CHAPTER TEN
Stalking the periphery of the apartment on
the floor below the penthouse some of his boys used as a party
place, as a general Rellik sometimes felt reduced to
middle-management duties. Shit, downright janitor's duties. Rellik
had always been ridden hard, hard enough to be pushed into a bad
place. That constant grind wore on a person, eroding like
wind-scourged trees rather than smoothed by sandpaper. Glass,
trash, used condoms, all the usual remains from an all-night party.
He needed to send guys over to clean the place or Sister Jackie,
the building community liaison, would be pissed. She could make
things difficult, getting the tenants riled up, bringing in police
attention, complaining to the superintendent or property owner.
With her flat, broad nose and swollen lips, dark rings under her
eyes, she had the face of a woman smacked with a 2X4. With the body
of a mack truck, broad and immovable, she had a stroke a few years
back which didn't seem to slow her down much. The burdens of
management weighed on his shoulders as the managerial woes of a
bored CEO weren't exactly what he imagined the life of a king
being. He had to work around community leaders like Pastor Winburn,
or deal with Sister Jackie who was like a one-woman labor union. It
was simple business: don't piss off mommas and the neighborhood
complains less. He wanted to be more than a criminal, so he'd work
with politicos, community groups, churches looking to turn gang
members' lives around, whoever. He made a mental note to assign
some of the peewees to clean the building, such menial jobs being
exactly in their job description. Their asses would jump if he said
so. Funny how they could run his errands yet couldn't be bothered
to work at McDonald's as being too good to earn minimum wage or be
bossed around.
"They here?" Rellik
asked.
"Most of them," Garlan said.
They stood in the landing of the stairwell, overlooking the
gathering. "Some of these fools wouldn't know a watch to save they
life."
"They lack
discipline."
"I got it handled." The
implication clear that if Garlan couldn't handle his people, Rellik
would find someone who would.
By his count, Rellik had nearly
a hundred folks – peewees, soldiers, and wannabes – to coordinate.
The way a man looks at a boy and sizes him up, he needed to pull
together his whole crew to see what he was working with. Which
meant he needed a space to hold meetings. When he ran his crew, he
brought in a few of his boys he'd known since high school. These
days, with so many doing jail, dead, or out the game entirely, his
officer crew was pretty small since he trusted so few. Garlan was
solid and was a liaison between him and his unfamiliar crew. He
thought it would be a good idea to hold it in a church. Pastor
Winburn was one of those do-good types always out for an
opportunity to build up relationships with Rellik's type. With such
a convergence of opportunity and need, he was practically obligated
to have this meeting at Good News. As long as the Pastor minded his
own when it was time to get down to business.
This summit meeting saved him
the trouble of visiting all the crews separately. His security
detail, led by Garlan, drove ahead to give them all clear from
rival gangs. At his arrival, one member, Rok, collected all the
drugs and cash and had them escorted from the scene so there was
never a direct link to Rellik. When a dealer went to prison or was
killed, the crew took care of his family. It lessened the worry
about a coup, fostering loyalty to the crew.
Over the next few hours, with
Garlan a step behind him high on the rush of power, Rellik grilled
his crew. He asked about any loss of regulars, measuring the impact
of encroachment by other crews. The Treize. ICU. He fielded any
reports of product complaints or any of their regulars buying from
someone else. Anyone watching. No one new popped up on that front
besides Cantrell, partnered with that crooked-ass cracka, Lee.
Pastor Winburn, Sister Jackie. He even put his ear to the ground
about any new hustlers working the scene. He didn't care how low on
the hustle pyramid they were. Geno. Rhianna. Omarosa. If they
operated within his sphere of influence or were potential threats,
he wanted to know about them. Like King. Lastly, he asked about any
niggas. Naptown Red, fool nigga trying to play. Colvin, on the
other hand, bore keeping an eye on.
Next they took sales reports,
tallying the week's receipts, drugs lost or stolen, inventory lost.
Members causing problems. Like settling the dispute between Rok and
The Boars, each of whom ran a six-person crew.
"No disrespect, Boars…" Rok rose
quickly through the thin ranks, promoted more due to the thin
talent pool of who was available, like some ghetto affirmative
action. A young buck, skin the color of weak tea, rail thin and
with a softness about him. An uncomfortable fit, he was unsure
about his position but he took to the job and enjoyed the level of
respect it engendered. However, he didn't wear the mantle with ease
and his men sensed it.
"The Boars." Black as seal skin,
with a full beard shaved low and a bald head, Bo "The Boars" Little
was a beefy boy in a man's body. He was the left tackle for
Northwest High School because the nigga just loved to hit people.
Needing some walk-around money, he got into the game. No, that
wasn't the real reason. Already having the adulation of fans and
peers, he found it wasn't enough. He craved the street
rep.
"Ain't but one of you out here
calling yourself Boars. We ain't confusing you with anyone." Rok
had honest eyes, but there were no truth tellers out here and
Rellik trusted the honest-looking ones least.
"The Boars. You mean no
disrespect? Respect my name." The Boars gravitated to power, craved
it like he was hitting a pipe. Greedy, ambitious, brutal, and
simple, barely contained anger steeped in his mean little
eyes.
"All I'm saying, The Boars, is
that I've come up short."
"That's your problem."
"No, it's both of your problem,"
Rellik said. "Rok thinks he was underpaid. The Boars thinks someone
was lying about how much product was moved. Someone's in the wrong.
Give us a minute."
Rellik and Garlan stepped toward
a corner, all eyes on them, a tide of steady murmurs.
"Who you believe?" Rellik
asked.
"The Boars is an earner. Little
man's too soft. Probably lost the product or had folks steady
taking him off."
"Yeah. That's possible. My gut
tells me The Boars is gearing up for his own operation, though.
Skimming bits here and there to build up a war chest to buy in on a
package. No one noticed until Rok caught him. No one."
Garlan chafed under this latest
bit of schooling from Rellik. The OG dude might have seen himself
as trying to raise up some young uns, but Garlan was a man. A man
with pride who didn't need to be undercut every time he turned
around. "So what we gonna do?"
"It's a light offense. A
beat-down should do it."
"He a big boy. You up to
it?"
"Heh." Rellik reached into his
pocket and pulled out a ring. Old and worn, silver strands wove in
an intricate pattern and black filled in the empty spaces. "This is
for you."
"What is it?"
"Power. You earned
it."
Garlan took the ring. He turned
it in his hand several times, inspecting it, then slipped it on.
The ring fit his finger like he was born to wear it. "Now
what?"
"You turn it and no one can see
you." Rellik leveled his gaze at him to assure him that he was
serious. "You want to test it? Handle The Boars."
Garlan turned toward The Boars.
The man had him by half a foot and over a hundred pounds easy. Not
enough to make water pump through his veins, but enough to give him
pause. Garlan looked back at Rellik, who pantomimed the turning of
the ring. Garlan did.
The world turned silver and
black, like staring at film negatives. The effect dizzied Garlan,
who stumbled with his first steps. He steadied himself, quickly
becoming used to seeing the world in shades of gray. A few heads
turned, those who had been watching Garlan and Rellik chat now
craned about, searching for any trace of them. Garlan approached
Rok and waved his hand in front of him. Then flipped him off. Rok
gave no indication of seeing him, but grew uneasy, feeling crowded.
Garlan stepped back and the boy seemed to relax a bit.
The Boars stank up close. One of
those stale-sweat jungle funks some brothers couldn't scrub off no
matter how many showers they took or how much cologne they put on.
As he neared, The Boars tensed, suddenly on edge. Obviously a
fighter, some ancient warrior sense within, alerted him; he assumed
a defensive posture. His boys backed away from him, possibly simply
fearing that he might swing at them.
Garlan circled the man, wary and
testing his limits. The Boars' frame was even more massive up
close. What some might have taken as fat was more muscle than not.
From his stance, he knew how to use his weight and was much lighter
on his feet than one might guess. Still, no matter the size, every
Goliath could be taken down by a well-placed stone.
Garlan punched him in the
throat. The Boars clutched at his neck, bending forward enough for
Garlan to land a heavy punch which exploded his nose. It was
strictly cosmetic damage, but he aimed for an effect of blood
spurting everywhere rather than damage. Toying with him, Garlan
jabbed at the man's kidneys, an ax taken to an old oak, bit by bit,
wearing him down. The Boars swung wild, hitting only air. The scent
of blood started to get Garlan's head up. He swept The Boars feet
from under him and rained kicks into his side. The Boars curled up
to protect himself as best he could, not knowing how many
assailants he had to fend off.
"That's enough," Rellik said.
During quiet moments, he wondered if he'd been away from the game
too long. Perhaps prison was too far removed from the grind of the
streets, made him out of touch with these boys. All doubts were
pushed aside because the rules never changed. Public punishments
acted as a deterrence. All ambitions ran through the head and he
decided when you were ready to step up. And they ensured
solidarity, because they were all on the same page now.
He dreamt of being like the
Black Panthers of the '60s, agitating for real change and
improvement in the neighborhoods. Oblivious to the irony of drug
trade and violence eating away at community. Rellik knew the power
he had. Wages, shifts, spikes in supply and demand, they were all
part of the calculations of industry. The game took care of its
players. He felt the obligation to take care of his people. His
soldiers couldn't do drugs. The last thing he needed was one of
them tweaking out or having their heads not in business. He
demanded they stay in school or at least got their GED. He donated
money to youth centers, bought sports equipment and computers. He
was all about the trickle-down theory: drug money redistributed
fiends' money back into the community, and he was a key player in
that system. True, there were the Nights, Dreds, Colvins, and fools
of the game who were little different from corporate execs who
embezzled pension plans for their own gain. But Rellik was about
the system. Then there was the police, always with their hands out
deciding which businesses could launder cash or which crew could
operate freely. Biggest crooks of them all. Never around when you
need them, but Johnny on the spot after the fact.
"Rip
currents, like a levee break, form channels which pull
everything in them out to the reservoir," the
sheriff, a fat white man who hid behind
mirrored sunglasses and a broad hat,
explained. "Usually a wave hits the beach and flows
back to the lake as gentle backwash. The way
this little alcove here is set up, with
the strong winds blowing towards the shore, water collects on the beach side of a sand bar.
When the trapped water breaches the
sand bar, it flows away real quick from
the beach and forms a vortex beyond the surf."
Gavain sat
in the sheriff's car with a blanket wrapped loosely around him. He shivered under the blaring sun
and toasty wind. His mother hollered
then collapsed at the sight of men
loading her sons, sheets pulled over their heads, into
the ambulance. Gavain stared at the lake,
thinking about the hands that pulled
him to shore, sparing him.
He missed his brother.
"How'd that feel to you?" Rellik
said to the air. "You need to turn the ring back."
Garlan appeared in front of him.
"It felt good. Right."
"You get used to it pretty
quickly. Sometime a nigga's just got to be beat-down." Rellik
watched some of the young'uns help The Boars to his feet, help he
shrugged off. "They have to fear you."
"They do."
"They do now. Before, you were
one of them, you might have told them what to do, but to them you
gave suggestions, not orders that demanded to be followed. Most of
them followed because they were too lazy to come up with something
else. The Boars was different. Just biding his time.
"I love these niggas. They my
family. But I don't trust them. No one. Especially my friends. The
higher up you go, the less you can afford to go soft." Rellik
didn't mind though. As he worked toward his larger ambitions, his
goal was to go mainstream, to get out the game and take his people
legit.
"We got any more problems, we
squash them now." Rellik prepared to wrap up the meeting. "You pay
taxes, you get to call the police or your city councilman. You
niggas ain't paid a cent in taxes. But you know we all know. Round
here, we all pay. And we only have Merky Water to call on. This
here's your job. A job's a job and when you're here, you on the
clock. Your ass needs to be here on time and on point. You put in
the work, you get paid. This ain't no minimum-wage gig so you
better take pride in it."
With that, the group was
dismissed.
"Any new business?" Rellik asked
Garlan away from listening ears.
"Got a line on raw product
sounds pretty good."
"From who?"
"From Dred."
"Oh, yeah?" Rellik asked. "He
play too many games. Spike that shit with something. You never
know."
"He a steady connect."
"Got to think of this like a
business. Dude over here wants to sell to me at regular rate now,
make sure I'm a steady connect then discount me twenty percent next
year. Dude over there wants to discount me ten percent now if I
sign up with him. Who would you go with?"
"In this world, there'll always
be fiends. Think longterm and go with the deeper
discount."
"You thinking. I like that, but
naw. Thing you forget is that ain't nothing guaranteed. This time
next year, you, me, either dude could be locked up, dead, or out of
the game. Take your discount upfront."
"Go for the guaranteed
money."
"That's my nigga," Rellik said.
"And leave Dred alone. That nigga's never up to anything
good."
• • • •
A mural of a Jamaican flag filled the left
third of the wall. An Ethiopian flag was painted on the right
third, the two framing a portrait of Haile Selassie. Dred perched
beneath it, ensconced in a high-backed wicker chair. A thick plume
of smoke issued from the side of his mouth. Short and stocky, he
had a prison workout body despite the fact that Dred had never seen
the inside of a cell. Wearing a Pelle Pelle red hooded jogging
outfit, the word "DEATH" scrawled over crossbones. Dismissing
Baylon with a nod – the half-dead man retreated to a far corner
engulfed by shadows – his vaguely Asiatic eyes studied
Merle.
Baylon thought he detected a
trace of fear in Dred's eyes. From what he observed, Dred took
several steps away from the streets licking his wounds and
regrouping, rethinking his strategy. Perhaps he over-reached with
his first charge at power, his feint at King, underestimating the
man.
"I know all your thoughts," Dred
said. "Every move you're going to make."
"That makes one of us. Please
excuse all of the gibberish going on in my head." His mouth caught
in an exuberant grin, Merle reached into one of the deep pockets of
his raincoat. His slate-gray eyes sparkled with amusement. He took
off his aluminum cap, wiped a thick coat of sweat from its brow –
squeezing his eyes at the onset of the voices – and returned it to
his head. "Luckily, I usually say what I'm thinking."
"I don't need you to tell me
what you are thinking. In fact, it's easier if you don't because
most of what comes out of your mouth is lies anyway. Everyone has
body language. Most folks don't think about the message they send
out: a curled lip, a hunched shoulder, a twitch here or there. I
do."
"It must be exhausting to be
you."
"It is. It really is." Dred
stepped to Merle, close, almost too close. Some might have taken it
as a threat or challenge. Merle was unmoved. The artifice of the
bum as crazy-ass cracka was obvious, almost on the verge of a
glamour. In fact, it was a glamour of sorts: the glamour of the
mundane. The lowest of the low was often ignored.
"Well, since you know all my
thoughts and what comes out of my mouth is lies anyway, why are we
talking?"
"It's part of the
game."
"Games? I like games." Merle
smacked loudly as if enjoying a piece of candy.
"It's like playing
chess."
"I've never been real good at
chess," Merle said. "But it sounds like you'd be great at it.
Thinking so far ahead. An enemy you can read."
Dred ushered him into the
anteroom. A chess board occupied the center of the room,
exquisitely carved jade pieces all over it, a game already in
progress. Dred took a seat. He gestured for Merle to sit across
from him but the mage remained standing.
"In chess, you have pieces.
Cold, porcelain pieces are useless. I need to be able to read the
guy behind the pawns. I don't know if that makes sense. It does to
me and that's all that counts."
"You study the player, not his game."
"Try to get in his head. Fuck
with him a little. Get him talking about anything, then his
language and body movements will betray him. How quickly he moves
his piece. How tightly he grips it. How firmly he places it. You
watch his face and body. It all telegraphs his thinking and
strategy. His motivations."
"His tells."
"Every word, every phrase. It's
all about nuance. It's all about learning how to read
people."
"So which am I? Pawn or guy
behind the pawns?" Merle asked.
"Both… I suspect." Which was as
true as Dred could guess. There was always someone between Merle
and the drama. No direct contact, always directing others. He
hadn't quite decided if Merle moved King or if both were subject to
a greater gamesman making them fulfill their roles. Either way, his
moves had to be accounted for. Dred moved a knight to take out a
pawn and place his opponent's rook in jeopardy. He then spun the
table to play as his opponent.
"You have your mother's
eyes."
"Do you know where she is, world
mage?"
"She's nearby. Closer than
either of us care to admit."
"I need to see her. She has one
last lesson for me."
"She'll be the death of both of
us," Merle said, taking greater interest in the game.
"I don't think so. I think her
time draws to an end."
"But that's not what you
summoned me here for."
"No. I need to know if King is
the man you think he is."
"The sapling mage is at a
crossroads? Neither this way nor that?"
"Something like that. I hear
things. Rumors about what King hopes to do and achieve. And I want
to believe in it. In him."
"He's just a man. A
dream."
"I believe that, though I don't
know if you do." Even as Dred rethought the game, his strategy, and
his position, he never revealed his entire hand. Through the last
of the dragon's breath, he had poked and prodded, testing his
opponents and teasing out their weakness. He could already tell
that they were on edge, not as sharp. Exhausted and harried… and
thus vulnerable.
"You also have
doubts."
"I just need to know what's this
nigga's story."
"You know it as well as
anybody."
"I mean, what's he
about?"
"He's the story."
"He's a story. The echo of a
story. Young, charismatic, do-gooder types. Social organizer,
community activist type. Troubled youth made good, with a rise to
prominence backed by a religious leader."
"You make that sound like a bad
thing."
"You know your Bible?"
"We haven't always seen
eye-to-eye."
"Revelation 17:11 – 'And the
beast that was, and is not, even he is the eighth, and is of the
seven, and goeth into perdition.' Daniel 8:23 – 'And in the latter
time of their kingdom, when the transgressors are come to the full,
a king of fierce countenance, and understanding dark sentences,
shall stand up.' Daniel 11:36 – 'And the king shall do according to
his will; and he shall exalt himself, and magnify himself above
every god, and shall speak marvelous things against the God of
gods, and shall prosper till the indignation be accomplished: for
that that is determined shall be done.'"
"What are you trying to
say?"
"I'm not trying to say anything.
It's already been said. Even foretold."
"If you think King is some sort
of… Antichrist, then this would be one of those non eye-to-eye
moments."
"I think King is an echo of the
past that points to the future. He may mean well, but he doesn't
see how his actions can hurt people.
"Says the drug lord."
"I'm a simple businessman. No
further ambition than to make money. What I do, hundreds of others
do. But King, he's special isn't he?"
Merle remained silent.
"King has potential," Dred said.
"He draws people in, sweeps them along despite themselves, like a
tidal vortex. It's what he does. Unites people, forges a kingdom,
accrues power. Until…"
"Until what?"
"Until it all falls apart. Tell
me, is he the real deal? Is he a man worth following?"
"You are your mother's
son."
Dred toppled the jade king.
"Tell King I want to meet with him."
"A parlay?"
"If anyone can pull together a
parlay, I'm sure it's him."
The summit meeting was the business portion
of what was Rellik's homecoming party. Off to college, off to life
in the military, out from prison, such rites of passage were met
with community celebration. Rellik was a west side nigga at heart,
but he was equally at home at the Meadows, now the Phoenix,
Apartments. This wasn't some alien landscape meant to be avoided or
sped through with locked car doors. This was home. Under
electric-blue skies with the hint of chill in the air, but still
warm enough to have a party.
Sparing no expense, a row of
three tables held a snow cone maker, a popcorn maker, as well as
room for hot dog and nachos stations (which proved especially
convenient for those wanting chili and cheese on their dogs instead
of chips). Another table held coolers filled with juice drinks and
pop. For anything harder, they needed to go to their car trunks and
make their own drinks. On the far side of the church lot were three
inflatable gyms. One for basketball, a jumpy slide which tottered
precariously in the breeze though none of the kids cared, and a
boxing ring with inflatable gloves the size of a toddler. Boys ran
up on one another at full tilt with faux menace, amped up to pummel
one another with the gloves which proved heavier than they
anticipated.
The DJ had to be snatched by Big
Momma as the mic had to be protected from the errant freestylers.
As it was, the music spun featured lyrics quickly running out of
superheroes to do things with their hos. Pastor Winburn bobbed his
head. "The neck knows," he said to Big Momma's mildly disapproving
gaze and the giggle of some of the pre-teens.
Three BBQ grills kept the meat
coming. Geno wiped thick smears of sweat from his forehead with his
apron. He manned the racks of ribs personally, not trusting anyone
else's eye. He had a burger man and a chicken man, each flipping
stacks of meat like a wellrehearsed orchestra.
An area of tables had been
cordoned off, the tablecloths flapping in the wind, but held down
by duct tape. Chairs allowed the grown folks to eat in peace, hold
court, or play cards and dominoes. Having run out of those, some of
the kids had to make do with milk cartons. Seven year-old boys
flashed gang signs when out of the eyeline of any other
adults.
On the other side of the church,
The Boars and other young men crouched in the shadows hunched over
their piles of cash. He shook a set of dice, eyes heavy on him, all
still conscious of the beat-down he took, but now it was business
as usual and none dared speak of it. They gave him room to lick the
wounds to his pride and they feared his eruption to reclaim it if
provoked. Money spread on the concrete. The Boars rolled the bones
and snapped his fingers. The dice came up sixes. Money changed
hands amidst grumbles about the boxcar roll.
"Y'all want in?" The Boars
asked.
"I'm in," Rok said, throwing a
few ends onto the pile. They were still a crew and not only didn't
he throw and punch, he was equally unnerved by the invisible
assault. It also helped that he lost the last roll to The
Boars.
"Who's up? Who's up? Who's up?"
The Boars continued.
"If I ain't steppin' on
something…"
"Yeah?" The tentative way Rok
approached getting into The Boars' business, almost deferential,
appealed to him.
"It true?"
"What?"
"I heard you got them
boys."
"Who?"
"Dred's crew."
"Walked straight up on a buster
and capped him in the head," another echoed.
"Served him up. One in the
face," a third chimed in.
Rumors swirled about the bodies
dropping all over town. Some with a simple bullet to the head. Some
scenes described as straight out of a horror film, with bodies tore
up, raked through, and blood everywhere. The Boars didn't mind some
of that name recognition landing on him. Though he didn't want to
directly claim it either. It was a dangerous business taking
another person's credit.
"Same blood, not the same
heart."
"You ice cold, man. There's no
forgiveness to you."
"I hear that. A lot." The Boars
snapped his fingers at the dice roll.
"It's all that Cobra you be
drinking."
"I don't drink that watered-down
piss. The KKK runs that shit."
"Shut up, fool. You think the
KKK runs everything," Rok said.
"It's why he don't wear no Sean
Jean gear," another voiced added.
"But that's P Diddy's line," Rok
said. "Sound like maybe his competitors started a rumor."
"Klan. I'm telling you," The
Boars said.
"I never did trust that
too-pretty nigga no way," a peewee said. They all turned to see who
had snuck into their circle.
"Why do so many niggas have to
be such sugar drops?" The Boars lightly shoved Rok. "You too,
nigga. You have to come strong. We need to get you on a workout
bench. Get you pumped up."
Still rattling the dice in his
hand like dead men's bones, he paused when he noticed the duo
approaching.
Mulysa wanted his name to ring
out, the sole ambition of his eyes jacked up by drugs. A stain
dirtying everything he touched, he was a melanoma on the skin of
his family. One they attempted to scrape off. For as long as he
could remember, he learned to take the beatings, the abuse. And
learned to smile – that dangerous half-smirk ready to jump off –
because in the back of his mind he thought "one day." One day he'd
be big enough. Like a pit bull bred to fight, he responded to what
he'd been taught. He dined on pain and suffering every day and
internalized it. It got in him, built his muscles, wired his
thinking, flowed through his veins. The pain, the anger, the hate.
He closed the space between them, meaning to crowd them. His hands
shook when his blood got to racing. His arm twitched, the flinch
that signaled he was about to go hard.
A tightness clutched his stomach
as he remembered the child he had been. Sneaking a cup of sugar and
a packet of Kool Aid in a sandwich bag for him and his friends.
They'd all lick their fingers and swipe at the pile of powder until
there was nothing left but a gooey pile. Every break between what
few high school classes he attended spent smoking blunts. Weed
affected him in ways different from his friends. More deeply.
Something he couldn't identify drove him and he couldn't stop. He
smirked at the idea of his friends. He couldn't recall any of their
names now, and even their faces were vaguely recalled
silhouettes.
Mulysa took a corner, sold dime
bags of marijuana for his cousin who had a supplier out of the
eastside. Then came juvenile, which completed his education.
Confined with gunmen and killers, it kept him low and it killed
anything good in him. Something he planned on passing along to
Tristan.
"What's up?" Tristan asked.
"I'm drunk. That's what's up."
"Recognize." She knew that fire dancing in his eyes.
That rush which at any moment might
spring at her. "What's with these
fools?"
"Let me
milk this cow. Y'all just hold the tail," Mulysa
said.
"I ain't
trying to do no jail."
"See this
here? This is a pack of dogs. Each one scrappin' for
their piece. Times are a little lean and they
a little wild so it's easy for them to
scrap too hard over a little piece of meat. Some try
to go off by themselves, some try to set them
up as the big dog."
"And you here cause you the Alpha dog?"
Tristan asked.
"Naw.
Colvin's the Alpha dog. I'm the stick he uses to
train them. You, too."
"Train them
for what?"
"Shit. You
beat a dog when he a young pup, he thinks twice about rising up on you later on."
At the sight of Mulysa, thickly
muscled, an upright pit bull, and Tristan, rangy yet sturdy, no
play in her eyes and scattered. The boys with the appointment knew
it was pointless to run. They eye-fucked the locals to scare the
need to witness out of them.
Mulysa menaced a
smile.
Tristan lagged behind without
having to be told. A sign of intelligence, Mulysa thought. She knew
her business. The first time Tristan hooked up with Mulysa, she and
Iz were completely ass-out. She dozed during the day under a bridge
while Iz went to school and stayed up to guard them at night. One
time while she slept, some fool jacked all her stuff; just grabbed
her backpack and took off. She never cried when she told Iz, only
took her hand and leaned her head onto her shoulder. A rare moment
of lowering her guard.
They'd have left then but
Indianapolis was all Tristan knew. Then Mulysa showed up. Said he
recognized talent when he saw it. The bullshit didn't matter, the
money did. Though she felt no obligation to him, in a way, he was
there for them when no one else was. He was a predator of the first
order and she was every bit on guard around him as when she was on
the streets. The money was straight though.
Rok opted not to move as Tristan
attempted to brush by – a tacit challenge she understood but had
little patience for.
"What we got here? A little game
among gentlemen?" Mulysa dropped to his knees and hovered over the
money. "Civility is the name of the game."
"What you here for?" The Boars
asked.
"You do the speeding, you get a
ticket."
"Whose street are we speeding
on?"
"Colvin's," Mulysa
said.
"Colvin? Shee-it. I thought you
were talking about someone serious. Not that high yella, wannabe
peckerwood." The Boars assessed his six-to-two advantage and
confidence crept into his posture. "He's another one. Got a little
sugar in his tank."
"You sure that's the tone you
want to take with me, nukka?"
"You might want to look around
you, dog. You and the missus… you a little out-gunned up in this
piece." The Boars challenged with his eyes, though a skim of sweat
trickled along his hairline.
Born on Christmas Day, Mulysa
was taken in by CPS at two. A dealer friend called CPS, having been
given the boy to pay off a debt. He was five years old when he was
first raped and beaten in a foster home. With no place else to go,
he went back into the system.
"What led to arson?" Arson
followed battery as juvenile followed boys' school. All sort of
docs tried to crawl into his head. He suffered headaches. Adderall,
Wellbutrin, a prescribed menagerie to address his anger problems,
they often found it safer to sedate him with drugs. None helped.
His mom and dad came into money, a settlement from an accident from
when a security guard wrenched his mother's arm in a store (the
fact that she was there to shoplift notwithstanding) and they got
him back. Even sent him to a private school. His thoughts drifted
to jail and the ordered life there, the peace of the streets. So
one day he left. Most times he lived in an abandoned bank. Some
times he dropped by the Camlann Apartments complex. The streets
were his home, his headache his sole companion. No matter where he
went, no one saw him. He knew he was just a joke to them. A nigger
joke.
Mulysa withdrew a knife and
twirled it in his hands, the six-inch blade stopped, handle in his
palm. The Boars' mouth went dry.
"As big as your dick.
Bigger."
"It ain't the size, it's how you
use it," Tristan said, her handcrafted blades curled around her
fists. They were overkill, she thought, and put them away. She
attacked with sudden ferocity, catching The Boars off guard. Speed
and guile on her part made up for the mismatch of his bulk versus
hers. Most of the shorties scattered, probably racing back to sound
an alarm. Her movements were smooth and elegant. The edge of her
hand chopped at his throat followed by a punch to his solar plexus.
Without passion, it was nothing personal. She directed a blow to a
nerve cluster in his arm, painful, and would leave him in a mood to
not continue a fight. In another finesse move, she leg-swept the
approaching boy, toppling him, then kicked him in the side until he
curled up in surrender. They were perfunctory blows. Other than The
Boars, these were boys, not hardened soldiers. Water pumped in
their veins.
Mulysa took greater relish in
his attack. The crunch of bone beneath his pummeling fist only
drove him to greater heights of bloodlust. His nostrils widened as
if snorting the blood scent. His lips pulled back in a mad rictus.
His name would ring out for sure. To march into the heart of
Rellik's territory, to put a beat-down on some of his troops in the
middle of his own party. Shit. He grew heady on waves of his
soon-to-beswelling rep. He drew his dagger – damn near a machete,
his bottom bitch – and turned to go at Rok. Tristan stepped between
them.
"Enough. I think they got the
point."
"Let's bounce before these
bitches find their heart."
"And gats." Tristan glanced back
at Rok with a nod. "Deuces."