King's Justice: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 2 (28 page)

  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.