CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rhianna took the number three Indy Metro bus to the corner of New York and Rural on the bus pass she'd received from Outreach Inc. Her butt switched as she walked. She had an appointment with Esther to discuss her GED and pick up a few baby things. Her swollen belly peeked from beneath her white shirt. Due any day, she rubbed it as if that might coax the baby to come sooner. She didn't care if it was a boy or a girl. She already had a girl who stayed with her auntie most of the time. It wasn't like she had room for her at her place at the Phoenix Apartments where she stayed most of the time. Percy objected to her staying there after the mess with Night, but the Phoenix was all she knew. Shit could jump off wherever she laid her head. There was no shortage of drama out here.
She remembered when she first
came by Outreach Inc. With Lady G, their fingers clasped like
long-lost lovers, her arm around her waist, head on her shoulder, a
prom date of needles and glass dicks. A lifetime ago. Before the
magic. Before the madness. Before King.
A contraction pain rippled
through her. Stubbornass baby. Had to be a boy, acting like he
didn't want to be born. Probably knew what awaited him. She planned
to name him something wonderful. And strong. She just wanted
someone to love her unconditionally, who she could love, who would
stay with her.
Percy baffled her
though.
The big fool followed her around
worse than a faithful puppy nipping at her heels. Never wanting
anything, never pushing up on her, never demanding anything, just…
there. Around. Taking care of her.
Lott waited on the porch of
Outreach Inc., craving a cigarette so badly his hands itched with
the muscle memory. He watched her approach, his eyes full of
anticipation without recognition, as if hoping she were someone
else. Upon realizing who she was, his mouth curled into
disappointment before catching itself and twisting into a warm
grimace.
"What's up, baby girl?" Lott
asked, putting his arm around her in a side embrace.
"You. Up here acting cute. What
you here for?"
"Nothing. Drop before work. Maybe
catch me some dinner."
"You come all the way out here
for dinner?"
"Thought I could get up with
Wayne."
"Wayne, huh. I see how you look
at her. That can't be healthy." She plopped her backpack on the
porch next to him. She decided to stay out of the direct line of
sight of the house across the street and stepped behind one of the
porch pillars. "The others don't see it, but I do."
"Ain't nothing to see."
"Keep telling yourself that. You
might even believe it. But your eyes don't lie. That girl can't
sneeze without drawing your full attention. Your heart practically
stops till you see her start breathing again. Like I said, that
can't be healthy."
"We're just friends." He was
probably a little too sensitive where Lady G was
concerned.
"See? I didn't even need to say
who I was talking about, but you still want to sing that tired old
song." Her words more combative, on the brink of a dare.
"In. Sta. Gator."
"Don't be mad cause I'm up here
telling truth." Rhianna sighed. She'd said her piece and that was
all she could do. She slowly gathered her things as if excused. Or
dismissed. Either way, she knew her presence was no longer welcome,
a fifth wheel. Bitterness in her smile, without warmth, only the
legacy of resentment at never getting anything to call her own.
"Fine. It just better stay nice and just friendly."
Rhianna rang the doorbell. Esther
answered the door to let her in and held it open for Lott. He waved
her off and she closed the door behind Rhianna. There were squeals
of being happy to see each other, checking out how big Rhianna's
belly was before she was whisked back to get something to eat. Lott
didn't care about any of Rhianna's trifling musings. He knew what
Lady G would say about her assumptions. That she was coming from a
place of jealousy, wanting Lott's attentions for herself. Just like
he knew there was no room for another in his heart. Unrequited love
was the stuff of poets, the tortured soul which resonated with
truth. It was safer to love one you could not have, his heart
protected, locked away. His unrequited love was the purest sort of
love. To love from afar without expectation was selfless. He loved
her as if she was carved in ice. He lived to serve her, to be there
for her, knowing her virtue and beauty and honor. To never sigh,
yearn, desire, to touch her, his love was disciplined. But still,
he burned for her. Oh, he burned all right. Like a man in fever, he
kept her image burning in his brain.
He was a damned fool.
Another Indy Metro bus pulled up
along Rural Avenue. Lady G stepped off, smoothed out her clothes,
and trundled along the block. Lott straightened, suddenly aware of
his slouch, but he couldn't seem to find the proper posture of
cool. He really wanted a cigarette now.
"What's the matter with you? Face
all sour like someone done took the last of your favorite Kool
Aid." Lady G hugged him, a full-frontal embrace that neither seemed
quick to break.
"Rhianna was just out here
talking crazy about us."
"What about us?"
"Saying that we don't look like
we just friends."
"What we look like?"
"I don't know. More, I guess. You
know how she is."
"Always meddling."
"Yeah."
"I mean, you cute and all…" Her
hand rested on his. Not flirty, but knowing. She enjoyed the effect
she had on him. She played the silly games girls play, confusing
him one moment, making him jealous the next. The petty cruelties of
love. Craving his affections and attentions, she knew that she kept
him for herself, held his heart by a dog leash.
The sound of her voice felt too
near. "But you with King."
"I know."
What he said about King was true,
but she felt like the bride of a war husband, a man divided between
mission and family. Living such a split life, carving up bits of
himself doled out to everyone who needed him or even just asked,
King was his own worst enemy. And no one saw it, no one looked out
for him. They simply kept lining up to take from him. And she also
respected the image they represented in front of the group and she
wanted to be seen as warm, loving, nice, and loyal.
Lott fit her. She loved Lott for
his bravery, courtesy, boldness, and lack of guile, but it was more
than that. Lott allowed her to be her. Young and silly, not always
serious and driven. She didn't have to live up to how he saw her
but could just… be. Lott was a simple man with a simple code and
who would risk his life, but not his brothers'. He didn't have
King's moodiness, darkness, and pent-up secrets. King was a
frustrating, closed book while Lott was an open, simple one. At
times she wanted to just hold him, stroke his hair. The idea of her
and Lott was too costly so she blocked the idea out of her mind.
But whenever he was around, whenever it was her and him, it was as
if her thoughts and actions shifted into automatic pilot.
"You OK?" Lott asked. "You
drifted off."
"But I was going to say that
you're, I don't know, my best friend."
"Yeah." Lott rose, his body too
aware of her presence. That was his way: rather than be tempted or
mentally toy with things he shouldn't, he'd leave. "Anyway, I gotta
bounce. Gonna meet King."
"Be careful."
"I will. Uh, could I borrow your
scarf?" the chill of the air didn't bother him, he simply wanted to
have something of hers close to his heart.
"Yeah." She handed her knight
errant her slight blue veil.
Their shadows held
hands.
There were wars and there were wars, and
Naptown Red was a soldier to the bone. The idea of a war on drugs
amused him. Wasn't no president launched troops into the hood
searching for crack pipes of mass destruction. Nor were any planes
deployed to bomb coca fields. No, there were police sent in to lock
niggas up for trying to earn, the government mad too little of
these dollars were lining its pockets. The money was out there,
steady flowing, and where money went, so went power and
interest.
All the wars did was turn police
into frontline troops on the opposing side of the community. No one
talked to the police. Police no longer talked to the community,
trained to eye them with suspicion and dread, fomenting a spirit of
distrust and uncooperation. They turned innocent bystanders,
hard-working citizens not in the game, into enemy non-combatants.
And Red into a freelance mercenary, because in times of war,
soldiers were at a premium. He couldn't think of anyone he knew
that didn't have someone who'd been locked up, was locked up, or
was on paper.
The midnight air cool and crisp,
he felt no pain beneath the sodium glare of the street lights. A
bottle of Crown Royal wrapped in a paper bag, he held court at the
Rural Inn on the corner of Rural and Michigan Street. He took a
healthy sip and it bit into him real nice. Close to drunk, the low
warm got his head up in a nice way. Roger's "I Want to be Your Man"
was stuck in his head so he hummed along.
"What's up, nukka?" Mulysa's
hands remained in his pockets.
"You come see about me?" Red
offered him a taste. They danced the dance of street cordiality,
through tightened jaws and forced smiles.
"You still looking?"
"I was just thinking that
soldiers are at a premium out here."
"Who you down with?"
"I got no set," Red
said.
"Everyone works for
someone."
"I got my man, but he lets me be.
Sets me up, lets me do my thing. I break him off." Mulysa stared
down the block. "Like you want to do for me."
"Exactly." Red pointed with the
bag-wrapped bottle and winked a bloodshot yellow eye.
"What I got to do?"
"See? A well-trained dog ain't
used to being off
leash. What you want to do? I could set you
up on a package. You could run girls."
"Yeah. All of that."
"You a Renaissance nigga. I like
that. Why don't you round up a girl or two and get started. Got
someone in mind?" Red asked through the haze of a knowing
leer.
"Yeah."
"Good. The sooner you get on
that, the sooner you on your path to complete
independence."
Hot Trimz closed at 6pm most days. Wasn't
open at all on Sundays. However, they kept special hours for
"appointments." Some clients kept discreet hours or otherwise
demanded special treatment. If the price was right, the entire
staff stayed over.
Omarosa leaned back in the chair
as Bunny threaded one of her eyebrows. A short, stout woman, with
red and purple hair crowning her head – the lone white woman on
staff – Bunny's glasses pushed low on her nose. Her eyes held to
grim slits giving her face a pinched expression as she
concentrated. The cow bell at the front door clanged. Omarosa drew
her sawed-off shotgun into her lap.
"Relax," Bunny assured her. "The
boys got this."
Omarosa listened with lethal
intent.
"How many you got?" Broyn
asked.
"My book's full up," Old School
said.
"Yeah. I can see that." Broyn
eyed the row of empty benches. "How about later?"
"Tomorrow." Old School pulled out
his appointment book.
"Name a time."
"7.30, 8pm. After-shop hours."
"A-ight."
D watched him until he
slow-dipped out of sight. Omarosa relaxed her grip on her weapon,
but didn't lower it back to her side.
"Let's have a Halloween party
then go streaking out in the Quads," Bunny yelled over the top of
the partition.
"How bout I just get buck nekkid
right here," Old School said.
"Aw naw. Not buck
nekkid."
"You'll have to take that out
back," D said from his office as he tallied the day's
receipts.
"I could do it up in the front
window," Old School said.
"Not in the front window!" Bunny
yelled.
"Some of them cougars might come
in here to see what's poppin'."
"A cougar ain't looking for
another cougar."
"Dag, Bunny, I thought you and me
was cool."
"We cool. Just don't call me
Bunny."
The cowbell clanged again. D made
a note to get a real door chime. Again. King strode in.
"She in?" King stuck his head
into D's office.
"Don't you have an office?" D
asked.
"Yeah, yours." The pair bumped
fists.
"She round back."
An optometrist shop was two
buildings north of the barber shop. Along its back wall, a
six-pointed star bookended by the letters G and D along with two
three-pronged pitchforks were spray painted. No such tagging
occurred on the shop. D prided himself on Hot Trimz being sacred
ground. Everyone needed their haircut. D had enough juice left over
from his bid in jail and his time on the streets. He knew the game,
respected the game, but was out of the game. Still, God didn't
create a fool: dealing with the Omarosas of the world required
special gloves and special dispensations. And he was willing to
bend accordingly to keep the peace. For a fee.
"What you no good,
Omarosa?"
"I been a good girl, King. Don't
need you and your gang after me. A girl could get all to quaking in
her boots."
"I hear you still sticking up
Colvin's people."
"You hear an awful
lot."
"Broyn was just in here sniffing
around. Probably waiting outside to follow you."
"He welcome to try." Omarosa
eased her finger off the sawed-off and allowed it to rest across
her lap. "So what brings you my way, King?"
"I wanted to check in on you." He
spoke with a purposeful affection. In ways he didn't understand, he
felt some sort of fealty to her. Not that she was his charge, or
him hers, but there was the charge of responsibility between
them.
"I look like a girl that needs
checked in on?"
"You out here without anyone. No
support. No one to watch your back. No one to–"
"Love me? You worried about me,
my liege." Omarosa let the last words drip with venomed honey
before she sat up. Without a glance her way, Bunny knew she'd been
dismissed. "The more sophisticated the mind, the more slippery the
slope into self-deception."
"What do you mean?"
"That's what you came to talk to
me about isn't it?"
To her mind, King had two great
loves in his life: Lady G and the streets. Love was his weakness.
Omarosa had once broached the topic of he and Lady G, her with her
young eyes and need of a strong male in her life. And her lack of
judgment. King wouldn't entertain any thought of Lady G's misplaced
loyalty. It was like he couldn't hear of it.
"I know the
life I'm living and I know the woman I'm with," he had told her.
"All due
respect, you love the ground she pee on," Omarosa
said then. His loves would be the ruin of him.
The old story.
Nevertheless, even now, she
pressed her point with renewed vigor. "I mean you've taken on the
mantle and you wear the crown well… if lightly. Sometimes I think
too lightly, but who am I to judge? The streets have been calmer
though the mayor and police are quick to claim credit. You've even
made it harder for a girl to earn."
"You look like a woman who has
trouble taking care of herself," he smirked.
"You've done it, King. Taken hold
of the streets, reached out to the young uns. Trying to train them
up. You look around and see all the hurting still going on despite
all you've done, and you look to do more. The problem with a man
who wants to save the world is that he sometimes forgets about his
family."
King feared the opposite with
Lady G. Some days he considered all the work he did, the endless
meetings and relationship-building to be his distraction from
thinking of her. Or worse, his efforts to impress her. He knew her,
understood her. Stared into the core of her, he became obsessed
with her, wanted to be with her constantly. Part of him believed he
could be her savior, so protective of her that he wanted to take
her away from all of the hurts; desiring nothing more than to
commit himself to her. Like a marriage.
And he told Lady G as much. "What
we got goes deeper than a piece of paper. I'm not going to leave
you. I'll be here for you as long as you let me."
King only thought about her,
talked to her, wanted to be with her and was fueled by her. Lady G
filled him with bliss, became his whole world. When they pressed
close together and held each other, it was a tender and fierce
snuggle, a desperate clutching after one another. Never wanting to
let go because it was the only time he knew peace. And she felt
safe. He was going to protect her forever; she would shield him as
best she could. He belonged to her and her to him. They shared
their essence, poured themselves out upon each other, needing the
other to validate them. He wanted so badly to be loved by her. She
wanted to be there for him. It all sounded so very romantic. It was
a black hole of need. Things would be so much easier if he didn't
give a fuck.
"Just try to have fun." Omarosa
drew him back in to the moment. "It's allowed, even for you. Just
don't get too attached."
"You know that's not how I roll."
"I know. You one of them 'fall in
love with the pussy' niggas. But the game is deep. Any of us can
get caught up if we forget that and lower our guard."
Iz sometimes missed when it was just her and
Tristan. The apartment squat was nice during the rain or cold of
winter, but there was something special about their summer squat. A
tract of woods under the bridge across from the Indianapolis Zoo.
On the banks of the White River, sealed off by a rusted trellis and
a concrete overpass, it was their corner of the world. Few
predators roamed the area, especially the two-legged variety. A
couple of vets stayed down the way in a neighboring stretch of
woods. Another homeless man who rode a yellow ten speed with
duct-taped handle bars slept beneath the neighboring bridge. But
this spot was theirs. A blue tarp stretched between trees; layered
with plastic and insulated with blankets, it had the appearance of
a tattered biodome. Yellow drums collected rain water. Tristan
maintained a fire pit. Their world was them. She felt
safe.
Three sets of candles, each on an
overturned milk crate lit the room to a delicate amber. Too dim to
read by, but enough to stave off the darkness whenever Tristan
wasn't around. Sometimes Iz texted, checking her Facebook and
e-mail from her cell phone. Most times she sketched in her notepad
to pass the time between school and whenever Tristan returned from
her business with Mulysa. Pencil etchings of black and white hands
clasped together, a larger – though still clearly feminine – one
engulfing another. Tristan's face. The way she captured the
perpetual hurt in her eyes. The tiny scars on her neck which she
never spoke about. The steel of her set jaw when she was about to
hit someone. Tristan in profile peeking out the window. Tristan
watched over her as she slept; Tristan not knowing that she knew
she did it most nights.
"Knock, knock," Mulysa said from
the doorway.
Iz froze. "Tristan's not here. I
thought she was with you."
"She was, but I sent her on an
errand. I'm here to see you." His eyes filled with hungry
intent.
"I ain't interested." It wasn't
as if she were in a seethrough teddy. A white hooded sweatshirt
over another shirt and faded blue jeans. But she still felt the
probe of his eyes. She always wore her running shoes. Even to bed.
Even when Tristan watched over her. Iz pulled her blanket up around
her, not wanting him to see anymore of her than he absolutely had
to.
"I ain't asked
nothing."
"Whatever you selling, whatever
you proposing, I ain't interested."
"You're a rude-ass host, nukka.
Least you could do is offer me a drink."
A row of bottled water stood
along the window sill like an Army troop at attention. Two sleeping
berths had been scooted next to each other. Clothes piled between
the bedrolls and the wall, a barrier against the cold. Two
backpacks leaned against the wall. One had her journal and some
personal belongings. The other was one of Tristan's, mostly filled
with clothes. She kept her "work" backpack with her. Iz never asked
what was in it.
"You want a water?" Iz
asked.
"Don't mind if I do." Mulysa
pulled up one of the upended milk crates. "I did have something I
wanted to discuss with you."
"My answer ain't
changed."
"Hear me out now, damn. Look
here, I ain't tellin' you nothin' you don't know, but you one fine
piece of ass."
Iz shifted uncomfortably. Her
right hand crossed her body as if shielding herself from his
lecherous view. She clicked a button on her cell phone to check the
time.
"Hope you weren't trying to call
Tristan. You know when she's on a job her shit gets turned off.
Besides, I didn't want our conversation interrupted."
"You know she's going to kick
your ass for coming in here talking shit to me."
"We ain't doing nothing but
talking and having some water. I ain't done anything… untoward. In
fact, I just wanted some company while I finished my
business."
Mulysa rolled out his kit with
the delicate precision of a watchmaker. Searching around the room,
he found a jar that would satisfy his purposes and filled it with a
thin layer of water. Removing a Q-Tip from a wad fastened by a
rubber band, he ripped the cotton from one end. Iz's eyes widened
in anticipation. He revealed a baggie of crystal and began to crush
it up with a Bic lighter.
"As I was saying, you a fine
piece of ass. I've noticed you for a long time. Done jacked myself
off to the thought of you bouncing on the end of my dick on many an
occasion. But what I was thinking was more along the lines of a
business proposition."
Iz wanted to get up and run right
there. The voice in her begged her to leave. The familiar itch,
like worms inching along the flesh of her arm, and her mouth
salivated, literally watered, at the familiar ritual. Her body
remembered the dance of preparation and the anticipation of the
high to come. It was never as good as the first time she slammed a
load home, but she damn sure kept trying to find a blast to ride to
recreate a close approximation.
"Damn you," she
whispered.
"You say something?" Mulysa
poured a bunch of the crystal into the jar and swirled the
concoction. "Anyway, what I was thinking was maybe you'd want to
get back into the trade. Maybe you talk to Tristan. I heard she
used to run wild for some dick back in the day. But you? You'd be
my special girl. Premium rates only. Like a ghetto escort, I'm
telling you."
The worst symptom of her disease
was the amnesia. The way it made her forget. She forgot her
sunken-in eyes, her scaly skin, and her ancient track marks. She
didn't remember the bruises, the lack of definition to her muscles,
or how her skin hung slack and uneven. How some times she hunted
for a vein for over ten minutes despite her diminutive
frame.
Mulysa held the flame to the base
of the jar until the liquid began to smoke and bubble.
Near her lowest point, she
developed an abscess in her arm; the infection ran down to the
bone. A mixture of white, yellow, and bloody pus seeped from the
wound constantly, a cloud of stench dogged her every step.
Eventually she ended up in the hospital. After they were done
treating her, it left a gaping hole in her arm. They shot
antibiotics into her ass and packed the wound using a long Q-Tip to
stuff bandages into it. Much like the ones Mulysa had.
He dropped in the cotton then
drew it up into a syringe. Pulled out and pushed, spraying the
wall. Iz didn't budge at his approach. Her veins jumped up like an
obedient dog called home. She watched the needle puncture her skin.
There was something nearly erotic about having someone shoot you
up. Blood coagulation at the head of the needles. The blood and
drug mixture slammed home. Waves of pulsing warmth suffused with
surreal calm. An utter vacantness to her eyes. No joy, no
excitement, only need. She couldn't focus. The pattern of the floor
boards dizzied her. She never hated herself as much as she did
right then.
And part of her didn't
care.
Didn't care about a
thing.
Life was going to work
out.
That certainly was the best part
of the high.
Mulysa reached to unfasten her
jeans. "There's more where that came from."
Water from the previous night's rain filled
the dip in Big Momma's courtyard between the rows of condos.
Garbage clogged the drain and filled the parking lot up to the
ankles. Back from the service at Good Hope – Had in tow – high on
the words of Pastor Winburn, she was all about joining in God's
mission to be a blessing to the world. The drain distracted her.
She hiked up her dress, wading through the water in her bare feet.
Cleaning away the trash, unblocking the drain, she hummed Mahalia
Jackson's version of "Precious Lord, Take My Hand" and waved at
Neville Sims as he rode his maintenance wagon. Had splashed about
in the water while she worked.
She watched the waters recede for
a few moments then turned towards her condo. Had's hand in one of
her hands, her still dry shoes in the other. Her door was ajar. One
of her meaty arms slammed into Had's chest harder than she
intended. There had been a series of break-ins throughout the
neighborhood. Mr Stern talked about more security, but still hadn't
hired anyone or put up any cameras.
Her living room remained
unransacked but the house had the air of violation about it. She
checked out the lower level of the condo, but nothing seemed out of
place. The weight of her foot on the first step as she craned up
the stairwell caused the planks to squeak. She took each step
slowly, gesturing for Had to stay where he was, her back to the
wall as she tried to peer around corners and over ledges. Her room
was fine. Last was Lady G's. Her room only slightly more disheveled
than usual. But her bed was a mess. Crayons and paper scattered
atop pulled-up sheets. The light stand knocked over. Her piles of
clothes tumbled over. She never had any boys up in there, but it
looked like she'd been dragged out. Big Momma pulled out her cell
phone, punching in numbers while still surveying the scene.
Straight to voicemail. She dialed a second set.
"She's gone," Big Momma yelled
into the phone.
"Who?"
"Lady G."
"What do you mean?"
"I didn't know who else to call,"
Big Momma said, not allowing her fears to overwhelm her voice. "I
didn't want to… I couldn't get a hold of King."
"It's OK. It's OK. I'm on
it."
Lott disconnected the
call.