King's War

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Security and Housing Unit — often called the Shoe — housed everyone who was under the age of eighteen detained in the Marion County Lock Up. In the protected block of juveniles, its guests spent twenty-three hours a day in cells. Artificially set by their lights, their days were out of the prisoners' control. They were told when they could eat and when they could shower. Privacy was a dream of another life.

The previous night Rondell "Mulysa" Cheldric dreamed he was a child, lost in a forest, trying to make his way home. The brush grew thicker as he ran. All he knew was that something chased him. Though unseen, the prey's sense of an impending threat, that a creature stalked him and had been after him for a while, remained with him. His lungs burned with each breath. The muscles in his legs ached. Pain shot up his shins. The joints of his shoulders grew sore. Exhaustion overtook him. A weariness that seeped down to his bones. Slumped over in a collapsed heap, he waited. The predator still in the shadows. Nearby. Salivating at its soonto-be-had kill. Mulysa woke as he always did: bone-tired and resigned.

In juvenile, he used to imagine himself as a top-secret spy caught by enemy agents and imprisoned. His days idled along with daydreaming plots to make daring escape. His imagination was his true escape. His fantasy was, if nothing else, consistent. When he was younger, he imagined it was his father that was the spy, always called away on important missions. As he got older, within a few years actually, after a lifestyle filled with danger and intrigue, though heroic, he decided that his dad had been killed in action. Only in the last year did he conclude that fantasy was for children.

Life in the Shoe was about boundaries and limits. The cell closed in on his mind. Lonely, confined, a lack of privacy; the tedium alone could drive someone to madness. The darkness made noises. Tears sobbed into pillows. The rutting sounds of rage and power being rammed into any who gave the appearance of weakness. His life was a prison.

He was two men: Mulysa and Rondell, battling it out, and Rondell was about dead. Reduced to an animal going about with survival instincts on high alert, constantly on the lookout for any of the innumerable enemies he'd made. He was a fallen man. Weren't but two ways to go from here: up, or embrace the darkness and finality of his life. And the game itself was slow suicide. All of the devilish things he'd done, each act a step in his journey toward here. Being locked down, swept under society's rug, allowed him to see the bigger picture, and his life for what it was worth.

A big steaming pile of shit.

Today, he was due in court. His public defender assured him that this was just a matter of going through the motions. The police could have him under suspicion for any of a number of things, but with only a circumstantial case, he was going to walk. He wore his orange jumpsuit with a measure of pride.

A young boy with an old face — and eyes which had lost their innocence too soon — was next up before the judge.

"What's up, homie? Are you a thug?" the boy asked.

"Who asking?" Mulysa eyed him with bored wariness.

"I'm just sayin'. I got my own hoes," he said with too much enthusiasm and empty braggadocio. "I do some crazy shit. I ain't got time for that mess. My ass hurts from doing all this sitting. Waiting on my Johnny to get me off."

"Nukka, you still got your baby teeth." Mulysa couldn't be bothered to muster a bemused smile — more of a sneer masking a mild state of melancholy.

"I know how to jail," the boy said as his case was called. "Straight-up thug."

Never show weakness, never back down, never step aside. The boy had already internalized some of the basic rules. The boy reminded Mulysa of how he was at that age: already a lost cause, beyond redemption. He knew what fate awaited the young'un, what few true options he had, and how he had embraced them.

They had pulled Judge Rolfingsmeyer, a fairminded jurist, with just an independent enough streak to piss off liberals and conservatives alike. This made him popular among the people. A jovial face, the judge's robes draped like a muumuu over him. At the moment, he appeared to be suffering a migraine as he rubbed his temples.

"I never wanted to hurt nobody. I just want to be a terrorist and blow stuff up," the boy shouted out.

"You're too young to be doing these kinds of things. I mean, look at you: you haven't even grown out of your cute stage," Judge Rolfingsmeyer said. "I just want to eat you up."

"Fuck you, judge." The boy flipped him off. A bailiff immediately escorted him out. The judge ordered him held over for family court to decide the best course of action.

"Well, my, my, my. They grow up fast," the judge remarked to his bailiff.

The hood was the main world Mulysa knew. Life in the Shoe was like a vacation in his summer spot. But in the court, mostly white faces greeted him from the judge to the bailiffs to the lawyers. He was in their world now. When they called his name or his case number, all he heard the word "nigger". Everything dripped with contempt. From the bench, the judge's words ran down his nose to him.

On the streets, he could defend himself. He'd go toe-to-toe with any fool who dared step to him. But in this world the assumptions weren't always physical. The pain crushed him in inner spaces, places he couldn't trace and rarely let himself acknowledge. He didn't know how to defend himself against this kind of attack. He only had his anger, and he stacked onto the kindling pile of his previous resentments and hates. His fist clenched out of reflex and his public aid lawyer nudged his arm and he relaxed.

Mulysa strode toward the judge, eyes meeting his, unafraid. Pride marched him forward now, as he was under the careful scrutiny of those in the gallery as well as those whose cases were up next. It was time for the show. Never show weakness, never back down, never step aside.

His court-appointed lawyer took apart the state's case, such as it was. He was little more than a person of interest, suspected of having knowledge in a few crimes. The death of Lamont "Rok" Walters, even the fire at the Camlann apartments. Because the search was ruled illegal, the police didn't even have the drug charges to hold over his head. Not to mention how he was treated while a guest of the state.

"Son, sounds like you been into all sorts of mess," Judge Rolfingsmeyer said. "But it's not like the state has much of a case left. Got no reason to hold you on remand. A bit of an overreach, wouldn't you say, counselor?"

The state prosecutor mumbled to himself. Mulysa didn't like to be talked to that way. He tolerated it from Colvin. Mulysa grimaced under the pain of his own headache. They were getting worse now. Like a metal spike driven into his eye to stab him in his brain.

"You're going to be on a nine o'clock probation. You understand?"

"Yes, your honor."

"So if your friends show up at ten-thirty at night and say 'Hey, we got a big ol' bag of weed'," the judge put on a street affect to perfection, "'let's go smoke,' what should you do?"

"I'd have to tell them 'Man, y'all shoulda been here earlier cuz I'm on curfew."

Mulysa's public defender lowered his head.

"Right…" Judge Rolfingsmeyer glanced up from the stack of papers before him. "The correct answer is 'weed is illegal and I still have to drop a piss test.' But I suppose that's as good as I'm getting."

With that, Judge Rolfingsmeyer signed the papers and Mulysa was once again back on the streets.

Prez hated to visit his father. He knew in his heart of hearts that no one begrudged him his visits with his old man, especially now. Imminent death had a way of forcing that: cancer ate at his father's insides. Death rarely weighed on Prez, though its specter hung like a shadow over his soul.

Especially now, considering King. It wasn't as if Prez could talk to King. Though King had said it best before he was shot: "Forgiveness is the only way to let go of the past. Relationships are fragile. Repair the rift between you and your father before much more damage is done. You don't know when the people you love will be called home. Time is always short." Some things were morbidly expected, no, not expected, but rather unsurprising; only the method of his father's eventual demise had been up for grabs. Diet was never a particularly high concern as he ate pig's feet and barbecue ribs, and fried everything, washed down with vodka and Coke. Or brandy and Coke. Or rum and Coke. The man loved Coke. Say what you will, the man was brand-loyal, thus his twopack-a-day Kool habit. And exercise? Only if you counted his four-hundred-videotape porn collection, some of which he inherited from his father; and his predilection for chasing women other than his mother. So Prez had long resigned himself to the fact that his father was not long for this world. The only surprise was that he lasted so long.

The family had a cancer scare a few years back. Months of agonizing waits, treatments, and surgeries culminated in the removal of a lung. The crisis seemed over, the doctors confident that they got it all. His father lost a lot of weight ("the chemo diet", he called it) and gave up smoking. The family took its cue from him, hanging their hopes on his own lust for life. That was then.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Prez suspected that his father started smoking and drinking in earnest again in the hopes of dying. Like maybe he took a look at the measure of his life, realized what a waste his was, and decided that it wasn't worth it. Prez wasn't even sure things worked that way, but the thought stayed with him. The cost of treatment had strained the family's resources to the breaking point, but all they thought about was getting him better. However, Prez recognized the anger in his father's eyes, behind the laughter and bravado. Anger that he was ineffectual as a provider; anger that his body betrayed him; anger that he was no longer his own man.

So when the cancer returned, he chose to die the way he lived: at home.

Prez hadn't been home since he left a couple years back to stay with Big Momma. She had brought him up here, cause kin was kin, and she wasn't trying to get between folks, and she wanted to help mend things when she could. The way she saw it, that's how good church folks did: stay up in your business and help, whether you wanted it or not. Folks didn't always know what was good for them. She was God's little busybody.

The family set up home hospice care. Big Momma didn't say anything as they entered the house, politely not commenting on the odor of mothballs, old people funk, and medicine. The day nurse — a squat, buxom woman with the face of a teamster — wasn't dressed in all-whites like Big Momma assumed she would be. The nurse escorted Earl Parker Wilcox from the bathroom to the couch. She untangled the array of tubes from his medicinal pump and oxygen canister, then excused herself to see about lunch. Prez and Big Momma waited until the door closed behind her and Earl to settle into the couch before they exhaled their pleasantries.

"Dad? It's me and Big Momma."

"Boy, you know I'm a grown-ass man. A dying grown-ass man, but still a grown-ass man. And I'm too grown to be calling a grown-ass woman 'Big Momma.' How you doing, miss lady?"

"Just fine, baby. You lookin' good."

"Shit. 'Preciate the lie though. You all clear a space and sit down. All that standing around on occasion is making me nervous."

Prez had forgotten how much he missed the raspy baritone of his father's voice. A filigree of wrinkles radiated from his mouth. His face was much thinner than he remembered, but he was still his father. Prez never understood all the angst most folks had about their fathers. He decided early on that his father was not someone he wanted to pattern his life after. They could be… he didn't know the best word to describe the kind of (adult) relationship he wanted to have with his father. "Friendly". Something that took the onus of responsibility off his father having to try to be a father. And Prez having to live up (or down) to it. Maybe that's why he took off. To be his own man; find his own way. And he fucked it up. Charting his own course ended him where he began: fragile and tired and no better than his old man.

"Another player done got caught up," Prez said, hoping his father had grown some. "All that 'he said/she said' stuff."

"The DA dropped the charges. Bet he won't see the inside of another court room for a while," Earl said.

"She'll probably see some cash though. Nuisance change to make that civil suit go away." Prez baited him. "That's all she was ever after."

"The cost of doing business. They all the same, only the rates ever change."

"They all alike, huh?" Prez's face grew hot, but he didn't know why. Maybe King's judgmental tone haunted him. Something close to rage mixed with resentment threatened to bubble up. Big Momma put her hand on his knee.

"Most of them." Earl turned to him as if annoyed by the interruption.

"Even Mom?"

"I said 'most'."

"I need a glass of water." Big Momma stood up as if hearing her mother call her from the kitchen. "Either of you need anything?"

"Help yourself. I'm good," Earl said. "You look like you got something on your mind."

"It's just that… you don't have that much time left."

"Uh huh."

"And I feel… I don't know… damn it, Dad, it's like you're a stranger to me."

"I'm your father, boy."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means watch your tone."

Prez knew that his father never respected him, or, at best, considered him as a soft punk. The only time that his father seemed to like him, to really talk to him, was when Prez was keeping one of his secrets. Prez studied the man. This old man. He'd never seen his father look weak… so old. The epiphany struck him: he was a boy. Not a boy in a man's body, a boy masquerading as a man. They both were. Boys who had gotten older, only the toys changed. The thought of playing at the role of being a father never sat well with him.

Prez never knew his father. Because he was little more than a man who left sperm in his mother. Prez knew the man who offered to smoke pot with him on occasion in lieu of actually bonding with or parenting him. But he didn't know anything about him. His childhood, how he was raised, events that shaped him, how he saw the world.

Sperm donor. Bill payer. Big brother. Protector.

My daddy's dying.

"I am who I am. Who do you want me to be?" Earl asked.

Real. "I don't know."

Fathers and sons. Everything kept coming back to that. He knew, whether being taught directly or simply absorbing it from the culture around him, that he was supposed to complete the work his father began. Follow in his father's footsteps, even if it wasn't a path he'd have chosen for himself. He was a son wanting to please his parent, to hear his father say that he was proud of him. Some part of him, some tiny voice, wanted his father's approval. Just like part of him wanted to prove his own worth, if only in his mind, by doing a superior job of being a parent. A husband. A man. It occurred to him that in order to grow, a son had to reject his father sooner or later. What he feared was, if faced with the possibility of rejection or disappointment in his offspring, his father would reject him first.

Shit. This was like breaking up with a woman. It didn't matter if both knew the relationship wasn't going to work, what mattered was who did the actual breaking-up.

Fathers and sons. That was some shit.

Garlan's mother was a nurse. That woman knew how to work a system. An opportunity which presented itself, she played it for maximum advantage. The way she put together her work schedule, she could hit overtime by a Wednesday, which meant by Saturday, working doubles, she was deep into the man's pocket. She wasn't married to the dude they lived with, so with everything in his nonworking-ass's name, they qualified for welfare and other benefits. The name of the game was getting over. His whole life was training for a doctorate in the art of getting over.

"Who's that young nigga that likes to run with you?" Dred asked. Everything was a system, from school to a job, or the street. Teachers, bosses, ballers, cops. His job was to run game on them. That was the life.

"Who? The Boars?" Garlan asked, knowing who Dred meant.

"Yeah, that's him. He got promise?"

"Yeah, he tight. Got some game to him." Keep your eyes open. Don't trust anyone. Keep the count straight. Make sure folks respect your name. The Boars had the makings for a good soldier. He internalized that shit. Garlan had his eye on him for a minute.

"Whatever, man. Put him on."

"What's with the change-up?"

"I gotta explain myself to you now?"

"Nah, man." Garlan took his cue to be quiet. He loathed meetings with Dred. It was worse than being called down to the principal's office. He'd call for a meet someplace random, like today they were just two niggas kicking it at Mr Dan's burger joint. But Dred had a way about him. The way he looked at you, through you most of the time, like you weren't there. Garlan tugged at his ring. It was, who was that crazy white dude always up in Batman's grill? The Joker? Yeah, how if you were part of the Joker's crew, you never knew when he'd turn on you and cap your ass.

"Naptown Red stepped to me wanting points on a package."

"That nigga is scandalous. Would run a game on his momma to turn a few ends."

"That's why I decided against it. But keep your eye on him. Too much side action will bring FiveO down on us. Keep him close."

"What about Mulysa?"

"What about him?"

"You always quick to bring up his name. You kin or something?"

"Naw, man, it ain't like that. Just making sure the crew's taken care of."

"I got him out. But he's too hot right now. He needs to cool out for a minute."

"So he on his own."

"He a survivor. He be all right."

Naptown Red considered himself a ghetto griot: soothsayer, truth-teller, keeper of the neighborhood history. He grew up hearing tales of the great shot-callers. Green. Speedbump. Bird. Bama. Luther. Night. Dred. Dred had consolidated various crews under him. Bardigora Street. Estonce Posse. A hundred Knights. And that was how he imagined himself. As a player, a man with secret agendas, moving people about like pieces. A man of style and influence. Today, he held court.

Having assumed that he had some Indian in his blood, his straight hair had been pulled back, which accentuated the blotchiness of his skin. It pissed him off that no one saw him as a threat, that no one took him seriously. In his capacity as evolving historian, he knew about most of the various tendrils of the crew: extortion, fencing, prostitution, drug-dealing. His father carried a bullet in his back, which kept him from doing most kinds of physical labor. As a result, he rarely kept a job. Red asked him whether he'd received the wound in a war like Vietnam. Close, he said, a street war. Vice lords. Gangster Disciples. Whatever. All Red knew was that he was meant to follow in his footsteps: drinking, smoking weed, breaking into houses. Even absent parents taught and passed along lessons. From early on, Red's folks would go into one of the back bedrooms with their friends, drinking, and carrying on. He could smell the pot from the other end of their house.

"You gotta girl?" Naptown Red asked, trying to school some of these young brothers coming up.

"Rhianna," Fathead said.

"How y'all doing?"

"We a'ight."

"A'ight? What's 'a'ight'?"

"We cool. She be sweating me for money. Wants some new gear."

"Her babies need stuff, too."

"Let her go to they babies' daddies then. Shit. I'll pay for my own, but I for damn sure ain't paying for anyone else's. This whole relationship bullshit's more trouble than it's worth. I'm a hitit-and-quit-it sort of man."

A more introspective turn might have seen this as a case of the sins of the father and all that bullshit passed on to his son. And his son's son. From firing up some herb for social occasions, Red's folks graduated to the sometime line of coke, by which point they'd moved into an apartment. They owed everyone in the neighborhood. Shit, they owed everyone in the family. Some months they sold off their food stamps in order to make ends meet, as they smoked up the rent money again. He wasn't mad at being poor, but things didn't have to be as bad as they were. His clothes never fit. The house was never cleaned. There was never anyone doing any cooking. One day, he found a broken piece of antenna behind the curtain on the window sill of the Section 8 half of a duplex. Its intentional placement had the air of importance, laying on the altar of the sill. It took him a while to divine its use as a crack pipe.

The education system also taught him and passed on lessons. Early in his elementary school years, Naptown Red had been labeled learning disabled (LD). The educators shuffled him off to be in separate classes. When that freckle-faced Andy Baumer spread lies about his mother, Red bit the shit out of him and was labeled emotionally disabled (ED). His mother jumped all over that once she figured out she could get more welfare benefits. When the boys in his neighborhood began affecting the same look, he wore his hat to the right and was labeled a Gangsta Disciples (GD). Little more than a weekend gangsta, he ran with them for a hot second, flew his black and blue colors, broke into cars, boosted stuff from stores, smoked a little weed.

Then he decided to dream bigger.

"What's this business you trying to speak on?" Naptown Red asked.

"I heard you were the man to get with." This here fool Fathead done brought around Prez. He never knew who he wanted to run with. Every time Red turned around, this boy was with someone else. He'd give this much to Prez: he was reserved, didn't raise his voice. A little soft for the streets, he still had a nice way about him, though it looked like the dragon had chewed him up and walked him around the block a few times. Still, he didn't act superior, but kept things low-key and played it smart. He knew who was taking over.

"I run this over here," Naptown Red said.

"I'm looking to do some work," Prez said.

"You think you can handle this here-ron." Naptown Red exaggerated the pronounciation of heroin for old school effect. These youngbloods didn't know.

"I ain't tripping." He could tell the way he spoke to Red irritated him.

"You vouch for him?"

"Yeah, he cool," Fathead said. "Not like his strung-out ass was Five-O or nothing."

Fear made men bluster. Naptown Red trusted him because Fathead needed him to make things happen, just as Naptown Red needed someone with good street eyes. Information was gold. The man with the keys to the dope line was gold. Theirs was a relationship of mutual mining. Red studied his body language. When he was asked a sticky question, Fathead folded like yesterday's newspaper. He was all about protecting himself.

"All right, come on. I got a party to go to. You roll with me and I'll show you how it's done."

Mulysa had to die. For Tristan the hunt was long overdue. The portrait Iz sketched of her, especially the smile on her face, mocked her. The front part of her hair was tucked down while the rear half flared into an Afro. Her features generous and sculpted. Gold eyes, dark skin, smile lines around her mouth. Iz always believed she was terrible at drawing hands. Yet there they were, strong but delicate. And powerless to stop the men in her life from hurting her or her own.

The thing Tristan resented most about her relationship with her father was how grateful she was to him. And for all that he'd done, she still wanted to turn to him. Thirteen years old, scared, alone… it had been a terrible Thanksgiving. It was just her and her father. She'd spent the day cooking while he laid back on the couch, slowly draining the bottle of Crown Royal, absently watching football. The game didn't matter. Nor did he stir for commercials. His was a slow-cooking stew of loneliness and self-loathing.

"Daddy, I have something to tell you." Tristan unfolded a TV table and placed it in front of her father. With meticulous care, she arranged a plate and napkin. Fork, knife, then spoon. She slipped a coaster under the nearly empty glass. One by one, she brought out saucepans of food, as if for his inspection. Macaroni and cheese. Mashed potatoes. Fried okra. Greens. Turkey. Fried corn. Ham. Cranberry sauce. Each entree greeted with a barely perceptible nod or flicker of the eyes. Grief had swallowed him whole since her mother died. It took him in little bits, slowly robbing him of the will to work, go through the motions of life, or move. He neither made nor took calls. His friends, what few he had, rarely stopped by anymore. And he looked at her, with his bloodshot, rheumy eyes which looked too large for his face. The stink of alcohol on his breath. He slipped into her room at night and held her. She laid awake in panic not knowing whether to move or remain frozen, and the paralysis of indecision left her in his embrace. Each night, the entanglement became more familiar. More intimate. His hands resting on her waist. He breathed her in, or the memory of her mother. And she feared what new intimacy each night might bring.

"Daddy, I… I'm not like other girls," she blurted out. Her heart slammed into her chest with a machine gunning thud. She could barely catch her breath. Her hands trembled with the weight of anticipation, so she gripped each pot handle firmer. She hadn't rehearsed what she was going to say. She wanted it to seem natural. Now she cursed herself for not better thinking it through.

"It's not a phase or nothing. I been this way as long as I can remember. I just… don't like boys."

There, she had said it. The words hung in the air and it was too late to take them back. Nothing could be unsaid. Or unremembered. His slightly yellow eyes turned toward her, barely noting the food placed before him like a placating sacrifice before a bloodthirsty god. The eyes studied her with a gleam of unfamiliarity, clouded by a slight lascivious glint.

The plate of food slapped Tristan in the face. The gravy from the mashed potatoes scalded her eyes. She ripped the plate from her face, food dripping from her cheek in time to make out the blur approaching her. The fresh sting of her father's palm against her jaw sent her tumbling to the floor.

Tristan knelt there, kernels of corn falling from her hair and cranberry sauce trailing down her cheek like streaking blush. Her face warmed from where her father struck her. As if he could slap the gay out of her, her father — a tall man, looming like a wild grizzly above her — prepared to pounce on her. He never said a word. The Detroit Lions rumbling backward on the television screen was the only sound besides her father's labored breathing. She didn't know where the attack, the anger, came from. His daughter had declared herself a dyke. Her tacit admission that she was no longer his. His own grief finally devoured him. His self-loathing from not working, not being where he wanted to be in life, missing his wife, and being lost, all of it bubbling up and lashing out in a feral outburst. He would control one thing in his life and house.

Tristan.

He lumbered toward her.

Tristan had had enough. She was done with this world of pain and abuse at the hands of someone who was supposed to protect her. Her fingers balled into a fist. Her hair, slick with gravy, fell to one side of her face. Tristan's body heaved as if wracked with sobs. He pressed his attack, leaning low to scoop her up, to lay his hands on her, to act as if he owned her or her body.

She punched him in his throat.

Her father reeled backward, unable to catch his breath. She pounced into him, letting her weight and momentum do most of the work in toppling him backward. Next to the fork she had once so carefully placed on her napkin. She pressed the tines to his eye and waited until she had his full attention.

"You come near me again…" She shifted her position, drawing her knee into his crotch. "You touch me again, and I'll kill you."

"You are dead to me."

Tristan put her full weight on her knee to push herself up, then ran out of the house. Into the waiting arms of the night. To the streets…

… where Mulysa found her.

"What's a fine girl like you doing out here?" Mulysa asked, his voice all silvery and polished in that way roughnecks could be.

"Chilling." Though terrified and alone, Tristan wasn't going to admit any vulnerability, silvery and polished or not. Mulysa sized her up with a glance.

"Where you stay at?"

"Around."

"Girl, why you playing? I know these here streets like the back of my hand."

There it was. She was penniless. Hungry. Hurting. And Mulysa was there with his big wad of cash. Taking her to expensive restaurants, well, shit, Olive Garden anyway. Treating her like she was worth something.

"You got potential."

"Potential to do what?"

"Be in this here game. Come work for me."

"Doing what?" Tristan knew the moment would arrive. Nothing was free, especially from a man. He'd fed her, clothed her, and put her up. Rent was due.

"I got something for you." He slid a wooden box over to her. "Didn't I say I'd take care of you?"

She opened the box up. Inside were two thin blades. She'd never seen anything like them. She could grip them like brass knuckles, but the edges jutted out at angles. She loved the way they caught the light and their perfect balance in her hands.

"You right, you right." Though his tone said, "you most certainly do."

"What do you want me to do with these?"

"You got all that hate and anger in you. I just want to put it to good use. Get you paid."

Tristan went out early in the morning and would stray into rivals' territories at seven in the morning. Catch them when they'd been out all night, catch them drowsy or otherwise slipping. And get them. She staked out places from behind bushes for hours. Rain, sleep, snow, heat, she would do whatever it took, suffer whatever conditions to get to her enemy.

The things she did in Mulysa's name were bad enough. When she found Iz only a year later, she was a different woman. Hard. Skilled. Feared. No one knew her name, she had no name as far as she was concerned. She was simply an extension of Mulysa's will. His name rang out because he could always call her down. His shadow. His weapon of choice. Iz changed all of that.

Iz she found in an alley. She reminded her of a kitten which had been abandoned to fend for itself. Dirty. Bleeding from a hundred little scratches. Infested with who knows what. Living under abandoned cars. Lost. Frightened. Could practically fit into the palm of her hand. The kind of kitten that immediately got into her heart and made her want to protect it. Not only safeguard it, but be the kind of person worthy, privileged enough, to be with it. With her. Iz always thought that Tristan saved her life, but Tristan knew it was the other way around.

Mulysa took Iz away from her. She would have done anything for Iz and proved so on many an occasion.

He got her back on drugs after Iz fought so hard to get clean. And he touched her. Touched her the way Tristan's father wanted to touch her.

And he had to pay.

The blades curved naturally around her palms like an extension of her arm. He would pay. And pay again.

Dreadlocks started in the middle of his head, the front half faded, Prez shifted in his seat, adjusting it further into a lean position as if the person who sat in the seat before him wasn't gangster enough. None of which fooled Naptown Red. He sensed Prez's lingering discomfort, his church-boy heart beating through his thug-lite exterior. Didn't matter, though, since it wasn't as if the church bus was going to pick him up out here.

Both sides of the street were lined with parked cars for blocks in either direction. Naptown Red parked around back then led them around to the front of the house. The wall thrummed with the pulse of the music inside. A couple of the neighbors hung out on their porches, drink and cigarettes in hand, shooting the shit. It wasn't as if they were going to call the police at the first sound of drunk and/or loud niggas on the lawn. Enjoying his role as concierge and consummate host, Naptown Red smiled, hearing the music bump as soon as they opened the doors.

This wasn't some basement party, all dim lights, slow jams, and grinding on the dancefloor. No, the party was all the way live: bright, loud, and a little crazy. Li'l Jon skeet-skeet-skeeted from the DJ's turntable, the bass turned so loud that it threatened an assault charge. Naptown Red took in a deep whiff. Sure, there were the usual chips and shit in bowls scattered strategically through the house so that no guest had to stray too far to snack, but that wasn't the kicker. Marble's Soul Kitchen catered the party: collard greens, macaroni and cheese, sweet potatoes, and fried chicken. Red needed them to know that he would take better care of them than their mommas. And the best part, ladies walked around with silver trays, serving beer, wine, or (inexpensive) champagne.

Topless.

"They cool?" the brother at the door asked, stopping Fathead and Prez. Samoan had to run in his family, because he topped four bills easy. Dressed in all black, he gave a wary stare at Fathead. His Tshirt was a dirty shade of beige over a pair of blue sweatpants. He wore dress shoes though he had no socks. No watch either; his minutes stretched into hours and melted into days. Lost.

"Yeah, they with me."

"What was that about?" Prez asked.

"Cover. Shit, I ain't trying to feed a house full of hungry-ass niggas out of pocket. Brothers don't go anywhere else for a dinner and a show for free. Twenty dollars a head, plus they got to tip the ladies. And they were happy to pay the twenty dollars." Now that they knew what they were getting, Naptown Red already had it figured out that next time he would charge $50. Word was out as soon as he had a full house. Sell it as an exclusive ticket and let word of mouth take care of the rest.

"Didn't you used to go out with her?" Fathead pointed to a high yellow-complexioned honey, a little on the thin side, but tall and proud. Her small breasts popped pertly with each step. A tight Jheri curl, that looked like a baby Afro from a distance, crowned her. She grinned defiantly, taking a higher step for an additional bounce.

"Yeah, I hit that." She wore the navy-blue shorts of a flight attendant's uniform and blue hose and matching pumps. He loved the way she rolled and pitched, too bad he couldn't remember her name. Sometimes he just opened his mouth and whatever line of shit trickled out he worked with, counting on his charm and wit to see him through. Mostly, he stalled for time to think of a way to turn the situation to his advantage. "I get down like Sprite, except that I don't obey my thirst, I obey my look. That's my motto."

Naptown Red left Prez to find his own footing at the party. Church boy or not, he still had eyes that worked and there was no harm in perusing the smorgasbord of flesh that he — as consummate host considerate enough to turn up the air conditioning to make sure the nipples stayed popped — had laid out. Red toured the party, giving his guests the opportunity to thank him and tell him how much the bomb his party was. Playing it cool, he gave a slight head nod, letting his eyes tell the rest. The party had splintered into discrete clusters of conversations and activities. Leering thugs pretended to watch the large-screen TV set to pre-season football, ogling any nipple in sight. He thought about getting another TV and setting up a PlayStation console on it, but he didn't know how that would go over. Maybe next time. Thick rolls of smoke billowed from the dining room.

But the women were the center attraction, exactly how he wanted it (thus he nixed his plans to add video games: if it came down between titties and John Madden, it was a toss-up. And they could get John Madden at home, but only Red could provide the titties). The white women looked straight out of a "Blondes On Blacks" porn site, just this side of white trash — that upscale Jerry Springer demographic that brothas couldn't resist. The sistas stepped right out of a rap video. The more modest ones wore lingerie which revealed more than if they had simply come topless, so Red didn't complain. The party threatened to overwhelm him. Red made his way to him, pointedly rubbing against one of the ladies "mmm-hmm"-ing his approval in her ear. She craned her neck to flash him a smile.

"I'm all about the squilla. He'll be here," Naptown Red said, but Prez had lost interest in anything that he had to say. Following the strength of Prez's gaze only to land on the figure of a young lady dancing on a nearby table. She wore a white cowboy hat and matching leather skirt and boots. Her ensemble practically glowed against her mocha skin. Auburn hair flowed out the back of her hat. Long slender legs uncrossed and crossed quickly when she sat in mid-routine. A tattoo, like the top half of two red balls, peeked from above her skirt.

Her eyes searched Naptown Red for the tell. He nodded, letting her know that a large tip was heading her way. She turned, without saying a word, and pushed Prez onto the couch. Whatever mild protests he offered ceased when the DJ picked up on the cue and interrupted an Usher cut with another Li'l Jon cut. She turned her backside to Prez, her body catching the rhythm of the song. She slinked backward, her body contorting into a languid curving "S" that made its way toward him. Swishing side to side, she made a tentative dip into his lap. Turning to face him, she ran her hands down his chest, crouching between his legs as she continued to let her hands trail lower.

Prez jumped.

The gathering crowd laughed. Red feared that his plan might backfire, causing Prez to be the center of humiliation, but the guys soon started cheering Prez and the girl on. She stood up, shaking about a few more times before settling into Prez's lap for real. She let out an approving "ooo" much to the delight of Prez, whose back was clapped for the honor.

"Come on, I got more to show you," Red said.

"Aren't your guests going to miss you?" Prez asked.

"With all them titties to stare at? They probably don't even know that I'm out." Naptown Red beamed with a cobra's smile. "We got business in back."

"That where the hidden sex rooms are?" Fathead asked, not able to keep the eagerness out of his voice. Naptown Red explained that the rumors circulating about his parties — rumors he, himself, started — was all about marketing. He made it sound as if there was an extra level of party available to the truly connected. Much like the exclusive — rumored to be high-stakes-only — poker game. It all added to the mystique, coming to life behind the closed doors, away from the noise and temptation.

"What we playing?" Fathead asked. "Texas Hold 'Em?"

"You been watching them white boys on TV too long." Naptown Red pictured himself as a prince who ruled with style. He didn't need all the chestthumping and territory-marking pissing contests that came with having to prove their bona fides. No, he'd simply get a feel for them over cards. Some James Bond villain shit, except none of that punk-ass baccarat mess. They'd play Spades.

"Hup. He got the king of spades," Fathead said. He had a habit of thinning his eyebrows whenever he was on meth. These days, two scabby rectangles above his eyes scarred his face and made him appear constantly startled. He knew one girl who removed her eyelashes, convinced they were antennae broadcasting her business to the FBI. With lips like cracked rubber, the flesh of his cheeks eaten away, and a ring of fat swelling his neck, Fathead soldiered on.

"It ain't what you got, it's how you play 'em," Naptown Red said.

"There are still three cards that can take that king." Prez ordered his cards. He'd come a long way from when King found him scrounging around for bits of rock behind where Dred's soldiers had been slinging, hoping for anything that might have spilled out. A life that revolved around doing enough work to scrape together enough for another blast. Those days weren't too far in his rearview mirror, but King's words echoed in his head. He was full of potential and could do anything he wanted. It was time to start living into that potential. But he didn't know where to begin. Or how. Only that he had to do something, somehow begin his journey. King believed in him and he wanted to justify that belief.

Trapped in a cycle of need and placating need, he constantly sought attention to soothe some deep ache inside. Wayne helped him focus on his future and had him reading all sorts of books to stimulate his mind and his curiosity. A New Kind of Christian. The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Black Boy. Blue Like Jazz. And the Bible, of course.

"Don't confuse being a character with having it," Wayne told him.

He knew he was being shaped into something new. Something wondrous. And he prayed for Wayne. And King.

"I hope someone does for you what you've done for me."

The residents of Breton Court, the Phoenix Apartments, and so many places in between, had long given up on themselves. But King — a street legend — thought he was ready. And Prez wanted to prove to him that he was. No matter what it cost him.

"West side niggas had to go east side cause King had that place locked down. That's a whole lot of unexploited real estate."

"So what you looking for?" Prez asked.

"Drilling rights, motherfucker. What you think?" Naptown Red asked. "You think you ready to put in some work?"

"If there's work to be done," Prez said. "I'm here to do it."

So he decided to get on with Naptown Red. Maybe learn some of the inside news and feed it to King. He doubted King and them would approve, but he figured he could handle the risk considering the potential payoff.

"Time to raise up, gentlemen."

"Your time is done."

Naptown Red thought about setting up a dogfighting ring in a daycare. Something to carve out his own niche in the game. Low risk, low overhead. Low pay-off. If he wanted a steady stream of ends, he'd have to get his own connect and set up his own operation.

"Uh oh, she coming," Prez said. "When he sat back, I knew he had that one."

"Come on wit it," Fathead said.

"All right, Cleetus," Red said, throwing the queen of spades on the table. Prez had good eyes and good instincts. Way better than Fathead. He could handle himself under pressure. Cards revealed a lot about a man. While Prez kept quiet and watched people, Fathead was all bluster and bluff.

Naptown Red stacked the deck.

"Uh oh, the sleepy giant wants some," Fathead said.

Fathead's life was divided between BC and AC: Before Crack and After Crack. BC he remembered that Christmas time was the best time of the year, poor or not. His folks got together, got a little tree, strung up some lights. They had a few presents. Nothing big or fancy, that wasn't the point. They spent time together, had their little traditions and showed each other they were family. Folks came over and cooked; family came together and they laughed.

AC, no one came over.

His first year of high school, BC, he had nice clothes and used to always wear designer merchandise. When he dressed, he came correct, knew who to hang with and how to hang with them. He was down with his music, down with his sports, shit, by his world's standards, he was a man of high culture. But he still felt like a piece of shit. A wound, a black hole of pain sucked all of the contentment and hope for happiness out of his life.

The first time he got high, AC, he got paranoid, convinced people were out to get him. He ended up hiding under the bed, bawling his eyes out like a little bitch. The drug was that overwhelming. He snorted deeply, letting it drip down the back of his throat, leaving a dull medicinal taste. His eyes pitched and rolled behind their lids, tracing intricate patterns of light and color. The high never fixed him, never felt comfortable.

"That your book?" Fathead asked.

"Nuh uh. You got to follow suit," Prez said.

"I better not see you play a diamond."

Look at 'em thinking hard. It was so easy for Red to identify bullshit. Fathead's pupils dilated to the outer rims of the corneas. His eyes appeared to flatten. His black fingernails scratched at his Styrofoam cup then itched along his arm. He had carved the word "guilty" onto his left shoulder. He'd spent too much time in his uncle's meth lab. Some trailer over by Mars Hill. Places easily destroyed and abandoned. As disposable as the people. With the windows shut and the blinds drawn, the smell of ammonia seeped into everything. All the places had the same tangles of tubing between glass jars and bowls, stacks of jam jars and measuring cups unless they went upscale, using Vision Ware bowls or something.

"Cut by my own partner," Naptown Red said.

"Yeah, he straight-up novice," Prez echoed.

"This lady came into the shop today," Fathead began, trying to shift topics from his inept play. "Showing pictures of herself buck naked or with just a thong on. She big, but she don't care if she looks big or not. Cause she's a freak."

"You can keep those chicks that look like boys. I need me something firm," Red said.

"Tell 'em what you call them."

"Slabs. I need something to hold on to. The only problem with freaks is that they don't know when to turn it off."

"Preach to this, boy," Fathead said.

"Freaks are always freaks, have always been freaks, and that's the only way they know to be. They need to know that they got to be a lady sometimes, too. I don't want a freak raising my children."

Prez grinned at him. "You right, some women ain't got a freak bone in their bodies."

"Unless you put one in them," Fathead said. Red reached over to give him a pound.

"But see, you didn't answer the question," Red continued. "Why don't women want to be freaks? I'll tell you."

"Who you supposed to be?" Prez asked with a smile on his face because he guessed what was coming.

"The doctor. And the doctor is in."

"Doctor of what?" Prez enjoyed his role as straight man.

"Booty-ology," Red said.

They all threw their cards into the center of the table. The alcohol hit them, their peals of laughter bounced about the room.

"You see, if more women were freaks, dudes wouldn't cheat. They wouldn't have a chance to. Cause a freak would be all into him. They'd be all into him, calling him up, talking that talk." Naptown Red affected a female voice, leaning in like a drunk prostitute. "'What you doing?' 'How you doing?' 'How you hanging?' 'Are you strong, baby?' Then she'd lay it out for him. 'Come see me, I got a gift for you. I really mean a gift, too.' Then she'd give him the gift, show him a good time, rub on his leg, get him all hard, then tell him to get back to making his money and that he can take care of her later on. You know what I mean?

" Or she calls up and is like 'meet me at Nordstrom's on the fourth floor. We can go shopping.' She meets him, and before they go shopping, she gives him some head. Then she turns and says 'before we go shopping, let me brush my teeth.' You know what that tells me?"

"That she's a freak?" Fathead asked in a tone that sounded like he was taking notes.

"That she's a proper lady and a freak. What nigga's gonna cheat?"

"Having a freak sounds exhausting," Prez said. "Too much work."

"You got to be up for it. Not every man can handle a freak," Red said. "That's when you come see me. I'll put you on that regimen. Myoplex and one teaspoon of noni juice."

"What's Myoplex?" Fathead asked, again with that tone.

"It's a natural herb. Keeps you raw for as long as you want. A whole weekend. You might have wood, but Myoplex will give you a brick. Noni juice is the mojo. That's the finishing move. All-purpose health."

"I'm ready to snatch the pebble from your hand." Fathead raised his fist for another bump, but Red left him hanging.

"Anyway," Red continued. "You don't think if women were more like that, men wouldn't cheat?"

"Nope, we'd cheat," Prez said.

"How can you say that?" Naptown Red asked.

"Cause we men. You show me the most beautiful, loving, freak-when-the-time-is-right woman in Hollywood, and I'll show you a man who's tired of sleeping with her. We chase women the same way fiends chase that high. Cause we have to. Got something in us we got to fill. And either way, chasing that feeling, costs us one way or another." Prez laughed at his own joke, like a great fool not comfortable in his own skin.

"I got a connect. Some Jamaicans come through North Carolina." Naptown Red put his cards down. "Fathead and you oversee distribution."

"Dred know?" Prez asked.

"This here's on the side. I got the package, y'all dish it out. We split what comes in. We do."

"So how we gonna do this?" Fathead asked.

"A man must have a code. We live by rules: Never come up short. Never be burnt. Never be late. Never be slow."

"That's a lot of nevers," Fathead said.

"Don't get high. Don't carry. Don't use names on the phone."

"We all nevers and don'ts."

"This here's serious business. Life and death. So that's how we do this. That's how we stay out of jail. That's how we stay alive."