King's War

CHAPTER TWELVE

The mayor implored to the city that the erupting violence was not race-related. The last thing he or any official wanted was to let that genie out of the bottle. Even the Concerned Clergy, that coalition of black pastors, was notably quiet on that front, focusing on the need to quell the violence on the streets. The media kept flashing the school picture of Lyonessa Perez, all cherub cheeks and teeth within a beaming smile, long brown hair with a white bow in it. The image of a little girl snatched away by street violence transcended race.

From the police commissioner on down, no matter what side of the political aisle they were on, they vowed to continue to fight their own war on terror. However, down in the unlit places, out of the glare of the media spotlight, reigned little men — big men, too — who knew, without embarrassment, their manhood lay in their guns. Without their guns, birds would laugh at them. But with their guns they could stop you, instill within you the fear. Infatuation was a selfish wildfire, fed by sex, as a masquerade of connection, and blared as a one-night stand even when it attempted to last for a season.

Tired of heating the house by leaving the oven door open, The Boars was the high priest of the corner. He prepared a quiet place, tended to the holy of holies, as the local fiends prepared to make their pilgrimage to his spot. A procession lined up just out of sight of the plasma center. He accepted them no matter where they were in life: sick, tired of it all, in a place of limbo wondering "now what?" In the short space of a walk from the plasma center to the edge of the property line of Breton Court, they transitioned from the daylight world to a sacred space. They headed to worship in a back-alley church, to partake in the ritual of taking communion.

The tips of his fingers scorched, his legs weak, shaky, with the pants falling just short enough to reveal a cigarette package taped to his ankle, the first supplicant brought their offering: a hundred dollars for six marble-size rocks of crack. The Boars knew the lie. The man believed that those would last him for a few days. But the fiend would have them devoured a few hours later. The Boars knew the ritual of inhaling from the fire put to the pipe, the sizzle of crack. How for a few moments, nothing could touch him here. Memories of family gone, time stood still, a shower of color, heat, and light. What Moses must have felt like on Mount Sinai, having glimpsed a part of God.

And The Boars knew what their conversation would sound like if they truly gave voice to how they felt.

"I hate you."

"I hate me, too."

"I need you."

"I need you, too."

The Boars paid some dude a dollar to buy a bottle of Wild Irish Rose for them. He and the crew waited around in the dope house, passing the bottle back and forth, while they smoked weed to pass the time. They worked in pairs and waited for customers, though The Boars found himself missing Garlan's company. Everyone was on point when they suspected Garlan might come through. He hated working with any of the new recruits because he hated having to explain himself and hated schooling young'uns. The street was the street. Too much eye contact, you became a threat. Too little eye contact, you became a victim.

"We ain't supposed to use product on the clock," he said in a waste of breath as the young'un sparked up some herb.

"This ain't Mary Kay, motherfucker. We ain't got to have makeover parties an' shit."

"Boy, you better watch your tone. I will cut you like an umbilical cord."

It was as if Fathead, Naptown Red, and Prez didn't just get popped. But, no, these corner boys didn't worry about cops since they mostly sold to neighborhood folks. One man on peep-hole duty could watch fiends walk up, walk around, getting out of cars. The transactions were simple enough. They'd knock, tell them what they wanted, slide money through the mail slot, the drugs would be slid back out. And he'd keep three hundred of every thousand dollars earned.

If Garlan was here, he'd understand. When he was high, he was on point. He felt better. He learned better. The Boars leaned back in his chair and thought about his high. "Yeah, that's money."

Someone knocked at the door. The young'un slid back the eye slot. "What you need?"

"I need a taste," a woman said.

"Ten dollars."

"I ain't got it. Can't we work out some… other arrangement?"

"Hold up." Young'un slipped the slot back. "The Boars, some fine-ass trick wants to trade some of that good stuff for a taste."

"How fine? We talking crackhead fine or foine fine?"

"Big booty foine."

"Think you can handle it?" The Boars asked.

"I'll lock it down."

The young'un unlocked the door then slid the brace that reinforced the door from push-in — or police battering ram — out of place. The Boars waited in the back corner, to guard the product and get a good look at this chickenhead. It wasn't as if he hadn't had a dope date or two in his time. And he might as well let the little dude have a piece.

The woman stepped in, a pair of handcuffs clicked in her hand as she spun one spindle through the rest of the cuff.

"Oh shit."

The young'un turned to The Boars, the wide grin on his face slowly dying as the panic on The Boars' face registered. By the time he turned back to Omarosa, she had her sawed-off brought to bear and wrapped one of her arms around his throat.

"You know the deal, son. Product and money."

The shotgun held The Boars' complete attention. He chanced a glance at the product on the table. Just like he knew there was a gun behind the table the baggies rested on.

"I…" He couldn't believe his run. First the police, now Omarosa. The only thing saving his hide was the fact that the police grabbed the package Naptown Red was working on his own. Not Dred's. Which meant this was the first he'd been hit for Dred's stuff. Still, there'd be some explaining to do and trouble did seem to be following him.

"Let me clear up the bit of confusion hitting you right now. You might be experiencing a bit of job loyalty. You don't want to report back to Garlan or Dred how you got took off by me. After all, shortie here," she flexed her arm a bit, easily lifting the boy from his feet and pulling him along further inside the doorway, "should've long been schooled on the subject of little ol' me. In fact, I'm offended that he wasn't. I'm beginning to think that Dred's feeling a little too secure in his spot right about now. Thinking he's the only shark in this pool. You've got to ask yourself at this point: is this shit worth dying for?"

Tires screeched outside the stash house. Omarosa peeked out the door to see La Payasa leading four of her crew — clones of roughneck Hispanic boys in oversized white T-shirts and baggy blue jean shorts like they were the required uniform — in a charge toward the house.

"Looks like we all got company." Omarosa yanked the young'un away from the front door as La Payasa stepped in.

"What's this shit?" La Payasa eased in through the open door with a dancer's gait. Thin but sturdy, her lithe physique belied the fact that she knew how to move and did so with determination and purpose. A crease, an old scar truth be told, etched the side of her face, but it was barely noticeable as her face was painted white with clown make-up. Black crosses covered each eye. Bedecked in her war paint, La Payasa was ready to dance.

"Looks like we got us a situation. And either way, it's Dred's very unlucky day." Omarosa kept her shotgun trained on The Boars, careful not to appear flustered by the new arrivals, who were uncertain who to train their guns on. La Payasa never brandished a weapon, instead stepped to Omarosa.

"You the one I need to talk to?"

"I'm the one with the sawed-off. Definitely puts me in the conversation." The young'un whimpered a bit, trapped in her arm lock. His pants dampened at his crotch.

The Boars kept his hands in plain sight while calculating the math of his situation. Omarosa was all about survival and take-offs. She enjoyed the game as much as anything else, an agent of chaos who meant to keep everyone on their toes. She'd rob from the Mexicans as quick as she would Dred, though she'd been off her game since the death of her brother, Colvin.

La Payasa was a stone bitch. Other than Mulysa or Green back in the day, only Omarosa had as fierce a reputation. Her fearless stance, unfazed by the complication of Omarosa, calmed her boys, who were rattled enough to just blast everyone in the room and call it a day.

"You here for the stash, the cash, or both?" Omarosa asked. "This here is a… transactional date. Each party has something the other wants."

"We all draw our moral lines in the sand." An elite few pocketed the profits meant to benefit the entire nation. When she had first brought it up to Black's attention, to quiet her up, they offered her a cut. That was when the luster began to fade on the organization. "We're here to send Dred a message. That he has started a war he can't win. And you?"

"Same thing. Plus the stash and cash. So it seems to me the message might get a little muddled."

"I think I can provide some clarity." La Payasa was a blur of motion as she drew her gun, shot The Boars in the side, and returned it to the front of her pants. The Boars clutched his side and scrabbled off to the bathroom. Omarosa watched him slam the door behind him then returned her gaze to the warrior clown. "He'll live. And can deliver my message to Dred."

"And the product?"

"I've sent my message. You can send yours. We good?"

"We good." Omarosa pulled the young'un close and kissed his cheek. "We good, sweetheart? You gonna let Dred know exactly what happened here?"

The young'un nodded. Hot tears trailed down his face.

La Payasa withdrew her crew.

The Boars tried to not move or panic. He fumbled for his cell phone as he pressed his free hand against his wound. 911 might not come to his address, but he could hope. A banging came from the door.

"We got a little unfinished business," Omarosa said.

"What?" The Boars leaned against the door.

"You got the cash on you."

Shit. "No I…"

"Before you finish that lie, I still got young buck right here."

"I called 911."

"You think I can't blast my way in there and out before they get here? Or go through them if I had to?"

Omarosa was patient. That was the way of her kind. And she wasn't one to leave money on the table. Dred wasn't directly responsible for her brother's death but he employed that dog, Baylon. Even as she thought the name, her heart burned with the fury of vengeance. That was also the way of her kind. It was bad business to be on the wrong side of the fey. "Don't make me repeat myself."

The Boars slid the five hundred he had on him under the door.

There were many days when Percy thought about what it would be like to have a real mom and dad. She'd get him up out of bed and fix breakfast while he dressed. By the time he got to the table, his dad would already be reading the paper, but he'd set it down at Percy's approach. His mom would put a plate full of eggs, sausage, and hash browns in front of each of them. They'd discuss issues of the day over the meal, both of his parents enjoying talking with him while also simply spending time with him. And they knew what was right and wrong. They laid down rules like no television until homework was done and how he had to go to church with them. But when they were done, his dad would take him outside and play football in the yard with him. His mom doted on her husband and kids, buying clothes, making food, cleaning the house, and yet finding time for them while helping in the community. His dad took him to school, where Percy proved to be extremely talented. He worked hard in school and was respected. The teachers liked him there, especially Mr Combs, who encouraged him to write more and pursue his dream.

It was the same dream.

Percy was embarrassed to bring anyone back to his house. Miss Jane lying in bed, covers pulled up about her like a burial shroud, a lighter in one hand and a bottle wrapped in aluminum foil in the other. Never sure if she was dead or alive, since she always smelled of decay and burnt skin. Her skin pallor leaned toward blue. Her shirt halfopen, revealing the full swell of her left breast. Her hair a matted mess. A trickle of foam escaped from the crease of her lips. Her eyes vacant. Now she truly was gone, and ever since his mother had died it was on him to take care of his little brothers and sisters. Some days it was too much. Piles of clothes left about the house. Percy's hoodie shadowed his eyes, eyes which bounced all over the place as they walked down the street. The peach fuzz on his lips itched slightly, well, not really, but he couldn't help messing with it.

More comfortable around the animal than people, Mad Had ran his fingers through Kay's fur, removing any burrs or knots. Dogs didn't judge. They didn't care if you had a bad past. They didn't care if you walked funny or talked funny. They didn't make fun of you. They were loyal and loved you. Kay wouldn't answer to any other name. Not "boy" or "dog" or a whistle or any gibberish meant to call him. His name would be respected and anything else was an affront to his canine dignity.

Part of Percy wanted to encounter something strange. King, Lott, and Wayne often had to fight weird creatures. They'd whisper about it when they thought he couldn't hear because they didn't want to glorify any of the fights they had. Fighting seemed to make them rather sad, like it was something they had to do but took no pleasure in. They weren't like the other boys out here who loved to fight, bragged on it like they had something to prove. To King and them, fighting was a last resort. Percy wanted something, an adventure, to call his own. To show them that he could hang with them. His own creature, maybe with the body of a leopard, haunches like a lion, feet like a hart. And a snake's head. That would be cool.

"Yon caitiff," an aged woman said, strolling up to Percy.

"Me, ma'am?"

"Who else?" She placed her had on Mad Had's head. "Oh, you're a fine lad. You both are. So brave and so true. Do you know where you're going?"

"Not really. I thought-"

"You'd follow your heart. Careful, there are no damsels out here. Tarry your heart and find the castle." The woman steadied herself as if suddenly dizzy.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm almost out of tricks. Tell Sir Rupert that I can only be freed by she who imprisoned me and that he should quit searching."

Percy smiled as the old woman staggered off. He nodded to Mad Had, who ambled silently after him. A song caught on Percy's lips.

"Jesus loves the little children…"