King's Justice

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.