CHAPTER ONE
King James White had spent his entire life on
the west side of Indianapolis. Despite being funneled through Child
Protective Services, in and out of homes – more out that in by his
teenage years – he'd attended schools 109, and 107 (transferred to
be a part of their advance placement curriculum because his high
intelligence was noted despite his efforts) for his elementary
years, 108 for Junior High School, and then Northwest High
School for the couple years he could stand being in high
school.
The rhythms of this side of town
were as familiar as the constellation of razor bumps along his
neck. Exiting on the 38th Street ramp from I-465 – the highway loop
that circled Indianapolis proper – he expected the same rotating
cast of panhandlers. The homeless vets who couldn't quite pinpoint
what war they were veterans of. The folks who needed money in order
to get home, who turned down rides to said home. They swapped time
with a woman whose sign told the tale of her being pregnant and
homeless. The weather-faded backpack and mottled teddy bear wrapped
in a blanket were nice touches, but she'd been "pregnant" for over
two years now. When off shift, she or the vet or the lost couple
were picked up by a van. Begging was just another way of life in
the hustle.
Turning east off the ramp took
one to the corner of 38th and High School Road. Three of the
corners of the intersection had gas stations on them. The fourth –
the north-west corner – was a collection of store fronts. The Great
Wok of China's kitchen caught on fire a few months back, the timing
of which worked out well for the lingerie and marital aids store
next door. The owner had been embezzling money and the new
ownership was in place and was planning on relaunching the store
with basically the same name with the letters jumbled, familiar yet
different. The adjoining Karma record store would be down for a
month or so. Folks would have to get their drug paraphernalia
somewhere else for a time. The lot behind the store fronts was a
deserted concrete slab built on a hill nicknamed Agned for reasons
no one any longer remembered, enclosed by a Dairy Queen and a
Shrimp Hut, thus free from casual prying eyes, especially so early
on a Sunday morning.
Though it was still Saturday
night as far as Caul was concerned.
In a North Carolina Tar Heels
jacket, Caul stood a bulky seven foot five, towering over both King
and his best friend, Lott Carey. Under a thicket of dirty hair, his
eyes gleamed red in feral madness. A jagged keloid ran down his
left cheek. His thick lips drew back to reveal teeth painted black
within his wide mouth. Curiously, he had neatly trimmed fingers,
except for the nail on his pinky which jutted out an inch and a
half.
"It's over, Caul." King cold-eyed
the giant. Tall, though still easily a half-foot shorter than Caul,
King wasn't overly muscled like one of those swollen brothers just
out of prison. The sides of King's head were shaved clean. The top
of his head in short twists, almost reminiscent of a crown. King
let the wind catch his leather coat, allowing the handle of his
golden Caliburn to be seen. A portrait of Marcus Garvey peeked from
his black T-shirt. Skin the complexion of burnt cocoa. His eyes
burned with a stern glint, both decisive and sure. His lips pursed,
locked in a mission, as he focused on the task at hand. He stepped
defiant and sure, confident without issuing a challenge. Though
prepared to meet one if need be.
"It ain't over, you
Morpheus-looking motherfucker. You ain't po-po. You can't arrest
nobody."
Lott had told King he thought the
sunglasses were too much. The weather was getting too warm to
justify the leather coat. Still, King liked the look. Lott lowered
his head to conceal an "I told you so" smirk.
"I'm telling you to go." King put
both his hands up, signing for everyone to just calm the hell down.
He pitied the thugs he ran across more than anything else. Social
outcasts masquerading as the definition of loner cool, no one would
have them, not school, not family, not friends, not relationships.
They didn't know how to connect, and in their loneliness they
turned angry, little more than sullen children destroying what they
couldn't have. In Caul's case, he terrorized the elderly during
their grocery store runs, jacked people at ATMs, and harassed women
going about their business. The final straw, he threatened King's
girl, Lady G. King and Lott took a personal interest
then.
"You telling me something now?
Don't think I didn't notice that you brought your boy."
"Boy? I'll climb all over you
like a spider monkey." Lott checked his watch to mark the time
before his shift was due to start at FedEx. He hated to wear
himself out before going to work, but when King asked, explaining
the threats made to Lady G, his face went hot and he knew he'd call
in sick if he had to.
"Don't think that I can't snap
your back over my knee and fuck the stump of you right here," Caul
snarled. The keloid arched upward as if waving at King.
"What is it with you people?
Always talking about 'fucking' other dudes then say how they ain't
gay," Lott said. "How player is that?"
"It ain't gay if your eyes are
closed," Caul said.
"Is that how it works?"
"A hole's a hole."
"We don't want any more trouble.
We just need you to move on–" King began.
"Or what? You think I'm scared of
you? Or your little gun? I've had guns pointed at me before. Been
shot more times than I can count."
"I'm thinking there's not too
hard to get to," Lott said.
Caul's world turned red. The
heavy-lidded gaze of the fiend snapped to full fury. He hated when
people assumed he was stupid. That just because he was large, he
was also slow. His teachers had always treated him like the large
simpleton taking up precious classroom space until the jails caught
up with him. At some point, he bought into their beliefs about him
and it angered him. But he stuffed that anger back onto itself,
allowing indo smoke to chill him out most days. Today he needed to
wipe that "better than you" grin off the tan-skinned one's face.
With his FedEx uniform – as if that made him someone. Caul snarled
and charged Lott without further comment.
"It wasn't my fault," Caul said
as he swung, to the ghosts only he knew.
Skin the color of burnt butter,
and with the delicate features of a male model playing at being
thug, Lott danced out of the way of Caul's lumbering charge. True
to his word, Lott skittered up Caul's back, wrapping his legs
around the brute's chest while attempting to subdue him with a
choke-hold. Caul cantered backwards, slamming Lott into the wall of
the Wok of China. The air escaped from Lott with a sudden
gasp.
King's vision blurred the scene
before him, shifting, merging with another scene as familiar as
memory. Caul lumbered toward him, stumbling from the shadows of a
massive cave. Past two great fires he strode toward King. The giant
gnawed on the bone of a human clutched in one hairy hand. Blood
smeared about his lips like barbecue sauce after a ribs repast. The
dreamy déjà vu sensation annoyed King, like weed getting his head
up at the most inopportune times. King shook his head to clear it,
then jumped back, barely avoiding Caul's thrown punch.
King ducked under the clumsy
attack, cursing himself for an ill-thought-out strategy with no end
game in mind. The fact that he and Lott's blood got so roiled at
the idea of someone menacing Lady G was all but dismissed by the
pair. The threat of the Caliburn was just that: an empty threat.
King was loath to draw the weapon if the situation didn't warrant
it. Ever since the Glein River incident. The weapon called when it
demanded to be used. On its terms; any time else was an abuse. King
threw a couple of quick jabs into the man's kidneys which seemed to
annoy him more than anything else. What did he hope to accomplish?
His only plan was to beat this man's ass under the guise of asking
him to move on.
The mistake most people made – it
occurred to King as he stepped out of range of Caul's massive
swipes while leading him away from a shaken Lott – was to use the
same weapons against all enemies. There was nothing to be hoped for
going toe-to-toe with Caul. That was fighting a superior foe on his
terms. No, the only weapon against strength and size was smallness,
stealth, and speed.
As if reading from the same
battle manual, Lott charged Caul, tackling him at the knees. The
giant collapsed to his knees, catching himself before his head hit
the concrete. Scrabbling for purchase, he hoped to wrench Lott into
his grasp.
King withdrew his Caliburn. The
gold glistened in the early morning light. Lott's eyes widened.
Caul turned, following Lott's gaze, his sight landing on the gun.
Shifting his grip, King swung the weapon in a low arc, clocking
Caul just above the temple.
"So what do we do now?" Lott
asked.
"Call the police?" King examined
the unconscious giant.
"And say what? Where I come from,
snitches get stitches."
"Self-defense."
"Trouble just seems to keep
finding you."
The morning had barely
dawned.
A pair of New Balance tennis shoes – gray and
mottled with mold – dangled from the overhead phone line. A
schoolyard prank gone awry to the casual passer-by; an
advertisement, or ominous warning and cause for alarm, to those
more in the know. King sucked his teeth in disgust and wondered how
long they had been there and if it were too late to stave off the
attempted infection of his neighborhood. His philosophy was simple:
if a community didn't take control of itself and one guy entered
who could think, the community would have a problem. If people in
the neighborhood took control, however, that guy knew he had
opposition. Most times before he stood against opposition, he would
leave for an unprepared, less-resistant neighborhood. Now, in LA or
Gary, they might go toeto-toe with opposition. Not here. Not in
Indianapolis. Not yet.
"Back it up." King waved the
Outreach Inc. van back a few more feet then held his palms up for
it to stop. Armed with a broom, he jogged around to the front and
hopped up along the hood to the roof in a limber
movement.
"This is stupid," Wayne said.
Brushing back a few of his long braids which had fallen into his
face, he turned all the way around, revealing a scar on the back of
his neck. A tight knit shirt stretched across him, showing off the
stocky build of a football player, with the light gait of someone
who knew how to use their size should the necessity warrant. A
quick smile broke up what otherwise would have been a hard face.
"You better not leave any shoe prints up there."
"A little work now prevents a
huge, pain-in-thebehind worth of work down the road."
Breton Drive separated the
assemblage of townhouses of Breton Court from Jonathan Jennings
Public School 109. The school was designated a zerotolerance zone
and once Night's drug crew had been dismantled, it was one in deed
as well as word. King stared at the shoes as if they personally
mocked him.
"It's a pair of shoes."
"It's a declaration," King said.
"Says someone intends on dealing out of here soon. It's a set-up
notice. Well, message received. Now we're sending one
back."
"Yeah, throw up a pair of tennis
shoes and see how many brothers it takes to take them
down."
"Two. One to do the work and
another to wear his ass out with complaining about it." King waved
the broom handle about, a blind conductor directing an unseen
orchestra. Eventually one of his haphazard swings connected with
the shoes and they tumbled free. "There. Now they know. You try to
set up shop in this neighborhood, there are folks around here who
care enough to stop it."
"Uh huh. If you close your eyes,
you can hear your applause."
"Come on." King gathered the
shoes, holding them with two fingers well away from him. "We going
to be late."
Fumbling for change, Percy emptied out his
pockets, carefully counting out each penny with great deliberation.
Percy tipped nearly three bills. Droplets of sweat swelled,
coalesced, and then ran as a trickle down the darker knot above his
left eyebrow. In the shape of a crescent moon, the keloid etched
his burnt mochacomplected skin. He huffed with anxiousness under
the weight of the eyes of the man behind the cash register of the
Hoosier Pete convenience mart. The line behind him now ran three
customers deep, with the bell on the door jangling as more people
entered the gas station convenience store. A stack of Giant Sweet
Tarts piled in front of him, his nervousness increased as he
glanced at the total on the cash register and then his quickly
dwindling pile of change. The pennies eventually stopped. Twelve
cents short. Percy stepped back dumbfounded as if a set of
equations didn't equal out.
"Come on, man. You see him all
the time. You know he good for it," an older man said, dressed in
an offwhite hat with matching shirt and slacks with a pair of
sandals. Old-school casual. A toothpick protruded from his mouth, a
cup of coffee and a newspaper filled his hands.
"Nah, it's all right. I'll put
something back." Percy's downcast eyes rarely met anyone's
gaze.
"No, it ain't all right. It's not
the point," Old School said.
"He not have it, he put something
back. It's only twelve cents." The Indian cashier had witnessed
variations of this scene every day. In a few minutes, he'd be due
to be cussed out. Maybe called a sand nigger, despite being born in
an Indianapolis suburb. Or told that his mother should have aborted
him; that was, when he wasn't being accused of having sexual
congress with her. He knew it was coming and the reality of the
scene playing out again frustrated him.
"That's my point. It's only
twelve cents."
"Twelve cents is twelve cents,"
the cashier said. He pulled at his black-streaked white beard.
Weary eyes drifted from Percy to the lengthening line. He knew it
was pointless to reason with people once they built up a head of
steam, but he went through the motions anyway. "He short twelve
cents. I let that go. You short twelve cents. I let that go. By end
of day, no more shop."
"Leave that boy alone. You see he
simple," another voice cried from behind Old School.
Percy grabbed a pack of Giant
Sweet Tarts, but was told to put it down. This was about principle
now. The rising hostility in the shop rattled Percy. Each face a
mirror of anger, distrust, and resentment. Everyone was just so…
mad. He felt bad for the man behind the cashier and searched his
pockets again hoping he missed a quarter.
"Your shop is in our
neighborhood," Old School said. "No more customers means no more
shop, too. You move in here, happy enough to take our money out of
the neighborhood, but you can't be bothered to be a part of
it."
The Indian man trembled with his
own missing rage. Uncertain eyes, not wanting any trouble, also
didn't want to be cheated. The constant accusations, the constant
attempts of folks to get over on him; the constant vigilance
exhausted him. They didn't see their machinations as attempts to
take food out of his family's mouths. The ugly mood in the
neighborhood had been building for weeks now. This was why he
bought a gun.
"Look at you. Even now I bet you
think we going to rob you. Typical." Old School sipped from the
coffee he hadn't yet purchased.
"This is bullshit. We regulars,
too," the agitated customer behind him amened. "Can't you be
bothered to know us?"
"Fellas, fellas… it's all right.
I got it." The name badge on the arm of the FedEx uniform read
"Lott Carey" and featured a grill-revealing smile. A thick,
navy-colored sweatshirt over matching pants, the uniform had the
formality of one having donned armor in preparation to joust. Lott
strolled toward the front of the line with his pimp-roll strut for
all the eyes to see. Obviously pleased with his "swooping in like a
superhero saving the day" entrance moment, his smile showed off the
row of faux gold caps which grilled his teeth.
"Thanks, Lott." Percy shoveled
his candy into his about-two-sizes-too-small jacket.
The Indian gentleman took the
quarter with a sigh of relief and handed the change to Percy, who
then pocketed it.
Lott watched his change go into
Percy's pocket but didn't say anything. "Come on, we going to be
late."
Despite the elbows pummeling her side – and
the mad screeching of what sounded like a cat being slowly lowered
into a wood chipper – Big Momma was slow to wake. Her eyes
fluttered, spot-checking the rising sun against the accusing red
glow of the night stand clock's numbers. With the care of not
wanting to crush a newborn, she rolled over. The boy wailed, locked
in a nightmare, and thrashed about beside her. She pulled her night
gown tighter around her, conscious of the possibility of her heavy
bosom spilling out.
"Had! Had, boy, wake up. It's OK,
it's OK. Momma's here. Momma's here." She shushed the boy awake,
reassuring him while guiding him from whatever nocturnal terror lay
in wait for him each night. The boy's eyes focused with a hint of
recognition, though Big Momma was rarely certain about what
actually flitted through the ten year-old's addled mind. Had's
mother smoked crack while pregnant, increasing her habit as it went
along as if medicating herself through the pregnancy. The effects
of which played out like a sad movie across his sullen face. His
somber brow furrowed, fine crease lines worried into his
head.
With Pokémon characters splayed
all along them, the pajamas seemed wholly too young for him, yet
fit him both physically and mentally. The brightness of the clothes
only made his dark skin appear that much darker. He popped his
thumb into his mouth and began to suck.
"Help me, Lord. Lord Jesus help
me." Big Momma drew up her sheet. Holes began to wear through the
threadbare material. She made do, treating them gently and kept
neat, because she wouldn't be buying new ones for a while. Poverty
was no excuse to not carry her head high. She threw the sheets from
her and sat up, checking the curlers in her head. Thankful he was
awake but quiet, she left Had in the bed. Her bones grated with her
first morning steps as she eased into her day with a resigned sigh.
The floorboard creaked under her uneasy waddle. She poked her head
in Lady G's room only to see clothes slung along the headboard of
the bed, perhaps to dry. The piles littered the floor without any
discernible pattern except maybe to be able to know where all of
her earthly belongings were in case she had to scoop and run. But
it had been months and Lady G had neither scooped nor
run.
Each step brought a huff as she
descended in a sideways canter. Black smudges trailed along the
wall. Creating a mental to-do list for that weekend, she'd have to
scrub them and tell the kids to use the banister like they were
supposed to. She ambled along the plastic runner from the door
through the living room. Faded family photos and Polaroids hung on
the wall next to a painting of a very European and beatific Jesus.
Plastic covered her couches. Folding chairs centered around a large
television. Toys littered the floor. Crayons rested on a beat-up
coffee table. Gospel music played from the kitchen, always Mahalia
Jackson. The kitchen still smelled of chicken and macaroni from the
previous night's dinner. Cereal boxes, cookies, and bags of chips
lined the top of the refrigerator.
Lady G wiped her hands on a towel
then placed it back on the oven door. A pink bandana tied her hair
back. She pulled the sleeves of her black hoodie back down her
arms. Black jeans led to black-trimmed pink boots. The remaining
dishes from the sink were now dried and stacked nicely on a rack on
the wiped-down counter. A few acne bumps dotted her forehead, red
and swollen against her toffee-colored skin. Before Big Momma could
step fully into the kitchen, Lady G turned her back to shield the
view of her hands.
"Had awake?" Lady G pulled her
fingerless gloves over her burn-scarred hands.
"Boy's going to send me to an
early grave." Big Momma paused out of respect. Folks had secrets
and shames, stuff they either weren't ready to talk about or would
never talk about. There was no point in pressuring them with
crowding them or leaving them without the space to protect their
dignity. She averted her eyes by pretending to fuss about her day's
clothes. "You up awful early."
"I already ironed your good
blouse," Lady G said. "Started coffee. Got breakfast
ready."
"I know I got no right this
morning." Big Momma didn't have much by way of too many rules, but
she didn't want to be taken advantage of. Everyone had to pitch in
somehow, if not rent or bill money, then helping out around the
house. No one lived free because life was about handling your
responsibilities. Big Momma picked up the blouse in faux
inspection. She sniffed the shirt, enjoying its freshly starched
smell. When she took Lady G in, she wanted no more than to give the
girl someplace stable. She had a lot to give, seeds scattered and
sometimes they fell in thorny places, like with Prez (oh, that boy
broke her heart) and sometimes the soil was fertile and grew up
quickly. Like with Lady G. "But can I ask one more
thing?"
"You always got the right." Lady
G was one of the rare ones. She wasn't as hard as she believed she
was. Hard, yes, because a child shouldn't have to live the way she
had had to or see the things she'd had. Still, she wasn't
through-and-through hard, the kind of hard that used up all the
good and innocent inside. No, Lady G still had an innocence she
protected, a vulnerability she treasured.
"Can you get Had washed and
dressed?"
"Sure thing, Big
Momma."
Had was a new case. He slipped in
behind Big Momma to a bowl Lady G filled with cereal. Tipping the
bowl to his mouth, he lapped noisily from it, all smacking lips and
deep-throated gurgles. The little boy was a set of wide,
inquisitive eyes over the rim of the bowl. His head seemed two
sizes too big for his body. He stopped mid-slurp, as if aware for
the first time that others were in the room.
"He's always just made those
noises ever since you took him in," Lady G said.
"The sound of leftover
nightmares, girl." Big Momma checked the wall clock. "Look at the
time. Go ahead and go on, girl. You going to be late."
"What about Had?" "Never mind. I got him. You
go."
The days of the week blurred into a dismal
sameness, but Sundays broke them out of their lethargy. This day
was one with a spell cast on it, all blue skies and cutting chill.
The Outreach Inc. van pulled up in front of one of the row homes
which led to Breton Court.
"Right here, man." King pointed
to the side of the road.
"You sure about this?" Wayne
slumped forward on the steering wheel.
"We stop the little things, the
big things take care of themselves."
"Looks to me like you trying to
tackle big things, little things, and everything in between." Wayne
checked his watch and thought to himself: we settle more ghetto
mess before 9am than most people do all day. He pushed against the
driver's seat, which sighed as he exited.
King opened his door without
glancing back, purposeful and focused, and walked with that
determined saunter of his. Directly to the second door from the
end. He rapped five times, loud, but not a po-po knock. A plumpish
woman, short but unintimidated, cold-eyed him.
"Excuse me, ma'am. I need to see
you and your husband."
"What is it?" She wrapped her
shawl around her tighter, about to get her church on, as she sized
him up. She fixed a hard but without attitude mask on her face, her
mood preparing to be potentially fouled by this busybody, do-gooder
type who was probably used to his looks getting doors opened for
him.
"Your son, he was down
paintballing the candy lady's house. He needs to get down there and
clean it up."
"DeMarcus? Get over here, boy."
Pipe-cleaner arms ducked behind his mother. Ten years old if a day,
unsure of the stranger at the door and instinctively seeking
shelter behind his formidable mother. "This man says you out
shooting up a woman's house with that paint gun of
yours."
"Wasn't me." The words sputtered
out as reflex. He stared without shame at King.
"Don't lie to me, boy," his
mother said, used to coaxing the truth or at least navigating the
lies of boys.
"Before we get po-po out here.
Clean it up or FiveO." King met the boy's eyes. Treating him like a
man capable of accepting responsibility for his actions. He had to
catch them while they were young. "Which one he want?"
"I'm sorry, Momma." The voice was
barely audible.
"What you do that for?" The
mother grabbed him by the shoulders, more embarrassed than anything
else.
"That old lady was talking crazy
to me," the boy whispered, cornered by truth.
"So you go down and tear up her
house?" King pressed.
"Thanks, we got this." The
mother's still-respectful tone didn't invite dispute.
"Got my eye on you. Be checking
on that house tomorrow," King said as a parting reminder to
DeMarcus.
"You too much, man," Wayne said
as they turned up the corner heading toward their actual
destination.
"What do you mean?"
"You too much. What a brother
can't ease up for nothing?" Wayne nodded up the way to the figure
approaching them. "Lookee here, lookee here."
Poured into her jeans, braless
beneath her halter top, her sashay had men erect from half a block
away, Rhianna Perkins sauntered up. Always down for a party, a
party that needed to be paid for when it was over, her eyes
glimmered with recognition. Her hair flared, interlocked locklets
in need of re-twisting. Despite the swell of her belly, she carried
herself with a fierce sexiness. Upon closer inspection, her worn,
bruised skin added a hint of purple to her sepia complexion.
Something about her easy crocodile smile made her appear much older
than her sixteen years.
"When you gonna come see about
me?" she asked.
"I do. I never forgot about you.
You're still part of our neighborhood," King said. "We got to all
pull together."
"You all harambee like a
motherfucker now." She licked her lips as if appraising a freshly
prepared plate of filet mignon. "I know, you gone all crusader
now."
"Just a man on a
mission."
"You never struck me as a
missionary man. Lady G don't give it up easy, so it must get
lonely. Maybe I can help."
Scenes like this normally amused
Wayne. King was a visionary type. It wasn't as if he considered
himself above other people, he just wasn't as much a man of the
people as he liked to believe he was. He was so caught up in how
things ought to be, the behavior of people often left him confused.
So whenever he was confronted with a situation he couldn't talk or
punch his way out of, he was left with an awkwardness with belied
his level cool. However, the sight of Rhianna hurt both of their
hearts. The daily reality they had to relearn was that not everyone
could or wanted to be saved.
"Come on now, sister. You better
than this."
"I'm just open about what I do.
Those other girls do dirt, too, they just like to hide
it."
King had a reputation for being
largely indifferent to women. Most blamed his break-up with his
baby's momma and his subsequent estrangement from his daughter,
Nakia. Yet, despite his protestations and the various walls he'd
built around himself, Lady G got under his skin and invaded his
heart like a hostile takeover. She held his interest and attention
in a way few women had. And part of him feared that in the sharing
of this tiny part of himself, he had done something dangerous.
Which he had, for her. Lady G. King was drawn to her and she to
him. He decided to risk loving Lady G, then and always.
"Come on, man," Wayne said,
"let's get inside."
The Church of the Brethren was a
victim of a spate of local fires. Fire investigators suspected drug
addicts illegally squatting. Without the necessary insurance to
rebuild, the standalone building was left as little more than a
warehouse lot. Burn marks scored the edges of the sallow, off-white
façade. Sheets of plywood – with the date of its condemnation
spray-painted across it – served as the door. The stain glass
windows above the doors remained intact. Off-white and yellow
painted wood mixed with brick which had been equally painted,
marred by scorch marks.
"I heard what you did down at
Badon Hill," Wayne said.
"What'd I do?" King pulled at the
rear door, the nails of the board pulling free with ease.
"Brought down another gang trying
to get a stranglehold in the neighborhood."
"Man, I haven't done half the
stuff they say I've done," King said.
"That's how legends get
born."
"That's how fools get
dead."
"If that's the case, we in the
right place."
The inside of the building had
been gutted, the stripped, water-damaged walls and seared columns
stood revealed like charred bones. The remains of a soot-covered
choir loft split down the middle before toppled pews which couldn't
be salvaged. Black rocks scattered across the floor, like
fossilized cockroaches. A giant cable spool commanded the center of
the room.
"No chairs?" Wayne
asked.
"No coffee and donuts either. We
ain't going to be here that long, so I figured we could stand. I
just thought it was important that we met."
"A symbol, good and round. You
think like a king." Merle scratched his thigh, abating the itch of
whatever had crawled on him during the night. The old man had his
back to them though he seemed to appear out of nowhere. Unlike
King's leather jacket, Merle wore a long black raincoat whose
lining had been removed. A tall man, but the coat hung loosely on
him, like a scarecrow lost within a blanket. A cap made of aluminum
foil crowned his head. He stroked tufts of his scraggily reddish
beard as he searched about the room as if he had whispered
something.
"Each of us has a role to play,"
King continued, unperturbed.
"What's his? Minister of Drunken
Crazy Talk?" Wayne asked.
"Hand holder. Life guider.
Purpose pointer. Gift shaper," Merle said.
"Ass painer."
"Hold up. Here come the others,"
King said.
King didn't need to even turn to
know Lady G had come into the room. His heart knew and leapt at her
presence. His mood, so fierce and dark before, lifted like a breeze
blowing away storm clouds. A shock ran up his body, his breath
shortened in shivering excitement. In the same way, when she left a
room, his world grew a little bleak.
Percy ducked under the door
entrance. King didn't know what to do with him. Everywhere they
went, the big boy-man was there. Not quite underfoot, but always
around. He meant well, knew the players, and had a heart to match
his girth, but King wondered if that was enough.
Lott trailed in Percy's wake, his
head bobbing as he walked. His face only betrayed his thoughts if
you knew what you were looking at. He studied the structure with an
eye toward its integrity, possible ways it could be attacked, and
escape routes. A quiet, pensive man with a restless heart, and who
often let moments pass when asked a question, unafraid to allow an
intimidating silence to build. Connected, instant and deep, King
and Lott shared a strange kind of intimacy, a wary bond of old
friends. Their shadows clashed against the wall like black
swords.
"What you listening to?" Lady G
made room for Lott next to her. She thought him too much of a
roughneck pretty boy, but she put fingers on his arm as he sat
down, an innocent, friendly gesture. He hesitated, a slight hitch
to his movement before he sat down. Part of her enjoyed the effect
it had on him.
"Going old school. Something King
turned me on to."
Lott pulled the earphones from
his ears and plugged his iPod into a set of speakers he withdrew
from his backpack. The gentle strains of the Impressions' "It's All
Right" began.
"Oh yeah." Lady G closed her eyes
and gyrated to the building groove.
"All right now." King joined
them.
Wayne took a seat around the
makeshift table, then patted the spot next to him for Percy to join
him. Wayne was always partial to Percy, reminding him of one of his
brothers. Wayne carried around a silence with him. They all had
pain in common, each of them with that bit of them which remained
closed off. It reared itself, a creeping shadow, whenever the topic
of brothers or family came up. A set jaw, clenched teeth, a
determined silence. Resolute. Final. A pain unspoken.
An awkward lumber into place,
Percy glanced around with a huge grin – the joy of acceptance – on
his face. He wished Rhianna were here to see this. He studied the
others for a moment as if gathering the nerve to fall in with their
swaying.
Merle stood on the outside
allowing them to take their seats. It wasn't his role to sit among
them.
Without comment or planning,
everyone chimed in on the chorus. "It's all right to have a good
time, cause it's all right." Looking around at each other, they
burst into a fit of laughter. It was a perfect moment.
"We a band of misfits," Lady G
said.
"Surely the flower of the
ghetto," Merle said.
"So what we doing here, King?"
Wayne sniffed, though he otherwise ignored Merle.
"It's kind of like a
brain-storming session. Trying to figure out our next move." King
rubbed the back of his head, letting the coarse stubble across his
neck scrape his fingertips. The razor bumps read like Braille, but
he was due to get his cut trimmed up. Lady G could handle the
twists. "We need to go bigger."
"Why us?" Lott asked.
"Why not us? If everyone kept
asking that question, nothing would ever get done. I want us to be
about something. A mission. Be about granting mercy and stopping
murders. Defending and honoring women rather than using and
degrading them. I want to end the fighting. I want to quit letting
our community poison itself."
"You want to take the ghetto out
of black folk," Wayne said.
Everyone chuckled except King. He
wore the pained expression of not being taken seriously. Maybe he
did dream too large. The wasted lives of good people troubled him;
even if that was the life they chose for themselves, he couldn't
help but pity them. Good people. Drugs were here to stay. Like
cigarettes and alcohol, it was only a matter of time before the
government and laws made their peace with them. Until then, someone
was going to service the demand. Which meant gangs were here to
stay, too. These were times of crises and opportunity.
"It's absurd to build a tower
atop of two combating dragons. Such was Vortigern's error," Merle
said.
"We need to do more." If King
heard the doomful note in Merle's prophecy, he ignored it. He
wasn't quite in the mood to divine if Merle spat out gibberish or
was obliquely providing one of his lessons. Either way, it was less
trouble to simply move on. That was King's way.
"We?" Wayne asked. "We been
tearing around all over town. Feels like we the only firemen in a
city full of brush fires."
"Why do we do the work of the
gendarmes?" Merle asked.
"Ain't that why we pay their
salaries? What's my tax dollars getting me?" Wayne asked.
"Like you've ever paid taxes,"
Lott said.
"To Caesar, render unto Caesar.
And to all a good night," Merle said.
"It's not enough." King raised
his voice to cut through the burgeoning chaos. "I don't think we've
made a bit of difference."
"What do you want us to do?"
Wayne asked. "Keep in mind, I'm on full-time with Outreach Inc.
now. They got me going into schools, building relationships with
kids, trying to get them on the right track. Lott here just got
promoted at FedEx. Finally getting a decent shift. And Lady G is
earning her GED and preparing for college."
"I know. Damn it. It's just not
enough."
"Come on, King." Lady G took his
hand. With her touch, he began to calm down. "Let's take a
walk."
Locked in dark thought, King
believed dreams to be important. Merle more so. His dreams lingered
with him, coming unbidden between moments. Snatches of images.
Dragons took to the air against smoke-filled skies. Razed
buildings. Cars on fire. Only the occasional person seen running.
Like an owl on a field mouse, a dragon swooped down and gobbled
them in a single swallow. Slick and coiled, serpents writhed, their
bodies filling the streets, crushing everything in their path.
Their sides bulged with digesting bodies. The grass slick with
blood, men fought with futility, their hollowed faces tired of
grieving. The dragons and serpents crowded the land and kept
coming. Inexorable.
It was why King rarely slept and
drove himself and those around him so hard. Each day brought a new
task. A new crew to get information on. A new openair market to
disturb with his presence. A new head to bust if things got out of
hand. Lott especially warmed to the task, loving to fight. Given a
just cause, he perfectly rationalized his violence.
Wayne, however, wanted no part of
that; and the blind relish the two of them took to their operation,
the more uncomfortable he became. They were an unchecked fire and
inevitably, the wrong person would be caught up in it. King felt
responsible, burdened, and now refused to hear advice. Not Wayne's.
Not Merle's.
"King is kind of closed off."
Wayne watched King and Lady G skulk off. "I've known him longer
than anyone. The man is a living wall." They were on the verge of
something, something potentially transformative. Wayne sensed it
and wanted to be a part of it, but hated the hound-dog way King
sometimes carried himself. There was a fine line between being real
and being seen as weak. And this was an inauspicious start to
whatever it was King had planned.
"Child of the morning, I have the
same old wound," Merle said, "but I believe he is the right
man."
"Something made him hard. He
guards himself and won't let anyone in. I know that I'm his boy and
all, just like I know King is ride or die," Wayne absently brushed
dirt from the table, not wanting to meet anyone's eyes. "Not to go
all female or anything, but I have no emotional sense that King
even cares about us."
"It's not good for brothers to
fight one another."
The moody silence allowed King a retreat to
his grim thoughts as he locked himself away in darkness. He grew
sickened by his own rage. The hallway led from what was once the
church foyer to what was once the nursery. Charted memory verses
littered the wall. A pictogram of a white Noah on a huge boat,
animals popping out from all over, sailed merrily across a sea of
blue. Forty days and forty nights, God sent the waters to flood the
earth to cleanse it of all unrighteousness. That was probably the
only time the land knew peace. The kids sang a story about Noah
collecting animals two by two. All King pictured was all the dead
bodies the storm left in its wake.
"What are you doing, King?" Lady
G slipped her hand into his and rested her head on his
shoulder.
"You know what I'm doing. I'm
trying to make a difference."
"Right. All cause a raggedy
homeless guy says you have a grand destiny. An important role to
play."
"We all do."
"I know, baby. But…" Lady G took
his delicate, knobbed hands and ran hers along them. "You all over
the place. You run from this to that, no rhyme or reason, just
always running. Just caught up in the idea of being important. You
don't have a plan. You don't have an endgame. It's like as long as
you keep moving, keep doing, that's enough for you. You don't see
how lost you are."
King only half-listened to what
she said. He took comfort more in the idea of her. The warmth of
her hand. The realness of her proximity. King saw himself taking
shape in her eyes. She made him braver, more sure. Everything
simply made sense when she was around. The two understood each
other if neither knew why. Years of solitude made them secretive,
selfprotected, with that closeted fear that the more they revealed
about themselves, the more folks won't like them. Years of pain and
scars haunted them. Maybe they simply recognized the reflections of
their own haunted expressions in each other's eyes. All he knew was
that she held his demons at bay. She was the light to his dark.
When he gazed into her eyes, he saw the faithful and honorable man
he wished to be. They worked. But he couldn't escape the feeling
that they weren't real.
"What do you suggest?" King
asked.
"When was the last time you spoke
to Pastor Winburn?"
The name caught him off guard. He
couldn't even remember mentioning him to her. In a lot of ways,
King was raised by Pastor Ecktor Winburn, the father he thought he
wanted.
"I ain't spoke to him in a
minute," King said in halting measures.
"Don't you think it's about
time?"
"Do you?" King asked.
"I only want one
thing."
"What's that?"
"For you to be true to yourself
and come home safe."
"Go on off to school." King
squeezed her hand.
"Bye, love." She raised their
entwined hands and kissed them.
"Bye, baby."