Read King's Justice: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 2 Online
Authors: Maurice Broaddus
Tags: #Urban Life, #Fantasy, #African American, #Humorous, #Fiction
King's Justice: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 2 (29 page)
BOOK: King's Justice: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 2
2.76Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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"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.
Tristan and Iz had avoided corners where action jumped off. Quietly, Tristan always feared for Iz. It wasn't too long ago she was out on the streets on her own and the urge to hustle not long buried. Tristan remembered the days at correction after Iz had become a kleptomaniac. Tristan learned to make food last. Once outside again, Iz seemed happy to not have a toilet in her bedroom and to be away from her warden's manner of discipline and control, and upright rigidity. The one thing she longed more than anything else after being released was a bath. The simple pleasures of soaking in a tub. The desire, the hunger, the insatiable need fed temporarily by drugs bubbled beneath the surface. The last couple of days, Iz had been different. Secretive. Closed off. Evasive even about the little things. Even if she didn't give them voice, Tristan knew the signs. It reminded her of the last time she had to confront Iz's need. Tristan stopped at the corner store to get smokes, gone for only an hour, only to come home to Iz.
No lament was sung alone. For every fiend there was a brother or sister, mother or father, friend or colleague who sang along with them. From money stolen from purses to stuff missing around the house to lies upon denials upon disappointments heaped up as a raucous chorus.
Tristan knew the bottom was about to fall out. She ran the gauntlet of fiends milling about the place. How they avoided her eyes. How they shuffled off without a word, cockroaches scattering in her presence only to regroup once she was gone. They knew.
When Tristan pulled back the loosely placed piece of plywood and stepped into the alcove, it was as if the spirit of their place had been violated. Part of her knew Iz had been using again. The fiend was not the only one to sound the notes of denial in the junkie's lament. A little weed she could excuse. Maybe a one-time slipup, because they were only human and that heroin was the devil.
She noticed the smell first. Her blades found their way into her hands without a thought. Tristan booted open the door. Half-dressed, Iz passed the pipe to her john. The room lit to the shade of burnt honey, Tristan made sure the light glinted from her blades that he could clearly see the feral warning in her eyes. The john dropped his pipe and ran past her without so much as a backwards glance at Iz. Her arms embraced her raised knees as Iz cowered in the corner of the room. A long T-shirt barely covered her, leaving her bare buttocks visible from underneath it. Her skin a frieze of sweat trails and dirt. Sucking on a Coke can used for a pipe. Feeling more empty than high.
"Why?" Tristan's voice cracked with a hollow ache.
"Don't know. Guess I'll never be whole."
Tristan huddled on the floor with Iz and kissed her hands. "It will be all right," she promised. "I'll make sure it will be all right."
Colvin had nothing to prove.
Unarmed, unescorted, and without a security entourage, he wasn't one of the neighborhood boys out in the streets getting into fights in order to find out things about himself or test himself or others to see what they were made of. He wasn't out to learn what he could carry with him for the rest of his life. And he wasn't out to gain the respect of the street, wanting neither its fear nor love. Colvin was of the fey and such things were beneath him.
Colvin wanted power.
He stood in front of the Phoenix Apartments. Lookouts between each of the buildings and hidden in stairwells had already alerted one another to his presence. He waited until he knew all eyes were on him. They would whisper that he lost his Goddamned mind. That this high yella, half a cracka, Mr Spocklooking fool was going to come up into Rellik's home base all on his own. He half-expected someone to take a shot at him from the shadows simply to put him out of his misery.
Maybe he
was
crazy. His plan was simple: he was going to walk into Rellik's chief stash house and abscond with any product and cash. It would hurt if not cripple Rellik, the shame alone might cause the dons to remove him, increase Colvin's own bottom line, and send all the message he needed to King. If in his pursuit of power, he earned respect, fear, and love – with his name whispered among the people – he could live with that.
was
crazy. His plan was simple: he was going to walk into Rellik's chief stash house and abscond with any product and cash. It would hurt if not cripple Rellik, the shame alone might cause the dons to remove him, increase Colvin's own bottom line, and send all the message he needed to King. If in his pursuit of power, he earned respect, fear, and love – with his name whispered among the people – he could live with that.
Colvin closed his fists and opened them. The street lamps buzzed as if on the verge of shorting out. At their best, the lights didn't fully illuminate the court and parking lot but rather created ominous pockets of shadows. Colvin marched toward the main entrance. The red glow of a cigarette tip flared and then sailed through the air. Its owner went out to meet Colvin, grinding out the cigarette in a burst of sparks as he walked over it.
The Boars didn't tower over Colvin, but he clearly had a few inches on him and nearly a hundred pounds.
"You lost?" The Boars knew all eyes and ears were on him. The thing about being his size was that he rarely felt the obligatory need to constantly flex. His physical presence alone squashed most drama.
"I heard you had a surplus of money and product and needed help moving it."
"You heard that, did you?"
"Probably conjecture on my part. Either way, it seemed like a situation I could ill afford to pass up."
"You need to rise up outta here."
"I appreciate the courtesy of the warnings. So much so, I'll give you a moment for you and your crew to vacate. Or, if it's easier," Colvin shouted up to those listening from the windows, "you could just drop the money and product out the window."
"Get this fool out of my sight."
Bodies approached from the stairwell, some reaching into their waistbands, others toting bats.
Colvin began a low chant in a tongue unfamiliar to The Boars. As far as The Boars was concerned, it was some Satanic shit he wanted no part of, so he stepped to Colvin. Without breaking the rhythm of his incantations, Colvin ducked under The Boars' wide punch and kneed him by his kidneys. He jabbed his elbow into the back of The Boars' neck, sending him lights out before he hit the ground. Before the approaching boys could draw their weapons, he arced his arms down, green light trailing the downward strokes.
Though Colvin wasn't an accomplished summoner like Mulysa, he did know how to open and close doors. Other than his glamour, it was his specialty. The blue trails split the air, giving the men pause. The unzippered fabric of space parted, revealing a deeper darkness than the midnight shadows they were in. Twin red dots flicked on a couple dozen floating in the air. The men trained their weapons on the penumbra apertures and opened fire.
BOOK: King's Justice: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 2
2.76Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
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