CHAPTER TWELVE

 
A sculpture of Robert Indiana's agape-inspired painting "LOVE" and the huge series of fountains were the first things people noticed when they entered the grounds of the Indianapolis Museum of Art. Three main areas made up the IMA: the museum proper, with its Oval Entry Pavilion, a three-story, glass-enclosed jewel box of a building, the Gallery Pavilion, and the Garden Pavilion; the Virginia B Fairbanks Art and Nature Park; and Oldfields, Lilly House and Gardens.

  The twenty-six-acre Oldfields estate was named for the former farmland on which it was sited. A French chateau-styled mansion, Oldfields overlooked the White River valley. The twenty-two room mansion was built for Hugh McKennan Landon and his family between 1912 and 1914. In the early 1920s the Landons built the Ravine Garden, a design masterpiece of bulbs, perennials, wildflowers, ferns, and flowering trees and shrubs that featured a bubbling brook that descended the fifty-foot hillside and fed three rockrimmed pools. In the 1930s, Josiah K. Lilly Jr. acquired Oldfields. For all of the IMA's picturesque beauty, no one ever asked why it was closed on Mondays.

  "Where are all the ladies in bikinis?" Prez asked.

  "This ain't a rap video, fool." Lott shoved him playfully in the back of the head. Wayne, Lott, and Prez took up positions as escorts, feeling every bit as ridiculous as Wal-Mart greeters, but King wanted the arrivals to be respected and welcomed.

  "They're going to be late," King reassured them. His leather coat swirled around him like a low-lying cloud, perfectly framing the image of Dr Martin Luther King Jr on his black T-shirt. His Caliburn was safely tucked away, but not on his person, per the rules of parlay.

  "Had to prove who's the biggest man. Make the others wait," Wayne agreed.

  "So we could be here all night just waiting for them to show." Detective Cantrell stood arms folded over one another, his face a sculpture of solemn, bemused, skepticism. His posture the incarnation of the words "I told you so."

  "Someone has to be first," King said.

  In the face of the event possibly flopping on its face, Pastor Winburn beamed in silence toward King with something akin to pride.

  The cleaning staff came through Oldfields every other evening with great care, erasing any traces of that day's traffic. Eight historically refurbished rooms reflected their 1930s appearance. Pristine furniture of a bygone era, preserved, restored, dusted, polished dead dreams. Visitors typically started at the Entrance Hall, with its circular staircase and then moved into the Great Hall, the grand artery of the house that accessed most of the other rooms. It was the main room for entertaining.

  However, the players weren't gathering to entertain.

  Lined up within the long drive of Oldfields, the various crew leaders pulled up with their respective security entourages. Sports cars, SUVs, long green Continentals, all freshly washed, with immaculate rims: a funeral procession, built on the backs of a poisoned community. The first out of the vehicle was always bodyguard. Foot soldiers guarded the cars. No one worried about any beefs because all parlays were respected and any issues squashed.

  "I think that's Rellik's ride pulling up," Prez said.

  Garlan stepped out of the Cadillac CTS-V first, followed by The Boars and Rok, checking the place out with a quick scan before giving a nod to Rellik. He shook out his shirt in one final act of preening, then walked toward Oldfields. Lott and Prez moved to greet him, but Wayne put his arm up to hold them back.

  "I got this," he said in a flat tone devoid of any humor or joy, a tone so unfamiliar to either of them it froze them in their tracks. Wayne walked toward Rellik. He didn't have any words prepared. He hadn't rehearsed this moment in his head. Once his brother left the family, his name was hardly brought up. A ghost who ran the streets, he might as well have been as dead as his other brothers. He had heard Gavain was out and given the worlds they ran in, knew the possibility of them running into one another was constant. But not necessarily inevitable. When King detailed his scheme, the idea of seeing his brother still didn't seem real to Wayne. Yet here they were.

  "Wayne." For his part, Rellik didn't know how to play the situation either, besides cool. It had been too long and without any vibe of brotherly affection, wasn't no point in going too far out the way to be… brotherly.

  "Gavain." Wayne moved in. The scar of the back of his neck itched. Garlan took note, ready to move, but relaxed as the two embraced. More cordial than any true warmth. It was a start.

  "Don't no one call me that no more." He cut his eyes toward Garlan. "It's Rellik."

  "I heard that's who you were now. Which is it, killer or relic?"

  "Which do you hope it is?" Rellik let the question hang in the air. "You look good, money. Played a little ball, I heard."

  "For a minute. Blew out my wheel though."

  "Now you out here saving kids."

  "They save themselves. I'm just here to help them stay out they own way."

  "Keeping them from drowning." He wondered if Wayne had any love in his heart for him. Gary. Rath. Their deaths weren't his fault but they were under his care. They were his charges, his responsibility, and he fucked it up. He fucked everything up. His actions blew up the family as they were never the same afterward. Just walking into the house made him sad. His mother's eyes betrayed the sense of blame and judgment she never gave voice to. Not that their eyes ever met. She spoke to him when she had to, always pleasant enough. But that was all it ever was. Brief. Courteous. Affectionless.

  "Come on. Folks'll be lining up soon. Let's get you situated." Lott sensed the apprehension of the moment ushered them along.

  "King," Wayne introduced. "This is Rellik of the Merky Water crew. My brother."

  Rellik was the old brother and he shamed Wayne. He was the hope of the family, the one they all admired, and yet he proved himself every bit the fuck-up his father was. And his father before him. Wayne was the good one, the heart of the family. If pressed, the most Wayne might have confessed to was… annoyance at Gavain. His presence, the idea of him, to be caught up around him and his nonsense would have been too much for Wayne and what he wanted to do and how he approached the world. Better for Gavain to become Rellik, the villain he believed the family and the community viewed him as anyway.

  King raised an eyebrow. Wayne rarely talked about his family and King hadn't pressed. Still, this might have been a bit of information he might've mentioned.

  "What's up?" The pair clasped hands and bumped shoulders. "You can go on inside. Wayne will take care of you. Your people are free to hang out in the front room."

  Rellik and Wayne departed, followed by his entourage. Within the door, Cantrell waved a metal detector wand as a security check. No weapons allowed past that point. The steps had barely been cleared when the next set of cars arrived. Mulysa and Tristan were the first out of the car. Broyn exited next. Colvin cut through the center of them, flanked by Mulysa and Tristan.

  "Colvin," Merle whispered. "He stinks of fey."

  "He favors Omarosa," King said.

  "He should. He's her twin."

  "Keep an eye on your wallet then."

  "Colvin of the ICU set," Prez announced.

  "King, well met." Colvin ignored all except King. The two squared off, not with any tension, but in a moment of sizing one another up. Colvin a man of languid grace, King much larger, but with a fluidity of his own. They clasped hands and bumped shoulders, then King dismissed Prez to escort Colvin to the inner chamber. They led the entourage to the great room where Pastor Winburn began the dance of getting to know the kids. Flat-faced and downcast gazes, not a smile among the lot, they were a bored classroom with a substitute teacher. Lott remained next to King, not wishing to leave him alone as the last of their little gathering showed up. He knew the toll this must take on him and didn't want to leave his friend hurting any more than he had to.

  "King." Dred's voice ran like ice water along his back. Dred's scraggily goatee never grew in right, adding to the natural boyish look of his face. His nest of hair coiled out in serpentine aggression. Eyes the color of cold onyx, though bloodshot and rheumy, fixed on him.

  "Dred."

  "Parlay's a beautiful thing. A time for old friends to reacquaint themselves and chat freely."

  "Wouldn't have asked you here otherwise." A shuffle along the shadows drew King's attention. Baylon stepped into view. King remembered his once-flexing gait. Not quite the full pimping stroll, but enough to convey the fluid movement of his prison-built bulk. Eyes half-closed in onsetting ennui, as if bored with all he surveyed. The man before him was shriveled, not in size, but in the way he carried himself. Like a drained old man with a stiff-jointed shuffle. His jogging suit had seen better days, but not damn sight of a washer. "Damn, son. You look rough."

  "Such are the winds of fortune," Dred said.

  "Come on. Let's go inside."

 

Naptown Red scurried up the steps just as Detective Cantrell Williams was set to close the door. He wanted to arrive last, making the others wait on him. He parked his whip over in the lot of the museum proper and walked over, not wanting anyone to see his rusted-out '88 Oldsmobile. The car was pimping in its day, a classic, to Red's mind, but might have gotten him laughed out this here player's ball.

  "Damn, you trying to rush a nigga?" Red asked.

  "Who are you?" Cantrell studied him.

  "Naptown Red." Black moles formed a constellation around each of his bloodshot, heavy eyes. The color of his skin was uneven, giving his face the appearance of a mask which didn't fit correctly around his hairline. His dry feral auburn hair had been straightened and pulled back. And he bathed in a cologne which smelled a lot like Crown Royal. He tugged at his junk in anticipation of entry.

  "Who?"

  "Red. I believe I'm expected."

  "All those on the list are already here."

  "Yeah, you cute. Ain't no one having a meeting of players in this here town without me."

  "No disrespect. But I ain't heard of you." Cantrell ticked through his mental Rolodex of perps and junkies.

  "My name'll ring out soon enough."

  "Till it does…" Cantrell opened the door. "We talking to the lieutenants in here. Trying to get a big-picture view on things."

  "I ain't no damned lieutenant."

  "No disrespect." Mindful of King's edict to keep the peace, Cantrell opted to massage this no-account fool's ego. "I was hoping you'd be able to give some insight these other brothers can't provide."

  "Kind of like a consultant."

  Red liked the way this officer deferred to him with that "no disrespect" stuff. "Yeah, now that's what I'm talking about, son."

 

The walnut-paneled, Georgia-styled library was on the south end of the mansion, both remote and private (Mr Lilly collected rare books meant to showcase). They also passed the Game Room with its floor-toceiling bookcases and marble fireplace. A rather apropos meeting place considering their gathering, but, no, they met where such occasions warranted, the Drawing Room. An overly formal, pretentious room with its hand-painted Chinese wallpaper and stuffy-looking furniture, fit for a royal tea party. A re producing piano, not that anyone actually entertained with player pianos anymore, hid in the corner.

  Rellik seated himself next to his brother, neither one comfortable, but both quietly needing the time to adjust to the other. Flanked by Wayne and Lott, Colvin eyed the scene, the newest player to the table and the one out to prove himself the most. On the other side of Lott was Dred, King between him and Rellik. Merle stood behind King's seat.

  King arranged the room to be for the players only. Not strictly those who were powers in the game – that was only one qualification to earn a spot at the round table. The other was knowing the shadow side of their world. The magic. Merle promised that he'd arrange for the food and the attendants and that those gathered would neither be offended nor unnerved by them.

  "I thought that before we got down to business, we could share a meal together," King said.

  "Just like old times?" Dred asked.

  "Just like," Rellik offered.

  King upticked his chin toward Merle to get the food started. The meal was a calculation on his part. He didn't know the history and tensions in the room. Cantrell and Merle briefed him as best they could: Dred and Rellik going way back as boys. Colvin a rising power. But there was still much he didn't know. Food had a way of calming treacherous waters. A delegation of faeries wheeled in a series of carts. Each faerie stood proud and erect, bedecked in a tuxedo, replete with white gloves. The carts interlocked in such a way as to form a single table. Seamless, such woodcraft hadn't been seen since the days of Daedalus. Sprites flurried about, like winged balls of light, fussing about the guests, laying down napkins, plates, bowls, and placing silverware. An elf, in a green suit and with the bearing of a humble cup-bearer, poured quail egg and dandelion soup into the bowls, setting down baskets of bread before disappearing. The faeries returned, each carrying silver-domed trays. They lined up and, with a flourish, pulled off the silver domes simultaneously. Poached pheasant, venison roast, grilled boar, and potatoes. All in all, quite the production. Merle was pleased.

  "All my favorite meat groups are represented," Wayne broke the silence. The room seemed to exhale then. Once the faeries retreated to a respectful distance, all that could be heard was the occasional clink of silverware against plates, the sipping of water, and Wayne chewing his food with relish.

  "It's so sad to see the fey folk reduced to mere servants," Colvin said.

  "Their time is past. They know it and don't try to cling to past glories," Merle said.

  "Is this what you think we do?" Colvin asked.

  "We live in this age, we should act like it. Instead, too many hold on to the old ways." Merle searched the room for allies, but even Dred averted his eyes. King furrowed his brow as if nursing a brewing headache. "Just making small talk."

  "King, you called this meeting," Dred said. "I'm surprised you had the juice to gather us at a table."

  Before King called for the summit, he met with high-ranking gang generals. The dons had come to Indianapolis during Black Expo and met in a hotel room. Bedivere. Howell. Craddock. The Board of Directors. Worn couches and carpets stretched between large televisions and stereo systems. They paused their poker game with thirty to forty K on the table. A table surrounded by pot-bellied men, tattooed and bedecked with gold and silver jewelry, their huge guts testaments to their capacity for self- or over-indulgence. Their guards left the room, but they were still armed with their Tec-9s. King had his Caliburn. The Steel Cutter. "If anything funny goes on, all of us are dying up in here. Ain't none of us walking out."

  When men were so disposed, they would take as many out with them as possible. It was a bold gambit. The men had seen hundreds of deaths between them, had known its shadow as intimately as any lover. They wore death and it showed in their eyes. Its threat didn't move them. His brazenness, however, did.

  "Look." King held his gun at the ready. "I'm about one thing: calling a halt to the slaughter. God changed my life. God told me to clean up what I messed up."

  "We don't truck with no God," Howell said in a measured tone meant to convey calm and complete reasonableness. King heard the echo of a snake's rattle in the timbre of his voice. "And we don't truck with no jail or anyone who wants to put us there. We're… risk-averse."

  "I'm not going to put you down, but I'm going to let kids know they got a choice. I ain't going to give anyone your names. Word is bond."

  As it was, the dons thought bigger. As part of their greater vision, they had been calling themselves "Growth and Development" sounding more like a mutual fund than a gang, and had gone legit on the surface. Their long-term strategy was to take over a neighborhood from the top down. Community redevelopment was in their best interests. They even provided scholarships for young people.

  So word came down from the dons. "That's what we want him to do."

  That was what gave King the additional juice to summon them.

  "What is it you wanted to discuss?" Dred asked.

  "It's been a long time since many of us have gathered in one spot. Some might say it's been too long. Still others might say not long enough. Some are new to us." King nodded to Colvin, who returned a cold-eyed glare. "Either way, here we are. You all represent different crews and control most of what goes on in this city. In our community. As a family. Rellik controls most of the drug trade these days. Merky Water took over Night's operation. Colvin, you are all muscle. ICU is probably the strongest outfit at the table. And no magic gets done without Dred knowing about it or doing it."

  Colvin's mind began its own paranoid calculations, making a note to discuss with Mulysa the cast of his summoning.

  "So what? You call us together, fill our bellies, and pat us on the back. Get on with it, nigga," Rellik said. "What you want?"

  "I want the violence to stop." King waited for the chorus of murmurs, "aw shit"s, and sucked teeth to subside. "It's simple business. When bodies drop, popo comes around. The police have even been by to ask about business."

  "Is that why Cantrell is here?" Dred asked.

  "I trust that you didn't disclose any business." Colvin's measured tone was more threat than actual question.

  "Cantrell is here as a neutral party because I asked him. The only thing I've ever told Five-O was that we've had our problems in the past, but they were just that… in the past. I have to live in this neighborhood, too." Deliberate and forceful, King let the words settle in, not allowing the insinuation to stand, but not allowing the accusation to escalate into any unnecessary posturing. "Yes, we've all had tragedies visited upon us. Some more than others. But any community, given enough time, builds its share of issues. We have the luxury of letting time heal those wounds, if we allow it."

  Rellik met Wayne's eyes. Dred's did not meet King's.

  "Five-O ain't ever off the clock. When you know a cop to not be a cop?" Colvin asked.

  "He's here because I can work with him."

  "You saying you trust him?" Rellik pointed a halfchewed leg bone at King.

  "I didn't say all that." King stopped short of vouching for him. That was a weight he didn't need. "He's still police. And they crawl all up in your Kool Aid whenever there's a body. How does business go then?"

  "So what are you proposing? A co-op? You want to get your hands dirty now?" Dred asked.

  "No. I'm here strictly to represent the community. Me, Pastor Winburn, Cantrell, we the community."

  It all came down to power. Rellik had power. Dred had power. Colvin had power. They gripped people's hearts and imagination. And they held the boogeyman fright, the monster in the closet or under the bed. Their stranglehold over the neighborhood propelled him.

  "And what? We the parasites you trying to get rid of?" Dred continued.

  Yes. King wiped his mouth with his napkin. "You aren't going anywhere. So we need to find a way to coexist."

  "Or what? You come at us with your golden gat?" Colvin asked. "Yeah, I've heard about you, too."

  "No. We mediate. Me, Pastor Winburn, and Cantrell. An impartial board to hear disputes."

  "So all power runs through you?" Dred asked.

  "You all have the power. Life and death in your hands. Every day you grind brings life and death into the community. I want us to dream bigger. To take better care of our community. And I think this is the first step."

 

Mulysa stretched his short, stocky body out of the uncomfortable Victorian-era chair. There were plenty of snacks and pop to be had, but nothing approaching the smells emanating from the other room. The pastor and that gay-ass detective talked their talk about community and trying to "connect" with them. That might work on some of the young uns. The Boars and Rok actually listened with something close to attention. Tristan stood off to the side, acting like she wasn't paying attention, but she took it all in. That was her way. He noticed that played-out fool Naptown Red sidled towards him as if he was slick.

  "You Mulysa. Colvin's boy," Red said. There was an ugliness to his face, his dry skin accentuating the splotches along his face. His brittle-straight hair was in desperate need of a wash.

  "Yeah, nukka," Mulysa said. "But I ain't no one's boy."

  "I didn't say you his bitch… though he do treat you like one."

  "You need to get out of my face or parlay or no parlay…"

  Red put his hands up in an "OK, OK" gesture of backing off. "I'm just saying, I know talent when I see it. And know how to appreciate it."

  Mulysa didn't say anything, but didn't turn and leave either.

  "You know what you are to Colvin, don't you? Him and his half-white self. The blood of our oppression's thick in his veins. You know what you are to him?"

  "I'm his nukka."

  "You need to say I right. Nigger." Red's blood shot gaze held Mulysa's thickly vesseled eyes. His words carried an intensity, a truth, like the japes of a court jester. A weight Mulysa couldn't ignore.

  "Nigga."

  "Nig. Ger. Say it like it means something. Like it has the sting of history behind it."

  "Nigger."

  "Louder."

  "Nigger!"

  Tristan turned to him, her hand at the ready, a reflex itchy to wield her blades though she had left them in the car. Pastor Winburn and Cantrell raised up to see if there was any trouble. Red waved them off.

  "Yeah, motherfucker. You just another nigger up in this piece. Ain't no American dream for you. Ain't no two point five kids, a car, a house, or a dog called Muffy. You a nigger."

  "A nigger." Mulysa knew. He always knew.

  "A nigger who can't find no straight work. Who can't pay his bills. Who didn't finish school. No-account, no-hope-having nigger. Don't you forget that shit. When you ready to be appreciated, you come look me up."

 

"So what do you want from us?" Rellik pushed his plate from him, unable to eat another bite. They all had their part to play and Rellik couldn't help but think that his part was about up. This was King's game now.

  "I just want you to think on it. Get up with me later."

  "The way I see it, this here arrangement don't benefit me no how." Colvin said without defiance or bravado, but with a matter-of-fact plainness. "You said it yourself: ICU the strongest. We got our own connect. We got our own muscle. We don't need y'all. No disrespect. I don't want to step on your business, but we just going to go ahead and do our own thing."

  Colvin pushed away from the table. King also rose, out of respect, not threat. Merle opened the door for him.

  "Mulysa, come on. We out," Colvin barked.

  "Sit, Mulysa, sit. Good dog," Naptown Red stagewhispered.

  Tristan and Mulysa attended him, trailed by Broyn. Mulysa caught Red's eye one last time. Tristan slipped one of Pastor Winburn's cards into her pocket.

  "Anyone else?" King hid his disappointment.

  "I'm not committing to nothing, but Colvin raises a point. What's in it for us?" Rellik asked.

  "Peace."

  "So what, we carve up the city like we Churchill, Truman, and Stalin?" Dred asked. The implication was dirtier than King wanted to imagine. He was giving assent to their trade. Conceding the war for the sake of security. Dred's eyes seemed to dare him to cross a line.

  "You already have your territories, Dred. You work that out in the spirit of cooperation. We will mediate disputes and hold the line."

  "And if one of us goes rogue?" Rellik stared at Colvin's vacated seat.

  "If they cross the line, we go after them," King said.

  "So the crown rests on you after all," Dred said.

  "All I want is peace."

  "King's peace."

  Merle summoned the fey folk to clear the dishes and bring the desserts. The room fell to silence, creating an intimacy no one wanted, and worse, most feared. Nothing broke the stilled conversation except for the sound of Wayne eating.

  "So what is this? Warning or wake?" Merle whispered.

  "Both," King said. "If we play things right, we may manage to get enough time to clean up this mess."