CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 
The triple homicide hadn't grown cold, but Lee and Cantrell were out of active leads and had worked other cases in the meantime. They'd put down a body dump at Eagle Creek, originally ruled a suicide until a contact of Lee's steered them toward a boyfriend who was screwing around with his gun and accidentally shot his girlfriend. They put down a case of a Hispanic male shot at the Eagle Terrace apartments. Turned out he was beefing with another dude over the attentions of a prostitute. A tip from Lee's confidential informant put them on the hunt for one Rondell Cheldric, aka Mulysa. Cute, Cantrell thought, "Asylum" spelled backwards. They were obviously dealing with a clever knucklehead.

  Cantrell and Lee weren't friends. They weren't even partners, not in any real sense. They simply shared a vehicle. Lee was like the person Cantrell got stuck with on a long flight, the chatty kind who asked too many questions, didn't especially care about his answers, mostly loving the sound of their own voice. Ironically, it was Lee who preferred to ride alone, whereas Cantrell reveled in the idea of a partner. He longed for the company and conversation… just not with Lee.

  "I just get tired of it is all." Lee continued the thread of conversation from his usual quilt of gripes. He'd roll his list of slights around in his head until they built up enough steam to sputter out his mouth like a leaky bowel. It was never too difficult to follow him.

  "What? Black folks not showing your peckerwood ass enough love?" Cantrell studied the passing scenery. He avoided looking at Lee whenever possible. Lee's kind of ugly from the inside out, hurt him like staring into the sun.

  "Ain't no love coming from–"

  "Watch yourself now."

  "… the hood. It's respect I want."

  "What every man wants." Cantrell knew he'd regret asking the question which threatened to pass his lips, but the sheer weight of the misery Lee carried with him today had him slumped over, his thin face twisted into an expression passing for pensive. "What's the matter?"

  "Just thinking about my girl."

  "Please don't tell me about the two of you having sex. I don't even want the tangential possibility of the hint of the image of you naked."

  "I think we're breaking up." The gentle green from the dashboard lights and the monitor of their computer cast a melancholy pallor on Lee's face.

  Cantrell remained silent in commiseration. Though he had little interest in hearing a peckerwood go all emo on him, he turned his head back to the street to give Lee the space to continue.

  "Yeah. Think she's bored with me. She been distracted lately."

  "What she do?" A tentative halt hitched Cantrell's voice. He still feared the conversational thought was going to go straight into their sex life.

  "Don't know."

  "How could you not know?" Cantrell turned to him. His instinct stirred within him, suddenly making him very aware of his partner. "It's our job to know."

  "You know women. One great mystery after another. And if you're lucky, you get a memo letting you in. So, it's not come up yet."

  "How could…?" Again, the willfulness of Lee's ignorance troubled him. Still, the answer to that question probably involved them and positions Lee would take too much delight in detailing. "Sounds like your relationships may have other significant problems if you don't even know what she does."

  "I know. But I been afraid to know."

  "Why?"

  "I think she might be a pross. Or worse."

  Cantrell's mouth started to form a question, but it collapsed on his lips. Every scenario he imagined suddenly involved Lee handing him a flaming bag of shit for him to clean up. "Dating" a suspected prostitute was bad enough. The "or worse" part had him especially concerned. Either way, Cantrell was at ground zero, too much at risk of being collateral damage. When the shit exploded, if he didn't know more about what was going on, there'd be no way to determine the blast radius. The idea of a partner became less and less appealing. "What do you mean by 'or worse'?"

  "She tells me things."

  Intuition was a police detective's Holy Spirit. It guided and formed them. Helped them make leaps of faith. And warned them as long as their conscience was not too seared to hear its gentle whisper. And right now, its soft voice spoke to him with a disconcerting clarity. "Please don't tell me she's your CI."

  "Not registered," Lee said.

  "Oh fuck." Cantrell pictured a bag being lit and left on his porch.

  "I run all her info through another CI and put his name on the warrants."

  "Why. The Fuck. Are you telling me this?" Cantrell wanted to smack the shit out of Lee. This cracka-ass fuckup held his career in his peckerwood palms and he better not be enjoying the jackpot he was putting him in.

  "I just got a feeling is all."

  "About what? No point in holding back on me now."

  "I don't know. I just think she's more of a player in all of this shit than she let on."

  "This bust a set-up?" Intuition. It spoke to all police. A gift, even to the worst of them.

  And while Cantrell believed himself to be in tune to the whispers of intuition, he far from trusted the voices whispering in his erstwhile partner's head. Lee struck him as the type who spent hours practicing looking hard in the mirror.

  "I don't think so. But I've had the feeling for a long time that she was pulling my strings for her own agenda. And the sex…"

  "…was the price of my services." Lee let the words hang in the air to settle in, smug about his services rendered. Oblivious to the overriding fact that he may have been played.

  "But the intel has been good."

  "Spot on. Perfect."

  "Too perfect?" Cantrell's eyebrows arched in suspicion.

  Lee studied his hands and mumbled. "Yeah. Maybe."

  "So 'or worse'… she some sort of player? Dealer?"

  "Don't know."

  "Thief?"

  "Don't know."

  "Hitter."

  "Don't know."

  "What do you know?"

  "She's a wild ride. Enough to make a man turn a blind eye to whatever else she's doing."

  Lee's face caught the strobe of the cruiser lights as they stepped out of the car. With great restraint, he managed to not make a wisecrack. It was time to put his game face on. He affected a pose of authority without a worry in the world.

 

Naptown Red put it on the vine that he wanted to get up with Garlan, Rellik's number two. The man proved more difficult to connect with than anticipated. He had a way of just showing up, his crews suddenly much more productive as they never knew when he'd show up or how long he'd been among them. Listening. Invisible. He was a ghost.

Not that Red was much better.

  He roamed the streets, each night finding a new spot to lay his head. By his metric, his life was his own. He lived as he wanted, where he wanted, answerable to no one and no schedule except his own. He was the god of his own world.

  And he needed to go to the library.

  The Indianapolis Public Library reminded him of a southside hilljack who decided to build onto his house. The original structure was a simple brick mason box matching many of the buildings and memorials built downtown at the time. A couple dozen steps led up to its entrance. In the last couple years, a metallic and glass state-of-the-art structure was added, five shiny stories of computers, cafés, and escalators. The bank of computers smelled of body funk and light smoke. The air circulation always turned up to high as many homeless folks killed afternoons there. Some days there was a four-hour wait to get on a computer. Most days Red went up there to check his e-mail and cruise the internet. The security guards eyed him as he passed by. As they did Garlan.

  "What up, G?" Naptown Red asked.

  "I don't like folks coming up on me." Garlan didn't glance up from the computer screen.

  "I bet not. You got my message?"

  "I'm here ain't I?"

  Their conversation drew the eyes of the library workers. Some of the neighboring computer stations peeked up at them like prairie dogs on a savannah.

  "Come on, let's go somewhere we can talk in private."

  Garlan unfurled from his seat, a slow and languid movement, a sail for a ghost ship. Naptown Red led the way to one of the empty meeting rooms.

  "What you want, man?" Garlan took the seat nearest the window. Three stories up, he had a grand view of the comings and goings of the building. And of whoever passed back and forth in front of the meeting room.

  "Can't a nigga be friendly?" Red scooted his seat to an angle, not wanting his back to the door.

  "I got enough friends. When folks come around showing too many teeth, they have a way of reaching into your pocket."

  "I got a proposition."

  "What?"

  "How are things with you and Rellik?" Red asked.

  "What, you a headhunter now? Scouting talent for other crews?"

  "Nah, setting up my own shop."

  "Shit. You must be crazy. In this economy?"

  "Dealing, hell, fiends are recession-proof."

  "But Dred and Rellik ain't and I'm straight with Rellik."

  "A-ight, a-ight. I ain't trying to split you from your girlfriend."

  Garlan rose up. There was no heat in it, no posturing. Just boredom. He didn't have time for the penny-ante games of this fool. Having watched him at the parlay, Garlan thought he was worth hearing out. But if all he had were insinuations and weak insults, his time was better spent checking up on his crew.

  "Chill, nigga. I'm kidding. How are you for jobs on the side?" Red asked.

  "What you mean?"

  "I'm asking if you exclusive to Rellik or if you can be your own man."

  "I can do my thing," Garlan said.

  "Good, that's what I want to hear."

  "What you got in mind?"

  "I need someone disappeared."

  "Got?"

  "Nah, just gone. For a time." Red's mouth quivered as if hungry for a cigarette.

  "Kidnapped?"

  "Something like that. Just out the way for a spell."

  "Who?"

  "King's girl."

  "You crazy. His daughter?"

  "King got a daughter?" Red perked up, whatever craving he had forgotten. Information and opportunity had a way of satiating quiet grumblings.

  "A little girl. Nakia. Stay around the way with his baby momma," Garlan said.

  "How you know?"

  "Man like me… hears things."

  "I'll be damned. Guess Mr Ghetto Saint is as pure as pissed-on snow."

  "I don't think that even count as dirt round here," Garlan said.

  "Anyways, I was talking about Lady G."

  "Shit, that's just as crazy."

  "I give you two large."

  Garlan thought he'd have to haggle up for one grand. "I was gonna ask that for a nobody. She a special risk. So I need a… a…"

  "Risk allowance."

  "Yeah."

  "Four."

  "Five." Garlan sensed there was money behind this play. If Naptown Red was tossing about money freely, if he was good for it – cause any fool could toss out numbers – then he might not be a bad friend to have after all.

  "Done." By Naptown Red's machinations, he just needed King out of play. Distracted, if nothing else.

  Garlan waited.

  "Damn, nigga. Now?"

  "Money up front."

  "Half now. Half when the job is done."

  "Yeah."

  "Don't fuck me," Red said with no play in his voice.

  "I collect my ends. Word is bond."

  "Word is bond."

 

The boundary of Breton Court was a tale of two strip malls, small-scale redevelopments, bringing a slice of suburban culture. The neighborhood changed by degrees before Baylon's very eyes. Just yesterday, it seemed, the strip mall running along the southern border of Breton Court – the two separated by a creek – was filled with a Target, an Osco Drug, a Comic Carnival, the Mattress Factory. Today, the Target had moved west to the other side of I-465, towards the suburbs; the Osco moved south, away from the squeeze of the Walgreens and CVS which had sprung up like pernicious weeds every few blocks; and the Mattress Factory was an empty space with a For Lease sign. Today the strip held a Peddler's Mall, a space for a fireworks store which set up shop two months a year, the Los Compadres Food Mart and the Marisco's Costa Brava restaurant.

  A strip mall also girded the west side of Breton Court, the two separated by a wooden fence and a gravel lot. From the concrete-topped hill above the court, one could easily see over the wooden fence. A collection of landscaped, curtly cut bushes, decorated the entranceway. Palmirana Bakery, Piezanos Pizza, Carniceria Campos and Novedades Sandy (a goblet formed from "Y") reparacion y mantemiento de computadores; the wind carried the wonderful smells of stewed meats and warm breads from the restaurant. To the rear of this strip were stacked black plastic crates, trash bins swarmed by flies, and abandoned shopping carts filled with flattened cardboard boxes. Billboards proudly alerted the neighborhood to the presence of Geico Insurance and Bud Light, the frame of which having been tagged by "JUAN" and "DRK." Additionally, they had spray-painted not just the billboard base, but the side of the strip mall and had been painted over on the side of one of the Breton Court condos.

  The creek which ran between the two malls was overgrown with foliage and buzzed by dragonflies. Kids sometimes trolled for crawdads or minnows in the silt-filled streams. Budding maple and tulip trees grew so thick no one could see to the southern strip mall from Breton Court. The little bridge which crossed the creek along High School Road was practically sealed off by plants. A trained eye could spot the worn path through the weeds leading down the side of the bridge through the overgrowth and to the sheltering tunnel formed by the overpass. This was where Baylon lived, in the shadow of his former home.

  Early morning fog rose from along the creek bed, wispy ghosts along a whispering creek. A plank of plywood formed a makeshift lean-to, shielding a body from easy sight should the curious venture beneath the bridge. Used condoms were scattered on his bedroom floor, drifting in from the trickling current of the creek. Baylon searched among the cardboard and plastic and blankets piled beneath it for clothing, retrieving a pair of frozen socks. The creek was a natural ley line, and the bridge, though not his place of power, resonated like an echo chamber. It might prove to be sufficient. Dred sat on a milk crate, his eyes shut as he concentrated on his spell. His patience wore thin and he had better things to do than traipse through the underbush.

  "I hear you were looking for me." Morgana appeared behind him. The sudden sound of her voice caused Baylon to drop the socks and he whirled around. She had a way of making things inconvenient for everyone. She could be like that.

  "Mother." Dred rose.

  "This better be worth it." Morgana studied the two of them. "The chicken comes home to roost. And you brought a friend."

  "I have no friends."

  "You are your mother's son."

  "And my father's." Dred let his leather half-jacket fall open to reveal the handle of the Caliburn.

  "I see that. You've grown into a handsome young man, your eyes filled with that same youthful ambition." Morgan stepped to her side, beginning a wary circling of Dred and not wanting to lose track of his faithful dog.

  "I want what's mine."

  "What do you think is owed you?"

  "Power. It should all be mine. The wealth. The women. The reputation. I should have them. I want to be the king now."

  "It's not your time. Not yet."

  "Why not?" His voice shot to too high a register, too much of the hint of a whine in its undertone. He waited for an answer. Her silence spoke for her. "King?"

  "You know what I mean." She strolled around him, her hand tracing a circle along his chest, around his back, and to his chest again. She placed the flats of both hands on his chest and stepped closer to him. "You should seize what you want."

  "I can't."

  "A real man wouldn't wait." Her breath ran hot into his ear. "What's stopping you?"

  "I need more. One last bit of magic. Then I could step to him proper."

  "One last… lesson?"

  "For one of us." Dred grabbed her by the back of her head and kissed her. Thrust his tongue deep into her mouth, her tongue finding his in their macabre dance. He reached into his pant waist, brushing away her hands. And withdrew his Caliburn. He pressed the barrel into her side, aimed towards her heart, and squeezed the trigger.

  At the report, Morgana's eyes flared open, a cruel smile crossed her lips. They both began to speak in a tongue older than man. As each heard the other, they spoke faster, racing to the end of whatever mystical sentence they had memorized.

  To Baylon it seemed like a duel of incantations, each of them racing to see who could complete theirs first. Baylon heard the screams in his head. The scene of enjoined mother and son faded from view as other images filled his mind. Flames leapt up. Babies burned in a fire. A face melted away. The skin of a cat flayed off. A father's belt slapped bare buttocks. A mother ripped her unborn from her belly. Lovers cut each other with blades as the excitement of their love-making increased, each thrust exciting them to deeper wounds. A dagger sliced through his lung. His breath escaped him. He dropped to his knees. Darkness embraced him. And he opened his eyes. Dred stood alone. His mother's clothes still in his hands.

  "It is finished," he said. "Now I can begin."