuring."

  "I can see that."

  Dred rolled into view. The sight of the once so vital man strapped to a wheelchair never failed to alarm Baylon. He bent over for the forearm-to-chest hug. Dred's wheelchair notwithstanding, the ring must be respected and kissed. The chamber, bereft of any furniture, seemed more cavern than room; steep shadows gave the illusion of it being deeper than it was. Bay windows faced the moon, yet the light didn't seem to much penetrate beyond being a dim glow. An ethereal swirl of the smoke coalesced above the mounds of uncut heroin mixing with their product.

  "Word has it Junie and Parker have made a royal mess of things," Dred said.

  "Not to hear them tell it, but yeah. Worse, Dollar and 'em will have to come back on them. On us."

  "Worse still, we're going to be seen as incompetent. Weak." Despite being confined to the chair, Dred had a better read of the streets than those who traipsed in them. His arithmetic of the situation arrived at the same unfortunate conclusion Baylon had.

  "We just don't have the soldiers. We've got to have more bodies. Parker has potential, but not if he keeps up with Junie. All he's learning is to be bold to the point of crazy. Sees everything as a test to make sure he's ready to go to the next level."

  "First things first. It's time for a leadership shakeup."

  "What do you mean?" Baylon felt the tremor in his voice even if his ear couldn't pick it up. Maybe Junie wasn't the only one overdue for a demotion. Suddenly the same anxiety of being called to the principal's office overswept him.

  Dred waited a few extra heartbeats to let Baylon stew in his discomfort.

  "Junie and Parker have fucked up one time too many. More than even they realize." Junie, like no other, made Dred miss the use of his legs. He wanted to rise up and kick the living shit out of him.

  "How so?"

  "Assuming Green leaves Dollar to handle things, that's one thing; but he may want to get involved personally on top of things. That's two fronts if Night truly wants to push back. Then our own fools brought King into the mix, which drew the attention of the mage. He may not be what he once was, but I wanted more time before that happened."

  "What does King have to do with it?" At the mention of the name, a pain shot along the base of Dred's back, a lightning bolt which faded to nothing as the pain rippled to below his waist, a black hole of sensation. Dred remembered when it happened and thinking "My God, did everything just change for the rest of my life?" He rolled his chair backward and inhaled. "I'm calling in the Durham Brothers. They'll be reporting to you. They'll be our new hitters. Put Junie and Parker on some corner work, cool them out for a while. That solve your problems?"

  "The trolls? That's all you had to say."

  "Don't let them hear you call them that."