King's Justice

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Hot Trimz had only been open a few months. Some of the barbers from Stylez across the street didn't like the booth rent arrangement and launched their own shop, taking up the space next to the Hoosier Pete convenience mart. They constantly handed out postcards to the Hoosier Pete regulars and had an ongoing special of a ten dollar haircut to any customer before 1 pm. An Obama '08 plackard hung alongside other signs: "Walkins welcome." "Multicultural." "Stylists Wanted." Several outdated issues of XXL, Vibe, and Scoop, the newspaper for the local night scene for black folks, lay scattered along the benches. The Commodores' "Lady" played in the background.

A white linoleum-tiled floor lined the thin strip of a shop, black mats beneath each station. The unsturdy benches were flush against the wall, hard on the ass and back. Three barbershop hairstyle guides were on display on the walls. From the beauty salon on the other half of the shop, female stylists talked crazy to the barbers over the dividing wall.

"Bunny!" Davion "D" Perkins, an earpiece always on his ear, said.

"I told you not to call me that," a female voice cried from the other side of the dividing wall.

"Grow up, D," Old School said in a tone of mock chivalry.

"Ain't that the pot calling the kettle negro?" she said.

"Old School, handle that," D said. "You ain't got your girl in check."

D had fast eyes and missed nothing. In a black vest over a white T-shirt, a casual display of his former athletic build, he swept the hair from around his station.

"Look at Old School. He like a little kid, hiding his hair under his chair."

"Look here, when you got it going on like me, you forget little details like a little hair."

"Yeah, you know all about a little hair." D went ahead and swept under Old School's chair.

"Why they call you 'Bunny'?" Old School asked.

"Uh oh, hurry up, here she comes," D said.

Before she could come around the corner, a cowbell clanged against the front door as it opened. A darkskinned woman, her skin made darker against her sunflower-yellow dress, walked in. Her swollen breasts and plunging cleavage made Old School lower his glasses. No more than twenty years old, she towed a wailing four year-old.

"Boy, sit down and be still." She plopped him down in D's chair. "Up here looking crazy."

"We all big boys in here," D said, draping a drop cloth around the boy's chest. Then he clicked on a set of clippers and waved them about to let the boy get used to the noise. The child continued to bellow, inconsolable. His attention shifting from D to Old School, back to his mother. The boy's tiny hands rose and made grasping motions toward her.

"He just cutting you up." The woman crossed her arms in a practiced pose of defiance, daring someone to cross her.

"Get your hair fresh to match your outfit," Old School said.

"Want to check out these keys?" D pulled a jangling mass out of his pocket. The boy paused mid-bellow, an uncertain air as he studied the keys. "You got them boys. Go to that escalade out there."

"Let him push buttons," Old School said.

The child burst into a renewed fit of tears, squirming out of the raised perch as the clippers neared his curly, light brown locks.

"Put some muscle in it. He'll be all right." His mother sucked her teeth in impatience.

"You got this, D." Old School tip-toed away from her to ease back into his chair. He flipped open the latest issue of Scoop and pretended to read.

"I know he ain't stronger than you. Just rip him."

"He keeps moving around and I don't want to nick him," D said.

"Hold him down. Who's the adult?"

"I ain't trying to lay hands on someone else's kids."

The show went on for a few more minutes, D angling clippers at the boy's head, each time as if considering the best attack approach. His mother clucked, sucked her teeth, checked her watch, and muttered loud enough for all to hear about how real men could handle a crying boy. The cowbell clanked again – D made a note to get a real chime – as King strode in. Prez followed behind him scratching his arm, in a skittish manner as if ready to break out in a full sprint at the next low sound. The boy stopped crying.

In his late forties, not a speck of gray on his head or in his beard, and wearing a black lab half-coat, Old School slapped the seat of his chair. Prez wandered into his chair, first checking to see if anyone else stirred for it, and chewed on his lower lip as he eyed the line of King's hair. Old School wrapped the paper neck cuff around Prez, then his huge arms draped the cloth around him in a flourish. Turning up his nose after catching a whiff of Prez's funk, he leaned the young man's head back over the sink and began washing his hair first. "What we need today?"

Prez's eyes caught King's, almost seeking permission to answer – if he were sure at all.

"Let's just bald him up. Go clean all the way around and start fresh," King said.

"Change the hair, change the image," Old School said.

It had already been a long day. King and Prez had played basketball for a few hours. It had been a while since King had been on a court. Too long. His legs lacked the grace and coordination which made the game come alive for him so long ago, like he had to learn to run all over again. Not that it mattered as Prez huffed and puffed before the score reached 2-2, having no wind and nothing close to stamina in his rubbery legs. Their game was complete slop, spending more time chasing down errant rebounds than playing. Despite his wheezing and slow gait, Prez continued to ball, jogging around the half-court, amiably hounding King and calling it defense. No one joined in their game, sensing that the game wasn't the point. There was the sense of intruding on something personal.

Though his muscles ached and his sweat reeked of toxins seeking release and his stomach roiled with sickness, Prez knew he'd be fighting against his own body for a while. Callused, scarred, and stiff, his hand felt foreign. His breath came in hard rasps, the threat of erupting into a fit of coughs with each struggling wheeze. The game slowly came back to him through a thick fog of muscle memory, as if he played on someone else's legs.

"How does it feel?" King asked as they collapsed against the pole. His eyes closed as he let fatigue wash over him, his sweat trickled down him, and his muscles throbbed with deep ache. Not painful, but more in a good-to-be-alive sort of way. For all of his running around, King was never truly with anyone. Never invested himself into anyone. Never gave or sacrificed much of himself. It was safer that way, he didn't have to risk much of himself. Sure, he opened himself up to a core few – Wayne, Lott, Lady G – but after that, everyone was kept at a distance. Even Pastor Winburn. After a few moments, he realized Prez hadn't said anything and he opened his eyes. Prez wept to himself.

"I forgot about this," Prez said.

"About what?"

"I don't know. All of this. Life. I took it all for granted."

"So what do you want to do next?"

"Live. But…" Prez trailed off.

"But what?" King knew the answer but he waited for Prez to find the words.

"I don't know where to start."

"Make a list of what you want out of life. Nothing ridiculous."

To be healthy again. Car. Relationship. Family. Friends. Forgiveness. King made him write them down, something tangible that he could come back to when he needed reminding. King suggested he might want to begin with finding a job. He helped Prez make a resume. The next step was for him to polish his look and present himself as professionally as possible. They both hoped for a break, just an opportunity, for a second chance.

"Either I'm getting slower or you getting faster," Old School said as D brushed his face with a powder-laced brush. Rubbed "botanical oils and razor relief lotion" on his head.

"You slow." D collected ten dollars from the mother.

"You don't miss nothing."

"You make me scared to get old."

"Have a good day, you hear?" Old School called after the girl. She glanced at King and smiled, not that he noticed.

For his part, King battled against a sense of personal failure. Not that he'd been entrusted with Prez or that he really knew the boy, but he felt like he'd let him down. The community bulletin board enraptured his attention. In God's Hands child care. Lawn Service. Insurance. House cleaners. The community reached out and helped its own. He had been so concerned about the big battles he forgot about the everyday ones; the people around and closest to him. King had failed Prez once and he wouldn't fail him again.

King handed Old School a twenty and didn't wait for change. Prez got up and offered Old School a fist to bump.

"I don't have time for all that snapping and slapping," Old School said. "Just shake my hand."

The bell clanged again. Detective Cantrell Williams held the door open for the young woman and son to exit. He'd have probably tipped his hat to them if he wore one. Even if he wasn't known, the room would have made him as a cop. Stiff, straight-backed walk. His stare imposed, a challenge to any who saw him. He locked onto King immediately, who nodded toward D's office. D returned an approving nod. The two closed the door behind them, King planted himself behind D's desk.

"Your boy's late," Cantrell started.

"Yeah, Lott runs that way."

"Well I ain't got all day."

"You heard my pitch or you wouldn't be here. If I'm going to have the major players come to the table for a sit down, I'm going to need police support. Or noninvolvement, as the case may be."

King understood his burgeoning rep. His name rang out on the streets in ways his father's never did. However, he also understood the ways of power. Cops had real power. They controlled where and how open the gangs operated. They could put anyone in jail at any time. Yet they rarely arrested the leaders. Perhaps it was a matter of better the devils they knew as opposed to an unstable and unpredictable leader or, worse, a power vacuum.

"You make some folks… nervous." Cantrell leaned in. The close feel of the room gave the conversation the feel of an interrogation.

"So?" King said, unintimidated. He had been brought down for questioning enough times. Suspicion of battery. Questioned about assaults. Rumors of him brandishing a weapon in public. But there were never any complaining witnesses. Only his name coming up, in vague, and soon forgotten, accounts.

"You ain't hearing me. Some in the department think you trying to do their job. Some think you trying to get dirt on them. Either way, you making enemies you don't have to make."

"That's why I reached out to you."

"Me, huh?"

"Yeah, you seem like a brotha I could trust. Could work with."

"You mean a brotha you could work." Cantrell eased back in his seat.

The two squared off, neither quite understanding how they came to this point. Distrust was part of the game, the latent defensive hostility that comes with folks always being out to get each other. They sparked each other, hackles bristling, despite wanting the same thing. King decided on a measured step backwards.

"You see that boy in there?" King nodded towards Prez.

"The raggedy dope fiend? Looks kinda rough."

"Looked rougher a few days ago when he was dryheaving all over my living room."

"What about him?"

"I brought him around a few months back. He was supposed to stay with a friend of mine and his feet barely hit the sidewalk when he fell in with Green and Night all caught up in the rippin' and runnin' of the street."

"Seems like the life caught up with him."

"It catches up to all of us. Chewed him up, got involved with that glass dick, next thing you know, I'm scraping him up out an alley."

"So?"

"So? So I failed that boy."

"You ain't responsible for decisions he made," Cantrell said.

"True. But we all in this together. He do his thing, but we don't have to let there be a 'thing' for him to get into. We have to look out for one another."

"What you want from me?"

"A light, and I mean light, police presence. You at the table, strictly as a representative."

"By light you mean out of sight but nearby."

"Parlay or not, stuff could still jump off with the wrong spark or if a knucklehead gets carried away."

"You dream big, King. I'll give you that."

"Someone's got to keep dreaming."

Cocooned in a scarlet sweater, Esther Baron stood on the front steps of her apartment building. Her thin running blood left her easily chilled. She used to live up in the suburban wasteland of Fishers, too north of Indianapolis with its cookie-cutter strip malls, chain restaurants, and monolithic culture. She thought it too far removed from the heart of the city, convicted that in her heart, she, too, was fleeing from "darker elements" as her father euphemistically put it. Irvington was much closer to her liking and personality. Ten minutes from Outreach Inc., near downtown, and one of the city's art districts, the neighborhood had history and personality.

Wayne pulled up in one of the Outreach Inc. vans. Kay poked his head out the window, tongue wagging as he took in the day in healthy gulps.

"Good morning, Sir Kay." Esther petted him through the window. Grabbing each side of his scruffy face, she let him lick her. When she opened the door, he hopped into the back and laid down in the back seat.

"Sir? He won't know what to do with such treatment," Wayne said.

"He seems like a sir. See the way he gave up his seat for a lady?"

"Chivalry isn't dead."

"I know. Just like I noticed you didn't question me calling myself a lady."

"I'm a gentleman and a scholar."

"Outreach OK with you having him in the car?"

"They got no problem whatsoever… once I promised to detail it afterward. Plus, we're on an errand of mercy."

"Where are we heading?" Esther noticed them going the opposite way on Rural from the Outreach Inc. house.

"Breton Court."

"Breton? I hear that area's pretty rough."

"It can be, but mostly things get exaggerated." Wayne made sure to keep his eyes on the road and not meet hers.

"You have any clients over there?"

"Hmm. I think I got nearly a dozen fellas fresh out of juvenile wandering around over there."

"So it might not be so exaggerated." Esther let a thin smile cross her lips. She didn't need him trying to manage her fears.

"You got a point." Wayne noticed that he sat a little taller in his seat around her. None of his slouch-behind-the-wheel-in-a-gangsta-lean stuff. The way he spoke, formalized wasn't quite the right word. Nor would he say "whitened." But being around her made him very aware of how he spoke and behaved.

"And Kay is joining us?"

"I'm dropping him off."

"Dog sitter?"

"Sort of. King was talking to me about the latest kid Big Momma done took in." There, he made a point of sounding more like him. He spared a glance to see if she noticed. Or took offense. Then he silently cursed at himself for not being able to relax around her. "Anyway, little boy they call Mad Had."

"What a horrible nickname."

"Out here isn't exactly built as a self-esteem booster."

"I see."

"Mad Had was a crack baby. Doesn't speak a lot. King got to thinking that maybe a dog might open him up some."

"Animal therapy. I've read about that.

Of course you have, Wayne thought.

They rode for a while in silence as Wayne hopped on I-65 N to take him to the west side. He fumbled at the radio tuning it into the Tom Joyner Morning Show before thinking that maybe Esther was more of a Bob and Tom Show girl. He flipped the stations, getting a curious glance from her.

"It's OK, you can listen to what you want."

"Passenger's prerogative. 'What thing is it which women most desire?'"

"That from a poem?"

"I don't know. I think I read it somewhere."

"Their will," Esther said with a calm resolve. Her eyes were bright and large and had a way of unsettling him whenever they fixed themselves fully on him.

"What?"

"Their will. Women want what they want."

Wayne didn't expect any answer, much less this one. He took a tentative step out on a limb to feel out her thoughts more. "Makes women sound kinda… vain." He tried to sound sensitive. Who the hell was he turning into?

"A lot are."

"So you didn't roll out the feminist side of the bed this morning."

"I certainly slept under those covers. I'm just saying when it gets down to it, women want their way. Sounds very feminist to me. Don't act like men are so deep. As long as she's young, pretty, and high-class, you'll chase her to the ends of the earth and let her have her way."

"Ah, see there, you wrong. With age comes discretion and wisdom. 'With those whose beauty is inside comes security and character.'"

"And those of… 'low degree'?" Esther wondered where those words came from. She became all too aware of their easy banter, as if reciting lines from a familiar script.

"Humility and gentility."

"You one of those 'beauty is on the inside' guys?"

"I guess I just know beauty when I see it. Even when many miss it when it's obvious."

"I see." Esther Baron smiled more fully, then self-conscious of it, turned away when it didn't leave her face.

The west side saddened Wayne as they exited on 38th Street and passed the Lafayette Square Mall and a series of increasingly vacant strip malls. More businesses had "For Lease" signs on them than not. A Texas Steakhouse had closed; a sign promising that a new Mexican restaurant was "Coming Soon" draped like a sash across it. The Krispy Kreme was boarded up. As was the O'Charley's. Red Lobster was still packing them in though.

Esther couldn't remember the last time she was on the west side. Maybe to go to the Indianapolis 500. Or picnic at Eagle Creek Park. She mentioned that to Wayne, but he grew uncomfortable at the mention of the park and changed the topic back to Breton Court.

"Not so bad," Esther said as they slowed over the speed bumps.

"Like every other apartment complex. Townhouses, technically. There's Mad Had now."

Mad Had curled up on the step outside of Big Momma's condo. Ensconced in a lawn chair, she took in the business of the neighborhood. She grinned at Wayne's approach, him with that cute little white girl at his side. The girl was short, not overweight, but thick. Had an awkward walk about her that brought to mind the image of a shuffling mushroom. But Wayne had his chest all puffed out, that dog of his on a leash like they were a couple out for a late morning stroll.

"How you doing, Big Momma?"

"I'm doing fine, baby." She pronounced "baby" as if she was talking to her grandson. "And how are you this morning, miss lady?"

"I'm doing OK." Esther stifled the need to curtsey.

Mad Had sucked his thumb in silence, his dead eyes tracking their movements.

"What brings you out this way? King's not around. Some hush-hush foolishness he's up to."

"I'm not here to see King. Got someone who wanted to say 'hi' to Had." Wayne tugged at the leash to draw Kay's attention to the boy. The dog trotted up to him gave him a sniff, then licked him like he was the last bit of gravy on a plate. Mad Had raised up, grasping the rott around his neck as if holding a life preserver.

And laughed.

"Lord, look at them," Big Momma said. "Ain't they a sight."

Mad Had stretched his legs along the ground. Kay rested his head on the boy's thigh as he was petted.

"I thought it might be a good idea to let Kay stay here for a while. Between Outreach and King, I don't get to spend as much time at home as I'd like."

"I don't have time to take care of no dog," Big Momma said.

"He's a good dog," Esther answered. "Knows how to treat a lady."

"Maybe me and Had can take care of him. Would you like that, Had?" Wayne asked. "I can check in on them. Visit my boys."

"It's your responsibility." Big Momma tried to sound firm, but her heart wasn't in it. It was the first time she'd seen Had light up with any spark of real life.

Tenth and Rural was the place hookers went when they were too old, too strung out, had the bug, or otherwise were unable to compete with the ladies working downtown. With no structure or support, they forged a life for themselves among the discarded and forgotten. The place had a way of weighing down on a body. It seeped into your bones and gnawed at your soul. Plenty of homeless folk milled around, especially after the government shut down Central State in the 1980s. Flowers, stuffed animals, and candles formed an altar of remembrance, circling a tree in front of the house of Conant Walker, six year-old murder victim.

In a white tank top which went over one shoulder and stretched over a blue halter top over a cut-off blue jean skirt, Rhianna stood on the corner smoking a square as if waiting on the bus.

"What's up, Rhianna?" Lott sidled next to her.

"I'm standing here going over my list of reasons I shouldn't kill myself and can only come up with three reasons and one of them involves a stuffed French toast breakfast I'd promised myself for later in the week. Which only means that next week I'll still have to re-evaluate."

"Still hustling then."

"We all hustle. But not full-time though. Just to feed the kids when my man don't help out. I got regulars who I go with."

"Rellik's your pimp?"

"Nah, I just have to play by his rules." She blew smoke out the side of her mouth, away from Lott. "I ain't like the hos in it to feed a habit. I don't mess with no drugs. Don't mess with no pimps. I just clear things with Rellik's crew."

"Listen, I need you to get word to someone."

"What I look like, a messenger service?"

"Girl, you know and I know ain't fewer people tighter on the vine than you." Some folks went places others couldn't go and heard things most people couldn't. Or shouldn't. Murder, gossip, or drug news. Even more so than the ghetto telegraph of stoop to barbershop.

"Service ain't free. A girl's gotta earn."

"I didn't ask for a freebie." Lott pulled out his wallet, careful not to let Rhianna see how much remained in it. She was still one of his people, but he knew his people. Money had a way of making even friends a mark to run game on.

"Options always open. For you."

"Yeah." Lott shifted an awkward pause. "I'm putting word on the wire for a meeting. Done got a hold of Rellik. Need to get up with this dude Colvin."

"Look at you… carrying King's water an' all. Getting all the players to the table is he?"

"Something like that."

"What about Dred?"

The name shot through him like a bullet through the spine. Caught him short, an anxious skip of unfinished business to his heart. "If he around, he knows."

"Ears everywhere. So no insult not to invite him direct. Others though might not be more sensitive."

"Who?"

"Naptown Red." Rhianna tapped off the ash of her cigarette.

"Who?"

"Bit player."

"So why invite him?"

"Just saying. Niggas like to get their ego stroked."

"Rellik. Dred. Colvin. Respect due the real players." Lott handed her a fifty dollar bill. "This do?"

"They'll know before your head hits the pillow." Rhianna blew out another stream. "Or Lady G's."

Broad Ripple nestled toward the near north-east part of Indianapolis. The White River wound along its north side; the ever-crowded thoroughfare of Keystone Avenue pulsed along its east; Kessler Boulevard meandered along its south; and the officious Meridian Street stood rigid guard at the west. Originally founded to be a separate village from Indianapolis proper, Broad Ripple was the result of a merger between two rival communities: Broad Ripple and Wellington, each vying for expansion. Indianapolis residents built their summer homes in Broad Ripple to retreat from the inner city. It even had its own amusement park built to rival Coney Island's, though it burned to the ground two years after its construction. A park resided there now. The quaint little homestead now sported specialty stores, nightclubs, ducks along the river, and the Monon Trail walkway.

Merle loved the old houses in Broad Ripple. If Lockerbie Square was the neo-conservative hippie of the arts community, Broad Ripple was its patchoulismelling cousin. Over-priced old neighborhoods existed in their own pocket universe, and as the times changed, so did the street names. Bellfontaine no longer existed: above Kessler Boulevard it was Cornell; below it was Guilford. So 5424 Bellfontaine was practically a rumor. A house with no street. A dwelling in the shadow of a dead street. An obvious place for her to live.

A two-story Tudor-style house, its high-pitched roof held a lone arched window, an unblinking Cyclopean eye blinded by the pulled curtains. In fact, the vinecovered windows all had their blinds drawn so that the windows appeared tinted black. Far away from the road, it was the discreet kind of house that one drove by a hundred times without ever truly noticing.

Merle rang the doorbell.

A well-preserved forty-something year-old answered the door. All sultry-eyed and smoldering saunter, she held a glass of red wine in her right hand as she held the door open with her back. Morgana.

"Look what the cat pissed on and left on my yard," she said.

"Fountains. I love the fountains," Merle said.

"You never cease to amuse," Morgana noted. They all had familiar, if not quite familial, roles. Morgana was an instigator, though between her digging comments, she drank her wine under a smile. Pure malice danced in her eyes. At the best of times, she was prone to bouts of darkness, but she seemed withdrawn, either by nature or by choice. "I see you found me."

"Just had to know which bell to ring."

"On a street that doesn't exist."

"Maybe you should try a different glamour spell," Merle said. "Or maybe you simply tired of playing at goddess-hood."

"One does not turn one's back on what one is," Morgana said.

"Only you, princess, still consider us even close to gods. We never were. We were ideas. When people cease believing in gods, the gods die. When they cease to believe in ideas…" Merle said.

"They cease to dream."

"They cease to exist."

"And we're still here." She set her chalice down on a table he couldn't spy within the foyer. She guarded her home and her secrets and wasn't going to let him nose around any more than she had to.

"Your son seeks you."

"Our dance is almost over."

"He says you have one last lesson to teach him."

"Does he now? An ambitious little scrapling. I have more than a few tricks left in me."

"He thinks it's almost time."

"What do you think, mad mage?"

"I think…" Merle adjusted the fit of his aluminum cap. "You are harder to get rid of than most things. The hardiest of cockroaches."

"Sadly, I know you mean that as a compliment." Morgana's eyes never left Merle. Secrets within agendas within schemes. The woman was maddening and fascinating. And had a way of stirring up old feelings.

"It's not in my best interest to be rude."

"Ruthless, but not rude. You don't have me fooled, mage. I did learn one lesson while under your… tutelage."

"What was that?"

"Never teach your student all of your tricks."

"And you do have many… students."

"Is that a hint of jealousy I hear? Don't worry, mad one, you will always have a special place in my heart."

"And I shiver at the thought of what a cold, dark place that is. What about Dred?"

"Leave my son to me. You've done your duty. Consider me warned."

"The least I could do. For old times' sake."

Now that Mountain Jack's had closed down, Rick's Boatyard was King's favorite restaurant. Tucked away on the west side, it overlooked Eagle Creek Reservoir itself, on the other side of I-465, a man-made boundary that separated Breton Court and the apartments and neighborhoods surrounding it from the neighborhoods that bled into the suburbs. A chalkboard proclaimed the day's special: the chef's soup of seafood and andouille gumbo, a main course of South African lobster tails, with Mojitos as the featured drink. The clink of silverware and the thick murmur of pleasant conversation speaking above the easy-listening jazz coming from the speakers filled the air as a live band warmed up, playing some lukewarm Kenny G impersonation.

The ceiling recalled the inside of a lighthouse. Fish and flatscreen televisions, each like prize catches, were mounted on the walls alongside New Orleans jazz scene paintings and hanging ferns. Sails created canopies for the booth. The evening proved too cool to sit out on the deck but they could still see the waves of the reservoir. Ominous and calm, deep and mysterious. The perfect place for a romantic dinner. Just King and Lady G.

And Prez.

A blue dress, a silky number with a plunging neckline, stopped high on Lady G's thigh. She had borrowed a pair of evening gloves from Big Momma that ran to her elbow, which she decided finished her elegant look. King wanted to take her someplace special, he said, and she wanted to dress the part. Though he lived on his accrued Social Security benefits from his mother's passing, he wanted to be the man, the knight, she deserved. She wanted to play the sophisticate yet she felt so young and inexperienced around him. She rummaged through Big Momma's closet forever, eventually finding herself in the low-ceilinged attic which housed artifacts from her aunties. Outfits dating back decades. She searched through every box until she found the perfect dress. No relationships happened by accident. She couldn't shake the nagging feeling that there was something degrading about the whole thing. That sense that she was little more than arm candy. So very devastated, an emotional cripple in many ways, she scrambled to be good enough for him, to please him. And part of her struggled with the notion that she wasn't with him, but rather with the idea of him.

She sighed, too loud, drawing the attention of both King and Prez. She decided that her mood was probably put off because King decided to bring his newest puppy along with them.

Not quite hidden behind a menu with the words "Fresh Jazz, Live Seafood" splayed across its front, Prez stared at the array of silverware before him. The letters in gold script on his black hoodie read Light Fingered Brigade. He wondered why he got followed in stores.

"Start from the outside in," King said.

"What?"

"As they bring you out dishes, salad and appetizers and stuff, use the forks starting on the outside."

"Can't just use one fork through the whole meal? Seems awful wasteful," Prez said.

"White folks got too much time and too much kitchen help to worry about that," Lady G said.

"Just a different way of doing things is all." He resented the unspoken implication that he was trying to turn the two of them white.

Though pissed that King had brought his latest special project along with them, Lady G couldn't stay mad at him. He was so good with Prez, almost like a father. Probably doing what Pastor Winburn did with him years ago. She always gave into King's wants and requests. Partly because she wanted to please him, partly because everything he did seemed so… important. King was large, not just physically imposing, but his life seemed lived on such a grand stage. His every action and decision seemed to carry such weight. It was intimidating. Timid and hard-headed, yet boisterous and fierce-sounding, she was still the shy little girl whose time was better spent in a book. And she resented the flash of sentiment that perhaps she was every bit the special project to King that Prez was.

"You sure I'm not intruding?" Prez asked.

Yes, Lady G thought. "Naw. King too scared to be alone with me."

"It's cool." Though pleased that Lady G acquiesced to letting him bring Prez along, King knew he might have been pushing things a bit. A hard, impenetrable man who would die for those he loved, inside he was still the frightened boy fearing the monsters that came for him in the night. "I just wanted to take two people I care about out for a nice evening. It's all about possibilities, you know."

"Yeah." Prez's eyes glazed over, not knowing what King went on about. The food felt good in his belly though.

The dinner passed uneventfully. King and Prez talked of the Pacers' penchant for big white farmboy acquisitions, and the holes of the Colts' defensive line. They talked about the best places to eat ribs. They talked about school and passed knowing glances at women, King's arched eyebrow asking to Prez's shake of disapproval as waitresses walked by. Nothing too deep, though the conversation about school was cut short by Prez as it veered too close to thinking about the future and making plans. No, tonight was about being: being still, being present, and being with each other.

Back at Breton Court, Prez ducked immediately into King's place. King walked Lady G over to Big Momma's place.

"Sorry about that. Just thought with him having no place to go, it would be a bad idea to leave him by himself," King said.

"I don't care that he came along, it's just…" Lady G hated to sound pathetic and needy. Like a girl. "I just thought it was going to be only us."

"I thought I could do both: be with you and help him along."

"I'm not some item you can just multi-task to check off your 'to do' list."

No competition, no domination, they held on to each other, rushed into each other. What one had to give the other was pleased to take, like sweet-tasting fruit. But too much of even the best fruit spoiled one's diet.

"It's just… there's so much work to be done. Not enough time to do it all. Not enough workers. Not enough people care. And as much as I want you beside me, it's also dangerous. So I want to keep you as far from it as possible."

"There you go again. Trying to determine folks' business. Who elected you our Black Messiah?"

"What?" King thought he'd opened up and poured out his romantic soul. He didn't expect the sharp sting of words.

"You don't get to decide that for me. It's my decision to make. I'm tired of the men in my life trying to tell me what's best for me."

"Is that what's bothering you?"

"I said it, didn't I?" She held a steady gaze behind a deceptive mien. He made her see old things with new eyes. He gave her confidence, shared her secrets and felt loved. He helped her define herself. King was the one person who accepted her. Who knew her. Who had been real with her. She couldn't hide from him.

"You just seemed off is all. A little preoccupied," King said finally.

"Just a lot going on. Life with you is hectic. Still getting used to it is all."

"All right then." He read her face like emotional tea leaves. Whatever he saw there he decided not to press the matter.

She kissed him, which lately she did more often, when he asked too many questions, camouflaging her discomfort in an expression of love.