CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fall Creek ran through the east side of
Indianapolis, non-discriminatory to the neighborhoods it flowed
through. As it passed the Phoenix Apartments, a grove of trees
lined its banks forming a natural green space that had become
popular as a walkway. During early morning hours, many a citizen
walked its path for exercise, each armed with a stick or bat in
case of emergency. On some evenings, such as this night, cars
crowded the rear of the Phoenix Apartments parking lot, sealing it
off into its own little world. As people made their way down to the
woods, they knew they were entering Switzerland, a "no beefs
allowed" zone. Dred's crew, Night's boys, ESG, Treize, Black
Gangster Disciples, any of a number of independents, all noise had
to be squashed for the evening.
Stands of bootleg CDs (including
homemade mixes), DVDs, T-shirts and hoodies (with portraits and
quotes of Malcolm X, Marcus Garvey, and Bob Marley), and shoes
lined the parking lot. Vendors sold beer from coolers. All the
faces wore similar masks: jaws set, faces hardened, no gazes
lingering too long. Fight night brought a tenuous peace and it
couldn't afford any sparks that came with the fronting of
machismo.
It wasn't but the early to
mid-'90s when everyone thought it a needed accessory to have a Rott
or a Pit. As with any fad, they soon fell into disfavor except
among those interested in protection or fighting. Tonight, a
temporary ring had been set up, an area of folding chairs nearby,
though most people stood, crowding in with money clutched in raised
hands.
Dog handlers, bookies, and
referees crowded the ringside area. One of the undercard bouts was
about to start. Their handlers released them and the two dogs ran
to center, two gladiators clashing at full speed. As they were
trained, ever wanting to please their masters, they lashed out in
demoniac frenzy. Neither made nary a sound, their vocal cords
severed, making them deadly weapons when they were at home, not
alerting unsuspecting prowlers. Or police. Even though it meant
senseless blood and death, the dogs showed more heart than most
soldiers on the street.
So Omarosa thought.
Nearly invisible among the trees,
she skulked about with a natural ease. Having already secured Lee's
eventual presence, she bided her time and buffed her nails. Her
eyes, with their perfect night vision, focused in the low light.
Soon a couple of runners, no more than eleven years old, tore ass
down the hill.
"Time out. Time out, yo." They
announced the police's arrival.
About time, she thought, as she
prepared to go to work. The grumbles of the dispersing men filled
the night. The old hands, nonplussed by the arrival of the police,
took the time to finish their drinks, grind out cigarettes under
their heel, and collect their bets in nonchalant strides. Those
with more to worry about, say a bench warrant out in their name,
beat feet in a hail of mutters and curses, showing out to the
police for their boys' benefit.
Between the crowd clearing out
and the police making their way down, the press of bodies led to
confusion, just as she planned. She smelled the gentle scent of the
red rose clipped to her lapel which served as her calling card. She
always left one at the scene of one of her robberies. Theft was so
common, better to do so with a touch of panache. It was in such
short supply these days. To her, this part of the game was like
playing football: the offense was going to throw a certain look,
the defense took its own posture, but the key to any given play was
to follow the football. In this case, it meant trailing Dollar as
he banked his money. He gave an uptick of his chin as he prepared
to jet, a shoulder roll and a dip in stride as he received his
package and threw it into the back of his ride. Omarosa, like all
of her kind, had a talent for learning the players and their
histories: in Dollar's case, he had a tendency to do his counts at
his mom's house before making his final drop to Night.
Boys and their moms.
Dred's mother, Morgana, squatted alone and
determined, in the filth beneath a bridge. She cradled the full
swell of her belly, and resolved herself to the fact that it was
time. The scurry of rats in the hollows above her head didn't
distract her. The concrete embankment was cold against her back,
her legs spread and water long broken. Drops plinked in the
distance, falling from the bridge. It had rained earlier that day
and the creek had swollen in its bed. The susurrus of the creek as
it wound its course served to focus and calm her, but her pain
proved too excruciating. He saw to
that. She pushed and breathed with little more than a few grunts,
not giving him the satisfaction of a sob. Theirs was a love – if
one could call their bond "love" – forged in war with one another.
Lessons taught from his first moments.
Dred fought then and even now,
only the battles changed.
Contrary to popular belief, the
streets had rules, traditions by which folks comported themselves.
Even the young bucks coming up stuck to the rules of the game,
those who abandoned them for the sake of making a name for
themselves quickly found out there were stern reprisals to be
faced. One such rule was parlay. Under the rules of parlay, two
rivals/parties otherwise beefing with one another could come
together – usually in neutral territory, sometimes brokered by a
third party – in order to work out their disagreement. At its core,
this was a business. Every now and then, circumstances dictated
exceptions to the accepted conventions.
Escorted by Green, Night made a
rare foray away from the safety of the top floor – entirely his, a
ghetto penthouse – of the main building of the Phoenix Apartments.
The more power he accumulated, it seemed, the more its reward was
isolation. Instead, he chose to meet Dred at his place of power.
Night was diving-suit black, a straight-up thug-nigga. With a
low-cut fade, big chest and huge arms, he walked with that survival
stride learned from several bits in prison. At one time, he was the
chief enforcer for the crew. Not smart enough to set up his own
operation, but vicious enough to stage a palace coup at the right
time. Backed by Green. It was said that there would be no Night
without Green.
Though many knew about Dred's
situation, few dared speak of it openly. One, out of respect; two,
out of – if not fear of reprisal then – recognition of the fact
that nothing had changed. Dred still ruled his crew and would
continue until he showed weakness. The wheelchair didn't mean he
had lost any heart and many bodies had been dropped to demonstrate
that case. As an allowance, however, Green accompanied
Night.
Stale air filled the outer
chamber from blunts, cigarette smoke, sex, and overturned beer
bottles. Baylon sat behind a desk poring over figures and accounts
while Junie attended to the mess. Both men hard-eyed Green and
Night as they approached. Junie's veins pumped water at the sight
of Green. Baylon's chin up-ticked in the direction of the door
leading toward Dred's sanctum. Green took up a position outside the
door as Night entered alone.
"Pleasure before business?" Night
asked as Dred took the opportunity to spark up himself, his
marijuana heightened by his own mystical concoctions.
"The Rastafari consider it a
sacrament." He wasn't as skilled in the Dark Arts as his mother,
but he knew enough to be dangerous.
"And you're what?
Ecumenical?"
"All in the game, son. All in the
game." After all the nonsense that had gone down lately, few
believed the street mantra much. Night's tone was hoarse and weary.
He took out a bottle of lotion and rubbed some onto his
keloid-scarred arms.
"Damn, boy. You look positively
peaked." Dred pronounced "peaked" with two syllables.
"Been running wild lately, you
know how it goes. Nothing I can't handle." Not that Night, that
either of them, would admit to anything that sounded remotely of
weakness. Weakness invited attack. "You're one to talk. You lookin'
a might bit rough yourself."
"We got us a
situation."
"What?"
"King."
"Not trying to tell you your
business, but you telegraph your moves long before you ready to
make your play."
"The mage is back."
"He never left."
"Well, they've found each
other."
"I don't see how this is a 'we'
problem. If King is such a big deal, just smoke the
motherfucker."
"It's not that simple. There are
rules to this thing. A larger picture to consider."
"Of course there is. You
motherfuckers play too many games. He a mark. Just like any other
mark. And marks can get got."
"He's coming into his own
now."
"What the fuck does that
mean?"
"You think Jesus always knew he
was Jesus? You think he burst out the womb thinkin' 'Damn, I'm the
Son of God. Let me get a little bigger so I can drop some miracles
on your ass.' He had to grow into it. I mean, maybe he grew up
reading about who the Messiah was. Studying, learning, a nag in his
spirit about how it was starting to sound familiar. Then one day it
clicks. 'Oh snap. They talking about me. They been waiting on
me.'
"I bet he had to sit on that shit
for a minute. Sure, he had all the hype. Folks been waiting for him
to show up from the jump. Been persecuted, living hard, got all
sorts of Romans walking up and down they space. They were looking
out for him to show up. Thing is, it also came with a price: the
burden of knowing.
"Don't get me wrong, he step up
and accept his title, his mantle, his responsibility and BAM… his
days are numbered. In the end, he's gonna get got. Everything in
its own time."
"See what I mean? Too many
games."
"Look here, I'm about business
and business can't get done if we're steady beefing. It'd be one
thing if there was serious drama, but I want to head things off
before it gets to that point." Dred was in the game for the power.
When all was said and done, this was a business with margins more
thin that people realized. After payroll, houses, cars, and the
accoutrements expected for a man in his position – granted, it was
the accoutrements which tempted people into the life – not much was
left over. However, he provided a sense of family for his men until
jail or death caught up to them. Dred didn't know about jail and he
had no plans to know about jail.
"Agreed. Agreed," Night
said.
"I'm just saying, there's plenty
of money to go around…"
"Plenty of that product. You seem
to have a steady enough pipeline."
"I get mine direct. No
middle-man, no mark-up. You get your supply out of New York,
right?"
"Something like that."
Dred's heavy-lidded eyes cast a
knowing gaze on Night. They would continue to dance around each
other with verbal feints, testing for weakness, and teasing out
information. Dred knew that Night was supplied from New York after
he split from the Egbo Society to go on his own. Dred's drug
connect was locked into him. Dred's name rang out for several
reasons. His hands no longer touched drugs, instead he operated a
community center by Avalon Park and made sure the park's basketball
court always had fresh nets. When he had two able legs, he got to
know the neighborhood kids from Haughville to Woodruff Place. For
those youths, Dred was a role model of respect. And he gave back to
the community, donating to church fundraisers, passing out turkeys
at Thanksgiving, buying Christmas gifts for neighborhood kids, and
sponsoring ball teams. No charges stuck to him, the police was the
enemy; he was the folk hero wronged who kept his head up and stayed
true to the game. Kids dreamt of one day being him.
Night hadn't learned the finer
points to establishing himself as a folk hero; and if he couldn't
be loved, he'd be feared. Dispatching Green for any of a number of
perceived infractions or slights to his accorded respect, his name
was whispered more as the boogeyman of Breton.
"Say I let you in on part of my
package," Dred said. "You let my people ease into some of the
Breton Court territory. Off my package and with what you pull in
from Li'l Nam, you'll be doubling your profits."
"What's in it for you?"
"Spread in territory. Another
revenue stream from distribution through you. And peace. No
business gets done if bodies keep dropping and the police come in
to grind things to a halt."
"True dat."
This was a temporary measure at
best. Once he got a feel for the new set-up, at his first
opportunity, Night would slit his throat and leave his body for all
to see as he took over the entire operation. Dred understood that.
He also understood that soldiers were trained for combat. So every
now and then, there had to be a war.
Fountain Square Mortuary was no stranger to
burying the far-too-young. Just the other day, the old man who
managed the mortuary had to watch a family grieving over an eight
year-old. Those were the hardest on him. Funerals for teenagers,
though often just as tragic, caused his blood pressure to rise for
other reasons. Jowly with a graying mustache, his body with the
contours of a cruller donut, he mopped his beaded brow with a
handkerchief. Wisps of his good hair, combed over to cover his
thinning pate, clung to his forehead.
The funeral of Alaina Walker was
well attended with the requisite friends, family, police, media,
and publicity seekers. The mayor gave a brief address decrying the
rising tide of violence in what was proving to be the most bloody
year in the city's history. The concerned clergy took turns
denouncing gangs, hip hop, and Republicans. The newspapers ran
columns on the story, but the incident would be forgotten in the
next day or so once some famous-for-no-reason would-be actress did
something equally vacuous in public.
Everyone would return to their
steady state of benign neglect, the numbing consistency of the
violence silencing them. With eyes both friendly and frightened,
the old man did his best to greet each mourner neutrally, but the
ways of this generation eluded him. The mourners came in, most not
much older than the girl. Sagging pants. Underwear showing. Untied
shoes. Basketball jerseys. Tattoos on any exposed flesh. Piercings
in their ears, noses, lips, tongues, and chins (and those were the
ones he could see). Gentlemen not removing their hats. Ladies
revealing their bras and wearing pants with words written across
their bottoms. The art of decorum lost on the lot of
them.
Towards the rear, studying each
face, the police weren't too hard to spot. The girl must've been
caught up in something fierce, though no one could tell from today.
Dressed in her Sunday best, she was the spitting image of a lady of
occasion. The woman she could have been juxtaposed against the
trappings of the woman she was, judging from the flower
arrangements made into gang symbols and guns.
King arrived at the funeral escorting Lady G,
not that he felt obligated or anything. She wished to attend the
funeral and he thought it prudent to accompany her. He recognized
few of the people, but all of the faces – set hard with no tears,
impassive and inscrutable – were masks of barely checked rage. He
stepped closer and put his arm around her. Lady G didn't object to
his proximity. It was a non-threatening intimacy.
Regret was a powerful emotion. It
gave weight, if not words, to ideas and feelings unable to be
expressed in life. Things like mourning the waste of her life. The
futility of their constant fighting. The lost opportunity to have
been friends. No, these things were sealed behind another layer of
armor as she stared, hard-faced. She knew her presence might upset
a few folks, but Alaina was… she didn't know what Alaina was, only
that they had been connected somehow. She knew that she owed Alaina
some measure of respect in death that she never had the chance to
give in life.
The graveside service was at Bethel Cemetery.
The casket lowered into the ground, another seed planted though
what fruit would come of it King didn't venture to guess. He eyed
the crowd warily. Car doors slammed shut as most of the mourners
departed. An air of unchecked resentment lingered. Word had it that
no one knew who fired the shot. Just the same, blood was in the air
and demanded more to be appeased. He knew where the trouble would
come from as a few boys tarried, pointing to King and Lady G, and
laughed.
"He do one of us, he's got to
fall," one of them called out, daring King.
King had his fill of violence for
one week. For one lifetime, really. One of them caught his
disaffected sigh.
"What 'chu lookin' at
nigga?"
"I'm tired is all. Not everything
is about how you carry it."
"Might be time for you to tip on
out," the young one said.
"We will when we're ready. We've
come to pay our respect. When we through, we're gone." King had to
stand tall or else those chump-ass busters would think he was
shook.
The boy, tall and good-sized –
barely out his teens, if that mattered at all – stepped forward,
inches from King's face, nearly bowling him down with his butt
funk. He had some flex in him, but having no fear was easy when you
had little to live for. No dreams of tomorrow. For next
year.
Lady G let go of his slowly
balling fists.
King met his eyes without fear.
He could feel the flare of his heated blood. The boy said something
to him, but King didn't answer, just hard-eyed him with a hint of
disdain. By the code, the boy couldn't back down. The eyes of his
boys were on him.
The boy put his weight on his
back foot, preparing to throw a punch. When it came, King
sidestepped and countered, planting his fist solidly in the boy's
kidney, turning him, then shoving him into the wall of a memorial.
The anxious squawks of the crowd had suddenly been reduced to
mumbles. From the corner of his eye, King spied a light-skinned
girl with fine braids, observing the proceedings from behind a
nearby tree, then, like a will o' wisp, she was gone.
To Night's mind, wizards were white men with
long beards, robes, and pointy hats. For that matter, African witch
doctors conjured images of men in large masks dancing around pyres
of fire. Neither picture came close to what he practiced. He
slumped within his great wicker chair, exhausted from manipulating
the dragon's breath. At his beckoning, it poured from the vents of
the Phoenix Apartments penthouse and pooled at his feet, a faithful
dog awaiting his master's command. So he thought.
"What we gonna do about Miss
Jane?" Green stood in the corner of the room, a discreet distance
from the enveloping tendrils of mist, and watched as they entered
Night's nostrils and open mouth. The distortion added to the
ghoulishness of his face.
Night's eye's fluttered, his
upturned pupils returning to normal and focusing on Green. "What do
you mean?"
"Her time's about up. She's bound
to become a… liability before too long."
"You mean give me up? She don't
know nothing."
"She knows more than you think.
Plus, she thinks she has a trump card to play."
"Percy?"
"Yeah."
"Leave her be," Night said. "He's
still my blood and she's still the boy's mother."
"Not much of one. No
disrespect."
"No, you right. But the bug or
the blast will catch up with her before much longer." Night
struggled to upright himself, but his arm muscles gave out. Sweat
scattered like buckshot across his face and chest.
"Are you OK?"
"Just off my game is all." Night
wouldn't have suffered any interruptions or taken any visitors
during the ritual – definitely would not have risked appearing weak
– except in front of Green. Night's T-shirt draped over him, his
gaunt face betraying his emaciated body. His dark flesh withered.
If Green had seen this before, his thoughts were his own.
"You're using it too
much."
Night threw a bloodshot glare at
Green. The undersides of his eyelids itched with the scrape of ants
crawling alongside his eyes into his skull. The rasp of his
breathing choked into a cough. He rolled his tongue across his dry,
cracked lips. The ashy pallor to his skin obscured by the waning
mist, Night's head was already caught up in the heady throes of the
dragon's breath.
"I'm so close to having them all.
And beating Dred at his own game."
Marshall rested on his side, stroking the
bare back of the hooker sprawled across his dirty mattress. Her
flesh cooled to room temperature, her head buried face down into
what passed for his bed, staring into eternity. She died during the
throes of his climax; that was when it usually happened, though it
rarely stopped him from going a second round. Michaela sat in a
chair across from them. As much as Michaela hated being referred to
as the Durham Brothers, she hated the appellation "The Trolls" even
more. All elementals were known to be capricious, treacherous, and,
well, hostile. It took them a long time to find a place that suited
their needs. An abandoned home which had been gutted, all but the
load-bearing walls removed so that new owners could refashion the
layout any way they wished. Without power and with the windows
boarded, the house was little more than a huge cavern.
"Was it good for you?" he
remarked to the corpse, but turned to Michaela to see if she'd give
him a polite chuckle. It wasn't the fact that he had to pay for
company that upset Marshall, it was that pros charged him at least
double. A shadow crossed his face whenever things did not go his
way. If Michaela wasn't around, he was often cheated, the victim of
a Murphy game or worse, so she always watched over him.
"It's time," Michaela checked her
watch. She had similar but different problems. With a measure of
wit and charm, she had little difficulty getting a man, when away
from the baleful uncomfortable stare of her brother. Unfortunately,
she couldn't stop herself from consuming them. When it came to men,
she lived with a constant fear that if he got to know her or if he
knew her name, he'd either abandon or destroy her. Better to kill
them before they hurt her. Dining on them spoke more to her frugal
mentality.
"We shouldn't go to work on an
empty stomach."
"You're supposed to load up on
carbs, I hear."
"Well, waste not, want
not."
She stared at the corpse. Her
mouth watered as she imagined chewing the fleshy muscle of the
woman's upper arm, tearing sinew from bone in large sloppy bites.
"I suppose we have time for a quick nibble."
• • •
The metallic squawk of the phone, the din of
voices, the pallid haze of fluorescent lighting all faded into
background static as Octavia studied the spread of folders before
her. Glasses low on her nose, she picked up folder after folder,
eyes dancing along each line until the information became as
familiar as her own heartbeat. License plate numbers from
surveillance of Breton Court Phoenix Apartments activities led to
girlfriends, and in a couple of cases, mothers of the players. But
nothing on Dred, Night, or Green. They had pictures of Green and a
rare shot of Night, but that was it. Social Security, date of
birth, assets, credit history, criminal records, lawsuits (not that
any beefs were handled in any court other than the streets) – it
was difficult to track anyone who had checked out of the
system.
The local reverends were up in
arms and calling for an open and honest investigation. Apparently
the lead investigator being black wasn't enough because blue was
blue and police hid behind a wall of silence. The take-home message
was that she was window dressing, little more than a House Negro
faithfully attending to her master's business. Her unspoken message
to them would be that there came a point when talk was cheap, when
you had done all you could do to draw attention to a problem and
had to come up or join in with a solution. Protests and prayer
meetings didn't cut it anymore. Maybe they – the people, the
community – needed to do more to stem the tide of violence where
they could; bear their share of the burden. Put some "action" into
social action, not just stopping at press conferences pontificating
and prevaricating until the cameras were finished rolling. But that
would be her selling them as short as they were selling
her.
Lee was down the hall with the
prize catches from his little raid on the dog-fighting ring. Even
Octavia gave him silent props on that bust and that was before it
yielded a couple of rival low-level players. Mr Parker Griffin,
they all but knew that they wouldn't get anywhere with: well
acquainted with the system, being far from a virgin with it, he had
already graduated from the juvey system. He'd keep his mouth shut
and stand tall, but Lee had to go through the motions. Now, Mr
Preston Wilcox, street name "Prez", was another story. He was new
to the life. Word was he made it no secret that he hated the rules
of the game. People whispered that he had no heart when, in fact,
what he had was sense enough to realize that it was the needless
violence, especially the collateral damage of bystanders, that drew
the police down on them. Even so, any perceived weakness, even
voiced attitude, could get him dead, except that he was new enough
for folks to consider him still learning the rules.
"Do you believe in God?" Octavia
knew that she herself hadn't seen the inside of a church since her
momma quit making her go. As a detective, it was her job to sidle
alongside a perp, get into their head, and become their best
friend. In short, her job was to be an actress or at least a
professional bullshitter, because who would befriend this worthless
lot? Truth be told, when it came to God, she'd thought about Him
and church a lot lately, a beacon in the darkness. Maybe the
reverends were getting to her after all.
"I guess."
"No, son, that's not good enough.
Either you believe in a Creator that is looking over you, the same
God your momma and grandmomma believed in and raised you to believe
in, or you don't."
"Yeah." Slouched in his chair not
meeting her eyes, Prez studied his hands as they rested on the
table. The wan light gave them a sense of… otherliness. All of the
God talk made him uncomfortable. It reminded him of more innocent
times, when he was capable of believing in things like burning
bushes, parted seas, and resurrections. He no longer believed in
miracles.
"So you know wrong from
right?"
"I guess."
"All right. Now we getting
somewhere. You know why I became a cop?"
"No."
"I'm a truth seeker. I believe
that there is truth out there, sometimes buried under layers of
lies and bodies and secrets and things most folks don't want their
momma to know they were doing. But it's out there, right,
son?"
"Yeah." Prez squirmed every time
she used the word "son". And the word became her knife.
"I believe in God, too. I want to
do His work, be a blessing to those around me, especially the
neighborhood my mother and father raised me in. But I can't help a
neighborhood that won't help itself. We try to uphold the truth,
uphold the law though it is sometimes, well, most times too
painful. But we do it anyway. Not because of you or your
knucklehead friends. You all are in the game. You know the rules,
we know the rules and we just play tag with one another.
But…"
Octavia pulled out a folder and
withdrew pictures of Alaina. Shots of her in the park, her
bulletridden body on the ground, dead eye accusing any who bore
witness. "Most folks ain't in the game. Some get caught up in stuff
despite staying as far away as they could. She was a promising
athlete and a good student," Octavia risked embellishing Alaina's
story a little. "Odds were she wouldn't have gone much further than
college playing ball, but she could've been a doctor or a
businesswoman. She could've gotten out. And this one." She pulled
out a picture of Conant. "This one was just playing in his mother's
kitchen. Can you believe that? His whole life in front of him.
Laughter, love, friends, family all gone because folks playing the
game too close."
Prez's gaze fixed on the picture.
He held it gently. So this was what he looked
like.
"Something you want to tell me,
son?" Detective Burke relied on her instincts. The light of
recognition, the apologetic droop of his shoulder, eyes full of
sorrow and regret but not tears. Rarely tears.
"No."
"No? You going to look this boy
in the eye and tell me 'no'. Ah, you a street soldier standing
tall. No snitching from you, ain't that right?"
"Yeah."
"See? You can say 'yeah' when you
need to. And this boy needs you to. Look, I know we have you up in
our house – you're free to get up any time you want," she quickly
reminded him without breaking stride in her spiel. "But I'm not
saying that you had anything to do with it. I just need your help.
I need to tell his people something. Every day I get to work and
you know what I dread hearing? My phone ringing. Why? Because I
know it's his momma calling. Every. Day. Wanting to know if we've
made any progress. Wanting to know if we've found her baby's
killer. Every day I have to hear her heart break all over again
when I have to tell her that no one cares about her baby. No one
wants to step up. No one wants to do the right thing. No one wants
to stand tall for Conant. Everyone wants to be blind, deaf, and
dumb and call themselves being true to the game. Are you blind,
deaf, and dumb?"
"No."
"Someone's got to answer for his
blood. Don't you agree?"
"Yeah."
She slapped the table. Prez
jumped. "Just tell me whatever you know, son. Whatever you
know."
"I don't know."
"Don't you care, son?"
"I… I don't know what it means to
care." Prez stumbled for a response and latched onto the first
thought that came to mind. He didn't think he'd grasp anything so
truthfully self-revelatory. The words hung in the air and Prez cast
his face downward again. The room suddenly felt too hot.
"I don't believe that, son. I
don't believe you're that far gone. I don't believe you're a
monster, son."
A
monster. There were too many monsters, real monsters,
running the streets. The kind of monsters not found in bedtime
stories or fairy tales. At least not the ones he read. He studied
Conant's picture again and held it in those hands (whose hands?)
which did things he certainly couldn't be held accountable for.
"All right. Maybe I heard something."
"I'm listening. Conant's momma
wants to know, son."
"Someone who was there. I'm not
saying he did it."
"You got a name for
me?"
I bet that
woman had a name. "Dollar."
The rarely observed fact about 38th Street
was that it told the tale of the city. Beginning on the west side,
along the picturesque Eagle Creek reservoir, it wound past the
Breton Court apartments then Lafayette Square, and traced an area
in the throes of white flight. The street crossed White River and
then ran in front of the Indianapolis Museum of Art and the Butler
University campus, a once mildly decayed stretch that prettied up a
bit as it led to the State Fairgrounds. Passing Fall Creek, now
well into the east side of the city, the curb appeal of the street
was forgotten once more. Though it continued long past the Phoenix
Apartments, that was where Omarosa's journey ended. Not so much at
the Phoenix, but at a house not too far south of there.
Rumor had it that this was Dred's
mother's home. Rumor had it that Dred's mother had a bit of a
falling-out of some sort with her son and hadn't been seen since.
Rumor had it that the home was now a convenient bank, under the
protection of Dred. His word was like the Roman emperor's seal of
old: no one dared break it out of penalty of a death that would be
sure, swift, and certain for any who dared trespass on Dred's
hallowed ground.
Omarosa's skill as a thief was
unquestioned, demonstrated in part by the fact that she didn't even
possess a criminal record. Were this a simple breakin, it would
merely be a matter of some second-storey work and a few picked
locks. But they weren't in the suburbs now and the front door – on
top of being the original door which meant real wood of substantial
thickness – was probably reinforced. Plywood covered the windows.
Weighing her options, she decided on a different plan. She rang the
doorbell.
"Look here, shorty." Junie held
the door open. "You got the wrong place. You need to
step."
"That's cool. Baylon sent me to
help someone here relax, but I'll sure as shit save my back the
strain." She stepped back to let him fully appreciate the view. Her
hair ran in a series of fine braids. Hoop earrings hung down to her
shoulders. An azure cloud framed her eyes, complementing the
electric-blue gloss on her lips. A rhinestone dotted each blue
nail. A zippered blue jean jacket matched a skirt which stopped
along the curve of her ass. Handcuffs looped in front, an
ill-fitting belt buckle. Her fishnet-gartered legs ran down to
boots with a six-inch metallic heel, the edge honed to a fine
bevel.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. B sent you? He
just full of surprises tonight." Junie studied her fine physique
for a few moments; the budding bulge in his pants would've held the
door open for her on its own.
"It's just you? I was expecting a
bit of a party."
"You mean Parker? He down at
juvey. Got locked up on some bullshit. Should be back tomorrow. But
we ain't gonna let his absence spoil our good time."
Junie replaced the wood plank and
metal rod to secure the door. Omarosa thought they depended too
much on Dred's aura to guarantee their safety. That was fine when
dealing with folks more afraid of Dred than death. Not so fine when
dealing with one of the Fey. These fools ran a sloppy operation and
left everything out in the open: product on the tables, baggies
half-filled, money still in the counter, and only Junie on watch.
Junie, a well-known fuckup. With her deliberate stride and
revealing the taut muscles of her thigh, her body language
deceptively promised sex. She counted how many bones to break in
each arm once he touched her. The creak of protesting floorboards
gave her pause.
"Well, well, well, look who we
have heah." Michaela wiped her hands on a towel as she came in from
one of the back rooms. Wearing a white bohemian-style skirt with
red ruffles, the outfit only accentuated the heft of her figure.
However, Michaela was much more comfortable dressed this way, than
in a suit. More in tune with her personality as she saw it. "I
smell fey."
"Me too." Marshall descended the
stairs soon after her, his awkward bulk causing him to clutch the
railing and concentrate on negotiating each step rather than tax
himself with banter.
"I smell unwashed ass and wet
horse, so it must be the troll brothers coming out to
play."
Michaela bristled. "She the one
that's been taking off folks' money."
"Matches the description. No
sawed-off tonight, though," Junie circled behind her as he
appraised. "Don't know where she'd hide it in that
outfit."
Omarosa cursed at herself for
being too cocky, even for her. As traps went, however, she wasn't
overly impressed. Though it demonstrated probably as much
sophistication as Junie could handle. The trolls weren't exactly an
instrument of subtlety, say like a finely balanced blade. They were
more like a war hammer and if they smashed enough, they got the job
done. The job was a bust and it was time to cut her losses and make
a hasty retreat. They weren't in position yet which left her plenty
of opportunity. Time to expose their weak link. She turned to
Junie.
"I didn't think I'd need more
than a strong pimp hand for your punk ass."
Junie stepped toward her but was
met with a side snap-kick to his gut which doubled him over.
Omarosa planted her elbow in the back of his neck, then tossed him
at Marshall. With Michaela almost on her, she pulled out the .22
she kept tucked in the back of her skirt. Omarosa was never truly
unarmed. Michaela grabbed her gun hand, but Omarosa peeled off two
shots, one firing wild, the other catching Michaela in her
shoulder. Michaela barely grunted, instead she squeezed the hand
until the gun dropped and then punched Omarosa in her belly.
Michaela's speed belied her bulk. She smashed a meaty fist into
Omarosa's cheekbones, then hit her in the nose the same way. Her
head whipped to the side. Her blood dotted the wall. Sent sprawling
to the floor, the petals of the rose she'd planned on leaving
tumbling from her jacket pocket scattered. Omarosa staggered a few
steps to her right, positioning herself hoping her next gambit
might work better than her original plan. Marshall lumbered toward
her, his deliberate pace full of menace. He eyed her long, fine
fingers with the delight of using them for toothpicks
later.
Omarosa spun into action, a blur
of boneless gymnastics as she tumbled overhead and arced the blade
that formed her heel toward Michaela's throat in a movement so
improbably fluid, she almost couldn't react. Raising her arms to
protect her neck, she received a thick gash along her forearms
rather than having her carotid artery severed. They seemed to move
in special-effects slow-motion as Omarosa grabbed the electronic
money counter and smashed it into Marshall.
He spun on his heels waiting for
Omarosa's next attack. She landed soundlessly, then Omarosa jumped
at him, clawing at his face with the nails on those long, fine
fingers. He grabbed her hands and pulled her into his headbutt.
Stunned, she began to drop to the floor. He reached for her
shoulders, but instead caught her ear rings. He yanked them free,
holding one in each hand as if he'd just pulled two grenade pins.
Her head ringing and blood spurting down her neck, Omarosa punched
her knee upward into his balls. A savage look filled his eyes, his
face collapsed into a portrait of pain-fueled rage. She tottered to
her left in order to position herself. Marshall staggered back a
step, then fully enraged, seized with both hands and threw her,
despite the cry of "NO!" from Michaela.
Glass shattered, the sound muted
by the plywood on the other side of it. Omarosa's body flew limply
through, taking most of the bay window with her. The crystalline
teeth scraped her flesh, several shards still protruding from her,
though nothing major had been pierced. The impact of the frame and
plywood took the wind out of her, but she toppled herself over the
porch wall and scampered down the sidewalk. People stared as she
ran, moving out the way of the beaten and bleeding prostitute that
fled the house of Dred.
"Sorry, sis, I wasn't thinking.
Should we go after her?"
Michaela put the flat of her hand
against his chest. "No. Look at the fear in the people's eyes. See
how they turn their heads away not wanting to see too much. No, I'd
say the right message has been sent."