CHAPTER EIGHT

 
 

Baylon tugged at his crotch, adjusting the fit of his pants, primping in the mirror. Long sleeves made him invisible. In long sleeves he was straight, a nine to five working man who no one would give a second glance to. Hair cut low, but without flash, no gold, no grill, no tattoos, he could walk into any church or office or restaurant or store and be treated as Joe A. MiddleClassCitizen.

  For this meeting, he went with short sleeves. The short sleeves showed he'd been working out, made him appear harder. He scratched the head of his pit bull. Even his dog was more affectation than necessity. His troops needed to see him as the shot caller, second only to Dred in word and deed. As it stood, they begrudgingly followed orders and too often challenged his authority by asking to hear them from Dred himself. It boiled down to how he carried himself. Maybe he would never escape Griff's long shadow.

  "Yeah, you still the fairest one of them all, nigga." Griff sidled next to him, examining his reflection up and down in the mirror. "But you'll never be me."

  "I know." Baylon spritzed on some cologne.

  "You don't have the heart."

  "I know."

  "Your men sense it."

  "Then I'll have to make them… respect the office."

 

  A group of young boys gathered only a halfblock away. Fixed with industrial intent, they tore strips of newspaper into dollar sized scraps. They took their assembled "bills" and fashioned wads for themselves. They'd pull it out of their pocket and peel off a couple bills to one another. One took his stack and threw it into the air to the chants of "Make it rain".

  And King's heart seethed.

  Before he was aware of himself, he strode toward the men.

 

• • •

 

  Junie loved that boy after his fashion, conjuring vague plans for Parker's future, but also hated him. Hated him for making him see himself. As he was, not who he dreamt he was.

  "You bout done over there?"

  "I don't give a fuck. You feel me? I don't give," Parker retorted in close to an insulting tone. "A. Fuck." Tall, but skinny. Heartless, he had done had all the life damn near ground out of him. His smile, even his laugh, was joyless. He could shoot or otherwise inflict all manner of cruelty without a moment's hesitation. He was perfect. The secret to enforcement wasn't a matter of the most intimidating body, but the precision of the coldest heart.

  Parker carried around his share of pain, let it accrue in his belly until it knotted the muscles in his shoulders. Pain he was all too happy to dish out. Not one for confession, he was one of those mute motherfuckers, just as soon turn to an icy glare and stone lips rather than admit to anything personal or true. Stoic silence was his definition of holding his head up. Of being a man. He'd never admit to anything like abuse. Bitches were abused. Yet when he was eleven, a friend of his mother's came to stay at their house. It was how family did, drop in and board with their people for a minute as they pass through. Every night the woman secretly summoned Parker to her room. Three raps against the wall separating Parker's room from his sister's. Each night. As his sister slept in the next bed, the woman had him go down on her. His first sexual experience outside of nutting off to his father's stash of Player magazines. She had no special love for or attachment to him. During the days, she dismissed him, choosing to talk only to adults. Beyond the initial conversation where she told him how special he was, asked him if he thought she was pretty, and asked him if he wanted to prove how much he liked her, they never even shared a knowing wink. The age difference didn't matter. Nor the fact that she didn't let him get off. He was a means to an end. An instrument of her gratification. She taught him everything he needed to know about sex. And put to death the idea of love.

  He never told his friends. The bragging of his tryst with an older woman, no matter how he cast it, rang hollow to his ear. All it brought up was the feeling of powerlessness. Of weakness, of being a bitch. He buried it alongside the other memories, like the leather strap of his father when he was due to be punished.

  "I just don't give a fuck." The words had become his personal mantra. Half prayer, half braggadocio, he announced his climax not caring that Junie was in the room. Junie tossed him an admiring smile and knew they would fist bump later recalling the events. The moneyhungry ho who still chickenheaded in his lap swallowed his seed without complaint. She was face less, a walking fix waiting to score, a convenient orifice to empty into. Something akin to pride stirred within Junie as he dismissed the girl with the turn of his back and the hitching of his pants.

  "We got to wrap this up and turn the count over to the Durham Brothers."

  "Them some uglyass Samoans."

  "You need to learn when to back down and when to step it up," Junie said in a low, warning tone. Parker was an eager student, one who looked up to Junie, and admiration was a powerful intoxicant.

  They trod downstairs where the Durhams discussed a matter with Baylon. Junie and Parker waited to the side, not interrupting. Baylon waved them in. Junie wasn't too fond of the Durham Brothers, but respected their rep. Michaela with her purple hair and matching shirt over a pair of blue jeans towered over Baylon. Her brother, Marshall, sported a set of chops which looked like he glued two hedgehogs to either side of his face. Ridiculous appearance aside, their penchant for the most brutal of violence to the human body was well documented. Rumor whispered that they occasionally ate their kill. From Michaela's recent weight gain, he assumed Baylon had them out on assignment.

  "What's with the hair?" Junie tried to forage for any humanity in her eyes to reassure him, but found no trace. Her jowly face, the extra waddle about her throat, the girth of her belly failed to make her any less a killer.

  "Needed a change in my look," Michaela said.

  "I don't think a haircut's gonna do it. Plus, purple–"

  "Draws too much attention?"

  "I think you've got that covered too."

  Baylon made some mild clucking noises. Junie was never fond of him. He had a way about him, let folks know he didn't think much of them. Condescending, like they didn't know nearly as much as he did. His ass never held a gun. His ass never did any jail. His ass never did anything beside talk. He acted awfully superior for someone who was simply Dred's errand boy.

  "Damn girl, you packed on a few pounds," Parker said with the brazen fearlessness of youth. Or psychosis.

  "It's not polite to talk about a girl's weight." She flashed him an eye warn.

  "Since when you so sensitive?"

  "I'm a flower. I'm a delicate flower who's gained five dress sizes in the last year and is pretty pissed about it."

  "Need to work off a few calories?" Parker tossed her the tapeddown grocery bag full of cash.

  Full of hate and wariness, Marshall leaned near Junie's ear. His fetid breath reeked of decayed carcasses. He smacked in his ear with a wet gurgle. "We get called in for special jobs. The man says come up, we come up. The man says make this delivery for me, package gets delivered. The man says handle this here problem, the problem gets handled. Do we have a problem here?"

  "We don't have shit," Baylon said, feeling suddenly pressed in. "You got a delivery to make. I got an errand to run."

  "You hooking up with Griff?"

  "Not that you need to know, but yeah. You two hold down the fort. Don't need any unnecessary drama tonight."

  That was the night everything went to shit.

 

  The first door on the left, a soft light revealed the outline of a door. He pushed it open. A young woman rifled through some cabinets. Under a furred jacket she wore a black Korn Tshirt and had five friendship bracelets on each hand. An acne scar dotted the middle of her forehead giving her a vaguely Indian appearance. Blue jeans – bellbottoms in his day, flare cut these days – with ragged edges barely cov ered her ragged Chuck Taylors.

  "Who are you?" he asked.

  "Who are you?" she retorted, unstartled and with out making eye contact.

  "Michelle."

  Davis. Michelle Davis. Baylon expected a prosti tute, maybe a burnout crack whore, someone who had run game one time too often or stolen money and had to pay the final piper. Not some fresh faced girl no older than his niece. She reached into her rich, furred coat and fondled the hilt of her knife.

  "We match." Baylon pulled up his shirt and re vealed his knife.

  "Where'd you get that?"

  "My father gave it to me."

  "I never knew my father," Michelle said.

  "Not all of us are so lucky," Baylon said. "A pretty girl you. It isn't right for you to have such… teeth."

  "I ain't got no choice out here. A girl's got to be able to take care of herself. I'll carry it until I find someone good enough to take it from me."

  "Someone good enough to make you feel safe?"

  "Something like that. You know King?"

  Baylon bristled at the name. "We go back a ways."

  "What's he like?"

  "He a'ight."

  "Seriously."

  "He's good people. Means well. Big heart," Baylon admitted. "But, damn, he has this way about him. Where you always feeling judged. Like no matter what you're doing, he expects more. Better."

  "That sounds like a good thing. Someone who believes in you and pushes you."

  "Unless you're being pushed off the edge."

  "No one doubts your heart. No one other than you."

  Her ambercolored eyes pierced him as if reading his soul. No attitude. No stiffness. No fear. She bared her teeth to let him know she could handle herself but let the conversation play out. Baylon found himself intrigued by her. On the flip side, one quality Baylon didn't lack was the fact that he was headstrong. And he had just decided that Michelle was either "unable to be found" or otherwise not going to be killed. At least until he learned what her offense might be. Once he got an idea in his head, he ran it into the ground without looking or thinking. As if he couldn't change course even if it meant his destruction.

  "Damn, man, what's taking you so long?" Half out of breath, Griff poked his head into the room and spoke with a hurried whisper. "Oh, I see. This a private party?"

  "Naw man, nothing like that. Let's roll," Baylon said.

  "Naw, naw. We got a minute." Griff's eyes were without hope but swam with complete malignancy, shark's eyes. He walked around with so much pain, trying to figure out a way to make it all go away. His shirt loose to hide the gun in his waistband, he closed the door behind him.

  "Come on man, let's go."

  "Not till your big brother has a taste."

  "It ain't like that. You can't…" Baylon put his hands on him to get him out the door. Griff laid a feral glare on him, promising that Baylon, Baylon's kids, and Baylon's kids' kids should line up and apologize for the effrontery. Baylon released him and raised his hands in a "my bad" gesture.

  "You always did have trouble sharing."

  The strange look on Griff's face, hungry and predatory, made Baylon anxious. Griff touched one of Michelle's tendrils of hair, a gentle caress flush with intent. Her braless breasts pert and at attention, he could trace the curve of her back through her thread bare outfit. Stifling a lascivious grin, he stepped to her, the heat of him wafting off in waves. He grazed her cheek with his finger, an intimate gesture, one too reminiscent, to Baylon's mind, of an owner with his dog. Griff all but let her take in his scent, but she slapped his hand away.

  "Oh, it's like that is it?" Griff asked.

  "It's like that," she said, too defiant. Unafraid of him.

  Baylon winced. Griff had changed over the last few months. Became harder, an impressive feat as he was already one of the hardest men Baylon knew. However, not just harder, but colder. And he didn't brook women telling him "no".

  Griff smiled seductively. An icy laugh. He grabbed her arm and jerked her to him. She raked her finger nails across his face and drew her knife. The thing about knives, to Baylon's mind, was they showed more heart than a gun. Any fool could squeeze a trigger and blast. There was a distance to the killing. The death. To use a knife required one to be up close and personal. Angry and intent. They couched together, crashing to the ground. Wrestling over the knife. "NO!" Baylon shouted and jumped in, hoping to leverage the blade. He tried to take it from her or keep it from him. If anyone was to have it, it should be Baylon. She clung to it, desperate that he might hurt her with it. Griff released his hold. The blade pierced her with a soft gasp, driven into her body. Her hand dug into his arm, a lover in the throes of passion, and then released. Warm in his arms. So peaceful. He wished he could hold her forever. Her lifeless gaze not too different from Griff's everyday expression. Her blood smeared his clothes. Stained his hands. Baylon's senses left him. The sorrow hit him like a blow to the chest, his heart heavy with shame and grief.

  "Come on, man," Griff announced, a kid whose dinner had been spoiled. "We gotta get out of here."

  Baylon took the knife, the proud owner of a matching set.

 

Laying naked next to Omarosa, Lee became suddenly self-conscious of how much his bed smelled like ball sweat and cheap aftershave. The sheets were rough and stiff, not fit for a woman like her. Omarosa slept barely making a sound, little more than an observed presence in his bed. That was the only way he could think to describe her. As if he took his eyes from her, she'd disappear, a wisp in the night. So he stayed up watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Taking in her scent. Listening for the sound of her slightest stirring.

  "I'm awake, you know. I'm not going to disappear on you."

  "I'm trained police. I specialize in finding folks intent on disappearing."

  "That what you were doing at the Phoenix?" Omarosa asked.

  "Nah, I was looking at you."

  "Ah, the fates conspiring for us to meet." She curled up, the sheet wrapped around her. A portrait of seduction, her every movement was choreographed to elicit an effect from him.

  "Something like that." Lee sat up. He never imagined himself bedding a black girl. His mind focusing on the black part of her description, he rolled the idea around in his head. Not that he bought into the stereotypes of black people's sexual prowess. He contented himself with knowing what to do with what he had. "What do you do?"

  "Do you care or is that some residual Protestant guilt rearing its head?"

  "Catholic. Very residual."

  "Do you even remember my name? No, never mind, don't strain yourself." Her voice little more than a low purr, she made him feel both inadequate and important at the same time. "What do you know about dogs?"

  "They bark, shit, eat, and sleep," Lee said.

  "They fight, too."

  "Not legally."

  "How often do you stake out for legal operations?"

  "What are you getting at?"

  "I just hear tell of a dog-fighting ring."

  "Not my beat."

  "So you'd think. You gang task force."

  "How'd you–"

  "I know things," Omarosa said. "Now, who do you think runs the dog fights?"

  "I'm listening."

  "Lots of rules go into these things so that shit don't accidentally jump off."

  "Even police."

  "Po-po go where they go. Can't be helped. Cost of doing business."

  "So you know where one of these fights is going to be held?"

  "Maybe. But I'll take some convincing to give it up."

  Suddenly uncomfortable, he didn't know if he was capable of anything approaching tender.

  But the thought of her riding him again rekindled an erection.

 

  "Night!" one of them called out. "I got you. Get behind me."

  The blood drained from his face. His sallow and wasted complexion reflected in the car window, full of hate and wariness. Oh shit. Did I just fire at Night? The full realization left his legs weakened. He forced himself to a steady gait. Duplicity he learned was in his own nature. With a level voice he called out, "Dred says hello, motherfucker."

  He watched his head, making sure he wasn't seen. It wasn't much of a plan, but better the shit not fall back on him. His was already a life of a false resigna tion. A false life filled with scorn.

  Junie knew when he first learned to carry the mix of rage and shame. In fourth grade, his teacher, Mrs Crider, a bunhaired brunette with a pinched face and aristocratic manner, made him a member of the safety patrol. This was back in the day when fellow students wore white sashes and were given badges and were charged with seeing their fellow students across the streets. This was a matter of high prestige, and short of student council or making the honor roll, only the most responsible or favored were chosen for the function. Junie was neither. Instead, as he could only surmise later, that Mrs Crider attempted to reach him. To give him a connection to the idea of school and his fellow students. It wasn't lost on him, even at the time, that his post was the most remote, where no student or quasiresponsible parent would allow their child to cross, especially escorted only by a three feet tall scrawny black kid with unkempt hair and questionable hygiene habits. Defying all odds, and despite Junie's reluctance, the blatant and transparent manipulation worked. He actually swelled with pride when the safety patrol was dismissed early and he rose as one of the chosen lot, eyes of his fellow classmates on him, to at tend to his duties. Nor did he feel ridiculous, lone black boy at the ass end of an isolated stretch of road, barely within eyesight of the nearest safety patrol member, as he waved and returned the allclear signal. It worked, that was, until like every else in Junie's life it turned to shit and was taken away from him.

  As brilliant as Mrs Crider had been getting him to care about being responsible, she had a sizeable deficit when it came to sustaining that limited sense of self esteem she had successfully fanned to life. One day in class, she called upon Junie to answer a question. Flustered at the sudden attention, he stammered about. Mrs Crider stood there, silent and waiting. The eyes of his fellow classmates pressed in on him. He grew so desperately nervous, he knocked his books and papers to the ground. They scattered with a furious, though unintentional, shower. Springing out of his chair, he fell to his knees to gather up the papers. That was when he heard her, Mrs Crider, laughing at him. He was so perfectly pathetic: lone black boy, white teacher looming over him, white classmates a chorus of openmouthed laughter and fingerpointing. The words "fuck you" flew out of his mouth without thought, but they hung in the air like the empty echo of gunshot. The two little words stilled the laughter. Mrs Crider's eyes narrowed into an unforgiving glare and she sent him to the principal's office.

  He never walked as a safety patrol member again.

  Actually, he didn't walk as much of anything again. Whether he realized it or not, that was when the educational system lost him. He went through the motions of school for another four years or so, but he was already done. There was no reaching him after that. He had turned his back on the institution knowing that whatever path for his life he was to chart, it wouldn't be through any hallowed halls of higher learning.

  And on quiet days in what passed for reflection for one Juneteenth Walker, he wondered how many Mrs Criders shut down countless Junies each day.

  He retreated into the house.

  "Any problems?" Parker asked.

  "Just some nonsense," Junie said. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

 

Octavia Burke never lamented her quick rise in the ranks. She didn't have time for political games nor did she buy into either affirmative action or workplace racism. Either were self-defeating traps of a game she refused to play. Like her mother, she was nobody's victim. "You kiss butt, then you kick it." her mother always said, not one to pay attention to firsts either. First black nurse hired at Wishard Hospital. First black nurse promoted to department head. First black nurse elected to serve on the board. Strong and vital, nothing got in her way. Her fierce determination came at a cost. There was always a sadness about her, like she were missing out on something. She was always closed off, a cool aloofness she never intended with her children. Passed onto her children.

  So when Octavia's first husband told her that she had trouble letting folks in, it came as no surprise. Nor was she surprised when he left.

  She kicked her shoes off at the front door and hung her coat up. The house, silent and dark. A residual flow from upstairs, probably her second husband in bed watching television. Home was her oasis. Away from the madness of the office away from the detritus of the streets who took up so much of her time. She was happy to be home. It centered her and it saddened her that she spent so little time here. She continued her after-work ritual. Shoes, coat, then food. The microwave and oven were bereft of a plate of food. Whatever they had done for dinner didn't include her. The checkin calls of "when will you be home" were fewer and further between, tired of "I'll grab a bite on the way home" or "don't wait up, it's a long one".

  Then the boys. Long asleep, she made a point of peeking in on them if only to reassure herself that they were still alive and that she could pick them out of a line-up. To each boy, she'd sit on the edge of his bed and stroke their hair. To let them know she was present and loved them, even if they weren't awake to know. The simple gesture allowed the day to drain out of her, all of the misery and hopelessness and futility of her work. And it was the only time they'd let her love on them anyway. They were getting so damn big.

  Their marriage had hit a bad patch. Her long hours, the Job, were worse than having a man on the side. She suspected he filled the void of her absence with… someone. No, that wasn't fair. It wasn't in him. The only thing he filled himself with was quiet, festering resentment. Never going to bed at the same time. Letting the gulf between them fallow.

  The television played coolly in the background. He watched an episode of that new medical drama she liked so much where all the oversexed doctors looked barely old enough to drive. It was a show they decided to watch together. Or so she thought.

  Without betraying any hurt feelings, she walked into their bathroom to brush her teeth and closed the door. His passive-aggressive point having been made, he turned off the television. She came out wearing an old T-shirt. She slipped into her side of the bed. The same old night-time dance.

 

  His heart soared.

 

  At the other end of the room, the cushions were spread as a makeshift mattress, stained in blood, piss, and come, yet ready for business again. Baylon guarded the door, a careful eye on the streets.

  "I don't think you hear me. B, are you having trouble understanding me?"

  "I hear you just fine, Dred," Baylon said.

  "Then why is this group of fools operating in my neighborhood? Why do I have to come down here and see to some petty bullshit?"

  "Some niggas are hard of skull. Maybe need their ears cleaned out," Griff said.

  Truth was, Dred was in a mood to make his presence felt. Sometimes he couldn't resist a little knucklehead stuff. It was the life. He had several stops to make that required his personal touch. And he'd heard some disturbing whispers about Night. Word on the street was that he was setting up his own shop, had crews working on his watch and was lining up his own distribution. That was the only reason Dred's interest was alerted. He had the distribution into Indianapolis locked up. Even the Hispanic gangs came through him. He had tied things up nicely to where, though still new to the scene, lit tle more than a name whispered among the operators – he doubted even the police had gotten onto him yet – he could step away from handling the product, short of major deals. Like the meeting he was soon to be late for. But before he became a com plete ghost, he needed to personally rattle a few cages.

  "Rent's due, motherfucker. That plain enough for you?"

  "I'm just a wrong time, wrong place brother. This ain't even my joint." The man cupped his crotch and draped his chest with his other arm. "I hear you, Dred. I didn't mean no disrespect."

  "Is that a glamour working?" Dred asked, suddenly suspicious. He studied the man, searching for a flaw or telltale giveaway. "You the one been having women coming in and out of here at all times, like that ain't going to draw no notice. What you call yourself doing? Maximizing your resources? Running dope and girls? Hope you ain't fool enough to run guns, too. Griff?"

  "I believe we have the night's proceeds." Griff held a paper bag loosely filled with cash. Not enough for Dred's notice, but enough for him to justify the diver sion.

  "What? We got a problem?"

  "Nah," the man said.

  "I think we got a problem."

  With a strength and ferocity that surprised them all, Dred upended the couch and spilled the man onto the floor. Before the man could struggle to his feet, Dred straddled him, his hot breath steaming the man's face. Dred headbutted him into senselessness, then slapped him like he was a hooker short with his money. The man's nose exploded and covered his face with blood.

  "Don't you ever," Dred said between subsequent slaps, "let me see you" slap "up in my territory" slap "without my explicit say so." Slap. "Explicit, mother fucker."

  The man fell backward in a pool of his own blood. His heart unmoved, Baylon wondered how many women the man had similarly beaten. The man crawled, a dog in cowering retreat, taking a foot to his side from Dred.

  "Dred, man, we got what we came for. If we're going to make that other thing…" Griff trailed off in half a singsong voice. Griff had leapfrogged Baylon in the hierarchy. Nothing had been openly said but Baylon knew the deal.

  The rituals and things he'd seen – things that were never explained nor even talked about – didn't bother Griff. He considered himself a needtoknow soldier. His brutally efficient fearlessness, and lack of questions, caused Dred to favor him in subtle ways. Tended to go to him first when something needed to be done. Seemed to favor his company outside of conducting business. Spoke of him quite favorably when he wasn't around. Things Baylon was certain was never done or said about him. The Ndibu led, it was still business as usual. Folks scurried to curry favor or step on the back of even their brother to get to the next level. There was no such thing as enough: not enough women, not enough money, not enough rep, not enough power. Discontent was its own raison d'être.

  As Baylon saw things, Night had his own ambitions, they all did, but Night saw himself as the rightful heir to the throne of the streets and Dred as a pretender to it. Baylon's strategic thinking was what made him valuable to Dred, but not valuable enough. He was being pushed aside, reduced to a consigliere within his own crew.

  Dred and Griff turned toward Baylon. After an other check of the streets from the slit of the window beside the door, he nodded. Without instruction, Griff led the way, clutching the bag full of cash, knowing to keep money and product away from Dred. To insulate him. Dred followed. Baylon gave one last glance at the dope dealer who moaned as he crawled back onto the couch. Discarded as soon as he was inconvenient.

  The dope dealer stared straight at him. "Sir Baylon, this is the boundary of your life. Turn back and you may save yourself." And with that, the man vanished.

  Baylon imagined the trajectory of his life as him running. Running through a dark forest, heedless of what lay ahead, knowing that he couldn't remain where he was. His fate chased after him, undeterred and dogged, closing in on him like an inexorable curtain. He fought against the listing hopelessness. He stood on the precipice knowing the time to change ticked away quickly. He closed his eyes and waited, giving into his destiny.

  The squeal of car tires shattered the night like a hunting horn signaling the death of their prey. The car slowed to a deliberate crawl. Griff released his hold on the paper bag, whatever warrior sense or maybe just in tune to the scent of violence and blood and death in the air alerting him to action. Without hesitation, he leapt between the approaching car and Dred. For his part, Dred stood there. Not frozen, as if the impending violence caught him short. No, he wore a different face. One of resignation. Of giving in to the inevitable. Of a time coming full circle.

  Baylon withdrew his knife. The blade snapped to life with a sharp click.

  From the lowered car windows, several gun barrels protruded. The first shot caught Griff before he could reach Dred. The shot caught him in the shoulder spinning him, then a second shot caught him in the side sending him towards Baylon. As Griff's body ca reened toward him, Baylon – perhaps on instinct, perhaps the knife had a will of its own, perhaps many things Baylon preferred to not think about – brought the knife to bear. It plunged into Griff's gut. His accusing eyes widened in shock, fresh pain atop his bullet wounds. He gripped Baylon's shirt, a desperate grasp which pulled him down on top of him. The action drove the blade deeper into him as they landed. Baylon cradled his head. The blood from the mortal cut covered his front. He peered into Griff's eyes until the light left them, but not before his countenance fixed in a look of knowing. There were no secrets from the dead.

  Dred arced his fingers down in a wave. The night seemed to split, carved open with the gesture, eldritch shadows catching the first volley of bullets. A shotgun barrel leveled at him. Its thunderous report caused Baylon to cover Griff as if he could shield him from any further damage. The shrapnel tore through the arcane shield Dred had cast and caught him fully in his gullet. The blast knocked him from his feet.

  The car sped off into the night.

  Baylon stood, surveying the damage. Not realizing his cell phone had found its way into his hand or that he had punched in the digits 911 and babbled non sensically into it. He folded the knife and tossed it down a sewer grate until he could retrieve it later.

 

Baylon wondered if he had ever had an honest moment in his life. A time of perfect truth. The ritual of dressing in front of the mirror, the care he took in picking out his wardrobe, the fastidiousness of his look was so much wasted effort. He knew it. His men knew it.

  "There it is." Baylon's arms hung at his side. He didn't know how long he had stood there, staring at his reflection as the memories overwhelmed him. "The cost of my sin."

  "What sin?" Griff asked.

  "Bad luck."

  "All your wounds are self-inflicted."

  His life was an inexorable spiral leading to a point he dreaded to think about. Somehow not thinking about it made its inevitability less real. Night and Dred. He and King. He and Griff. He and Michelle. There was no warranty on friendships. They began, they ended, each in their own season. And when they ended, the ripples of those relationships spread into the next. A cycle of pain he would continue to pay for.

  "Sometimes I feel like it's cursed. Either of them."

  "The knife?" Griff asked.

  "Yeah. All it has ever brought is blood and trouble."

  "The cost of defending yourself."

  "But it shouldn't have to be that way."

  "You still the fairest of them all… punk motherfucker.