CHAPTER SEVEN

 
Rellik was a jailhouse nigga through and through. He'd spent more time inside the system than out and found the rhythms of prison life more natural than the existence folks called freedom. By the age of fifteen he'd already entered the system and had to bury his mother from prison. Running the Merky Water set from inside; since his family couldn't afford it, he sent his gang to the funeral home to make the arrangements and pay for it. If he wanted the prison shut down, it got shut down that day. The guards and superintendent were impotent and apathetic: they were there to make sure no one escaped. Everything else was just paperwork. Even the chaplain was scared to talk to him about Christ. Heaven would be better off without him as far as clergy was concerned.

  The streets ran little differently than The Ave. There were crews to be overseen. Po-po, be they Cos or FiveO, to deal with. Product to move. Rival factions to navigate. Power to be seized. No one operated in a vacuum and he knew no one could survive without allegiances and loyalty.

  The lines of territory were ambiguous at the moment. Everyone respected the space Dred had carved out, too afraid to outright move into it for fear of his retaliation, despite his general absence. It was as if he haunted the streets, and his ghost terrified them. Back in the overly romanticized day, none of the crew were allowed to touch drugs, but they could strong-arm around it, make sure a dealer broke them off some. Eventually money, especially with so much of it to be had, drove things out of whack and dudes started selling it. It got so good that when the original kings got locked up, the dons never said anything against the drug-dealing. They allowed the selling to keep going. Back then, the gang was a unit. They talked of family. Old school.

  New crews set up shop along the edges of Rellik's reclaimed territory, though none ventured into Breton Court. King blocked that. King. That young buck might prove to be a problem later, so Rellik made a note to keep an eye on him. Night's crew was in chaos, easily absorbed into Rellik's Merky Water. The Treize carved up the far west side, just south of Breton Court but inching ever northward. Which left ICU and other independent operators. That was always their mistake. The Nights and Dreds of the world viewed themselves as operators, the game little more than a means to an end. Business. New school.

  His black Cadillac CTS-V, a new whip, was probably too flashy but he allowed himself the indulgence. The smell and feel of a new ride was the one thing he missed as much as pussy and no amount of closing his eyes pretending a hole was a hole would allow him to simulate the experience of driving. As he pulled up to the Meadows, now Phoenix, Apartments, young men stood at attention, the peewees taking note at the respect the older ones issued. Hip hop blared as smoke wafted about, nicotine cutting the marijuana smell. These boys were unfocused and undisciplined. The last of the package took forever to unload. More time spent tugging on their junk and showing out for the ladies rather than doing business. There was plenty of time for that nonsense off the clock, but on, business was business and they needed to be professionals. Low-ranking members ran errands for him. Affectless, young, with dead eyes. He didn't let them carry guns unless they were gearing up for war.

  The apartments thrummed with life in the ordinary. Families reclined in lawn chairs on their porches absorbing the neighborhood sights like it was a beautiful sunset. Kids along the curb drew chalk rainbows on the sidewalk. A few teens held court beside some bushes, pestering each other in a courtship dance of showing and chasing ass. Reassured by the rightness of the scene, Rellik approached with the easy saunter of a cowboy entering a saloon. Hands extended to him, heads nodded as he walked by, the subtleties of recognition and welcome. He came, he saw, he got over.

  He simply wanted a place to die, publicly if not privately, accepting the evaluation of his life. For the briefest of moments, he wondered what the hell he was doing. For all of his machinations, he had no real plan or direction. Only the reflex of same old, same old, wallowing in fresher, bigger piles of shit, biding time until he was killed or jailed… and calling it a life. Then he remembered this was the only life he knew, the only one he'd been shown, and he'd make the most of it.

  "What's the good word, Rhianna?" That girl got around, he thought.

  "Still hustling, baby." Rhianna paced the sidewalk wearing a half-jacket with nothing underneath, exposing her pierced belly and a tattoo on the small of her back, over blue jeans. A cigarette pursed between fingers, she held it out for him to take a pull. He waved it off. She blew smoke from the side of her mouth.

  "We all hustlers. We all informants, too, if the right circumstances pop off." All hustles were respected as long as they didn't fuck up anyone else's hustle. Which made trading in information such a delicate balancing act. Secrets were power, much of their power residing in them being kept. It wasn't always healthy to see or hear too much. The wrong word to the wrong ears could result in a bloody smile opening up along one's throat.

  "Hear what happened to The Pall?" Rhianna crossed her arms and took another drag. She always had an angle to play. Information was simply another commodity to be traded. Good ears collected information someone wanted and smart ears kept it to themselves, unless presented with a situation: like an ass-kicking or contempt charges, bruises or jail. Or worse. "Ain't that some shit. Pimping ain't easy."

  "Pimping can get you dead if you ain't careful."

  Pimping was a full-time job, not a good side business. Strictly speaking from a business point of view, the margins simply weren't too great, on either side. The problem was ignorance. From the ho side, they earned their little twenty dollars, then they spent their little twenty dollars. Rock, rings, whatever, it got spent. They couldn't earn enough because they spent it, or more, as soon as they got it. So every day they started off with nothing, or worse, in the hole which made them scramble and claw all the more. From the pimp side, between keeping a stable fed and clothed, needing to have bail money on hand, hospital visits, drug use, and them being prone to thieving, prostitutes required too much attention. Rellik settled for a flat fee to handle out-of-control johns and allowed both to operate in his territory.

  "All right, what you want to know?"

  "Where's Dred?" Rellik asked.

  "That's the question of the day."

  "Maybe you need to concentrate on finding an answer." All the charm drained from his eyes. Beneath his stoic exterior, his flat lifeless eyes – the dark constellation of freckles around them squinched into something ugly – and fixed grimace, he exuded the promise of violence. A blind fury – the most knucklehead aspects of it held in check – once released keened with the force of nature. The inevitable, non-negotiable, firestorm. Rellik hated unknowns. He needed to know where Dred was and what he was up to, and if she didn't know she could certainly find out.

  "All right, Rellik." Rhianna butted out her cigarette

against the bus stop sign, then ground it under the flat of her pumps.

  "You got something for me?"

  "You know I do." An honest prostitute, or as close to one if there were such a creature. She played things as straight as could be expected, kind of like the tide: regular, expected, the occasional terror, but mostly scrolled in her relentless sort of way. Also, she was a bit of a romantic, still clinging to the hope of her prince. Such was the fairy tale she wrote for herself, but every story had a monster in it.

  The Meadows, now Phoenix, Apartments held all manner of hustlers: pimps, car thieves, shoe/shirt sellers, prostitutes, squeegee men, food sellers, clothing makers, baby-sitting, candy sellers. People sold license plates, Social Security cards and small appliances out of their vans. They pirated gas, electricity, or cable. Everyone had their own hustle, part of the shadow economy of the streets. Rellik collected a tax on all action occurring in his territory, even taxing pimps for use of stairwells, alleys, or empty apartments. He'd control the flow of things as long as they abided by his rules. They couldn't hustle out in the open. It drew police along with other unwanted scrutiny and he wasn't interested in any additional attention. Nor could they hustle during family events. Neither could the homeless nor strangers. BBQs, block parties, family reunions, after-church picnics. Nothing. They couldn't hustle by playgrounds. They had to respect the kids. And none of them could loiter there either.

  "You know you need to move someplace else," Rellik said.

  "Damn, nigga. You hard." Rhianna ran her hand along her locklets as if primping them into place, then turned on her heel.

  "Relentless."

 

Everyone needed a place to put their head up. He could've stayed at the Phoenix Apartments, move into Night's old spot, but he left that to Garlan. No point in punking the boy out of his own place. Besides, he was a potential earner needing room to come into his own. Rellik respected that and in his own way, nurtured it. He chose to hold up in an abandoned home down on 24th and Pennsylvania, a bright lime-colored house from the Arts and Crafts era with brown doors and trim, clay-tiled roof and a wrap-around porch made of stones. Some fiends had got to wilding there not too long ago and the property stood abandoned, even by fiends and other squatters. Its windows were boarded up, sealed outside and fortified inside. The first-floor interior was gutted out. At one point it had been carved up into four apartments; now only the original walls were in place, much of the lathing exposed, brittle ribs on an emaciated retiree. Much of the recessed cabinets and shelves had been pulled out. The basement door nailed shut. Mildew rotted the stairs through, discouraging anyone from mounting them.

  Upstairs was little different. With much of the plumbing exposed, a cracked toilet bled thick urine, its base coated in a grimy yellow paste where urine had dried. Two of the bedrooms were left bare, rotted mattresses piled in the corners. A locked door cordoned off the master bedroom. A fresh coat of white paint on the walls. A walk-in closet converted into a bathroom. The wood floor had been refinished and polished. Boards protected the windows, more to keep prying eyes out; twin windows led to a deck outside above the porch, an emergency exit should he need one. A large flatscreen television hung on the wall adjacent to the one which backed the long leather couch on which a woman perched, reading a book.

  "I heard you were out." She curled on the couch, legs drawn under her, allowing her skirt to reveal enough of her perfectly shaped legs to draw his eyes along them. "I see you've done something to the place."

  "Morgana," he said, the feigned disinterest in his voice meant to disguise his hunger.

  "How you doing, baby? Aren't you happy to see me?" she cooed, her voice thick like warm honey, which she intended to lick from his body.

  Her face cold and composed, not betraying any emotion other than her cruel smile. A fierce intention rode her eyes. Morgana was an agenda within a scheme. Her presence signaled trouble at the very least. Still, she was one of the best lays he'd ever had. A woman who knew her trade – fleshcraft and necromancy – and he suspected that she was not above murder. And she knew how to please and use men. She patted the empty spot next to her, inviting him over.

  "Dred know where you are?" Rellik asked.

  "You care? Isn't having me with his full knowledge part of the thrill?" She trailed a lone finger along his arm. A high yella, stone-cold beauty whose large breasts pushed her shirt straight out, exposing her flat belly over her tight jeans. Her Asian eyes and long black hair framed an intoxicating face. Using men against men, teasing out vulnerabilities, to exploit their weaknesses, her flaw was that she discounted their strengths. Her own brand of enchantment left his will slacked, honor drugged, and canceled his conscience with lust. Hers was a deadly game; even knowing how she operated made her no less effective, or him any less prey to her advances.

  "Same old Morgana. Still using the same tricks. You play a dangerous game."

  "Most risky gambits can be successful, if undertaken boldly and without hesitation."

  Rellik had his own agenda. And orders. The officers, even the Ngbe who ran the bulk of the traffic in Indianapolis, served at the pleasure of the Board of Directors. The Hierarchy brought him in because things were in disarray. Not content for lieutenants and captains to report to him, Dred vied to get to the Board. And now he was nowhere to be found.

  Rellik pulled her close to him. For his part, he used women like some people used drugs: to numb himself from the pain of his world. She feigned protest until a mischievous smile snaked across her face. It was her nature. She couldn't help herself. She knew him and accepted him as he was and as much as she was capable. In her own twisted way, she loved him.

  The idea of love, its sheer tenacity, scared the shit out of him. Love stayed right there with him during the ugly and dark times. All love did. Love clung right to the person he was meant to be and helped move him along toward becoming that. Love didn't let him off the hook, nor did it want him to define himself by his sin or failures. He couldn't outrun love. So he knew he'd one day have to kill her.

  "Is there anything I can do for you?" She plunged her tongue deep into his mouth. His hands explored her back, before scooping her up and setting her on the edge of his couch. She fumbled at his shirt, their tongues never breaking from their mutual explorations, while he hiked up her skirt.

  She really wasn't wearing any panties.

  The depth of his entry caused her to break their kiss. In a well-practiced move, she winced through closed eyes, and threw her head back. Her arms locked around the back of his head, then she moaned long and deep. There was making love and there was a hot fucking that burned bright and brief, threatening to break them both in its intensity. He rode her in slow strokes. The sex was as true and vital as the first time he smashed her.

  Morgana wasn't one for cuddling afterward. The night called and she had much to do before dawn. She left him to his empty room, his thoughts and his life. Unlike many of the squares who went to their cubicle worlds and went through the motions of life, pushing papers, accepting berating bosses, and underperforming and back-stabbing colleagues, he could say he put in a good day's work. True, he couldn't say "I built that." He couldn't say "I taught them." The devil whispered in his ear. That dark voice that came to him in the still times. When he stopped moving, stopped playing the game, when he didn't distract himself with the pretense that he wasn't alone and unloved. He wasn't fooling anyone. His dreams tormented him. Sometimes flashes of what life would have been like with his brothers, with anything approximating a real family. Other times, his nights were filled with water, dragged under, his breath fleeing in a desperate gasp. He paced the floor, an unsettled cat, then drew his Taurus 92 from beneath his pillow. Plopping on the edge of his bed, he aimed his gun at his heart. It'd be easy to end the pain which haunted him, without name, without reservation, without relent. One day he'd find the strength to squeeze the trigger.

  "I miss my brothers." The sound of his own voice startled him.

  In the end he knew how empty his life was. All he knew was that life was accidental.

  Only death was deliberate.

 

Behind the Phoenix Apartments, a grove of trees lined a path, its banks formed a natural green space that had become popular as a walkway. During early morning hours, many a citizen walked its path for exercise, each armed with a stick or bat in case of emergency. On occasion, people held dog fights back there. Cars crowded the rear of the Phoenix Apartments parking lot, sealing it off into its own little world. Folks knew they were entering designated Switzerland, a "no beefs allowed" zone. It was its own, lost world.

  The sounds of cars traveling along 38th Street drifted in from the outside world. Cigarette butts and beer bottles littered the ground. Overgrown masonry protruded from the earth, large cement slabs which were the foundation from a previous building. The trees grew at odd angles in this fairly isolated thin trickle of a creek. The older ones half-uprooted as if a great upheaval had once taken place there.

  This was where Omarosa agreed to meet Colvin. Not neutral territory, but they weren't here to parlay. She knew the lay of the land and it was enough into Rellik's tightening control for Colvin to have to step lightly. Omarosa moved swiftly and without sound. Her light footfalls slipping through the foliage without displacing a leaf. She was prepared to take out a guard, Mulysa, or at least a young buck which passed for security. But there was no one. Colvin stood alone and vulnerable in the center of the field.

  A faint light illuminated his features. Despite his evident beauty, his heroic jaw, and his angular setting, his face contorted in pain and concentration.

  "It's been a long time," Omarosa interrupted.

  "I'm trying to decide if it's been too long or not long enough."

  "Didn't expect to see you handle this personally."

  "And trust this to Mulysa?" Colvin asked.

  "He's your boy and all."

  "Would he still be standing here if he had a bag full of money? Easy pickings."

  "I let your courier scurry along home."

  "To let me know you were responsible."

  "Still, you, me. Out here. Alone. You getting bold in your old age. We gonna do this now or what?"

  "You unarmed?"

  "You alone?"

  Twins shared a special knowing. There was no psychic connection, no special power given them. There was just a simple knowing. They understood their doppelganger because they shared a womb with them, knew them in the most intimate and close of settings. So both Colvin and Omarosa appreciated the little dance of cordiality they both endured and inflicted on one another. No need to voice their history of quiet resentments and litany of perceived slights. Her mother always favored Colvin. There was always something fragile about him, despite his bravado and narcissism. A palace built atop rotted timbers. Not that Omarosa consciously picked up on it. She tried to love him, but there was no room for her in his world. That was what she told herself.

  Their estrangement had nothing to do with how many times she tried to kill him over the years.

  "So we gonna do this?"

  "Yeah, but let me ask you something," Colvin said.

  "Go ahead."

  "Do you keep up much with the old ways?"

  "The old ways are not for us. Let King and his dog, Merle, truck in those parlor tricks. I got better things to do. Like finish this up, crash at my crib, and count my ends, you feel me?"

  "Yeah, about that… I'm afraid there's been a change in plans. You see, I didn't come alone." A jade spark burned just above him. It trickled down like slowmoving lava, leaving a suspended trail in its wake.

  Omarosa recognized the glamour of hidden doors. A half-dozen men tumbled from the nexus. They stood about to her waist, with bulbous bellies and faces like old men. Nude save for their spiked iron boots and caps faded to a deep carnation.

  "Red Caps? Seriously?" Omarosa pulled out her sawed-off shotgun from the bag. "I didn't exactly come unarmed."

  Their weapons sprung to their hands, slings firing shots like iron thorns. Omarosa fell backwards, dodging the first volley while getting off a shot. The first creature fell back, blood erupting from the wound of the shotgun blast. It slowly rose, the attack not lethal. Hardy bastards. She dove for cover behind one of the jutting concrete slabs. Her side burned as if lanced with a hot poker.

  The men scattered, converged on her spot from a variety of angles, each serving as a distraction for the others. Their teeth ripped into her flesh as they swarmed at her, a host of maggots writhing on a stilltwitching carcass. The full weight of one of their bodies slammed into her back from above. The iron spikes of its boots, like nails hammered into her back. It drove the breath from her lungs. Others wrestled her, attempting to subdue her. With a curse, she kicked free, then thrust her elbow into the groin of the one behind her. It slackened its grasp enough for her to twist loose. Her arm was wrenched from underneath her, nearly toppling her.

  "Damn it," she muttered.

  "Getting slow in your old age." Colvin tramped toward her dropped package. He was stunned: she really did bring the product. Though, he should have been: he had really brought the money. They were fey after all. Straddling the line between what they called honor and the necessity of betrayal were what they did best. He turned to leave, deciding whether to watch the rest of the show or go ahead and depart.

  The Red Caps jabbered amongst themselves with titters and croaks not meant for human throats. Not even half-human ones. They drove her back by their sheer weight of numbers, all talons and teeth gnashing and swiping towards her: a pack of hyenas tearing into a wounded lioness. Strength ebbed from her limbs. She bled from innumerable scratches and tears. But she was fey. And you neither took a gift from her kind, nor made them angry.

  A scarlet fugue state burned in Omarosa's emerald eyes as the fierceness of battle overtook her. The rage which so often fueled her when her back was pressed against the wall and the desperation of survival was all she had left. She rushed headlong through them to break their purchase. Lashing right and left, she struck with tepid punches more designed to throw them off than inflict any real damage to their tough hides. She swung her leg in a high arc and caught one in mid-air; the back blade of her boot heel slit its throat and it was dead before it hit the ground. Her spiked heel crunched down on a skull, a spike driven through it. Its opened throat spilled blood over her new boots. They'd never come clean again.

  She barely dodged the taloned hand. Its nails would have opened up a scarlet trail along her chest. The better course of valor brought no shame to the fey. She would live to see the blood of her enemies spilled. Through the stark stretch of open ground, she bolted for the tree line with speed which easily outpaced her pursuers. The occasional elf arrow whizzed past her. She turned, nearly invisible in its shadows, to see Colvin salute her. A bag in either hand.

  He was sloppy and brutal, no finesse or style to his game. But he was fey.