CHAPTER FOUR
Broyn DeForest drove with the care of a driver's education student under final review. The stretch of I-65 connecting Chicago and Indianapolis was the easiest part of the drive and was so familiar to him by now, he could make the run with his eyes closed. He set his nondescript white Toyota Corolla – sometimes a gray Honda Accord – on cruise control at exactly the speed limit and stayed in the right-hand lane for the entire trip. Once he was within a city, he grew more nervous. Being so conscious of using his turn signals and not weaving in and out of the constant stop and go of traffic went against his natural rhythm of impatient driving. No, today he was on the clock. Three kilos of raw product sat in the trunk. It might as well have been a beating heart under some floorboards the way it occupied his conscience.
It used to be that Broyn made
this run barely once a quarter and that was usually only for a
kilo. Colvin's operation worked in the shadow of Night and Dred,
between the cracks of their respective territories. He'd carved out
such a nice niche for himself, many feared that he would draw the
attention of either of them and be swallowed up whole. Then two
things happened. One, Night's operation fell apart seemingly
overnight as news of his demise spread quickly along the street. At
the same time Dred took a step back. The streets bubbled with
rumors from Dred turning federal witness to Night getting capped,
to the bizarre involving voodoo or some shit. Or maybe not so
bizarre, considering the second thing. Colvin recruited some new…
muscle.
Colvin had stepped up the
game.
These days Broyn made the run
twice a month and was told to be prepared to switch to weekly soon.
Now, it wasn't simply a matter of pick up and drop off, but
deliveries to be made. The first exchange was simple enough.
Simple, if one didn't mind a trip to Gary, Indiana. Broyn would
sooner deal direct with some of the dons in Chicago rather than
have to stop in Gary. The city still competed to be the murder
capital of the country. From downtown, he made his way to the usual
spot Colvin had him do business from toward the main gate of the
steel mill. Over on Broadway, north of Fourth, there was an
abandoned train station on the right between two railroad
overpasses. The sign on its front pillar read "No Parking. Cabs
Only." though few cars ventured its way. A desolate, lonely place,
an echo of ache within the city, the once-magnificent showpiece had
been reduced to a home for pigeons and vagrants. The building was a
mausoleum of silence and decay. Secluded enough for a simple
transaction.
Broyn would leave a taped-down
grocery bag filled with cash under his seat and the trunk of his
car popped open. He'd step out and make small talk with his
contact, Myron Smalls, who folks called "Stink." Broyn thought that
– as fucked up as his own name was, with his mother trying to spell
"Brian" some unique way – he couldn't go through life being called
"Stink." They'd both watch for police. All Broyn had to do was get
back in the car: the money would be gone and the product in the
trunk. He didn't have to check. Then it was an uncomplicated drive
back to Indianapolis. With Colvin positioning himself as a supplier
now, Broyn made the reconnect, dropped off one kilo to another crew
– though he hated dealing with the Treize – and then took the rest
to a cutting house where it could be whacked and packaged and
distributed. A smooth operation, all things considered.
His hair in twists, a scraggily
beard jutted off his chin, a trail of razor bumps dotted down his
face. Turning onto Lafayette Road heading toward Georgetown Road,
already known as the drug corridor of the west side of
Indianapolis, he hated that Colvin insisted on this route. It was
as if Colvin dared the police, too. Carrying real weight, it was
Broyn's ass on the hook for the years and was in no mood to taunt
Five-O.
"What if they take me off?" Broyn
had asked Colvin before he took off.
"They won't take you off. You
travel under the protection of my name." Colvin had a dangerous
sing-song to his voice.
"Yeah, but what if…"
Colvin's unwavering glare
silenced him. All Broyn knew was that he was no Mulysa, Colvin's
new right hand. No one even thought about fucking with Mulysa.
Maybe that was Colvin's play: daring a motherfucker to mess with
his shit. Broyn hated the idea of being the potential object lesson
of some bold fool out to make a name for himself, but Colvin was
not to be denied.
Rain-slick and deserted,
especially this time of night, the bleed of wet asphalt wound past
an apartment complex and gave way to an industrial park Georgetown
Road got past 71st Street. The arms of the railroad crossing
lowered, with Broyn not wanting to gun the engine to beat the train
for fear of drawing unwanted attention.
Nervous enough already, his
imagination called up images of bangers rolling up alongside him or
car jackers creeping up on him. Checking his side mirrors with
suspicious eyes for any lurching shadows, he adjusted his rearview
mirror. The red lights blinked alternately, winking eyes taunting
him. Bushes overgrew the view of the tracks. The rain fell at an
intermittent spatter, not enough to justify turning the wipers on,
but enough to obscure his windshield. Having to turn the wiper
blades on then off only served to increase his anxiousness. The car
idled with a mild thrum. He wished he had that internal steeliness
Mulysa projected, much less Colvin. They never seemed to care,
equally at ease watching television, being questioned by police, or
staring down gun barrels.
Broyn threw the hood of his
sweatshirt over his head and kicked the taped-down bag of money
from his first delivery under the seat. Certain he saw a movement,
he squinted as he peeked through the rain-blurred windshield, then
flipped the wipers on again. The warning bells of an approaching
train clanged.
The car roof buckled under the
sudden weight of something landing on it. Broyn scrambled for the
gun he kept in the glove compartment – stupid, he knew, but he
hated to go completely unprotected with so much product and cash,
and the idea of Colvin's name as a shield was cold comfort to him.
Peering out each side window, nothing appeared, but he'd be damned
before he got out and checked the car. First looking left and then
right, Broyn double-checked to make sure no one approached. His
right arm slung behind the passenger seat, gun in hand, he prepared
to put the car in reverse and book the hell out. A tap came from
his driver's side window.
The length of a sawed-off shot
gun greeted him.
A nest of fine braids draped from
the finely sculptured face of an ebony beauty with skin like
heavily creamed coffee. Her almond eyes missed nothing; she stood
unperturbed by the rain. Broyn knew many black women who'd have
thrown hell-to-pay fits being caught in the rain after having their
hair done. She had a model's bearing, the nose, the cheeks, like
European royalty. Except for her pointed ears. A pair of handcuffs
dangled from her belt loops. She toted the shotgun with the casual
swing of a matching purse. Omarosa.
"You know what I want." Her voice
had a sexy, if terrifying, thunder to it. More so in her whisper.
"Slowly. We all professionals here."
Besides the exuberance in her
eye, the thrill of the game or her part in it, something else swam
in her eyes. Something dark. Something terrifying. Something
monstrous which lurked beneath her beauty. A slack-jawed looseness
to his face, he dropped his gun with a flourish to show her he was
cooperating, his hands in plain sight. Leaning forward, he reached
for the taped-down bag, while his other hand lowered the window. He
dropped the bag outside.
"And the trunk."
Come
on, Broyn's contorted face seemed to say. He hunched his
shoulders.
"A girl's got to earn, too," she
grunted with annoyance.
He forced himself to turn from
the shotgun, taking it on faith that she was professional enough to
not twitch and send his brains spraying onto the passenger-side
window. Still, over and over, his mind imagined the clap of thunder
before his world turned black. Suppressing a shiver, he reached
under his seat for the trunk release. Too scared to know what to do
with them, unable to move, possibly in shock, he held his hands
out, his mind so disconnected from the action, it was as if they
floated on their own. Probably more trying to wrap his head around
what to tell Colvin. His eyes were drawn to the pulsing red lights.
Almost hypnotic. Then she was gone.
Subtle wasn't in Lee McCarrell's vocabulary.
The door exploded open with his first kick. Shock and awe were his
calling cards, not because they worked especially well, but more
because he enjoyed the rabbit responses his entrance brought. Them
"uh-oh" eyes. The dazed lucidity of junkies caught mid-cop. The
fear and panic of a dealer. The copper tang of adrenaline on his
tongue.
"You raising up on me?" Lee
roared to the halfdozen young bucks lounging around the room. He
often sprinkled his words with a liberal dose of street affect,
letting them know he understood them and spoke to them in a
language they understood. Them. Not us. These were nameless pukes.
Omarosa had fed him their names, little more than chum in the pool
of sharks. The possibility of her growing bored of him distracted
him. Not that it mattered. There was no warranty on relationships
and this one had about run its course. He'd made a meal on the tips
she'd given him over the months. And he never questioned how she
knew so much, or so accurately, for fear of busting a cap in the
ass of his fine golden goose. She assured him this would be a bust
worth his while, even if these were low-level players.
"How's business?" Lee smirked. He
gave the first boy a long, inventorying look. A good kid, long and
lean with bright, intelligent eyes. Even lying on a couch, with the
chaos of cops bursting in, he didn't panic and exuded a commanding
presence. Skin like smoked meat, he had child-like dimples though
he tried to suppress a charismatic smile. In other words, a
waste.
"Good, I guess." The boy sat up
slowly.
People became cops for only a
handful of reasons. To carry a gun and tell people what to do (the
deputized bully), money ("a job's a job"), freak (too drawn to the
badge), or a white knight complex (the hero's calling). Sometimes
it took a bully to get things done. There was still plenty of room
for Cantrell to play hero.
"You hear what happened over at
Phoenix?" Cantrell asked the second boy.
"Some folks got got," the second
boy said. Young, white, red-headed, the boy had a heroin thinness
to him. And he had the disposition of someone who would sell out
his dying mother for his next fix to avoid prison. One of his eyes
didn't track properly. That area of his face webbed with
healed-over scars. The eye was probably glass, Cantrell
realized.
"What's up?" Cantrell's flat
voice rumbled without humor. He ran his hands up the boy's socks
and then legs. "You know we own this piece now. You operate at our
pleasure."
"What we got here?" Lee stood
over the boy's desk. A scree of papers cascaded across
it.
"Homework," the first boy
offered.
"Oh, so you in school now." Upon
closer inspection, Lee spied the childish scrawl on papers and the
remedial reading text. Lee had the common decency to not comment on
this. There was belittling and then there was cruelty which aimed
at stripping away all attempts at manhood and dignity. The latter
only led to more problems.
"Come on now," the second boy
said. "You fucking up my time, Cantrell."
"Oh, so now you know my name? All
right. Let's chat about that."
Cantrell led him out of the room
with a firm hand to the small of his back. Always out to save
someone. Half recruiting informants, half trying to save these boys
from themselves.
"So you fine upstanding boys were
merely pursuing your academic interests."
"Just do what you came to do.
Might as well earn yours for that trick smoking your joint." The
boy knew he crossed the line as all the play left Lee's eyes and he
blistered under his stare. Word on the street suspected Omarosa of
having the peckerwood on drug patrol in her pocket. Perhaps
throwing it in his face wasn't his best play.
Lee flicked open a pocket knife
and let the blade catch the light and the boy's full attention.
Eyes still locked on him, Lee stabbed toward the boy's head. The
boy closed his eyes and flinched, muscles locked until he heard the
knife bury into the wall next to him. When the boy chanced opening
his eyes, Lee maintained his cold gaze, not bothering with the
charade of a search. He let him know he knew exactly where to look
and didn't bother to offer the courtesy pretense of surprise at
what he found: bricks of saranwrapped cash. More money than he'd
see in his check in a year.
"Whose money is this? This
yours?" Lee asked. The boy turned away as his response. Lee turned
to the next boy, but the question of "Yours?" was met with shrugged
shoulders.
"Guess it's my lucky day
then."
Leaning over him like a boyfriend
doing the obligatory chat before an end-of-date make-out session,
Cantrell chatted in amiable low tones to the skinny, one-eyed
crackhead. A snitch he'd refer to as Fathead. As Lee exited the
house, Cantrell couldn't help but notice the shrink-wrapped bundles
beneath each arm. With a nod, he dismissed the boy, who slunk away
without a backwards glance.
"What's that?" Cantrell
asked.
"Street tax."
"We're going to have a
problem."
"'We' don't have shit." Lee
tossed the packages in the back seat. He stood in the shielding
confines of the open car door, the roof of the car a gulf between
him and his partner.
"'We' better voucher whatever
'we' expect to sign off on."
"Chill out, brother." Lee
pronounced "brother" with every bit of the "er" on the end and with
every bit of tinny cracker in him. "They simply volunteering to be
your benefactor. They had a sudden stirring of conscience and
decided to do something positive in the community. Perhaps donate
to a mentoring program. They want to be, how did they put it?
Ghetto sponsors. Don't that sound good?"
"Uh-huh." Cantrell remained
unconvinced. The temptation of rationalization rattled around in
his head, a nagging voice which grew louder with each minute he
spent with Lee. The bust would have been no good anyway. They had
no warrant and no probable cause. They were simply trolling for
information, based on intel provided by Lee's mysterious snitch.
The way Lee went about his business made him nervous. It was why
Cantrell worked so hard to develop his own network of information.
The fresh-out-of-theacademy rules which had been hammered into him
had long since been tossed out the window, but Cantrell certainly
was not out to take anyone off.
"Good. Cause the kids will be
grateful. Real grateful. And that's who we do it for. The
children."
Colvin was a pretty-ass nigga. He had skin
the complexion of heavily creamed coffee and almond eyes, with full
eyelashes which had an almost feminine quality beneath threaded
eyebrows and set above his high aquiline nose. His good hair didn't
have to be straightened, his teeth were scrubbed to a brilliant
pearl, his nails buffered to a neat acrylic sheen, his skin lightly
oiled with a lavender scent he favored. The idea of self-hate
amused him. Many perceived him as being closer to white with that
diluted blood being the standard of beauty, the features that
defined his African roots as obliterated as the Sphinx's nose. But
he had no time for intra-racial contempt; their hate was too small
just like their love was too small. He was fey. He was the standard
of his own beauty. A drop of fey blood made him one hundred percent
fey. He was The Principle Beauty. Favored by his mother, he viewed
his sibling – all women and for that matter, all that he surveyed –
as an extension of himself. If the woman who writhed underneath him
had a name, he hadn't bothered to learn it nor did he care to. She
was a series of orifices who bucked in all the right ways, a piece
of meat who offered herself as a paean to himself. A
flesh-and-blood sacrifice on the altar of his dick. Sex with him
was an offering of worship. He admitted to himself what few did:
that people formed relationships that were altars to themselves.
People sought out those who they had a lot in common with, who were
like them, or who simply liked them; an external validation of
their need and worth of being loved. The vanity of humanity. There
were truths he dared not face. Like how sex was a balm. That it
took another to give him meaning, make him feel like a man.
Born with intelligence, luck, and
the confidence of transcendent beauty, he didn't consider himself
one of the light-skinned princesses who thrived on the attentions
of others and then pretended that it annoyed them. Relationships
were the comfort of another being only a hip turn away, a staunch
of the open wound of loneliness they hoped to bandage. Colvin would
never know the void of unfilled spaces within his heart because he
trusted in the love of one who both knew and loved him intimately:
himself. Turning to the camera hidden in the vase which sat on his
mantle, he'd enjoy watching the playback of this session later. And
pleasure himself to it.
"Colvin!" A deep, dry voice
called from the other room. "Colvin, man, we got a problem. A
serious problem."
"I'm busy, Mulysa. Can't it
wait?" Colvin cried out in mid-stroke.
"Nah, nukka, it's that
deep."
Colvin's was a long-lived people,
and he'd spent so much time in the world of man, he'd learned their
posture of adulthood, drank on their rage, and took on a man's role
of conquest and bravado. He withdrew from the woman whose name he'd
never know and wiped himself on her tossed-aside panties. She drew
the sheets up about her in an "I'll be waiting for you" pose, but
he'd already forgotten her as he dressed. Colvin put his gun into
his pants. He never went anywhere without being strapped.
His wave cap tied in back,
Mulysa's brown eyes contained amber flecks. A scar underlined his
right eye, acquired in prison. He had a broad, flat nose, the nose
his mother hated because it was his father's nose. His complexion
was what his grandmother would have described as sooty and his
breath was the dragon. He wore defeat in the thick of his neck and
roll of his shoulders. His faded blue jeans hung from his thighs
such that he had to spread his legs whenever he stood still. He
stank of sweat and what his boys called "African funk" behind his
back.
"What's up?" Colvin
asked.
"Tell him, nukka." Mulysa was a
genial rogue, a selfdestructive fuck-up, but he had wit, charm, and
most importantly, he produced. A lot was forgiven when you did the
work.
Broyn, on the other hand, was
like an accountant. Quiet, dependable, and not for the life. Still,
he had his uses. Some situations called for a square motherfucker
who wouldn't draw attention to himself. Harried and haggard, Broyn
began to speak with the wariness of a child recounting how a vase
got broken in front of a temper-prone parent. How smooth the run
went, along with the first exchange. And how on his way to the
second meet, he was jacked. No money, no product. At each salient
point in the story, he paused ever so slightly to measure the
temperature of Mulysa, of Colvin, and of his place in the room. The
messenger rarely fared well in such situations.
"What did she look like?" Colvin
asked.
"Like one of them high fashion
models with tight braids. Light-skinned. And her eyes. Beautiful,
but there was something scary behind them." Broyn stopped before he
added, "like yours."
Colvin let out a scream of pure
rage. "Omarosa!"
"Baby, what's the matter?" The
woman, sheet half-drawn up around her naked body, stood in the
doorway.
"You better close my door like
you got some fuckin' sense."
"When–"
Colvin whirred, drawing his gun
in the same movement, and let three bullets fly. Two dead center of
her heart and one in her head. The body of the woman whose name
he'd never know crumpled to the ground. A stain clouded Broyn's
pants.
"Who?" Mulysa asked, unfazed,
knowing this would be a mess he'd have to clean up later.
"Omarosa. Only she would dare
such a brazen…"
"Who she?"
"A fucking two-bit street thief.
And my sister." Colvin turned to Broyn. "The question remains, what
do I do with you?"
Broyn's eyes couldn't move from
the body of the dead woman. "Colvin, it wasn't my fault," he said
more to the corpse than his employer.
"Shh." Colvin pressed a finger to
his lips. "Mulysa, could you bring one of your bitches out to
play?"
Mulysa squatted low, face to face
with Broyn, the full assault of his hot fetid breath on him. A
walking amalgamation of self-loathing out to revenge himself on a
world he blamed for his place in life and his own inadequacies,
Mulysa's hands danced with the precision of a master loomer. He
produced a long Japanese tanto knife and placed the flat of the
blade beneath Broyn's chin to raise his chin to meet his eyes. "My
bitch."
"What's her name?" Colvin said
with the deliberation of a set-up man's cadence.
"You don't name a bitch." Mulysa
licked the flat of the dagger, cleaning the salt of Broyn's nervous
sweat from the blade.
"She looks like she could carve
through a body."
"Like a hot roll from
O'Charley's."
"Those are some good rolls. Think
you could collect a head for me?'
Mulysa pressed the tip of the
blade to Broyn's neck. The brief contact produced a teardrop of
blood. "My bitches work for me. Here good?"
Broyn's breathing hitched. His
face flushed with heat. He hated the weakness of having tears
squeezed from his eyes.
"Not his," Colvin said after a
moment of deliberation. "Hers. I still have use for Mr
DeForest."
Mulysa flashed an expression of
mild disappointment, a "maybe next time" grin, and turned his back
on Broyn.
Broyn focused on Colvin as he
desperately tried to ignore the wet sounds of rent flesh. The
sticking of blade against bone. The terrible hacking rasp. Mulysa
carried her by her hair with not so much as an afterthought. With
blood trailing along the floor, tendrils of flesh dangled from her
neck stump.
"We're missing something." Colvin
pulled a cable from behind his television setup. "This'll have to
do. Desperate times and all."
He fastened the head of the woman
to Broyn. Her eyes had rolled upwards in their sockets, upturned to
his.
"There we go. You head on home
now," Colvin finished.
"Head." Mulysa chuckled and then
wiped his nose with his sleeve, his blade still covered in
gore.
"But…" Broyn protested.
"Before I change my mind about
whose neck Mulysa's bitch should play with next."
Broyn scrambled out the room
without further protest.
Colvin exhaled, the display of
bravado somehow left him winded. Mulysa slumped in a chair next to
him, already debating if it would be easier to just set the place
on fire or clean up the mess they made.
"Damn her," Colvin said almost to
himself.
"That was a lot of
product."
"Don't you think I knew that?
Things were tight on the streets as it were. This could create
quite the drought."
"Judging from what the man said,
Treize got theirs."
"Shit." Colvin thought about his
dwindling customer base. There was no such thing as customer
loyalty, so the fiends would go to whoever had the fresh product.
Didn't matter if the dealing hands were black or Latino. And once
word got out… Shit, shit, shit. "Omarosa has no use for product.
Her only interest is money. Get word out that we're interested in
relieving her of her ill-gotten gain."
"So she gets to earn off us
twice?" Mulysa asked.
"No. I'll deal with my sister.
Put some caps on her ass."
"Yeah, nukka." Mulysa carelessly
licked his bitch again. "That's what I'm talking about."