King's Justice

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The eastside of Indianapolis suffered a slow, debilitating death. An early casualty, some say a reason, was the Camlann Housing Project. The project hadn't changed much: poverty reservations in practice. The police called it three-story run-ups, since no one was fool enough to walk if they could help it. Project was the right word for it: it was always a project in progress. There was always talk about the city giving it a face lift, much like they did the now-trendier art district of the downtown streets. Talk, anyway. Everyone also knew that the talk would never amount to much. At best, the complex would get a new coat of paint, something far short of a true refurbishing, but enough for people to forget and move along, abandoning its residents.

Mulysa rolled a tight one and sparked it up, a party of one. Breaking Iz off capped his night. Her over-muscled dyke friend would need handling, but if he were any judge of people, for the right price, she'd come around. Enough Benjamins brought the light of reason. Not that it mattered. When he got his head up like this, his thoughts drifted to dark places. Maybe it was time to put that bitch in her place. Use one bitch to check another. He brushed the hilt of his dagger. The image of him stabbing her in her breast and drinking blood from her nipple hardened him. Some real gangsta shit that would have people whispering his name in sheer terror. Yeah, he liked how that played.

He could smash a box of cookies about then.

Break-ins were the equivalent of nightly sport, robberies an experiment in ghetto math – taking nothing from nothing. Fights broke out regularly over the most trivial matters, mostly just to remind each other that they were still alive, usually an affront to one's pride since reputation was all that one truly owned here. Rowdy teens tried to be heard over the familiar hip hop drone of beats and attitude that passed for music; their cars and motorcycles peeling through the parking lots as they showed out for their friends. Many a night Mulysa fantasized about running piano wire across the street… about neck high. It wasn't the cracked dry wall or the fallen-off fixtures that he remembered most. It was having to shake out his sheets before he went to bed to clear them of cockroaches. He hated their midnight scurrying.

They scurried like over-muscled dykes sneaking up on him in the night. Tristan slipped in soundlessly, a wraith fully intent to flense Mulysa where he reclined. But to attack from behind without him knowing or prepared, that wasn't enough. That wasn't honorable. It was something he would do.

"I know you there." Mulysa didn't turn around. "It took you long enough to get here."

"We got some business to discuss."

Tristan's blades curved around each fist. Her grip tightened and loosened in steady rhythm, almost matching her heartbeat. She slackened her grip as if resolved to a new course of action, twirled them about her fingers in a gunslinger's flourish, and sheathed them.

Mulysa, for his part, didn't lower his bottom bitch. The time to discuss business was passed. Maybe it was time to test this overly muscled bitch after all. Put her in her place to make her see reason. Save him the Benjamins.

"This about your girlfriend?"

Goaded by the memory of Iz curled up on the floor, eyes slung back, with barely a trace of recognition in her eyes, the woman she loved buried underneath skeins of her high, her fallenness, her desires, and her crushed hope, Tristan charged after him. Mulysa leapt from the couch and lunged at her. She deflected the blow and snuck him in the kidneys. The two of them toppled over the couch.

Mulysa couldn't get leverage, kept off-balance by Tristan's shifting attack. He attempted a broad slash which she easily dodged and pinned his blade hand, smashing it against the floorboards, fingers dug into his wrist, until he released it. He raised his knee into her side, a glancing blow, but it knocked her enough to allow him to scrabble from under her. She fell heavily onto her back.

Scrambling to his feet, they circled each other in the dim light. The room was cramped and its shadows pressed in close from the odd outcroppings of the layout. Mulysa feinted with his knife, now ready, hoping to draw her into another impulsive mistake. Tristan smirked, thinking him a man hiding behind his penis, one which was smaller than he realized. The crunch of trash underfoot broke the tense silence. Mulysa might have had the superior muscle, but his was built by lifting weights and punching bags which couldn't hit back. Tristan's muscle had been formed strictly by hard living, a life of constant battle for each breath she took. If Mulysa had realized that, he was certain that with his bitch in hand, he was more than her superior. They continued to revolve around each other in their delicate dance when Tristan slipped on a plastic bag. She flailed her arms to recover her balance, but Mulysa seized the opportunity to pounce on her with a killing stroke. She parried the blow as best she could, twisting her body out of the blade's trajectory, but the tip of the blade still pierced her side. Mulysa moved faster than she expected. He turned around with a high elbow to her jaw. They tussled through the room, with only the sounds of the grunts of absorbed punches heard. Bodies still entwined, neither getting an upper hand on the other, they slammed into the wall.

Still in close quarters, blood seeping from her wound, Tristan grappled for his blade hand once more. Her teeth ground against each other in a mad smile as she exerted the last of her strength into squeezing his wrist. Something popped in her grasp and the blade fell. Mulysa stifled a cry. Tristan head-butted him, which sent him to the floor. She bounded on top of him, grabbing for anything within reach. Handfuls of donut wrappers and moldy paper, and crammed them into Mulysa's mouth. She pressed a wadded up back of McDonald's into his face, blindly lashing out at him.

Heavy thuds at the door halted them.

"Police!" a voice cried.

Mulysa let go first only enough to check Tristan's reaction. If she flexed, they'd be right back fighting. But Tristan didn't move and allowed Mulysa to back away a few steps. He smoothed out his clothes, lip bleeding, fumed, trying to catch his breath.

"Don't make me go all P Diddy on you, nukka. Send you to Haughville and have you fetch me some breast milk from a Korean woman to wash down some donuts from Long's."

"This shit ain't over." Tristan turned toward the window. "Deuces."

The Martindale-Brightwood neighborhood had been designated a sensitive area. Riots broke out a few years back, over what no one quite remembered. However, the Black Panthers were active here, as was the Nation of Islam, and various church leaders. Each with good intentions, to help those forgotten by the system, give voice to those whose cries went unheard. To draw attention to the plight of their brothers and sisters. Each out to save their community… and in the process, either make names for themselves or prove their continuing relevance. King, Dred, and Rellik gathered at Good Hope. News of Colvin's effrontery traveled the vine quickly. A crisis was inevitable. Though neither Dred nor Rellik signed on with King, they were curious to see how he'd manage to lead them. It was his test. They knew they couldn't send in their usual troops. Street-level soldiers were fine if Colvin was a street knucklehead encroaching on territory or this was a case of some other day-in-the-life bullshit. Once things got… supernatural, only a few were qualified. Or experienced enough. Judging from Rok's reaction to what was going on, his face a mix of skepticism and trepidation, they'd be lost out there on their own. Merle ushered Dred and Rellik inside, but Baylon lingered back, catching Dred's attention. King studied the poor wretch. He remembered his confident, flexing gait, built like a human Rottweiler with half-closed eyes as if bored. Not this thinned, ashy creature whose eyes were cratered within wrinkles.

"What happened to you, man?" King asked.

"After Michelle, you left me. Cut me out of your life." Baylon still felt things. He always had. His momma always said that was his problem: he felt things too deeply. It was why she believed he wasn't cut out for this here game. Every time he saw King, he wanted to apologize, to beg for forgiveness for fucking everything up. Nothing was the same: not the crew, not the block, not the family, not him. Everything got so disconnected. Everyone had to go their own way if only to not be reminded of what had been. Or what could have been. "It was too much."

"We were like brothers."

"That's why it hurt me so deep."

"You should've said that."

"I was a different man then."

"Look at you now. Out to save the whole hood. Everyone's redeemable, right?"

"Right."

"Even me?"

"Even… you. But you can't just say 'I'm sorry' as if that's all there is to it. You've got to change your ways. Prove that you've changed. Make up for some of the hurts you've caused. You may not make things right, but it's a start."

"What about us?"

"I done told you, too much time's passed. What we were…"

"Aces."

"We won't be again. Different time. Different place. Different man."

"But, if I could show I've changed…"

"We'll see. One step at a time." King didn't want to extinguish all hope, especially when his tenor reeked of wanting things… the way they used to be.

Ambition was the headiest of drugs. In its name, Dred was ready to sacrifice them – Baylon, Griff, Night, and Rellik – to get their power and reign supreme in the Egbo Society. Had no problem leaving Baylon to take the fall for it all. From there, with the power and mantle of authority, he would demand a place among the dons. Craddock. Bedivere. Howell. Fat old men whose time had passed. The dons collected tribute far removed from the street. He would be the young blood, the vision, necessary to take them to the next level.

Rellik studied Dred and thought about Wayne. In them he saw his future and alternate present. In Dred, he knew all the life would offer him. His days would be no more than chasing dollars, fending off takeovers, living life on a razor edge which threatened to slit his throat if he fell wrong. The life of the gun: putting down enemies only to have new ones rise up. It never ended and the thought exhausted him.

On the other hand, Wayne's was a life he couldn't imagine having. One equally fraught with peril, but buoyed by friendship. Loyalty. Trust. Life. Concepts all too alien to his reality. Rellik wanted to die. More like he was ready for it. He all but said goodbye to Wayne the last time they talked.

"You tippin' out?" Wayne asked. The summit conversation still heavy on his mind.

"I'm done, Wayne," Rellik said. "Ain't got the heart for it no more."

"Words like that could get you killed out here."

"I got it handled."

"Where you going to go?" Wayne grabbed his arm lightly. "I got a couch."

"Looking out for your big brother? I got a place in mind. It's OK." He hugged Wayne then broke free.

Tired of the killing, tired of the death, tired of the senselessness, Rellik knew he'd never be free of this life because he was in it too deep. No one would just let him out. Those under him would take him out to replace him. Those above him couldn't just let him out as a free agent. He knew too much, knew where too many bodies were buried. Ride or die or not, Rellik wouldn't be trusted. He didn't want to die crying for his mama like most men did in the end. He just wanted to go home.

"Colvin done lost his Goddamned mind," Rellik shouted.

"So it's begun," Merle said.

"What do we know about him?" King asked.

"He one of them Baltimore niggas," Dred said.

"He East Coast?" King asked.

"Naw, Baltimore Avenue. East side. Three-O Baltimore, forty-second and Post, tenth Street Dime Life. You know how they run."

"Just as soon split your wig as say please," Rellik said.

"Happy trappin' and gun slappin'," Merle said.

"Can't you do something about him?" Rellik asked.

His irritation at Merle reminded King of Wayne. Only then did he realize that he was about to mount a campaign and none of his most trusted people were with him. Wayne was tied up with Outreach Inc. who knew where Lott and Lady G were. Even Percy was nowhere to be found. Only Merle stood by him. The empty seats at the table mocked him. King bridged his fingers in front of him as Dred and Rellik spoke. He'd been so tired lately, so off his game, his mind harried and soft. He didn't know Rellik and certainly didn't trust Dred. However, matters of mutual self-interest bound them to him.

"He's right. Colvin's doing what he loves. There's no talking to him," Dred pushed. King felt like he was leading him. There was always the trap of the precipice with his words.

"What you fittin' to do? Make a citizen's arrest?" Rellik asked.

"We stop him." King didn't know what he meant, what all he was willing to do. He had to walk lightly between being a snitch and needing police involvement. But Merle was right, Colvin was above their pay grade. It was the same reason they would have to face Colvin themselves, not send in their soldiers.

Dred pounced on the opening. "King's right. We aren't peaceable people. We fight for it. We take it. It's over."

"You hood as fuck, man," Rellik said. "That's your answer to everything."

"What say you, O Prince of Nap?" Dred said with a hint of contempt.

"Careful now," Merle said, though to King or to Dred no one was sure.

"Heavy be the head," Dred said, a serpent whispering into King's ear. "Don't grasp after power if you aren't prepared to wield it."

Rising from his seat, King released the magazine of his Caliburn. Pressing against the spring, he thumbed the top shell then palmed the magazine back into the grip. He tucked it into the waistband of his jeans, the grip turned rightward. Easily grasped by his right hand, it felt as natural in his dip as a sword in its scabbard. "Let's go."

"That's my young dude." Dred glanced back to King. "Time to tool up, son."

Smoke damaged the brick of the building facade from a fire over a decade ago. The cramped alcove, dark from the broken lights, but not black like the steep stairwells of the Phoenix Apartments, smelled of piss and neglect.

On the tip of Omarosa, they had run Rondell Cheldric, aka "Mulysa", through the Bureau of Criminal Identification. His sheet ran longer than anything he had presumably read, a litany of assaults, robberies, suspected in three rape cases – he even did a bid on a manslaughter – Mulysa was a keg of dynamite searching for an excuse to blow.

Huddled in the entranceway, the overhang was large enough to hold Lee and Cantrell and the first of the SWAT officers who held the breaching ram. Lee pressed his ear against the door, listening for any sound. Nothing. Cantrell flanked him. His case, his suspect, his bust, Lee would take the door, he told them plainly, not a man to be trifled with when it came to taking doors. Playtime stopped and everyone became strict professionals because taking doors was ten seconds of life or death. Octavia arrived on scene to supervise the take-down.

"Police!" he shouted and his fists thudded against the door. Lee took a deep breath. With his gun aimed at the floor in his right hand, Lee raised his left to count things down. Backing away from the door, they all gave head nods to signal that they were ready.

Three.

Two.

One.

The SWAT officer swung the ram. The door jambs splintered as his momentum carried him through. The men fanned in, eyes darting about. "Police!"

Taking one step into the foyer, Lee tried to determine if anyone was in the house. Flashlight beams cut through the darkness, criss-crossing like sabers. Omarosa said this Mulysa character stayed here. At times there were other squatters, but Mulysa was all about playing well with others and thus was probably alone by now. He had a way of creating messes that came back on him. The commotion continued as the word "Police" was shouted in the back rooms followed by the response "Clear!" They trudged through a carpet of fast-food wrappers and animal droppings. Lee grew disgusted that anyone lived here at all. Lee thought he heard something from somewhere in back. A furtive movement by a back window. They cleared the closets leaving only the bathroom at the end of the hall. The door was locked.

"You in there?" Lee demanded.

"Yes."

"Rondell Cheldric?"

"Yes." The voice sounded calm to the point of sounding rather annoyed.

"Come out. We want to talk to you."

"Can it wait?"

"No." Lee glanced at Cantrell with a perturbed, yet "is this guy for real" expression. Lee kicked in the door, fearing evidence being flushed. Mulysa stood at the sink, unflinching as his door crashed in, standing in front of a cracked mirror daubing a knot under his eye. His dingy clothes gave him the appearance of a postal carrier who did double duty as a trash collector. From the stench, the only evidence flushed needed to be.

"Hands where we can see them," Lee said.

Mulysa finished wiping his face. Either he was as cool as they came, or just plain stupid. He underestimated how close he came to getting his ticket punched with each uncooperative second.

"Can I help you?" Mulysa asked.

"We got a few questions for you," Lee said.

"No need for the drama. I would've let you in, but as you can see, I was, um, indisposed."

"You're coming with us."

"Sure." Mulysa had about reached his point. His blood was up after his tussle with Tristan and his head a little murky as he came down from his high. The cloak of civility strained him to breaking.

"We doing this hard or easy?" Lee stepped near to him, protecting himself through intimidation so that he didn't have to use force. Of course, the suspect had to be bright enough to perceive the threat.

"Nothing but easy. I didn't do nothin', so I got nothin' to hide."

Cantrell knew poor. Since he grew up poor, his heart went out to them even if he stopped short of respecting them. His mother made the best home that she could amid their own squalor. What little they had she took care of: swept her porch, kept pictures on the fridge, ironed their threadbare clothes. Another type of poor deserved their mess. If the corners of the room smelled of piss, the way a shooting gallery would or if food piled up and molded along the counters or floors. Mulysa had been reduced to living like an animal, and didn't seem to much mind. Cantrell rifled through a pile of clothes and overturned couch cushions. A bag jangled as soon as he jostled it.

"Look what I found," Cantrell chirped, toting a gym bag filled with an assortment of exotic knives. Lee took the machete in his gloved hand, inspecting it.

"Look here, you Uncle Tomming motherfucker," Mulysa reared with a litany of insults and eyefucks Cantrell had come to expect. "Them's my bitches."

"You like big knives?" Lee asked.

"Put her down."

"Give it a rest, Lee," Octavia started.

"What's the matter, Rondell?" Lee continued being a shit. Sometimes he couldn't help being such a cop. He ran his hand along the blade, deliberate and slow.

"Don't you touch her." A strain found its way into Mulysa's voice.

Cantrell rested a meaty hand on Mulysa's shoulder, while he reached for a set of bracelets.

"Oh that's the way it is. You like that, huh?" Lee turned the blade over in his hands, an awkward fondling, antagonizing the twitch in Mulysa's eyes.

"No one touches her but me," Mulysa said.

"Maybe she doesn't mind stepping out on you."

"Dirty bitch."

With a wiry strength that they'd all underestimated, Mulysa easily slipped from Cantrell's grasp. The detective grabbed after him immediately, but the way Mulysa fought, Cantrell suspected he was up on something. Lee grabbed two handfuls of the man's shirt and shoved him into a wall. Despite the awkward angle and purchase, Mulysa lifted him from his feet. Cantrell punched him in his kidneys. Mulysa twisted and put his shoulder into the landing, taking the air out of Lee. By the time they were on him, Mulysa had Lee on the ground, punching him in the face. In the ensuing scuffle, Octavia caught a stray elbow in her eye. Even with Cantrell on one arm and Octavia on the other, Mulysa threw his body at Lee. He pushed off several detectives until the three of them pinned him down. Octavia was on the radio, calling for patrolmen. She put her knee into Mulysa's back as Cantrell fitted the cuffs onto his wrists. Lee staggered to his feet, only managed a half-hearted stomp on the thug before Cantrell pulled him up.

The door was ajar when they arrived at Rhianna's place. Many times Percy had begged her to move. He offered for her to stay with him where he could protect her. But Rhianna had her situation set up. Between being an emancipated teen, with Section 8 housing, and food stamps, she got by with a little hooking on the side. Percy had already checked in with his brothers and made sure they'd eaten and done their homework before walking Rhianna home. As much as he wanted to be with King, his first duty was to his family. So when the door wasn't completely shut, he put up his beefy arm barring Rhianna from passing. He pushed the door open and flicked on the light.

The place had been tossed. Quickly and not thorough, the thieves snatched anything of easy reach and quick resale value. He walked slowly through the house though he knew they were long gone. It was a terrible thing when your own home no longer felt safe. Stopping at each doorway, he prayed for God's protection on the house – for the reality of His presence to be made real for him. For a moment, guilt flashed in him. It wasn't but a few months ago he himself had broken into this apartment in search of anything of value in the name of his crack-fiend mother. He had taken a ring, but returned it later.

"It's gone," Rhianna said.

"What?"

"There was a cup, it had been in my family for years. I kept all sorts of valuables in it."

A ring. Percy knew, because that was where he returned it.

"This lady I used to stay with. Queen. She took me in and was sweet to me. She wanted me to have it. Told me I was its guardian."

"I'll make it right," Percy said. "I'll call the police. And I'll find the cup." And the ring.

"Oh." Rhianna held her belly.

"What is it?"

"I think my water just broke."

Rhianna retreated to her room. The pains grew worse now as she rubbed the swell of her belly. Her Tshirt wouldn't stay pulled down. Her blue jeans now two sizes too small, her belly bulged over her white belt. She waddled to the window. Kids played on the dilapidated equipment, too young to know that the swings shouldn't be so ragged or the monkey bars so rusted. The graffiti was a part of their world. All they knew was the color of childhood, and innocence was preserved even here for a time. Rhianna fell onto the edge of the bed. She set the radio to Hot 96.3 for some hip hop and turned it up. She didn't get that boy, but if she was going to cry, she didn't want Percy to hear her.

He honored her request to leave her alone. Your honor's more important than my comfort, Percy thought. But he called for an ambulance.

The fear came in waves. Not fear of the birth pains, those she'd handled before. The fear was the renewed fear of bringing another child into the world. The fear didn't come the first time. All she focused on then was her baby. It never seemed real and even now she felt like she played at parenthood. Visiting her baby when the mood hit her. This time around, she was really scared. Scared because things seemed more real this time. Part of her had really attached herself to the child, had committed to doing it right this time. Maybe it was the shame of having a baby to love her and then abandoning it when things got inconvenient. Maybe when confronted with the depth of her selfishness, she wanted to do things differently. Maybe she was just growing up.

She would have to find a way to provide for her child. Food. Clothes. Make a real home for it. Courage sprouted up like a tenacious weed, and she dared to dream. Maybe Outreach Inc. could help her get some food stamps and maybe get her first child back. Perhaps she could get her own place, a real place away from the robbing, drugging and killing. Some place safe. Some place where they could be a real family.

Another wave of contractions caused her to close her eyes. A low moan escaped her lips. She prayed that God would water her courage, allow it to take root and grow. Give her the strength to cling to the hope of a better life.

"Percy, get in here!"

Percy trundled through the door. "The ambulance is on the way."

"Just hold my hand."

With walls the color of coughed-up phlegm, the interrogation room – affectionately known as The Box by the detectives – was smaller a room than one might imagine. Manacled to the table because of his carrying on during his arrest, Mulysa rested his head on the metal table. Cantrell flipped open the case file one more time. The bodies at the Phoenix Apartments had been dropped by shots though the medical examiner was at a loss to give him a caliber or make of gun. For all he knew, someone threw rocks at them really hard. Knifings were almost always personal and rarely involved business, though some crews employed knifemen. Yet Mulysa's demeanor betrayed no feelings, nothing could reach his heart. In the young homicide detective's experience, it signaled that Mulysa was guilty as fuck. Now it was a matter of figuring out of what.

"He been Mirandized?" Octavia double-checked as she stared at Rondell Cheldric through the observation window that opened into the interrogation room. Mulysa nuzzled his head along his arm, sleeping the sleep of the just.

"Yeah, declined representation," Cantrell said, nose still buried in the file.

"As many times as he been through the system? He should know better."

"He knows. And he knows we know," Lee nearly spat with contempt. "He thinks that really proves that he hasn't done anything."

"How do you want to go at him?" Cantrell turned to his partner.

Lee smiled.

The impassive-faced detectives entered the room and Cantrell took a seat across from him. Between him and the door, not needing to voice aloud the reality that the only way Mulysa was to see the other side of the door was through him. Mulysa was no virgin to the system. The man rubbed sleep from his eyes, not acknowledging Cantrell's presence.

Typically, Cantrell's approach in the box was to be ebullient and respectful, eventually garnering their confidence. Cantrell grew up in the neighborhood, always went with the "I can relate" approach despite the fact he was now po-po, the enemy, as relatable as a two-headed alien. But he ran the same streets, he shoplifted from the same shops, ate fried catfish from the same joints, and haunted the same clubs, like PickA-Disease as they called Picadilly's back in the day. None of the social niceties would be met with courtesy or appreciated, so a small-talk approach was wasted on Mulysa.

"What does it say about a people when none of the social pleasantries are observed?" Cantrell asked.

"What?" Mulysa grunted.

"Nothing. A rhetorical question."

"What?"

Cantrell leaned toward this would-be hardass, this brute, this self-proclaimed menace to society, who didn't retreat from the invasion of space. Quite the opposite, as he was comfortable in the close quarters, even matching the detective's advance. Mulysa's rank breath, decayed bits of pork trapped between teeth, sprayed his face.

"It is hot in here," Mulysa complained. "Why's the white boy got to be behind me?"

White boy. Lee's face grew hot at the epithet since it was more insult than accurate description. It wasn't like being called "nigger", which would have been automatic go time were the roles reversed. But the sting of derision was there, enough for his jaw to tighten. Lee took more than the occasional hard elbow on the basketball courts over at Northwest High School coming up. He understood the testing behind the comment and the court jostling. He was expected to take it and considering the white to non-white ratio of the streets and the school, he did. But he didn't like it.

"He make you uncomfortable?" Cantrell asked.

"Just don't like people behind me is all," Mulysa said.

"Remind you of when you got sent up?"

"Men behind you." Lee placed a hand on his shoulder. "Got plenty of them days ahead of you."

"Rondell Cheldric," Cantrell read while pacing back and forth before closing the file folder he cradled.

"You know my name?"

"Folks call you Mulysa. 'Asylum' spelled backwards."

"You got that, huh?"

"I'm a clever Uncle Tom."

"Yeah." He stopped short of an apology but flashed an "it's all in the game" slow nod. "We all out here: you, me, fiends. Like the circle of life. Doing our thing. But in the end, we all get got. Dirt piled on us like we was shit folks trying to hide. That's why it so important to leave a strong name behind."

"A fierce rep," Cantrell agreed.

"True dat."

"You in big trouble, Rondell." Cantrell had a way of using a person's own name as a club, repeating it in a way that forced the person to deal with him.

"Why? I didn't do nothin'."

"You hit a cop. That's something."

"He was touching my-"

"'Bitches.' Yeah, we'll get to that later," Cantrell said. "Assaulting an officer, in front of other officers."

"You going down for that, Rondell," Lee clubbed.

"You got to pay."

"That's how it works."

"You do. You pay."

This was the part of the dance that Cantrell loved, the stage on which they performed. When they fell into a rhythm, knew each other's plays, and today they were in the zone. Rondell didn't stand a chance as they took turns whittling the big man down to a more manageable, a malleable size.

"Do you know who we are, Rondell?" Cantrell eased away from the table, giving Mulysa room to breathe and settle down. Pull back on the throttle, let him take in the scenery and fully appreciate the jackpot he was in. They actually didn't have much of anything on him. It would have been a fairly friendly conversation – albeit with all the requisite chest thumping – had Mulysa not chosen to act all foolish. All they had was his name and knew that he was mixed up in the situation somehow. Anything he and his bitches had been up to hadn't been reported to the police. Still, he didn't know what they knew. Maybe his bitches would give him up. Blood was hard to clean up.

"You murder police." Mulysa came out of his stupor from watching the pair of detectives sidle back and forth.

"You know what that means?"

"Someone's been murdered."

"Exacta-mundo." Cantrell pointed the folder at him with the beaming smile of a proud parent, then set it on the table. Mulysa turned to face him. A scar underlined his right eye and he was thick like a tree stump, though his blue jeans still hung from him like drapes. Cantrell resisted the urge to snatch the boy's wave cap from his head.

"What do you do for a living?"

"Freelance entrepreneur."

"You hear this shit?"

"Drug-dealing scum. You got that on a business card?"

"I'm into a little bit of this, little bit of that," Mulysa said, not acknowledging Lee. He understood the dance. The disorienting effect of their back and forth, meant to unnerve him. Rattle him to the point where he gave something up. But they had nothing on him. Hadn't even told him what he was being charged with. So he relaxed and allowed himself to get caught up in their little banter game.

"How long have you been a 'freelance entrepreneur'?" Cantrell asked.

"Goin' on three years."

"You like it?"

"It a-ight."

"You like women, Rondell?" Cantrell sat down on the corner of the table closest to Mulysa, drawing his attention.

"Yeah." His breath reeked on top of the wafts of his body odor, a mix of garbage, funk, and unwashed ass.

"I mean, it's all right if you don't."

"I do."

"He look gay to you?" Cantrell asked.

"He could be half a fag," Lee offered. "Maybe he just prison gay."

"I ain't no fag."

"That's a double negative," Cantrell said.

"Means you are," Lee echoed.

"I ain't."

"That's what they call a Freudian slip," Cantrell said. "Part of you may think that you are."

"I… it… I ain't." The questions and innuendo flew furiously at Mulysa. He wasn't having time to think through the questions, much less his answers. Hated the way they twisted things, damned cops. Not to mention his head ping-ponging back and forth. Cantrell sat entirely too close. Lee pressed in on him with his imposing stance, glaring at him with clenched fists burrowing into the table.

"It's all right if you are," Cantrell said.

"These days you can screw fish if it's your orientation,"

Lee said. "Don't take the blame. Blame God."

"He made you that way," Cantrell said.

"He didn't," Mulysa said.

"You got a moms?" Cantrell raised up from the table.

"Yeah," Mulysa said, the sudden veer in the conversation left a slight tremor to his voice. He didn't know where this was going either. A spirit of unease crept into his posture. Though he had a practiced relaxed slouch, his thick frame sprawled out in the chair; he was suddenly conscious of it. Uncomfortable. But didn't know how to shift or straighten up without appearing weak. Or guilty.

"You got a sister?"

"Two."

"They bitches?"

"What the hell?"

"No offense, man, but you seem to like the word," Cantrell said. "Just rolls off your tongue with ease."

"Bitches." Lee emphasized the word as if savoring a fine filet.

"They your bitches." Cantrell quoted Mulysa.

"No. I'd never disrespect my moms."

"Bitches." Cantrell shook his head disapprovingly. "You like to hit women, Rondell?"

"Naw."

"Not according to your sheet. Looks to me like you don't like women at all." Cantrell pointed dramatically to Mulysa's sheet. "What's that say?"

Lee studied the sheet carefully. "Battery. Dispute with your girlfriend. Ended with a bloody nose."

"Those charges were dropped," Mulysa protested.

"They about the only ones," Cantrell said.

"I keep getting pinched."

"You been a bad boy, Rondell." Cantrell shifted his weight to edge closer to him.

"Bad boy, indeed," Lee echoed from too close behind him.

"She got off easy though, didn't she?" Cantrell pulled up another file, this time not letting him see the pages. Anyone could be broken down given enough time and the right circumstances. The need to confess, to get one's story out before it was written for them was a powerful compulsion. They were far afield of their original intent, but the vibe of the room dictated their conversation. And it felt like they were onto some dirt of his. Something with a woman. They needed to tread lightly.

"She never became acquainted with your bitches."

"Or is that your other bitches?"

"I never cut her," Mulysa said.

"Looks to me like you got all sorts of issues with women," Cantrell said. "Stems from issues with his mother."

"That's what they say," Lee said.

"What you got me in here for?" Obviously agitated, Mulysa's stone-cool facade faded into a distant memory. He straightened in his chair, stiff-limbed and uncertain. Cantrell smiled. Now they could really go to work.

"Where were you on September 3rd?" Cantrell asked.

"Man, how am I supposed to remember," Mulysa said. A high pitch slipped into his tone. "Where were you?"

"The man raises a good point," Lee said. "September was a long time ago."

"Maybe if something happened that day," Cantrell looked up toward Lee.

"Something that might jog his memory."

"Let's try something easier. What happened earlier tonight? Noticed one of your bitches…"

"Your bottom bitch?" Lee mused.

"… had a little blood. What are the odds that it will be a match to someone in the system?"

"I don't know, detective," Lee casually ambled toward Cantrell as if to whisper conspiratorially with him. Though for Mulysa's benefit. "Fine upstanding citizen like Mr Cheldric here, surely only associates with like-minded innocents."

"Some fine young thing."

"Maybe you were feelin' your Wheaties tonight." Lee turned, fully entering Mulysa's orbit, filling his field of vision.

"On top of the world." Cantrell matched his stance, fully hammering at Mulysa now.

"So much so that you think that you can talk to just anybody."

"And why not? Handsome man like yourself."

"And who is she? Just some dumb girl."

"Bitch." Cantrell spat the word curtly, like a gunshot. Mulysa couldn't answer, only turn from Cantrell to Lee, not quite keeping up with their rapidfire performance.

"Probably looked at you like you were beneath her." Lee emphasized the words as if empathizing with his experiences.

"So you think to yourself…"

"No, he probably says it," Lee interrupted on cue. "'You think you better than me?'"

"Who is she?" Cantrell asked.

"Bitch," Lee said.

"She had it coming. Deserved what she got." By this point, they had leaned in so close, they nearly pressed their faces on either side of his. Cantrell continued. "This snooty…"

"Pretty…"

"Smart…"

"White…"

"Bitch," Cantrell ended. The word bounced against the tiles of the wall.

"I didn't… hurt her," Mulysa said without conviction.

"This is how folks get a bad reputation. You piss them off, they introduce you to their bottom bitch," Lee said.

"You like knives, Rondell?" Cantrell asked.

"Yeah."

"Big knives. Small knives."

"Yeah."

"Special knives."

"He's a connoisseur," Lee opined.

"Just like knives is all," Mulysa said.

"We know. We got 'em. All. You really like knives," Cantrell said. "We check all of your knives, we gonna find any blood? DNA don't wash off easy."

"Speaking of which…" Lee nodded to the reports.

"Yeah, I almost forgot." Cantrell thumbed through the reports. Mulysa had been up to something. Prob ably completely unrelated to the murders over at the Phoenix Apartments. But whatever nagged at him, whatever he was on the verge of talking about, could be leveraged for cooperation later. He perused the coroner's report from the active case as if it had something to do with Mulysa. "You believe in safe sex?"

"Li'l Jimmy wearin' a hat?" Lee included an insulting level of what he thought sounded like street affectation.

"Don't bother. We know you don't." Cantrell gambled at this point. The anguish on Mulysa's face told him everything he needed to know. He flashed a glance at Lee.

"Left semen all in her." Lee gambled with the bluff. Cantrell didn't cut him even the slightest of glances, backing his play.

"We're going to get a sample from you. Make no mistake about it."

"Court order's already on the way."

"Is it gonna match what we find in her?"

They both stood now, staring down at a hapless Mulysa. The silence grew cold as they waited.

"She's a junkie and a whore. It's her word against mine."

"Right, right. A junkie and a whore against the word of a fine, upstanding citizen like yourself. Tell us about what happened. Get you on record first and make it easier on yourself."