And La Payasa hated her role.
She summoned two other girls to join her. As soon as they flanked her, La Payasa punched the girl dead in her left eye. The ferocity of the blow caught her off balance and sent her sprawling backwards. More tripping over her suddenly clumsy feet than anything else, she landed on her back. A hail of kicks soon followed. La Payasa dropped low to continue to punch the girl in her side until she exhausted herself. The girl didn't cry out once.
"Help her up. She's one of us," La Payasa said. "A sister."
But there was a simple truth about the gang: it needed a rival to have meaning. It needed the police or another set to define its territory, to test it, to make it stronger and smarter. Without an outside enemy, there'd just be fighting among themselves. It boiled down to feuds. Blood feuds. It became personal and though wars should never be personal, wars were always personal.
War was inevitable.
Much more comfortable living in his head, Cantrell hated talking through his case out loud. The onsite director of The Squad flitted about, capturing footage of his phone conversations, loving how telegenic Cantrell's frustration was. "Think of it as running down the case for your captain," he was encouraged. Though Captain Burke didn't apply make-up to him before he provided details of a case. Cantrell reached out to Garlan's people. No place of employment, not in school, and a whole lot of "he don't stay here no more". Not that anyone could tell him where "he stay at now". Cantrell left messages for Garlan to contact him in regards to his car.
"I'm trying to track down a Mr Garlan Pellam. It was his vehicle that was used in the commission of the Perez kidnap and shooting. Since his name has popped up a few times on the Gang Task Force radar, we want to question him about it. Maybe get some intel about the state of the streets and who's beefing with who."
Within a few hours, Garlan strolled in requesting to speak to "the detective that was bothering his peoples."
"Mr Pellam."
"I heard you was looking for me."
"You're a hard man to find."
"I'm here now."
"This dude was all wrong. From the way he slumped in the chair, evaded his eyes, and shifted about, I knew he'd been hauled in before. But Garlan didn't have the flex of someone who had been in the system. More like someone who'd been around the game and now suddenly was in a lot deeper, like a climber finding their footing. It wouldn't take long for him to find his equilibrium and become a hardened soldier."
"We on TV or something?" Garlan asked.
"They got us out here filming a documentary or something," Cantrell said.
"I gotta sign something?"
"Yeah, before we're done, I'm sure." Cantrell set his coffee cup on the table next to a stack of file folders. "Else they just blur your face and not even your woman would recognize you."
"I'm good with that."
"You know a Lyonessa Perez?"
"Nah, should I?"
"Now see, Garlan, we starting off on a bad foot. Cute little Mexican girl. Been all over the news."
"Yeah, I heard about her. That was some shit."
"Your name came up in the investigation."
"How so?"
"You're what we like to call a person of interest."
"What's that mean?"
"That you might know something that might help us out. And we the appreciative type."
"What you think I know?"
"What kind of car you drive?" Cantrell flipped open his notepad.
"Black PT Cruiser."
"How 'bout that?"
"What?"
"A car just like yours was spotted at the scene. You mind if we check yours out?"
"Can't."
"Why not?"
"Got stole. You find it?"
"Bad news there, partner. We found it, but it had been torched."
"Damn." Garlan lowered his head.
"He couldn't act for shit. His problem was that he didn't know how to react in this sort of situation. Was he supposed to be happy? Was he supposed to be pissed? Was he supposed to be relieved? So I'm guessing he knew it had been torched to cover any trace evidence they might find. I just don't know his level of involvement yet."
"Your name came up because your car was used in the commission of a homicide.
You ever let anyone borrow your car, Mr Pellam?"
"Sometimes."
"Ever rent it out?"
"Sometimes."
"That happen here?"
"It was stole. So I don't know who had it."
"So you don't know who had it."
"Nope."
"Why didn't you report it immediately?"
"Didn't notice it was gone."
"Notice?" Cantrell noticed the careful parsing of Garlan's words. Too careful, too well thought out.
"I was at my girl's place. She picked me up, we made a long weekend of it. When I came back, my shits was gone."
"I'll need her contact information. She going to back up your story?"
"She'll back it up to China, you know what I'm saying?"
"What you do for a living?"
"Odd jobs."
"Anyway, that little girl, Lyonessa Perez." Cantrell produced her school picture from his folder, blown up to an 8x11 and laid out three autopsy pictures all in a row like he was dealing a game of black jack. Garlan took one picture into his hands. As if catching himself, he tossed it back at Cantrell.
"He was lying. You can tell from the way he kept staring at her picture. Then watch him when I pull out the autopsy pics. The pain on his face."
"Someone did this to her," said Cantrell.
"It's a cold world."
"What kind of man do you think it takes to do something like that?"
"Don't know."
"A monster?"
"Yeah."
"You know any monsters, Mr Pellam?"
"No."
"You know Lonzo Perez? Lyonessa's older brother. Some people know him as Black."
"Don't know a Black."
"What about Dred?"
"Who?"
"Dred. Runs product through your hood.
Your boss."
"Don't know the name."
"So you don't know about any beefs between them?"
"I don't know nothing about nothing."
"I'm just saying, I need people to come forward and identify some folks. If you had anything to do with it, any knowledge at all, it's best to get in front of it right now. It'll play better for you later."
"I swear, officer. Right hand to the Jesus I pray to, I didn't have nothing to do with no murder. I just needed to tell you that to your face so that you'd leave my people alone."
This fool couldn't pick Jesus, whatever Jesus he prays to, out of a line-up.
"I appreciate you coming in, Mr Pellam."
"I'm free to go?"
"Yeah. You don't know nothing about nothing. So I'll have to go back to the peoples of that little girl and let them know that no one is willing to step up and help put down the monsters that did this." Cantrell put the autopsy picture back in front of Garlan of their baby. He then handed him a card with his cell phone number on the back.
"I'm out."
"He came in because I was pressing hard for him, sure. Maybe also to see what evidence we had. But, I don't know. He don't read like a bad kid. He still has a heart. You can see how bothered he was by what happened to Lyonessa. He's haunted for sure. He definitely knows something about nothing. Since I don't have much else to go on, I may just dig into the known associates of Mr Garlan Pellam."
The Phoenix Apartments used to be known as The Meadows. An east side neighborhood once booming. A forty-acre development with fifty-six buildings, shops, and offices, and the Meadows Shopping Center. But by the 1980s, no one wanted any part of the Meadows, not when there were newer suburbs being developed north and west of the city for folks to run to. Leaving the corners free for Melle and The Boars.
Sitting on the front stoop, Melle – sometimes called Melle Mel,
sometimes called "that crazy motherfucker that runs with Noles" – took a razor to his head. Most days he might run down to Hot Stylez barber shop, but today he was on the clock putting in work and had one of the young'uns to look out for. Melle used to sport a wild Afro, sometimes pulled back, most times not. Eight inches of mess, a neon sign easily spotted and picked out by the police, no matter how thick a crowd he ran with. He finally said "fuck it" and cut the shit off. The razor scraped his head. He didn't trust too many niggas with a razor to his skin, so he did it himself.
The Boars – sometimes called Bo Little, though only by his momma these days, sometimes called "that nigga who likes to hit people", though mostly by his football team mates at Northwest High School – perched like a gargoyle on the stoop steps. He, too, kept a bald head, though with a full beard shaved low. He spat idly while petting his dog. Its tail wagged wildly and its muscular hindquarters flexed as she licked his hand.
"What you feeding that bitch?" Melle asked.
"Steak, Gravy Train, and Hennessy. My dog's straight-up gangsta."
At the sound of Melle's voice, the dog hopped up on him, half-humping on his leg.
"Get that bitch off of me. Your dog's gay."
"It's not about sex. It's about dominance."
"Whatever. All I know is that if I want you as my bitch, you'd best roll the fuck over."
Leaning against the dented, paint-chipped entrance doors, the brick alcove sheltered them from the wind and rain. Empty grocery bags blew by in the wind like fall leaves.
"How's the count?" Melle asked with an expression of grudging interest.
"Down for the third straight week."
"Don't try to play me."
"I'm serious. With the stuff between Dred and Black jumping off, them casual customers been staying away. Afraid to catch a bullet. Or worse. Listen to some of them old heads, they talk about no one's got any respect for the game. About how children used to be off limits, but now you got fools out here wildin' like…"
"The shelf life of the stuff we got? Like we done stepped on it a dozen times. Weak as shit. When's the re-up coming through?"
"Due in next week ain't it?" The Boar's tone registered genuine confusion.
"Yeah."
"Seen Omarosa?"
"Nah. You jump like a motherfucker. What you been into got you so nervous?"
"Mind your own. We got enough on our plates."
"Way I hears," Black began, gun trained on the two of them, "some folks pile up their plate like a fat man at a buffet. Eyes bigger than their stomachs."
To listen to the counselors at school, Black was pretty easy to nail down. Directionless, fatherless, loveless. In search of a place to belong. Filling the holes that home couldn't fill, yet which still left a gnawing emptiness inside. Nothing he couldn't learn on the street, except how to have a dad. But he didn't want to give up the control. Before them, he was a misfit, out of place, one of society's embarrassments. No identity, no culture, no history, no sense of who he was. Except profoundly lost. He hated himself and took it out on other people. That was how the counselors saw him, but they were wrong. He was Black. He was fury. He simply… was. Revenge was mandatory. All slights met with angry, swift, retaliation, but an attack to his family? That was a matter of death.
"You," Black aimed at The Boars. "Vamonos."
"I ain't afraid to get shot. That's the game. I just don't want you to go after all of my people is all."
"This here ain't about business, hese, otherwise I'd have Swiss-cheesed all of you motherfuckers. This shit here, this is personal. Between me and him. Tell them. More will burn before I'm done. You let Dred know. More will burn. Vamonos."
The Boars trotted off backwards, not wanting to turn his back to them before putting more distance between he and them. Then he turned and booked out at full speed.
"You need to think on this hard, Black. We this close to war already," Melle said, his hopes fading with each quick step of The Boars.
"You already at war." Black tucked his gun into his waistband. The Boars would bring back others soon, but he had a message to send. "I know who you are, Melle." Black spat after he said the name. "I knew who you and Noles are." He spat again. "You think word don't travel back to me? Descriptions." Black tugged his gloves off. "Took two of you to rip apart a little girl. Y ahora?"
Emboldened by the gun being tucked away, Melle adopted what he thought was a fighting stance. The two circled each other warily in the alcove. Though lanky, Melle towered over Black. Melle swung wide, hoping to use his height advantage or wrap him up until The Boars came back. Black ducked under the blow, waded in, and rabbit-punched him twice in the face: the first exploded his nose in a spray of blood, the second cuffed him in the ear as his head lolled back. Blood splatter landed on Black's tattoo, then seeped into his skin. The blows themselves didn't rock Melle – he'd been hit harder by his baby momma, but a sickness rose in him. His insides didn't feel right. Nauseous and dizzy, he cried like a scared little boy before the wrath of a thunderstorm, only wanting to be tucked in and comforted.
"Mira este, pendejo. Y ahora, hah, y ahora?"
The sick feeling crept into Melle's belly, as if he were witness to something sacred. Or blasphemously profane. His heart thumped in desperate staccato. Teeth clenched in anger, Black pressed his tattooed hand to the man's face. Melle screamed, but all Black heard was the last cries of Lyonessa, equally helpless on same concrete mattress. Melle's bruised face swelled. Fissures erupted along his skin, as if his blood boiled and his veins burst open. Dark pustules sprang up, eroding his face. His eyes clouded, lifeless long before his body stopped writhing in agony. "More will burn." The war was on.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Goodness was a fragile thing; rule, its own burden. Drenched in sweat, King threw off the covers as he woke. "Ripped from his sleep" better described his racing heart and the uneasy feeling that he escaped another nightmare. He napped more than slept most nights. Checking his clock, he'd managed to sleep for nearly three consecutive hours. Sick from anger and love, the waking world took a few moments to get used to. Sometimes he wished he could just turn his mind off, stop the jumbled images and memories of the good times shared, the promises made, and the dream of them. And the nagging voice that twisted all of those things into something unrecognizable. There were a few days when King didn't hear that voice at all, but on those days he was completely alone.
Allowing the blanket to drop into his lap, he sat up. Darkness filled the room despite the mid-day hour. Thick blankets covered the venetian blinds so that no light crept in, either from the front windows nor the rear window in the kitchen. He didn't know what to feel. He wished he could hate them, then he could get on with things. A thin reed of hate and resentment would protect him from the casual vulnerabilities of his heart.
Picking up and sniffing a pair of jeans, he decided they were good for another wear. A black T-shirt with the portrait of Sojourner Truth on the front and his pair of black Chuck Taylors completed his outfit. He then stuffed the rest of his clothes into his duffel bag. A backpack, a duffel bag, and three boxes. All of his worldly belongings fit into them. The three boxes were in his car already. He hadn't made up his mind what he wanted to do, but he wanted to be ready for when he did. It became increasingly difficult for him to remain at Breton Court. He couldn't take the weight of the stares, the pity in them, the sense of shame they drew like needles raked across the skin. Tongues wagged, but he told himself that as long as he knew the truth, he didn't care. Where was his strong right hand? Where was his heart? Where was anyone who gave him the chance to believe in himself? A knock came from his front door and he knew he had to postpone his anger.
The wisps of an attempted goatee sprouted along the sides of Prez's mouth. A slight hunch to his gait, though his swagger slowly returned, a slight bump of their shoulders served as their greeting. They quickly backed away from the gesture. King couldn't bring himself to hug Prez. The boy reminded him of yet more failures in his l
ife. Failure to protect him, failure to keep him out of a gang, failure to keep him off drugs.
Big Momma was a neighborhood fixture, a force in her own right. In a matching sky-blue sweat suit and with a fan in her left hand, she trundled past him with a slight grunt. King let the door close on Prez, who waited patiently. Big Momma fell into the couch without saying a word. She fanned herself and let the minutes tick away.
King fell against the opposing wall, waiting for the inquisition to begin. His hands interlocked across his knees. Both of them shadowy figures in the gloom, which was the way King preferred it. Better than having to meet people's eyes or, worse, have them see him at his weakest. He broke first. "You awful quiet."
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