CHAPTER TWELVE
With Halloween came many kids not bothering
to put on costumes, going from door to door making the words "Trick
or Treat" truly sound like an implied threat. The jack-o-lanterns'
faces slumped with rot, soon rat-chewed and discarded as the fall
days bled into Thanksgiving and times of family reunions.
An upturned maroon umbrella
rested against a back patio. A storm door was propped open. A swarm
of large male mosquitos congregated within a stand of pine trees
riddled with brown needles down by the creek. Some of King's
neighbors still kicked it out on their plastic lawn furniture and
usually a good breeze kept the bugs off them during the warm night.
Two of them stood off to the side to finish their smokes, even some
of the neighborhood kids ran around, despite the late hour, but it
was a Friday night and it wasn't like they had a bunch of
appointments lined up for their Saturday morning.
As he started toward them, he
noticed Baylon beside the large bush that blocked the view from the
side street. A skinny white girl with blonde hair – carrying a
mixed baby wearing only a diaper – stood close to him pleading her
case. Nodding toward Junie, he whistled to draw his attention, and
pointed to her. She beamed with appreciation and headed toward
them.
"I expect to see you tomorrow,"
Baylon barked after her.
"You're a real man of the
people." Though he wore an open leather jacket over it, King filled
out his black T-shirt allowing his muscles to coil and flex beneath
it. The word "RESISTANCE" captioned a picture of the '68 Olympians
with raised fists.
"King."
"Don't you ever give it a rest?"
King asked.
"Capitalism marches onward. A
brotha's got to get his."
They stared at each other in a
tense silence. King hated this part of the show. The never backing
down, never showing weakness, escalating sense of impending
violence. It was such a waste. King wasn't sure how to react.
Baylon and he had a history and it was clear that Baylon and Lady G
had known each other. With Prez being gone, Lady G had been staying
with Big Momma, but it wasn't as if she was his girl or anything.
Then something else occurred to him. Both Baylon and Green were
personally overseeing the corner, and their troops appeared thin.
"No harm done. I'm just out here seeing what's what. Been hearing
things."
"I just didn't want there to be
any… misunderstandings," Baylon said.
"Don't start none, won't be none."
King walked toward the gathered
throng as Baylon watched. Lady G slumped in her chair, a sweater
slung around her. Any self-consciousness she might have felt under
Baylon's gaze, she ignored with a cool aplomb. Big Momma sat
between her spread legs, her hair half combed out, half with
micro-braids. After a few minutes observing King and Lady G's
awkward dance, Baylon moved back to his corner work. One of the
neighborhood kids headed their way from the opposite direction of
King. His T-shirt had the words "I LOVE ORAL SEX" emblazoned on the
front.
"Boy, where'd you get that
shirt?" Big Momma asked, the way King's mother used to "ask" when
she was really yelling at him.
"It's my dad's. He said I could
wear it."
"Then you can wear it, but not
around here. Go on back to your house and change shirts."
"It's the only one that's
clean."
"Then turn it inside out or
something, but you ain't wearing it around here."
"OK." He took off his shirt,
revealing his frail frame. He turned it inside out then joined the
other kids who had stopped their game to watch the
minishowdown.
"Trifling-ass parents…" Big Momma
muttered. "What kind of parents are gonna let their kid walk out of
the house in a shirt like that?"
Lady G mm-hmm-ed from behind
her.
"Girl, you just mad at the
world." King sat down. "You up for some hair?"
"Bout time. Your head's done got
all raggedy," Big Momma said.
It was true: for the last few
weeks, King had been letting his hair grow out. His frazzled
cornrows in need of tightening. It was time for a new look he had
supposed. The fact that Lady G did hair in lieu of rent had nothing
to do with it. Big Momma, however, had truly taken the girl in and
now was every bit the gateway her real momma would have been. Lady
G, though she never voiced it, loved it. Her fingertips, the sole
part of her hands not covered by her black gloves, danced in Big
Momma's hair.
"Boy, what do you do to your
hair?" Lady G asked.
"Put water on it then push it
back." She took her comb and pulled at a clutched stalk of hair.
"Ow. Dag."
"Beauty is pain," she
said.
"Who you trying to look good
for?" Lady G asked coyly.
"No one in particular," he lied
poorly. "That's you women out here who like to act all
diva-ish."
"The grass is always greener and
some women don't mind mowing someone else's lawn." Lady G parted
another section of Big Momma's hair and then planted her comb in
the remaining unbraided section while she worked.
"That's what divas do,
huh?"
"All I'm saying is that I don't
keep too many girl friends, especially around me and my man. One or
two close ones I talk to–"
"Like Rhianna," King slipped
in.
"A few I hang out with–"
"Like that girl in the park from
the other day."
Lady G couldn't help but suppress
a grin at the attention he paid to her life. She continued: "But
none I tell everything to. They the ones that come back and stab
you. You ain't in love or anything are you?"
"I only ever fell in love
once."
"Oh, Lord," Big Momma
said.
"Your baby's momma?" Lady G
asked.
"I ain't talking about her. I
forget that girl's name." King closed his eyes while Lady G picked
at Big Momma's tangled braids.
"Shameika," Big Momma answered
for him. "He was really young, they had a really good relationship.
But then she switched to another church, fell in with a new group
of friends, and started hanging around with them. It wasn't that he
was jealous of her new friends. He wasn't even mad that she had a
life outside of him, but he wasn't the type of person to put up
with being exiled. First he was in, and then he was completely out.
So he turned around and told her it might be best if they chilled
for a minute. The worst break-up he ever had."
That was what he thought
then.
"That didn't sour you on women?"
Lady G asked.
Big Momma answered again. "It was
the only time he fell in love. Other than that, all he had was
'girls' like his baby's momma: a girl for a jazz concert, a girl
for a movie, a girl for prayer meeting. He didn't want them to get
the wrong idea, so he always told them upfront."
"A church boy at heart?" Lady G
tugged at a knot causing Big Momma to grimace.
"Nothing wrong with
that."
A clearing throat interrupted
them. Big Momma, Lady G, and King all turned to find Merle standing
there as if he'd been there the entire time.
"What a pleasant scene," Merle
said. "I hate to break up such an idyllic moment, but we have
business to attend to."
Loose Tooth awaited Tavon on the steps of the
porch. On post. Even at night, under the sodium glare, Tavon loved
the house. For him, it was almost sacred ground.
"What's up?"
"Same old foolishness," Loose
Tooth said with his gravelly voice and a sad, resigned smile. "Miss
Jane an' 'em's inside."
Only then did Tavon notice the
racket coming from inside. He went around to the rear of the house,
Loose Tooth faithfully following, to the basement entrance. He bent
the plywood covering enough for them to slide through. If night had
a texture, it felt like the black of the basement. Only after their
eyes adjusted could they use the residual glow from the street
lamps to discern the foreboding shapes around them. They made their
way past the rusted-out furnace, an antique from forty years ago. A
pile of old window frames, still useable, littered a storage room
floor. He blithely slid past the ad-hoc floor joists that leveled
the bending floorboards. The rotted stairs croaked in protest with
each of their steps. Tavon put his shoulder into the nailed-shut
door.
Ship-wrecked lost souls lay about
the living room floor. Too many times he came here to find out that
Miss Jane had let a whole crew flop there, like a basement party
that got smoked out. This time the sprawl of bodies used each other
to stave off the cold. Miss Jane quickly explained that she charged
each of them a few bucks – a take she was willing to split
fifty-fifty with Tavon (which Tavon knew that he'd be lucky to see
a tenth of the money) – to partake in the Black Zombie
testing.
"Who he?" Tavon asked, nodding
toward the lone white guy.
"He's my wigga."
The scrawny burnout with a chest
like a squirrel looked like a trailer park refugee. His bloodshot
eyes danced like life was one big video game that he was
desperately trying to follow. He rubbed his hand over his closely
cropped hair. His shoes tied over bare feet and an unfinished
tattoo of a dragon rearing to exhale flames glared from above his
torn T-shirt. Tavon knew without asking where the money went that
was supposed to finish the tattoo.
"I'm just out here trying to
school him," Miss Jane said of her latest dupe.
"Yeah, he's my nigger," the
burnout said.
The din of the room screeched to
an immediate and deafening silence. Fearfully he scanned the
room.
"What did I tell you?" Miss Jane
asked sternly, stepping menacingly toward him.
"Not too much 'r'?" the burnout
answered weakly.
"No 'r'. 'R' means business. 'R'
means we obligated to kick your ass."
"My n-nigga?"
Miss Jane put her arm on Tavon to
steady herself from laughing too hard. "We just shittin' you. Come
on, fool."
Tavon passed out the vials, and
played big man and host. He enjoyed the moment of civility, a
ghetto tea ceremony.
"You want me to set you up?" Miss
Jane asked politely.
"Yeah, great," Tavon said, still
attending to his guests. He sat down and Miss Jane snuggled next to
him, offering the spike like some champagne toast. She searched out
a good vein and with his nod, she pulled back a pinkish cloud then
drove the load home. She quickly filled her own and injected it,
her head down in a dope-fiend lean, waiting for the blast to
hit.
"You know any white Washingtons?"
Tavon asked lazily.
"You thinkin' on what that
wannabe Muslim be sayin'?" Loose Tooth said with a jaundiced glare
from inside his heroin fog. "That fool never met a conspiracy
theory he didn't like."
"I'm just sayin', you heard about
Thomas Jefferson an' all his kids. George had to be screwin', too.
You know all them mugs had slaves. An' Martha wasn't much to look
at."
"I guess that makes you
practically royalty."
"Well, we don't know our true
names," Tavon said with a wan plaintiveness.
"So you want we should call you
Tavon X now?" Loose Tooth asked.
"An' give up the smoke? Them
Muslims don't play," the disembodied voice of the burnout chimed in
from the shadows.
"Shit, he couldn't even give up
pork, much less chasing the heroin." The way Miss Jane pronounced
it, the word came out "hair ron".
Too much thinking blew his high.
Tavon fell silent, but an overwhelming sadness swept over him with
the realization that he broke his mother's heart. All of his other
siblings went on to college or the military and resented him for
the life that he chose for himself. But he missed her, even though
he didn't make it to the funeral because he took a charge and did
an overnight in city jail. "Life was full of mystery," his mother
often proffered as an explanation for their pain. "You can waste
your time figuring out the why, or you can let it grow you." She
absorbed suffering, especially his, like a sponge and he missed her
most during times like this.
He'd been watered.
Why he trusted Miss Jane to be in
the spirit of the occasion and not pocket his vial for later, he
didn't know. He cursed himself for his stupidity. Turning to
confront her, his movement knocked her to the floor. Her eyes
rolled into her head. Foam bubbled from the corner of her mouth.
Her breaths came in rasps and fits.
"Miss Jane, wake up!" Tavon
yelled.
A moan escaped her
lips.
"Miss Jane! There's something
wrong with Miss Jane!" he repeated to no one in particular. He
studied his friends. The burnout had stopped breathing. Loose Tooth
still convulsed, his old body dying in wracked spasms. Tavon
panicked, flitting from body to body, splashing water on some,
trying to get Miss Jane on her feet. Call 911, he thought, letting
Miss Jane crumple into a pile. From where? No phones around here.
He backed toward the front door. The police wouldn't come anyway.
Maybe if he could phone from the KFC.
So he ran.
And kept running.
Wayne slammed the door of the Outreach Inc.'s
minivan and tugged on it to make sure it was locked. Street nights
were a series of rituals for him. Caffeine was his drug of choice
these days. Even as he sucked down a venti caramel macchiato, he
thought about the dark places addicts knew. The same sad, scared
hole too many folks fell into. Some pushed there by drugs. Some
stumbled there due to lack of love. There was always a hole they
needed to fill with whatever they could; a need that overwhelmed
them such that they pushed their jobs, their school, their friends,
their family aside in order to have another attempt to fill it.
Wayne knew about the holes and he knew he couldn't save anyone,
much less everyone; but he knew what he was called to do. Someone
had to step into the gap between the lost and the rest of the world
which forgot them. Someone had to push the envelope and risk
themselves to go where they were, to love them back to themselves.
Someone had to intervene.
That night they went to a wooded
area behind the Eastgate Mall. A place he knew well. He knew the
temporary tent community that sprung up between police sweeps. He
knew the dumpsters that could be scavenged from. A backpack of
water, snacks, and socks in one hand and a Maglite in the other
didn't seem like much, but with the right team of folks, it was a
start. It always came back to who he worked with. Some volunteers
were good to mark the location and drop off water. Others truly
connected with folks there. Learned their names. Heard their
stories. Heard their stories.. Treated them like they were human.
Weren't afraid to meet them where they were, in the muck of their
lives. A good team, the right team, could venture to the darkest
places.
Despite the lateness of the hour,
the night always left him energized so he had an evening ending
ritual to help him wind down: dinner at Mr Dan's, a
twenty-four-hour burger joint with homestyle fries and greasy
burgers like your momma would have made. Strains of Outkast's
"Bombs over Baghdad" squawked from his cell phone. Wayne sighed,
his stomach already grumbling, fearing it would be some street
emergency which would delay him sitting down to eat.
"Wayne?" King asked.
"Who you expecting?"
"You didn't sound like
yourself."
"Cause I'm ready to find
something to meal on and you holding a brother up." Wayne shoved
his free hand in his vest pocket and leaned against the
minivan.
"Mind if we hook up? I got some
things I need to talk to you about."
"Like what?"
"Not over the phone."
Wayne hated these "there's
something of cosmic consequence, the fate of the universe hanging
in the balance until we talk but I can't tell you about it for a
few hours so now you have to spend that time wondering what it is
and if you've screwed up somehow" calls. "Long as you don't mind
meeting me at Mr Dan's."
"Over on Keystone?"
"Yeah."
"Cool. We'll meet you
there."
"We?" Wayne asked to an already
dead connection.
Wayne pulled the door to the
Neighborhood Fellowship Church which housed Outreach Inc.,
double-checking to make sure the lock caught. By the time he turned
around, Tavon nearly bowled him over. Tavon didn't know what else
to do besides run, unable to trust anyone at that point, especially
considering that his social circle pretty much exhausted itself
after fiends, dealers, and police. Wayne was familiar from around
the way as one of the neighborhood do-gooders.
"They dead. They dead, man,"
Tavon stammered.
"Who you talking bout?"
"The fiends that rode that Black
Zombie blast."
"Slow your roll, man. Talk to me
from the beginning of the story." Tavon's dilated eyes and constant
scratching told Wayne a story all right – he was a fiend in need.
"Tell you what, I'm about to hook up with some people and get me
something to eat. Why don't you come with me and tell us all about
it."
Tavon wasn't without compassion,
but in the final analysis, fiends did what they did. The need
overwhelmed him, pushed aside all other thoughts. A meal here. A
ride there. These man-of-the-people types could hook a brother up.
Maybe get something he could translate into cash – a bus pass, a
gift certificate – and maybe catch the same blast that had knocked
the other fiends on they ass. In the end, it was all about getting
over, no matter who had to be crawled over.
"You float me?" Tavon asked,
suddenly more lucid. "I'm a little light."
"Yeah, I got you."
Lott arrived at Mr Dan's first. One in the
morning and he was eating here; his belly and backside would pay
for it tomorrow. Actually probably later tonight. He rather enjoyed
the simplicity of his life. Having just got off his mandated shift,
the gentle skritch of the fabric of his uniform with each step
reassured him. He had a little job, was saving a little money, had
himself a little place. With no drama and more importantly nothing
he couldn't walk away from at any point, he was content within his
lifestyle. That was the secret to life, he'd discovered. Folks fell
in love with a certain way of living, things they had to have and
wouldn't be anything without. That meant they'd do anything to
protect it, get all crazy about shit that made no sense. Not Lott.
When shit started stacking up, he could cut out any time and set up
somewhere else.
Wayne came in next, a fiend
trailing behind him. A head nod to Lott, Wayne marched to the
counter to place his – and Tavon's – order, not playing when it
came to his food. Lott could guard the booth if he wanted. Wayne
was still waiting for his order when King arrived.
Lady G and Rhianna pointed at
pictures of burgers – though they'd be disappointed by the reality
that would show up on their plates later – then joined Lott at the
table. Lott seemed to sit up straighter at their arrival.
"He with you?" King asked Wayne,
but eyed Tavon.
"Yeah, sorta."
"Always bringing your work home
with you."
"You one to talk." Wayne glanced
at homelessass Merle who trailed King. The irony was not lost on
Wayne considering his line of work versus his feelings for Merle,
but some folks were hard to like. "Extra grace" folks, his pastor
called them. Merle always irritated him, as if Wayne was the object
of a joke only Merle got.
"I am ever the servant's
servant," Merle offered.
Wayne sucked his teeth in
response.
"I was hoping we could chat in
private," King said.
"You the one with an entourage."
Wayne nodded toward Merle and the girls. "I didn't know you knew
Lady G and Rhianna."
"It's not like that." King
glanced over at Lady G, mildly jealous that she sat next to Lott.
"Things been going on and I'm trying to piece things
together."
"And I thought 'let us ask
he-with-the-woundedneck'," Merle added.
Wayne rubbed the keloid scar on
the back of his neck. "Well, I couldn't leave him alone. I'm trying
to get a story out of him, myself. Thought maybe time, fresh air,
and a full belly might chill him out enough to be straight with
me."
Tavon stabbed several French
fries into the gooey mess that was the Mr Dan's Open-Faced Chili
Cheeseburger. Gulping down the fries and licking the remaining
chili cheese sauce from his dirt-caked fingers, he chanced a peek
at Merle and, feeling uncomfortable, he returned his attentions to
his plate.
"Curious." Merle stared with mild
fascination. "Who are you, my guy?"
"Tavon. Tavon Little." Tavon
peered up with distrustful eyes, arm guarding his plate, then went
back to mealing.
"Never bring strays where you
lay."
"He kinda ain't got it all," Lady
G said, more of Merle, not all too sure of Tavon, though fiends she
had a better sense for.
"Nah, he good," King
said.
"Can I get a new fries? These are
greasy." Rhianna pushed the object of disdain away from her, sat
back, and folded her arms.
"What you expect from Mr
Dan's?"
"Girl, you better eat those fries
and be grateful," Lady G said. "It's not like you paying for
them."
Rhianna buried her head in her
plate like an ostrich.
"What's this about, King?" Wayne
asked.
"The gathering of knights," Merle
said, ignored by the group.
"I'm not sure," King said. "It's
like I have these flashes. Like things aren't what they're meant to
be. And I have this feeling like I'm supposed to be doing
something."
"Why you?" Wayne
pressed.
"He is the dream of a waiting
dragon," Merle said.
"Does he ever shut the fuck
up?"
King waved off Merle's comments,
or rather, Wayne's reaction to them. "Not me. Us. It's like I can
almost see the whole story, but when I think on it too hard, it all
slips away from me. Merle told me you've all seen something and I
thought if we got together, maybe we could sort it out."
"How does Merle know what we've
seen?" Wayne glared at him with distrust.
"Magic," Merle said.
"Magic?"
"Magic."
"Bullshit. Chronic maybe," Wayne
said.
"In my day, magic was much more
commonplace. There's no room for magic in your lives, only
darkness. You've forgotten how to dream. To imagine possibilities.
All you know is this." Merle knocked on the table. "Continue to
make your mud pies and never think to dream of the ocean. Now, some
still serve the Old Ways, but there are the Old Ways and ways older
still. It is the eternal struggle. The struggle chooses its vessels
and we fight where we are. I warn against the beast that
sleeps."
"Did that make a damn lick of
sense?" Wayne asked.
King steepled his fingers in
front of his face and sifted through Merle's words. Like everything
else of late, they made sense, an inelegant poem, again, as long as
he didn't think about it too hard.
"Sometimes, it seems, we fight
the same fight over and over. The players essentially the same, as
if light and dark battle to rule each age. The beast changes his
form to suit the needs of the age, but the goal is the same: to
usher in an age of darkness."
"And the form of the beast?" King
finally asked.
"I don't–" Merle
started.
"Drugs," Tavon interrupted. "It
all always comes down to money and drugs."
"And the sons of Luther," Merle
said.
"Sons?" King asked.
"Luther had a second son. Your
half-brother. He goes by the name Dred."
The revelation slapped King in
the face. It was as if he'd jumped into the deep end of a pool only
to be caught in a riptide. He pushed away from the table, suddenly
unable to catch his breath. A dark shiver ran along him. His
half-brother had lived in his shadow for so long. Everyone
continued their chatter without notice.
"Dred? He the one always beefin'
with Night," Tavon said.
"OK, someone's going to have to
slow this down for me. I can't keep all of this straight," Lott
said.
"Shee-it. Any fool knows this."
Tavon sat up straight, class suddenly in session. "Right now, the
two biggest players in this here game are Night and Dred. Night
stays over at the Phoenix. No one knows where Dred hangs his head,
but rumor has it that he's been a west side nigga for
life."
"So Night runs the east side and
Dred runs the west side?"
"It's not that simple. You got to
think of the city like a checker board. Dred has the red squares
and Night has the black ones. Li'l Nam belongs to Night. Down by
where you stay," Tavon turned to Wayne, "that's Dred's. But with
all the real estate these two have, they steady beefin' over Breton
Court."
"You know why?" King asked,
though gripped with a sudden claustrophobic sense about his
reality.
"No one knows. No one sees Night
or Dred on the streets."
"Egbo. No go. No more," Merle
offered. "They are whispers in the nightmares."
"They lieutenants do all the real
work: Green for Night and Baylon for Dred," Tavon said.
Baylon. The name stung with the familiar pangs of
betrayal. King thought that after all this time, hearing the name
wouldn't bother him. Yet with the fresh mention, it all came
rushing back. All the time they'd spent together coming up. Running
through Breton Court with the air of ownership, the young princes
of Breton tearing up shit until…
"What about B?" King asked
Tavon.
"Who?"
"Baylon. How he fit into
this?"
"He's Dred's number two. To be
honest, I can't figure out why Dred reached out to him in the first
place. It's not as if he had a long resume of overseeing the
soldiers, not the way Dred could, even from… his situation. His
name rings out like that. Baylon, though, he ain't got no name. He
ain't got it like that. Everybody knows he's Dred's errand boy,
eyes and ears anyway. Baylon's feeling the heat. Junie and Parker
were his people. The troll brothers were called in cause Dred was
looking weak."
"Sounds like the shit is building
up," Wayne said.
"Yeah, that's the vibe I got,"
King said. "Like things are about to go to the next
level."
"What you think?" Baylon stepped aside so
that Michaela and Marshall could view the array unimpeded, the
finest merchandise laid out for display along the table. Sig Sauer.
Glock. Desert Eagle. Boxes of corresponding bullets stacked like
bricks in a pyramid of violence above each. Baylon had even gone so
far as to drape the table with a red velvet cloth. Presentation was
important. Michaela picked up the Desert Eagle, the light glinting
from it.
"They look pretty, but they a
waste for us," she said.
"Why?"
"The type of move you talking
about making… it ain't a gun type of play. Even if it was, we ain't
exactly gun folk. We enjoy getting our hands dirty."
"I'm serious about Green," Baylon
said.
"Dred cool with this? I mean, way
I see it, we barely got this ship righted. Ain't no one in a
position to go after Night's folk direct."
"We
ain't." Baylon's face grew hot at her "we barely got this ship
righted" comment; the insinuation being that he had anything to do
with the ship being off-course. "We are taking out one
man."
"Green's…"
"Whatever. If you ain't up for
it, say the word."
"And Dred?"
"I got this. If we can handle the
job."
"You don't know shit about what's
what, do you? Got no idea who we are and what Green is?" Michaela
squared up against him. She had a few inches on him, worse was her
mien of sheer aggression. Close up, he could see each wart, each
errant hair on her chin. The frenzied anger in her eyes. He'd back
down if he could and noted his error in directly provoking
her.
"Here's what I know and what I
need to know: Night and Dred have a truce that will last as long as
it takes for one of them to slide a knife into the back of the
other cleanly. As I, no, we owe a lot to Dred, we have a vested
interest in making sure his is not the back ventilated. As Night
owes everything to Green, should he be taken out, Night becomes
little more than a shadow puppet. All you got to do is tell me if
you can take out Green."
"It'll be like old times,"
Michaela said.
The booth mates munched in relative silence.
Tavon twitched, craving some candy or something else sweet to
ameliorate his body's mild trembling. Lady G picked at her food,
already full, calculating how to save the rest of her plate for
later. King neither ate nor made eye contact with anyone.
"King," Lott began as gingerly as
he could, "didn't Green kill your father?"
"That's one story," Merle
said.
"What does that mean?" King felt
an invisible noose continue to tighten in his life. A wave of
nausea swept through him, as if he floated outside of himself while
strangers dissected, and then put back together, his life story.
Coincidence couldn't explain the players in the game being close
enough for them to reach out to him whenever they wanted, yet he be
oblivious to their presence. Shadows in plain sight.
"That's all I know, really. One
story, the one the streets made legend, had Green slaying the elder
Pendragon, but that never made any sense to me. Green had nothing
to gain and he never operated without something to gain. Wasn't his
way."
"You sound like you were there,"
King said.
"To you, the arrow of time points
in one direction," Merle said.
The rest of the table exchanged
sideways glances with one another, not knowing what to make of
Merle and Tavon. Bullshit artists of the first degree, probably,
like griots of African tribes telling stories for their keep. Lott
and King, however, paid extra attention.
"Thing is, Green could and should
be running Night's crew," Tavon continued, smacking his mouth
loudly as he ate while talking. "He has the name, he has the
muscle. He even had the real estate. But he lets Night run
things."
"Green prefers the shadows.
That's irony," Merle said.
"Green's eternal."
"That's one story. Another goes
that for every spring there must be a winter."
"I'm about sick of your riddles,"
Wayne said.
"We all have our roles to play.
I'm only a guide. He's the hero." Merle pointed his dirty-nailed
thumb toward King.
"I'm no hero," King
said.
"That's why we're here. Heroes,
love, and spiritual quests. The story's still the same."
"Any of you know a light-skinned
sister, braids, pointy ears?" King asked.
"Thus enter the fey," Merle
said.
"You mean Omarosa? What you want
with her?" Tavon picked at his remaining fries.
"Seen her around. She fit into
any of this?" King asked. The heat of Lady G's body made him all
too self-conscious. She continued to eat her fries in silence,
making no claim on him. Or any man.
"She's strictly independent far
as I know."
"Never accept a gift from her
kind," Merle said. "And don't raise the terror of their
anger."
No one believed in fairies anymore. With no
belief to sustain them, most faded away to the land of Nod, the
wellspring of ideas, there to remain forgotten and unmourned. When
most folks thought of fairies, the image of gay sprites and winsome
pixies sprang to mind. There was the whispered caution to never
accept a gift from one, but for the most part, people thought of
them as prancing merry-makers. Because few survived to tell the
tale of the fey once angered.
On rare occasion, a rogue fairy
roamed the land of mortals, engaged in a tryst of some sort, and
continued their wanderings heedless of the consequences.
Omarosa was such a
consequence.
The Marion County Juvenile
Detention Center had grown accustomed to scandal over the years.
From their issues with overcrowding to the allegations of sexual
abuse (many of those charges were later dropped, but the stain
remained). In the wake of the ensuing reforms, guards, inmates, and
visitors wore arm bands which could even alert staff when rival
gang members were in proximity to one another. Certain events
caused minor cracks in the system, such as the general scoops of
kids in the wake of the Breton Court shooting. With public pressure
for an arrest, many kids were detained overnight as the mess sorted
itself out. Parker's luck never was too good. He was merely
"spectating" as he explained to the cracker-ass po-lice who
questioned him. As the detective explained, "spectating" did not
explain the vials he was caught with. Personal use became his
mantra, a charge to be all but dismissed by over-worked judges and
a crowded system, and recognized that this was little more than a
charge used to remind him of his place in the greater criminal
justice scheme of things. The hillbilly cop tried to half-sweat him
about Dred and Night's operations ("who?") with any further
questions ready to trigger his Miranda-given rights ("Law. Yer.").
So he was put in a cell to give him time to think about things. A
peaceful night's sleep not worrying about getting got on a corner.
That was the game then.
In the game now, Omarosa stood
over the sleeping Parker, letting an arm of her set of handcuffs
ratchet through the main body.
Click.
Click. Click.
Parker didn't stir. Asleep, he
was still very much a child, a man-boy, not quite the hardened
killer he wished to be. Asleep, he was someone who could be loved,
who'd let someone love him. Asleep, the possibility of dreams, of a
better future remained.
Omarosa knelt down and whispered
in his ear.
"Parker, your destiny calls
you."
He smiled upon hearing the
feminine voice, the sound of rose petals against naked flesh; a
tease of promise in the night and his dick hardened. A few moments
later, his eyes fluttered – he required several moments to be
convinced that he wasn't dreaming – not quite making out the form,
enough to register that he wasn't alone. Before he could react,
Omarosa grabbed him from his bed. She had him in a choke-hold, but
adrenaline-fueled panic soon flooded him. He had nothing to flail
against besides her as she drew him to the middle of the cell. Her
height advantage on him meant little compared to the blood and
strength of the fey in her veins. His eyes bulged, his face
reddened with his last gasps and dawning realization that he had
reached his life's endgame. His arm shot out, grasping at nothing
in particular, his other fist slamming weakly into Omarosa's side.
Consciousness fled him and his body fell limp into her
arms.
Tearing his bedsheets, she
fastened a noose and propped him against the bed to let the body
fall. The investigation – such as it would be since no one would
look too closely for fear of the phrase "dereliction of duty"
entering their job performance jackets; and with suicides being
more common than anyone wanted to believe – would conclude suicide.
Still, she wanted folks to know that she could reach them anywhere.
She placed a black rose on the shelf above the sink. It would be a
note in a file somewhere, but it would find its way into Parker's
personal effects. And people would know. The fey were not to be
trifled with.
You let them go about their
business unless you want their terror to rain down upon
you.
"Wait," Wayne said, still putting pieces
together. "ESG was independent."
"Not that independent. There are
a few dozen gangs here and everyone has their ties somewhere. ESG's
loyalty was to Night," Tavon said. "I hear the trolls got into
them."
"We were there." Wayne shifted in
his seat. Lady G and Rhianna studied the napkins in their laps.
Wayne told the tale of the trolls' attack on Rhianna's
friends.
"And the police didn't do
anything?" King asked Tavon.
"Oh, it's hot out there, for
sure. Po-po out in force. But what they gonna do? Can't investigate
with no body. And the trolls eat their prey. So Prez's boy is just
another missing nigga. They wouldn't be looking too hard no
ways."
"You know Junie? Him and some
young dude he's been rollin' with," King said.
"Junie and Parker?" Tavon asked.
"Yeah, I know them."
"I saw them trying to muscle
Green."
"Once a fuck-up… Junie and Parker
were replaced by the trolls. I hear they been demoted. Out slinging
where ESG used to."
Smoke layered the air around him as Junie got
blunted up, tripping high on his weed as he took swigs from his
forty ounce. When he was up like this, his simple thoughts and
false courage turned dark and focused, a cold, sick churning in his
head. In the corner of the hovel he called home, sweat trickled
down the burnt marshmallow flesh of his grayish face. The life he
envied when he saw the likes of Dred or Night roll through the
neighborhood in their Escalades with their rims, their stereos,
their bling, had come to this. His body ached and he stank of
overripe fruit fermenting in a dark, moist place. His scraped
knuckles were red and swollen from punching the plaster from his
walls. Rumor had hit the wire that Parker was dead. That he'd done
himself. Not that the word of junkies and prostitutes was to be
trusted, however, Junie knew down deep in his soul that the story
had the stink of truth about it.
A bout of sudden nausea sent him
scrambling to the bathroom. The sink looked like someone tried to
wash their abortion down it. Junie reached into his waistband and
fished out the grip of his auto. Stainless steel, it was the most
expensive gun they had. He flipped the safety then tucked it in his
waist, the tail of his shirt covering it. He'd been punked, and
that didn't sit well with him. He needed to come back on Green. He
had built the corner down off McCarty Street into a real spot, had
carried his demotion by proving himself. He had earned his way back
up to Breton Court. But he still needed to step up, let his name
ring out for real by taking out Green.
He had to correct a
situation.
"Sounds to me like everything keeps coming
back to Breton Court and the Phoenix," King said.
"How you figure?" Lott
asked.
"Breton Court seems to be the
flash point, but everything seems to come from the
Phoenix."
"Like it's at the heart of the
web." Lott followed King's thought.
"The dragon's lair," Merle
said.
"But what about the fiends?"
Wayne asked Tavon.
"They fell out. Sick or
somethin'."
"Who?"
"My people them, down in Li'l
Nam. We rode the Black Zombie blast. Knocked everyone right the
fuck out."
"Except you?"
"I… got watered." Tavon studied
his plate, not meeting anyone's eyes. Even fiends knew shame when
they got played at their own game. Things didn't get much lower
than that.
"They out for real? You call for
an ambo or something?"
"Nah, I–"
"So let me get this straight: you
got all worked up cause some fiends got knocked on they asses?
Shit, I thought you had a real problem."
"I'm telling you, this was
different."
"Look, here's my card." Wayne
slipped his card across the table. "Outreach has a 1-888 number.
Where they stay at?"
"Penn and 24th."
"Tell you what then. You go back
there in the morning and see what's what. You got a problem, call
911. Either way, call the number and check in with me. The person
on call will get me the message. I'll come out. I don't hear from
you, I'm still coming out, but I'll be pissed."
"You smell that, Sir Rupert? He
reeks of the dragon's breath."
"What's with the dragon
shit?"
"The dragon… he's wide awake
now."