King's War kobc-3

by Maurice Broaddus

  "A friendly warning," he said.

  "Cause someone's hunting your crew."

  "I said I don't know nothing," Garlan yelled loud enough for any curious ears to hear.

  "Well, if you do," Cantrell began to hand him a card, but Garlan turned down the block and stepped off in a huff.

  "What you think?"

  "Evil is rare, but stupid is everyday," Cantrell said.

  "That so?"

  "He's a ghetto nihilist. Life don't mean anything to him. Any of them. They got no reason to value it… Now they done gone and killed somebody. Part of them dead too."

  "You ought to become a philosopher."

  "I got nothing out here and I'm too old to start over."

  "I ain't mad at you. It's a color thing, I got that," Lee said.

  "You're my forty acres and a jackass," Cantrell said.

  "I'm trying to relate to you… my brother. And all you got for me is names. It ain't your fault some politicians need to feel better about their beaner nannies and gardeners and decide to force a rainbow coalition on your behalf."

  Life pressed in on Garlan from all sides. Everywhere he turned, there were crossroads, each folding in on itself like a Gordian knot. In charge of a few knuckleheads, overseeing a corner or two, he enjoyed a comfortable spot with Dred. A little money coming through, set him up nice. Some wheels too, though he had to ditch them with Five-O on the hunt for them. But a car could be replaced; freedom couldn't. And he had no interest in being locked up.

  All the death haunted him, however. Each body a new weight on his conscience and it wasn't as if he had nothing but time to pass in a prison yard. He knew Rok from back in the day, but he got caught up in that Colvin mess and being between a player like Colvin and Dred and King was a bad place to find oneself in.

  Then Noles and Melle and that business with the little girl. That kind of drama would have po-po in his Kool-Aid forever or until they found someone to put it on. Catch a young black buck like The Boars, get him in the back seat of a sheriff's car, and he get mysteriously shot with them claiming suicide or some shit. Po-po notwithstanding, the hood was hot, jumping with pissed-off Mexicans and brothers alike. Shit, it was barely safe to walk down the street of his own hood.

  Which was how he found himself in Broad Ripple. On a Thursday night, the strip hopped as college kids crawled from bar to bar in a press of bodies and a good-time vibe. The lights of the Vogue flashed with a spotlight's glare. Live bands came through on a regular basis: Madonna's Abortion, The Chosen Few, Saving Abel, The Why Store. Nothing Garlan would every listen to. Every so often some old school hip-hop he could get with would come through: Rakim, De La Soul, Method Man, Redman, Cypress Hill. Tonight was some wannabe heavy metal band, so he kept stepping, pushing past the crowd of folks milling about out front. The young college-age kids without sense enough to recognize a shark in their midst or not wanting to appear racist by profiling him. Not wanting any drama, he cruised through them without even bothering to flex his game face.

  An old man danced on the corner across the street. Drunk. Homeless. People walked by as if they couldn't see him. Garlan crossed the street and put three dollars in his cup. It would go to whatever cheap booze wafted off him at that moment, but Garlan wasn't going to deny the man a taste. Whatever got him through the night.

  Melle was dead. Naptown Red. Fathead. Prez. The bodies kept stacking up all under his watch. He was supposed to look out for them. Hunters were on the prowl. Too many hunters and a thinning school of prey.

  And Garlan had the distinct impression that he was prey.

  Nature's dark opera played unabated. The frightful melody of the rain combined with the mournful wail of the wind to tear through the trees. Lightning scampered all around, chasing some unseen prey, the radiance of the full moon shining vividly through the oppressively low clouds. The thunder roared with its terrible echo. Garlan swore that it was less than a mile that he'd walked, yet it seemed interminable. Or maybe it was the silence that lengthened the trip. Turning north up College Avenue, he walked away from the main strip of Broad Ripple Avenue, away from the lights, until he got to the bridge that crossed the canal. Way he heard it, way back in the day, folks who lived in downtown Indianapolis used to build their summer homes in Broad Ripple. Large show-off houses with lots of rooms and windows. And there used to be an amusement park, like Coney Island, along the canal. Though the rides burnt down, the city kept the park. Lots of folks hung out at the bridge.

  Garlan scrabbled over the edge of the limegreen girders of the bridge out of view of the patrolling officers, and landed in the dirt. Usually the bridge thrummed with activity. Bridge kids, the kind of folks Garlan would have no trouble blending in with. Most of them were rich white kids from the suburbs, Carmel, Noblesville, Fishers, singing that "My parents don't understand me" song while driving their daddy's BMW back and forth. Others were skateboarders. A few punks. Goths. B-boys. Some were hoppers, folks who followed the train lines cross-country. And on Thursday nights it should have been bumping. But it was deserted. The lights of Broad Ripple filled the sky above him, but didn't seem to cut through the shadows under the bridge. It was just Garlan and his ghosts.

  "It all catches up to you after a while," a voice said from the shadows.

  "Who that is?"

  "It's just me." Baylon shuffled toward him.

  "What you need?" Garlan balled his hand, but kept it at his side. He didn't find Baylon's presence especially reassuring.

  "You."

  "What you want with me? Dred need me to come in? He could've hit me up on my cell. He didn't need to send-"

  "His errand boy?"

  "I wasn't going to say that," much as he believed it. "Much respect."

  "You underestimate your value. You Dred's number-one dude. His new number one."

  "I don't know about all that." Though the thought did please him.

  "A dog always returns to his master, especially when his master needs him most. Between Black, Dred, King, and the police, it's been hard out here for Dred's lieutenants. You his last one. The rest are gone or preoccupied. Soon it will just be a cozy little gathering. But… what to do about you?"

  Baylon lunged toward him just as Garlan turned his ring and disappeared. Garlan threw himself against the concrete embankment, evading the initial grasp. He turned to kick him. Garlan tried to brace himself as much as possible. With all the strength he awkwardly managed, he stomped.

  Baylon barely flinched, but the impact pushed him toward the river's edge. He couldn't hear above the roar or the current. Landing on his back, mired in the mud of a puddle, he locked eyes on Garlan. His heart pounded in his head. His mind, however, focused with clarity at the task at hand, detached, like he was playing a video game. Baylon's piercing howl cut through the noise of the storm.

  Garlan bumped against a barbed-wire fence. He cursed the Private Property — No Trespassing sign that swung wildly in the wind. He scanned for a weapon of some sort. A discarded piece of rebar was jammed between some concrete debris at the base of the bridge, but it meant rushing past Baylon to get it. The rain dumped down in sheets, creating a haze over the water against the lights overhead.

  Baylon slowed as he realized he had cornered himself. Garlan edged along the fence, never turning from Baylon, his hands feeling for any break in the fence. His pupils dilated, thick blood vessels wrapping his eyes like jealous lovers. Leaves crunched and twigs snapped underfoot with each lumbering step, his feet sliding in the thickening mud.

  Baylon's stride stiffened, each step requiring that much more effort. His laborious breathing sounded like wind tunnels. The mud by the fence bulged then oozed forward as if something plopped in it. Rain outlined the shadow of a figure. Baylon stiffened his hands. Without warning, he dashed forward and drove his fist through the center mass of the rain-occluded wisp. Blood sprayed the bridge embankment.

  Garlan faded back into view as his pulse lessened, the last beats of his heart bringing him into full view. Bay
lon grabbed Garlan's hand and slipped the ring from it. Placing it in the center of his palm, he examined it. Then he flicked it into the air, caught, and pocketed it before police came to investigate the scuffle.

  Now it was just him and Dred. Dred would have to turn to him again, and things would be like they were.

  The window latch clicked slightly as the glass slid up. An exhalation of a breeze jostled the curtains. The room was a murky swirl of shadows, unfamiliar and terrifying. The night hid the creature under the bed or bought camouflaging protection for the bogeyman in the closet. There were all sorts of predators in the night. Things that went bump in the night. Things that no amount of iron bars, safety glass, or fancy alarm systems could give the illusion of providing safety against.

  He slipped in noiselessly. Despite his build he moved with the grace of a thief, light of foot and touch. Her mother certainly didn't lack for imagination. She wanted her daughter to have a magical, safe childhood, a little girl's room fraught with little-princess dreams and little-princess trappings. Mementos of a childhood denied him. It took him forever to find. There was power in a name: a tracer spell might have sufficed, but the apartment complex had some sort of ward placed on it. His own mother used a similar spell also to hide from him.

  The little girl was just as beautiful as he imagined her. The sounds of light snoring filled the room as she snuggled into a thick pink blanket and pillow. For a moment he stood over her, just watching her sleep. He covered her mouth and sat down next to her. Her eyes sprang open, large with panic. Her balled little fists slammed into him, then slowly ceased as recognition filled her eyes. He removed his hand.

  "Daddy!" she whispered with enthusiasm, sitting up to give him a hug.

  "Nakia," Dred said.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Growing up, all of the adults in King's life filled his head with the idea that he had so much potential. That he was good and somehow destined to do great things. However, he had trouble enough leading his life much less the fact that he never truly envisioned himself as a particularly good man. He clung to the quiet belief that he never lived up to being the man he was meant to be. This knowledge both haunted and drove him. What he was slowly coming to accept was that he was a man out of place in this world. Try as he might to get caught up in the cynicism of this age, he couldn't shake his core faith that people were called to a purpose, were meant to stand for something. He'd been given a responsibility and had betrayed that. He didn't deserve anything approaching honor or respect, but he knew that no one was beyond redemption. Or forgiveness.

  Even himself.

  "Everything looks good, Mr White," said a small squat woman with large glasses who perked to attention around him like he was the last rib at a family barbecue. The nurses fussed about him, drawing blood and checking his pulse and pressure, poking and prodding him. The police had already left, marginally satisfied with the answers he had for their questions. His friends — his only true family — waited down the hallway.

  "When can I get out of here?" King raised the bed so he could sit up.

  "The doctors want to keep you overnight for observation. No reason why we can't let you go in the morning."

  "Can you send my people back here? I'd like to see them."

  "Only a couple at a time. We don't want a crowd in here." The nurse pushed her glasses up on her nose. A sweet smile curled on her lips, but she was not a woman to trifle with.

  King raised his hand to his forehead as if nursing a headache. The images replayed in his mind. The searing pain of being shot. After that, his memory became stills. Flashing lights. A breathing mask. Bleets of a machine. Doctors hovering over him. Then nothing. He dreamt of his father, though it wasn't his father. More like the ideal of his father. And there was water. Cool. Refreshing. Pure. Like drinking life itself. Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice Lady G enter.

  "Hey," Lady G said.

  "Hey," King straightened. He pulled the sheets down on his leg, not wanting her to see him in so pathetic a state. "Just you?"

  "Nah, they all out there. Wayne. Pastor Winburn. Big Momma. Percy. Had."

  "No Merle?"

  "He out of pocket. Some girl though. Calls herself La Payasa."

  "Who?"

  "Says she's with Black's crew. Helped bring Had and Percy back safe. So did Lott."

  "Yeah, I need to handle some things. Old business." The question was still there, unspoken — Why did you do it? — but silence reigned with no obligation to fill it.

  "King, I-"

  "You know what I've realized?" King cut her off. Nostalgic for times that never really existed. Sometimes he feared that he couldn't relax and enjoy life because he lived it like it was glimpses of happiness spent holding his breath, waiting for the fall to happen. "I've worn out my capacity to love. At least in my own strength and on my own terms. I've just sort of reached my limit on what I can do on my own. It's a big world out there and I'm still amazed by all the good. And there's still so much to do. Like this Black situation."

  "You and Merle go on about your duty. Your responsibility. It doesn't have to be you. The world will go on if you don't get on your white horse to try and save us all."

  "When I first met you, you seemed like such a scared little girl. I mean, you came across all hard and stuff, but I could tell. I wanted to protect you. Heal you. I lost my way. Tried to deny my feelings for you, but they were too strong. Fell in love with you. I thought you felt that way too." It was always so easy to be with her. She understood him in ways few others did, without him having to explain much. King stirred as if bored. His brow lowered. Her voice didn't fill him with the crazy passion it used to. Loving her was like loving a black hole. Some days, he thought he loved her so much he hated her for making him so weak. Then there was something else. Something he didn't want to have to admit to himself or voice because to voice it made it real. That he loved the idea of her loving him. That if she accepted him, he'd finally feel good about himself, because of who she was… Good. Innocent. Pure. "Everything I did, I did out of love."

  "I wanted to believe it. Trust in it. But part of me always thought that you loved your mission, not me." Lady G knew that was only part of it. Inside, she was still a little bit of that scared little girl. Trapped in a burning house with no one to protect her. To keep her from being burned. The idea of being loved so completely intoxicated her. It nourished her and she craved it. And she lost her way. She removed one of her gloves. The scars from her burns pulsed like throbbing veins. She held her hand out until King took it.

  "I'm guilty of many things. I'm sorry I hurt you. I loved you, but not the way I should have. I should have guarded your heart better. I hope you can forgive me."

  "I do." King squeezed her hand. "If I were to ask 'why?' would you have an answer?"

  "Would anything I say help? Can't we just move on?"

  "We can. Maybe we ought to. That would be easy. But not… real. We'd both always have questions that would haunt us."

  "Do you ever wonder what happened to us?"

  "Every day."

  "You left."

  "I…" by reflex, he almost said "I didn't stop loving you" but even that would have been a tacit admission of a truth. That he prided himself on how he guarded his heart and life were. How she slipped under his radar, right past his walls of protection. He didn't see her coming, then next thing he knew, she occupied a place in his heart. Nor was there any defense to be found by crying out to her, "You made me love you. You forced me to let you in, then you left me. You left me all alone. I had nobody. I needed you."

  "There was an emptiness with you. Like you weren't all there, not… filling me."

  "And Lott filled it? I couldn't?"

  "You couldn't. Not really. You weren't there."

  "I was good to you. Why didn't that matter?"

  "It did, it just wasn't enough. Not from you. That was easy for you. What I needed from you, you couldn't give because it wasn't in you to give."

  They m
et each other's eyes, affection tinged with regret and sorrow. The tension was gone. Nothing to rub up against. No one to blame. King cursed himself for falling into a laid trap of their weakness of character. They fought to gain some sort of control over their environment, their lives. He couldn't help but think it was somehow his fault. The price of a crown was often a heavy heart.

  "One day, impossibly, it won't hurt this much," Lady G broke the silence. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him anymore.

  "What's broken can be made whole. What's dirty can become clean." The words came out of King, though he wasn't sure if they were directed at him or her. "That's the hope we live in."

  "You're crying."

  "So are you."

  The conversation had already delved deeper than he was comfortable with. A wound dug into in order to remove the settled rot was a good place to allow the healing to happen. Saying any more might push them to a place they couldn't come back from. So they stopped. Movement caught Lady G's attention. She cut her eyes back at King, then lowered her head to excuse herself. Lott stepped to the bedside.

  "You look good," Lott said, not knowing where to begin.

  "Do you want to do that?" King asked. "Begin with a lie."

  "No, not really."

  "You don't have to be here."

  "Where else would I be? You shouldn't be alone."

  "I'm not alone. Not as long as I have people around me who love me."

  "You ain't gonna make this easy."

  "You are a lie. Let me know something about the you that hides."

  Hurt spilled from Lott's eyes. A pain left buried in his chest. "I love Lady G. I always have. And I love you. You and me… we brothers. And I betrayed that. I betrayed both of you. I'm sorry, man. I… You don't know how sorry I am."

  There it was.

  The betrayal in a sentence. Somehow it seemed bigger before it was said. Now here, they were both broken, regretting the stupid decisions they had made and the pain caused in the wake of them spinning out of control while their worlds had been tossed upside down. A lot of hurt had passed between them. Sometimes too much time elapsed and there was nothing left of a relationship to mend together. Sometimes, you just had to pick up the relationship where it lay. And sometimes, you just had to see the weight of the hurt on the other person's face to know how genuine it was. "You need to quit punishing yourself."