CHAPTER THREE
Rellik stared into the mirror as he buttoned up his shirt, a simple white collared thing left from his last court appearance. Yet he dressed with the solemnity and attention of a man of occasion preparing for an evening out. Freckles collected in clusters on each cheek, offset by his light skin. Reddish-brown braids draped to his shoulders. Perpetual and bloodshot, his black eyes fixed straight ahead while the prison guard waited impatiently at his cell door. Though the day was slow in coming, it wasn't as if Rellik served the entire amount of time he could've. Should've. Guilty of many crimes he wasn't tried – much less been convicted – for, he followed the simple belief that confession wasn't as good for the soul as people would have him believe. He'd confessed only to as much as the state could prove, and even then, only to shave a few years off his bid. He strode toward the guard, who stepped back and allowed him to lead the way.
Allisonville Correctional
Facility, a Level Four prison. The A-V. The Ave. Prison. Projects.
Projects. Prison. Either way, cram too many desperate motherfuckers
into a place and things were bound to jump off. Rows of white metal
bars formed a gauntlet, one he'd run every day for seven years. The
voices of his fellow inmates fell silent as he walked by. Cunning,
private, unhousebroken, he was just another animal in a cage and
the only thing the cages were good for was to better train animals.
Breed them for contempt. Of themselves. Of each other. Of
authority. Of society. Then cut them loose with bus fare, severed
freedoms, and dim hopes to make a real fresh start in life. Because
no one forgot and no one lets you forget.
"Gavain Orkney," the face behind
the bulletproof glass said through a microphone.
Rellik bristled. It had been more
years than he could remember since anyone called him by his slave
name. And not since elementary school since anyone emphasized the
pronunciation of "vain" rather than correctly as "vin."
"One toothpick, unopened. A set
of cuff links. One Movado wristwatch. Three rings. And one cross
necklace."
After sliding on each item in a
protracted manner designed to drag out his time there – his shiny
Jesus piece the last for him to don – he opened the toothpick and
slipped it into his mouth.
"We ready?" the guard
asked.
"Let's do this."
The metal gate at the end of his
cell block clanged open, a metal mouth of two rows of teeth which
snapped shut behind him. Three sets of such jaws stood between him
and what passed for freedom. Surviving prison was all about
clinging to some semblance of faith. He had to believe in something
to make a real go of things. What and whoever it took to get a
brother through. God. Allah. A girl. A guy. The myth people called
love. Those things carried some people through, but not him. No,
Rellik had faith in his crew. The game. It never let him down. Like
anyone who had reached a dark night of the soul, those times of
profound doubt and questioning when his faith was at its lowest
ebb, he was forced to make mental gymnastics in order to keep hold
of his faith. In his case, it wasn't his crew that let him down,
who abandoned him, who remained silent when he needed them most. He
had let them down with his weakness.
Rows of lockers. Signs regarding
contraband. Warnings about personal safety. The gray walls. The
gray and white linoleum. Rellik would miss none of this place,
though it was the world he knew best. Clouds, like torn fabric,
churned with menace in the afternoon sky. Under the harsh glare of
the sun, he dreamt of freedom. The sky stretched, an infinite
canopy of possibilities. In it, he cold lose himself and fly. He
could forget that he was surrounded by concrete and that his feet
remained locked to his earthen path. He took in a deep
breath.
Rellik, a true OG, was coming
home.
After a few hours on the bus, Rellik was
ready to stretch his legs. It took a while to get his mind around
the name The Phoenix Apartments. When he went inside, the projects
were still called The Meadows. His mother moved him and his brother
there to start over. As a kid, he ran the hallways, threw rocks at
passing cars, rang doorbells and ran, and raced swings in the
playground only to leap from them at the apogee to go sailing along
the concrete slab. He played stinky finger with Gayle Harmon in an
alcove. Lost his cherry in an Impala in the parking lot. Despite
the name change and a fresh coat of paint, it was still the closest
thing to home that he knew. Some things never changed and some
people were fixtures.
"Look at this motherfucker right
here," said an old man with a head too small for his body, from
beneath the hood of a car. Revealing a teak complexion, and gray
goatee, when he fully stepped from behind the car, he fumbled
inside his shirt pocket for a pair of thick, black-framed glasses
as if double-checking a vision.
Rellik returned a long,
penetrating stare. "Geno."
The old man screwed up his face
in mock disgust then raised his hand to give him a pound. Geno was
one of the neighborhood home repair and handymen, and was old when
Rellik went in. An odd-jobber by trade and practice, he could fix
refrigerators or televisions, bring in free electricity or gas,
even install AC. The story of his life fell into two parts. In part
one, during his real life, he held various blue-collar jobs. Then
his story went the way of many stories and slipped into part two.
He got laid off, lost the lease on his apartment, and became
homeless. He squatted in any vacant apartment in the Meadows, now
Phoenix, staying out of folks' way except to offer his services.
Since he didn't "truck with no drugs" – and neither brought nor
followed trouble – he was loved by the tenants.
"What's going on?" Rellik scanned
the deserted lot. Eyes peeped him from the playground's lone bench
attended by three boys. One took off after locking eyes with
Rellik. Restless and frowning, still learning to wear the mask of
street toughness.
"Same old, same old. You probably
know the comings and goings round here better than most."
"They up there?"
"What's left of them." Geno wiped
the oil dipstick with a rag then returned the rag to his back
pocket.
"Same spot?"
"Yeah. Too lazy to change things
up too much."
Careless and undisciplined. Too
confident in their setup despite so much evidence to the contrary
of it being a good one. Despite Five-O all but setting up shop
here, coming and going as they pleased as if they owned the place. His boy from way back, Night
had held things down, but with him out of the picture, operations
were slipping.
It had been a while since he'd
been to Night's "penthouse", two adjoining apartments on the sixth
floor, the top floor of the tallest of the Meadows-nowPhoenix. The
first laid out with a large screen plasma television. Four junior
knuckleheads wrestled over the Wii controllers, shouting at each
other, as they trashtalked their way through a game.
"I hope I'm not interrupting?"
Rellik asked.
The crew froze in their spots, a
garden of hoodlum statues along the couch and from the kitchen a
steady beam of bewildered glares as they wondered how this fool got
into their place without making a sound. The front door was
reinforced, a bar locking it into place to slow down anyone using a
ram to bust in. A man stood guard on it. And yet here this man
stood, carefree and bold, unbothered by the host of men now drawing
down on him. Rellik swished his toothpick from one side of his
mouth to the other.
"Nigga, what's up?" A
small-statured boy rose up, flexing manhood, but the smell of his
mother's milk was still fresh on his breath. Small twists crowned
his head, the beginnings of a thick mop of braids. Eyes the color
of cooked honey studied him with practiced hardness. Despite how
short he was, he had a bit of a hard body, gym locker room edge,
probably the only class he didn't cut. The skunky odor of fresh bud
clung to his clothes; he had the look of a marginal student who
smoked marijuana to exclusion of everything else. No church, no
friends, no sports, if he held a job he'd soon quit it as his
grades careened towards failure. Lounging around smoking endo and
playing Wii, obviously he didn't care what his life choices did to
his folks. Yeah, Rellik broke him down in an instant. Because he
used to be this kid.
"This is what's up," Rellik
answered. "You ever point a gun at me again, I'll kill you. Now who
am I talking to?"
"You talking to me." The boy held
his hand up to put his men on pause.
"Am I talking to the right
man?"
"You talking to me." The boy's
voice gained an additional measure of stroke to it.
"You know who I am?"
"If I had to guess, I'd say you
Rellik."
"A man shouldn't have to guess. He should
know."
"I hear things. Heard you was
getting out. Didn't think you'd jump back in as your first
stop."
"A man's got to go to the folks
who'd have his back." Rellik turned to all the guns. With a nod
from the boy, the weapons lowered. "Who am I dealing
with?"
"Garlan."
"Garlan." The name brought to
mind his little brother Gary. Maybe this was what he might have
looked like as a teen. "The crew good?"
"We got some niggas." Garlan
hardened his face, except for the thin smile across his lips. It
dared Rellik, let him know who had the power.
Rellik learned early on that he
was good at fighting. The anger and the darkness were his only
friends. Gave speed to his hands, gave strength to his legs,
thickened his ability to take punishment. And not only could he
take it, he could dispense it without conscience. The pain demanded
regular sacrifice to assuage its hunger. Though many thought he was
an idiot because of his girth and his lumbering stalk, he sought it
out. But he was no bully. If the fight was fair – against another
boy his size or bigger – it was on. "Good. You don't trust me.
Caution's good. Till I prove myself, I don't need to know shit. He
who controls information controls power."
"How you get in here?"
"I'm strictly old-school. I'll
tell you this much: there are many doors if you know how to open
them. Night's other place, next door, anyone been in it?"
"Can't get in."
"Good." The men still focused
their wary intent on him. But they'd lowered their guard. Probably
none had trained with Night. Assuming he was in a training
mood.
"You trying to take over?" Garlan
asked.
"I ain't trying shit."
When Rellik was a kid, he began
shoplifting; he rationalized his taking what he wanted because he
was in need. A black hole of desire for comic books, action
figures, clothes, electronics. He deserved it. He was hard and
wanted to get high. And though he told the parole board about his
plans for culinary school or maybe barber school, prison only
hardened him further. And he sought power. Rellik gestured an all
but Garlan collapsed. "We got a problem?"
"They all right?" Garlan asked
though he didn't back down in his posture.
"Asleep."
"I got some folks I want you to
meet. Strictly introductions. You don't like them, they off in any
way to you, we move on."
"Yeah, I'm talking to the right
man." Rellik took a seat on the couch. The other boys stirred to
consciousness and cleared out for him. "I've been gone for a
minute, so I'll need to go handle my business. We
straight?"
"Yeah, we cool."
"Niggas will try to get at you
all the time. Niggas take kindness for weakness. You have to be
able to see the big picture, not just your next move. It's time to
finesse this shit."