Prez hated being called down to the principal's office. There was a bench right outside of her door where those awaiting her judgment waited. Not only could she watch each delicious squirm — and she'd let you wait there, stewing in your anxiety, dread, and guilt until you were fit to burst before she called you in — but her office was the first along the corridor. That meant that students and teachers had to pass in order to get to the other offices — the nurse's station, the guidance counselor, and so on — becoming tacit players in the shaming game.
And then he awaited his punishment.
Prez, Fathead, and Naptown Red relaxed at Red's crib. Dred had posted bail for them and assured them that he had lawyers at the ready to defend them. But they were instructed to wait at Red's until he could meet with them. He needed to switch up houses to deflect eyes and they needed to stay low until he had them set up. Prez's stomach bottomed out at the summons.
Naptown Red took his endo in deep, allowing it to work its magic inside him. It mellowed him out in a way that released him from having to play a role. Long as he was free, paid, and high, he was good. The game hadn't changed: get locked up, keep your mouth shut, stand tall, and you'd be taken care of. Naptown Red had all of the angles worked out. Just like how Dred sprang Mulysa, even if he didn't want anything to do with him once he got out, he didn't have much choice but to take care of Red and his crew if he wanted to keep his street cred. It wasn't as if they'd been busted doing their own thing; technically they were on the clock for Dred. Doing their do hadn't made them any more sloppy, just the opposite in fact, as they had to be more careful fearing Dred's retaliation far more than the police. Worst-case scenario, Red would break Dred off a piece of the action and they'd be square, because business was business.
"You think we in trouble?" Fathead asked.
"Where you think we is? Kindergarten?" Naptown Red had the belief that he was a shot-caller. It reeked in the tone of his voice. Play the part, be the part. First these two reacted to him like planets pulled into orbit by this sheer gravity then others, seeing them, would fall into line. That was how kingdoms were built.
"Just saying, won't he be mad? We lost his money and his package, then on top of that, he has to come out of pocket to bail us out." Fathead skittered nervously about. His exhaled smoke didn't seem to stave off his anxiousness. He didn't tell the police much. Certainly they had Dred's name already. No harm in giving them what they already had. And if they had Dred, they had to know who his main lieutenants were. And where some of the stash houses were.
"You give the ghetto a bad name." Red snatched the joint back from him as if he were a child wasting good food. "That's the cost of doing business."
"But Dred…"
"I ain't afraid of Dred. Green hisself couldn't work those corners any better than us. Shit, we out there on the front lines." Naptown Red had a way of sounding like he supported those in charge while undermining them at the same time to rally folks around him. "I got your back. So you better learn to squad up."
"Squad up?" Fathead grabbed a bag of halfeaten Doritos from the coffee table and absently began stuffing them into his mouth.
"Look here." Red reached into a nearby drawer and retrieved a gun. "This here might suit you."
"What is it?"
"A Beretta. Light on recoil. A bitch's gun." Red let the insult fly and sink in before cleaning it up a little. "A starter gun for you. Let you get used to the idea before moving you up to something serious."
"Yeah, I don't think so. It's not my thing." It wouldn't matter if he had fifty guns on him, Fathead didn't have it in him to kill a man. He survived by rolling over, allying himself with whoever could protect him.
"Suit yourself." Red tucked it into his dip. "Probably blow off your joint with it anyways."
Heavy thuds hammered on the front door. Fathead nearly fell out of his seat. Naptown Red eyed him with mild disgust, beginning to re-think their partnership. He didn't need any weak links at the table. Peeking through the eyehole, he sucked his teeth in Fathead's direction.
"Dred, my nigga." Red opened the door and gave him a pound. "You alone?"
"I need to be here with anyone?" Dred stepped inside. His facial hair grew in odd patches, none of which took away any of the boyish nature of his face. But his eyes glared about, ancient and rheumy, caught up in his machinations. "Nah, shit. When you here, you with family." Naptown Red knew better. Dred's king was never alone. Not with as many enemies as he had not to mention Black on the hunt. Probably a soldier at the car as lookout. And Garlan's ass had to be around somewhere. Red glad-handed as best he could, but there was no play with Dred. Only a brooding intensity, like a volcano deciding when, not if, it were going to erupt.
"What is this here?" Dred gave a cursory onceover to the two in the living room.
"Nothing, just chillin' like you said. Staying low."
Dred projected a mien of barely suppressed anger approaching the group, with the tone of personal disgust and irritation. Their first reaction was to give him plenty of space to vent. They knew they were in for getting their asses chewed. Naptown Red lit some incense he had on an end table next to a burnt spoon. The scented smoke proved too cloying.
"You ain't saying one motherfucking think I want to hear." Dred marched to the couch where Fathead rested. He simply stared until Fathead got up to join Prez on the other one.
"We got rules for a reason. Protocols. We do things a certain way to not get caught. We do business with folks we know. Who this motherfucker?"
"This is Prez. He hung out with Green and his crew. I brought him on to do work."
"How you know him?"
"My man Fathead here made the intro." As Naptown Red beamed with confidence and reassurance, Prez sank into himself, dismissed and dejected. "See? We all about protocol."
"Then how did we end up in jail?
"Shit happens."
"Shit happens? Shit happens and I get calls at three in the morning. Shit happens and I got to pay lawyers and bail bondsmen. Shit happens and I gotta make fools ghost so the state ain't gotta case. Shit happens and someone starts talking to po-po like a kid trying to make nice with Santa. What they ask?"
"Didn't ask me shit. I lawyered up soon as they slapped cuffs on my black ass." For the first time Naptown Red sounded nervous, edging into unfamiliar territory.
"They got names." Prez hugged himself.
"Who?"
"Red. Mulysa. Garlan. Baylon." Prez straightened up but stared straight ahead. "That's who they came at me with. Wanted me to confirm who they were."
"They didn't mention Nine. Where she at?" Fathead chimed in.
"She on… special assignment."
"She ain't around, that's for damn sure." Fathead puffed up and shifted on the couch, confident that at least they were on the clock putting in work.
"What about me?" Dred turned to Prez.
"They talk about you like a ghost. A whisper."
"Yeah, I like that. Poof." Dred blew into his fist and exploded it into wiggling fingers. "Still, I don't like folks talking."
Prez wore a cologne of panic. His heart stammered, a foreboding filling his heart. Expectant eyes took in Dred's every move like he couldn't get enough of him. Fathead, in a jackknife crouch more nervous than before, shoveled more Doritos into his mouth to comfort himself.
"You need anything?" Prez asked. "We straight," Naptown Red said.
"Good, cause I'd like to think that I treated you all fair." Dred walked the perimeter of the room. With a casualness, he peeked in corners and checked out the layout.
"Nah, we good."
"We alone?" Dred patted himself down as if he misplaced something.
"Just four fellas kicking it."
"That what you do when you working for me? Kick it?"
"Dred, man, I think you operating out of some kind of misperception," Red started.
"Spare me, Red. I know your kind. You align yourself to those with power and manipulate those without it. You think you
the smartest man in the room. Like you the only one that knows something."
"I…" Dred's tone chastened him as well as rubbed Red hard the wrong way.
"You're going to want to be quiet now." Dred raised two fingers, his hand rearing up like a cobra about to strike. "Here's what I know. Niggas always wanna hustle. We'll put in more work, do more dirt, often for less than minimum wage, and act like it's somehow better than working a nine-tofive. No matter how much cash I lay out, product I provide, or corners to sell it from, it's never enough. Ain't that right?"
Prez nearly pissed himself when Dred turned his direction. He curled away from him a bit, crossed his arms over his chest as if to fend him off. Dred's eyes bored through him as if examining for any weakness or flaw. Prez couldn't move under their scrutiny.
"Names have power. You name someone, you have power, dominion, over them. When you call someone by name, you imply knowledge of them, a certain level of intimacy. Names have to be respected. God took three of the Ten Commandments to lay it out. This is who I am." Dred ticked off the first finger. "Don't put anything or anyone above me." Dred raised his second finger. "Do not misuse my name." Dred held up his third finger and stopped in front of Fathead. "What's my name?"
"D-d-dred," Fathead stuttered.
"Every time that name comes off your lips, I know."
"Dred, you ain't got to…" Red protested.
Prez moved into a colder, more frightened place.
"You, I'll deal with in a minute. I don't care if I'm dry-shooting as that joint, my name will not be disrespected. You feel me."
"Yeah."
"What's my name?"
"Dred," Fathead said.
"You want to say my name, fine. You do so to po-po and…"
Shadows erupted from the corners of the room. Strands, ebon ropes lashed at him. Two fear-forms held him fast, vaguely human-shaped, at each arm. Four strands latched on to the corners of his mouth, pulling just taut enough to reveal his bleeding gum line. Two more strands hooked into each eye, holding them open. Thousands of threads sprang from the carpet like a harvest of night. They dug into the flesh around his neck, a penumbra obedience collar.
"Here's the problem as I see it. This one here has been snitching. Gave me up. If I hadn't gotten you all out of there, who knew who else he would have given up."
"Let me at that snitch bitch," Naptown Red said.
"Don't worry, he didn't give you up. You ain't significant enough to warrant police attention. However, you did vouch for him."
Naptown Red pulled out his gun. He was at a crossroads moment and had only seconds to make his play. Were he a man of deep thought and methodical planning — or simply had the time to weigh his options — he might have shot Fathead on the spot and thrown himself on Dred's mercy, banking on the show of loyalty to buy him a few days or weeks. However, Red was a man of intuition and opportunity. Fathead had given up Dred's name but not his. What Dred hurled as an insult, Red interpreted as an advantage. He was an unknown, off the radar of Five-O. And Dred was here alone and preoccupied with binding or torturing Fathead. With a few shots, he could remove Dred as an obstacle and bind Fathead to him. Naptown Red fired off five rounds.
Dred turned and waved his hand. The bullets seemed to move in slow motion. The bullets whirred past, their trajectories marking the air like spinning tracers. He moved out the way of all of them except the last one. He allowed that bullet to tear through the muscle of his arm. With a scientific detachment, the pain stabbed straight into his brain and he watched his blood as if experiencing both for the first time in centuries. With a flick of his wrists, he shot a spear of shadow at Naptown Red. The plume pierced his heart, leaving a frozen expression of surprise on his face. Naptown Red dropped to his knees, the Beretta fell from his hands, and then he toppled forward. Dred strolled over to the gun, scooped it up, and then walked over to Prez.
"Don't let all that fool you. Magic takes a toll on a body. People weren't meant to wield it. We just weren't built for it. That kind of energy, even the dragon's breath, can burn up a person."
Prez remained paralyzed in his chair, still unable to move.
"We still have a problem, don't we? Red vouched for Fathead, but Fathead vouched for you. You see my dilemma, don't you?"
Prez's body tensed as Dred pressed the cold metal of the Beretta against the back of his neck. Prez could feel exactly how many hairs it disturbed, conscious of every quaver in the man's hand, down to his pulse. Though the chaos of his thoughts threatened to consume him, he fought to stay calm. A serene calm, one that came with the knowledge that his life was held in a trigger finger. One twitch and it was like blowing out a candle.
"Nakia."
"What's that?"
"Nakia. King's daughter."
"Oh, now that is a useful bit of information. Names have power."
With a gentle squeeze, the candle's flame was snuffed out.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Percy walked along the sidewalk closest to the traffic of Michigan Street, his protective nature wanting to stand between potential danger and Had. As much a herding instinct as Kay who trotted alongside them, working in tandem to keep Had on the sidewalk. With school out, the days were even less structured for Percy. He dropped his little brothers and sisters off at Big Momma's place. They'd be able to go to the park across from Breton Court, at School 109. There was a free lunch program there and they'd be able to play. On an overcast day like today, they probably wouldn't be able to break out the Slip 'n Slide and have a time. But they might. He pictured them in their little bathing suits, squealing with delight and shivering on Big Momma's porch when they ran into the shade. He missed being young.
Percy was seventeen.
A lifetime had passed during his high school years. But one more year and he'd be out. He never believed he would have made it, but between Wayne and Outreach Inc, and King, he could imagine himself graduating. He'd allowed himself the thoughts of going to college, Ivy Tech or some other trade school. He loved to cook. But these were dreams of tomorrow. As always, he had to make it through today first.
"I don't like storms," Percy said. Had turned to him as they walked, not breaking stride, but attentive. "See them clouds over there? Every time I see one, they get closer and closer, like they're chasing me."
Had ran his fingers into Kay's fur.
"It's okay though, cause they never catch me. They roll over me and make a lot of noise, but they never get me. I still don't like them, though."
They ambled along the street. Percy spent as much time on the west side as he did on the east these days, but the east side was still his comfort spot. He stayed at the Phoenix Apartments, but hung out all over. So when he thought of searching for the cup and Rhianna's ring, he immediately thought of the castle.
The castle was a house at Michigan Street and Dearborn Avenue. Word was that back in the day, it was originally built for the Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan. Percy knew the neighborhood. A man pedaled down the street on a slightly rusted mountain bike. An olive-green knapsack slung across his back. Percy waved at him, receiving a head nod in return. The man sold bootleg DVDs in the neighborhood, his current stock including that week's film releases and a plethora of kung fu flicks. Wearing only a pair of tighty whiteys, an old white man rocked back and forth on a porch watching the traffic pass by, beer in one hand. Three days' worth of facial hair stubbled his face. Gray streaked his chest hair.
"Hey, Kool-Aid," the man shouted, a shot at Percy's red shirt stretched over his bulbous frame.
"Hey." It wasn't the first time he had heard the reference. It didn't bother him. Not really.
"Weather's gonna break soon."
"Sure hope so. It's hot. Heat does strange things to folks."
"Where you heading?"
"Off to a castle. Looking for a cup," Percy said in a matter-of-fact tone as if that perfectly explained everything.
"Oh yeah!" The man imitated the cry from the Kool-Aid commercial.
; Had's face didn't register a flicker of emotion. Only a quizzical gaze as if not understanding any of it, then returning to their trek, moved by whatever unfelt wind filled his sails. If he had the words to describe his emotions or reason for accompanying Percy, they like most everything else went unvoiced. His small hands tugged at Percy's side then pointed to a boy on a cell phone.
"Why'd you have to tell her that?" A scrawny white kid in a wife-beater tank top shouted into a cell phone. Despite the heat, he wore over-sized blue jean shorts and a wool cap. Wisps of red hair sprouted along his jaw line and the sun deeply freckled his skin. The boy pled in a tone usually reserved for a girlfriend going emotional on a guy or a buddy about to bust his alibi. Then, in that way moods could swing without warning, the boy turned angry. He paced back and forth, a caged animal about to buck. "All right, motherfucker. I'm going to come over there and kick your ass."
The boy darted into his house and cut out the backdoor into an alley. Hopping the fence, he dashed through another yard in time to meet another white dude as he exited his house. Blackhaired, thin in the face, a toothpick to one side, his well-worn Reggie Miller jersey showed off his sleeve of tattoos down each arm. He spit out his toothpick. The two veritably snarled as they charged one another. The sleeve-tattooed boy ducked under the freckled kid's lunge, grabbed his legs, and took his feet out from under him in a backyard UFC move. Once the freckled kid hit the ground, the house whose yard he had cut through emptied, as did the house the sleeve tattooed boy came out of.
Chaos erupted all about Percy, Had, and Kay, who remained motionless, not drawing any attention to themselves. Kay bared his teeth and gums, barking rapidly then snatching at the air with his jaws. A feral glint in his eye warding off the encroaching madness.
"Come on, let's get you out of here before you get hurt." The voice came from behind them, but Kay knew him by smell and calmed as he neared. Lott had the sullen appearance of someone used to spending too much time alone.
"Lott. We're on a quest," Percy said, barely able to contain his excitement.
"Later, little brother. It's getting a little crazy out here."
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