King Maker: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 1 (24 page)

  Lost in his thoughts, King hadn't realized how angry he always was. The knot that clotted his stomach and congealed in his veins had become such a part of him, he'd grown used to it. If he had to name the source of his anger, he'd be hard pressed. He had grown up with it for so long, it was all he knew. His constant companion. He doubted he would have even noticed how much it defined him until the constant churning leveled. His rage suddenly quelled. The darkness which shadowed the fringes of his life receded. Around her. And the implication frightened him. And the fear was every bit as uncomfortable as the anger. Something new to get used to. The fear wasn't so bad.

  Her forthrightness appealed to him. She wore a family reunion T-shirt, though it wasn't for her family, but a shirt she'd gotten from Outreach Inc. The tattoo on her shoulder was what he was staring at when her eyes caught his.

  "What are you looking at?"

  "The tattoo. BMG?"

  "Big Money Ganger." A regretful tone underscored her voice. She turned her shoulder from him.

  "A girl like you runs in a set?"

  "You have no idea what it's like to be me." Lady G stood by the window. She pulled back the venetian blinds to take in the evening scene.

  "True. You do seem to be quite the mystery."

  "Forget you." An unbidden smile betrayed her.

  "You make a brother work to talk to you." King sat on the cooler, inching it forward but not threateningly close.

  "If I don't want to say something to you, don't say nothing to me."

  "And if you do want to say something?"

  "Oh, you'll know."

  He nodded at the tattoo. "This what you saw yourself being when you were little?"

  "It feels like my kid life is gone outta me… if I ever had one. I want to own my own salon one day. One without all the gang and drug money all up in it. Baylon must own half a dozen by now."

  "You know B?" King's voice grew sharp, not that Lady G acted as if she caught it or the overly familiar recognition of Baylon as "B". They all came with the baggage of the past, not that any of it was his business, so she simply moved on.

  "He was trying to go with me, but he wasn't my type. He put that 'L' word in there, hit me too quick with that. I don't play that game. I don't put out signals and I don't read them terribly well. I feel something, I tell you. Problem with the rest of the boys I deal with, is that there's not enough truth in them. They can't just say 'I got feelings for you, I'm digging you. You kind of tight.' They can't admit that they want to treat you dirty. Do better."

  "I will," King said as if her "do better" was aimed at him.

  "Do you believe that some people are just… connected?"

  "What do you mean?" He knew what she meant.

  "Like how you can think of a friend and they just show up."

  "Or how you can be in need and they just know to come over or have the right thing to say."

  "Exactly."

  "Do you want to go out sometime?"

  "You ask out all the girls you rescue from a fight?"

  "Only the interesting ones." He stood up to kiss her, but she pulled away.

  "I keep myself to myself. I can give you a hug, though," she said with the crooked smile of a child who'd been caught in a lie.

  King saw the little girl in her then. The light and potential, the fragility and strength, that innocent part of her she still tried to cultivate as well as protect. The one who'd been fucked over too often by life along the way. And he felt as if something in his chest was broken, as if just realizing it for the first time.

  Both of them stood rigid within the embrace, as if neither knew what to do with the display of affection. He was pissed that he gave up something personal about himself within a few minutes of talking, but it happened right away like that sometimes. When he peered into those damaged almond eyes of hers, however, he belonged to her and she knew it, too. Their eyes smiled, hopeful despite themselves.

  They all had to play their roles.

 
 

Fall Creek ran through the east side of Indianapolis, non-discriminatory to the neighborhoods it flowed through. As it passed the Phoenix Apartments, a grove of trees lined its banks forming a natural green space that had become popular as a walkway. During early morning hours, many a citizen walked its path for exercise, each armed with a stick or bat in case of emergency. On some evenings, such as this night, cars crowded the rear of the Phoenix Apartments parking lot, sealing it off into its own little world. As people made their way down to the woods, they knew they were entering Switzerland, a "no beefs allowed" zone. Dred's crew, Night's boys, ESG, Treize, Black Gangster Disciples, any of a number of independents, all noise had to be squashed for the evening.

  Stands of bootleg CDs (including homemade mixes), DVDs, T-shirts and hoodies (with portraits and quotes of Malcolm X, Marcus Garvey, and Bob Marley), and shoes lined the parking lot. Vendors sold beer from coolers. All the faces wore similar masks: jaws set, faces hardened, no gazes lingering too long. Fight night brought a tenuous peace and it couldn't afford any sparks that came with the fronting of machismo.

  It wasn't but the early to mid-'90s when everyone thought it a needed accessory to have a Rott or a Pit. As with any fad, they soon fell into disfavor except among those interested in protection or fighting. Tonight, a temporary ring had been set up, an area of folding chairs nearby, though most people stood, crowding in with money clutched in raised hands.

  Dog handlers, bookies, and referees crowded the ringside area. One of the undercard bouts was about to start. Their handlers released them and the two dogs ran to center, two gladiators clashing at full speed. As they were trained, ever wanting to please their masters, they lashed out in demoniac frenzy. Neither made nary a sound, their vocal cords severed, making them deadly weapons when they were at home, not alerting unsuspecting prowlers. Or police. Even though it meant senseless blood and death, the dogs showed more heart than most soldiers on the street.

  So Omarosa thought.

  Nearly invisible among the trees, she skulked about with a natural ease. Having already secured Lee's eventual presence, she bided her time and buffed her nails. Her eyes, with their perfect night vision, focused in the low light. Soon a couple of runners, no more than eleven years old, tore ass down the hill.

  "Time out. Time out, yo." They announced the police's arrival.

  About time, she thought, as she prepared to go to work. The grumbles of the dispersing men filled the night. The old hands, nonplussed by the arrival of the police, took the time to finish their drinks, grind out cigarettes under their heel, and collect their bets in nonchalant strides. Those with more to worry about, say a bench warrant out in their name, beat feet in a hail of mutters and curses, showing out to the police for their boys' benefit.

  Between the crowd clearing out and the police making their way down, the press of bodies led to confusion, just as she planned. She smelled the gentle scent of the red rose clipped to her lapel which served as her calling card. She always left one at the scene of one of her robberies. Theft was so common, better to do so with a touch of panache. It was in such short supply these days. To her, this part of the game was like playing football: the offense was going to throw a certain look, the defense took its own posture, but the key to any given play was to follow the football. In this case, it meant trailing Dollar as he banked his money. He gave an uptick of his chin as he prepared to jet, a shoulder roll and a dip in stride as he received his package and threw it into the back of his ride. Omarosa, like all of her kind, had a talent for learning the players and their histories: in Dollar's case, he had a tendency to do his counts at his mom's house before making his final drop to Night.

  Boys and their moms.

 

Dred's mother, Morgana, squatted alone and determined, in the filth beneath a bridge. She cradled the full swell of her belly, and resolved herself to the fact that it was time. The scurry of rats in the hollows above her head didn't distract her. The concrete embankment was cold against her back, her legs spread and water long broken. Drops plinked in the distance, falling from the bridge. It had rained earlier that day and the creek had swollen in its bed. The susurrus of the creek as it wound its course served to focus and calm her, but her pain proved too excruciating.
He
saw to that. She pushed and breathed with little more than a few grunts, not giving him the satisfaction of a sob. Theirs was a love – if one could call their bond "love" – forged in war with one another. Lessons taught from his first moments.

  Dred fought then and even now, only the battles changed.

  Contrary to popular belief, the streets had rules, traditions by which folks comported themselves. Even the young bucks coming up stuck to the rules of the game, those who abandoned them for the sake of making a name for themselves quickly found out there were stern reprisals to be faced. One such rule was parlay. Under the rules of parlay, two rivals/parties otherwise beefing with one another could come together – usually in neutral territory, sometimes brokered by a third party – in order to work out their disagreement. At its core, this was a business. Every now and then, circumstances dictated exceptions to the accepted conventions.

  Escorted by Green, Night made a rare foray away from the safety of the top floor – entirely his, a ghetto penthouse – of the main building of the Phoenix Apartments. The more power he accumulated, it seemed, the more its reward was isolation. Instead, he chose to meet Dred at his place of power. Night was diving-suit black, a straight-up thug-nigga. With a low-cut fade, big chest and huge arms, he walked with that survival stride learned from several bits in prison. At one time, he was the chief enforcer for the crew. Not smart enough to set up his own operation, but vicious enough to stage a palace coup at the right time. Backed by Green. It was said that there would be no Night without Green.

  Though many knew about Dred's situation, few dared speak of it openly. One, out of respect; two, out of – if not fear of reprisal then – recognition of the fact that nothing had changed. Dred still ruled his crew and would continue until he showed weakness. The wheelchair didn't mean he had lost any heart and many bodies had been dropped to demonstrate that case. As an allowance, however, Green accompanied Night.

  Stale air filled the outer chamber from blunts, cigarette smoke, sex, and overturned beer bottles. Baylon sat behind a desk poring over figures and accounts while Junie attended to the mess. Both men hard-eyed Green and Night as they approached. Junie's veins pumped water at the sight of Green. Baylon's chin up-ticked in the direction of the door leading toward Dred's sanctum. Green took up a position outside the door as Night entered alone.

  "Pleasure before business?" Night asked as Dred took the opportunity to spark up himself, his marijuana heightened by his own mystical concoctions.

  "The Rastafari consider it a sacrament." He wasn't as skilled in the Dark Arts as his mother, but he knew enough to be dangerous.

  "And you're what? Ecumenical?"

  "All in the game, son. All in the game." After all the nonsense that had gone down lately, few believed the street mantra much. Night's tone was hoarse and weary. He took out a bottle of lotion and rubbed some onto his keloid-scarred arms.

  "Damn, boy. You look positively peaked." Dred pronounced "peaked" with two syllables.

  "Been running wild lately, you know how it goes. Nothing I can't handle." Not that Night, that either of them, would admit to anything that sounded remotely of weakness. Weakness invited attack. "You're one to talk. You lookin' a might bit rough yourself."

  "We got us a situation."

  "What?"

  "King."

  "Not trying to tell you your business, but you telegraph your moves long before you ready to make your play."

  "The mage is back."

  "He never left."

  "Well, they've found each other."

  "I don't see how this is a 'we' problem. If King is such a big deal, just smoke the motherfucker."

  "It's not that simple. There are rules to this thing. A larger picture to consider."

  "Of course there is. You motherfuckers play too many games. He a mark. Just like any other mark. And marks can get got."

  "He's coming into his own now."

  "What the fuck does that mean?"

  "You think Jesus always knew he was Jesus? You think he burst out the womb thinkin' 'Damn, I'm the Son of God. Let me get a little bigger so I can drop some miracles on your ass.' He had to grow into it. I mean, maybe he grew up reading about who the Messiah was. Studying, learning, a nag in his spirit about how it was starting to sound familiar. Then one day it clicks. 'Oh snap. They talking about me. They been waiting on me.'

  "I bet he had to sit on that shit for a minute. Sure, he had all the hype. Folks been waiting for him to show up from the jump. Been persecuted, living hard, got all sorts of Romans walking up and down they space. They were looking out for him to show up. Thing is, it also came with a price: the burden of knowing.

  "Don't get me wrong, he step up and accept his title, his mantle, his responsibility and BAM… his days are numbered. In the end, he's gonna get got. Everything in its own time."

  "See what I mean? Too many games."

  "Look here, I'm about business and business can't get done if we're steady beefing. It'd be one thing if there was serious drama, but I want to head things off before it gets to that point." Dred was in the game for the power. When all was said and done, this was a business with margins more thin that people realized. After payroll, houses, cars, and the accoutrements expected for a man in his position – granted, it was the accoutrements which tempted people into the life – not much was left over. However, he provided a sense of family for his men until jail or death caught up to them. Dred didn't know about jail and he had no plans to know about jail.