King's Justice kobc-2

by Maurice Broaddus

  Though not along a ley line, a natural place of power, Merle was still drawn to this place. If he thought of magic as a lake that folks dipped from, leaving ripples in the wake of their use, he could track back the riptides created from massive use. Someone was pumping like a lift station from here. The familiar click of a switchblade springing to life froze Merle in his tracks. The blade then closed. Closer still, it snapped open again and clicked closed. Nearer still, it snapped open again. Merle turned. Baylon held his dagger like a sword pointed toward the ground.

  "You're certainly the biggest fairy I have ever seen," Merle said. "I will scoff at you with a slight French accent."

  Baylon smelled of the grave and atrophied muscles, the stench of bed sores, the mildewed tang of body odor and spilled food. Grass stained his once-white Fila jogging suit, as did dirt and the grime of trash bins. He gestured with the weapon for Merle to walk toward the rear door. Once a faithful lieutenant, he didn't know why he stayed with Dred. They were boys from way back and there was a time Baylon would have done anything for him. Back in the early days after joining the Egbo Society. Him, Griff, Dred, Night and Rellik. When they were one huge family. When they had it all and thought it would last forever. They were living the dream. Dred brought him on board, with the lure of the two of them starting and building their little slice of the kingdom together. Baylon imagined the two of them weathering any storm and fighting back enemies of all stripes. Together. The two of them. Dred provided the vision, Baylon made it happen; the head and the facilitator. He supposed some of that was hero worship, with the way Dred swooped in and was there for him after the death of King's cousin, Michelle. A terrible misunderstanding which ended when her life did and was the death knell of Baylon and King's friendship. Dred was there, picked up the pieces of his life, and gave him purpose and direction again. Saving him from his darkness.

  Then Dred stole it all from him.

  It had to be Dred. One moment Dred was in a wheelchair from a bullet wound Baylon blamed himself for; the next he walked around as if the bullet had never plunged into his flesh, split muscle, vessels, and nerves; while Baylon became trapped between life and death like a zuvembie. He didn't know what Dred did, but the life, the vitality of his essence drained from him. Dred never denied responsibility, hell, he didn't deign to answer Baylon at all.

  These days, Dred went his own way. Baylon seemed almost an inconvenience to him now, an uncomfortable reminder of what used to be. Yet he shuffled about, still followed him around, still connected to Dred. Still jumping to obey his orders. All from behind the scenes, like a secret Dred was ashamed to share with the rest of his crew. A faithful dog, though even the most faithful dog could only be kicked so many times before it didn't come home again.

  Baylon ushered Merle up the stairs, recalling the days before the transformation, before the bullet changed everything. Though inside prison, Rellik had been promoted to general, overseeing all of Indiana. Neither Dred nor Night were connected to any gang, but came up under his colors. Night was reluctant to bring in Dred. Too unknown, but bowed because of the flex to his step and the power he represented. He learned the rituals, the prayers, and they never realized how much he knew.

  Merle entered the chamber. Smoke slinked along the floor, thin wisps dissipating with each step. The clouds reverberated through his bones with a stony chill.

  Dred mastered the dragon's breath, or what was left of the residual embers within the earth after the passing of the dragon. The age of magic had been pronounced dead many times; every time the rumors proved premature. The age of science was at its zenith, but it too now waned though many hadn't realized it. But Merle did. Just as he recognized the smoke ritual.

  The Iboga was a small perennial shrub of the Apocynaceae family used by the Bwiti cult. Its roots contained a powerful hallucinogen that provided a mystical experience. The root tasted of copper, bitter to the tongue, which numbed the inner part of his mouth. With bloodshot eyes ringed by fatigue, Dred remained awake for the entire night, accompanied by a state of euphoria with hallucinations. The room blurred, as if lost in a fugue of heat waves, then slowly faded. Dred's heart slowed. He matched his breathing to theirs, those whose dreams he wished to intrude upon. Nudging a thread, not shaping the tapestry, he willed a dream into them. Then, as if sensing Merle's presence, his heart sped back up and his attention focused. He returned to the living presence, a leopard-swift predator with a new scent.

  "We need to talk."

  Any abandoned house was fair game for a squat. At Washington and Oriental Streets, the Camlann Apartments weren't the worst Tristan and Iz ever stayed in. They shared their last place with two other couples, with one room lined with a tarp to collect feces.

  Tristan passed a few fiends who staggered about, zombies to the pipe. A couch had been discarded by one of the nearby homes and now was in steady use on the front lawn. Squatters had a lifestyle of running: running from police, family, someone they owed money. A portly redhead, with a mischievous smile and bright blue eyes that never met her eyes, stumbled with her lumbering gait. She was shy, except for the occasional passing bon mot. With a snaggle-tooth smile, she wrapped a belt around her arm and prepared to launch.

  The unimaginative brown eyes of her male companion tracked her movements with all the dullness of a cow chewing. Nearing a freshly pressed and overstarched white shirt with loud patterned tie, Khaki pants, and hair laid flat on his head in a Caesar style, he must've been going to or returning from an interview. Scratching his arms, he needed to shave the ridiculous patch of hair at his throat. A baby cried from down the alley. Tristan tried not to think about it though alleys always managed to trigger memories. They appeared different during the daytime, different but the same. She'd been on her knees in enough of them. A dick inside her mouth while two others waited their turn. Boys playing at manhood, passing the time it took their friend to finally ejaculate in her mouth by calling her a litany of degrading names. Nausea welled at the dehumanizing memory, more like a typhoon of emotion given a physical thrust. She gave that part of herself to feed their habit. Pussy was currency and it was better than being a career baby momma. The things people did in the service of love and need.

  Love was every bit as potent as heroin. Not even love, most of the time but all of the underlying feelings folks called being in love. The desire, the jealousy, the possessiveness, the need — when you broke down love, it was a junkie's craving. All-consuming, filled your very being and devoured your mind to the point you couldn't think straight. And was willing to do just about anything to please or provide. The nearly chemical impulse some people had on her heart, their absence could spiral her into depression if she didn't hear from them. Her mind occupied itself with the anxiousness of wondering where they were, what they were doing, and who they were doing it with, addicted to the motions of romance. Perhaps just the idea. Still, she needed, craved to hear Iz's voice.

  Wrapped within a hoodie with a black pearl and a heart, dagger through it, over a long tank top, down to mid-thigh, with too tight, skinny jeans tucked into boots, red accented Iz's hair, lip gloss, and eyelashes. Her long legs were unhappy at rest. Tristan loved her smooth white skin. Dropping the bag of McDonald's, Tristan snuck up behind Iz and wrapped her arms around her and held her close. Iz stopped what she was doing, closed her eyes, and snuggled into the embrace. And they danced.

  "You didn't call me on your way home," Tristan said.

  "What, you need me to check in with you?"

  "No, just like to hear you is all. Like to keep you company while you walking. Know you OK."

  "It can be a little smothering," Iz said.

  "I just want to protect you."

  "What were you going to do? Put on a cape and fly to wherever I was?" Iz turned to face her, not breaking the embrace.

  "You are protecting me. Just you being around makes me feel safe. I just don't always need you so…"

  "Close? Am I that bad?" Tristan asked with an uncharacteristic ping
of hurt in her voice. Like a child who worked so hard on a clay ashtray for her father, only to have him dismiss it as ugly and useless. And her filling in the unspoken rest "just like me."

  "It's not bad. I enjoy spending time with you. I just need some space of my own. Room to make my own mistakes."

  "I'm not going to apologize for being there for you."

  "No one told you to. Just loosen up some." Iz swatted her arm.

  "I can do that."

  People like Iz needed people like Tristan. People to stop others from hurting and misusing them, no matter who, even if it were their own father. People to watch out for them when they ran away from home, changed their name, and carved out a new life at a new school. People who did whatever it took to provide money and shelter for them, or save money for community college (Ivy Tech or even IUPUI); even if it meant their own degradation. Until they were able to put their other learned skills to better use. Her blades weighed heavily in her jacket.

  "That man came by here looking for you." Iz broke their embrace. She had her serious business face on.

  "Who? Mulysa?"

  "Yeah." Iz refused to let his name drip from her lips. "I don't like him coming around here."

  "I told him not to. Especially when I'm not here."

  "I don't like the way he looks at me."

  "He looks at everyone that way," Tristan said.

  "Not you."

  "Only cause he wants to keep his eyes." Memories of the alley scraped her. "Anyway, he might have work for me."

  "I don't want you working for him. I don't like what it does to you."

  "Now who's being over-protective?"

  "I'm not kidding, Tris."

  "Knock, knock." Mulysa announced from the door. Though not physically all that large, he filled the entranceway, imposing himself in its space.

  "Speak the devil's name." Iz also hated the way Mulysa thought he could come and go as he pleased.

  Tristan had her blades in her hand as reflex. The blades twirled between her fingers with an easy grace, an implied threat. Mulysa cold-eyed her, not daring her to make a move, but letting her know with the deadness in his eyes that he didn't care either way.

  "What you need, Mul?" Tristan tucked her blades back into her jacket.

  "Got a job for you."

  Iz sucked her teeth, grabbed the bag of McDonald's, and left the room.

  Mulysa's gaze followed her out of the room, sizing up her assets like a top piece of sirloin. He mentally licked his lips. He wanted Izzy to himself and then in his budding stable. Jealous of Tristan getting to lay with her and run her tongue into that fine pussy. He pictured himself, ramming his tongue into Iz's ass, turning her out for real.

  "Mul. Get your eyes off my girl."

  "Your girl."

  "My. Girl. Mine."

  The emphasis of the words, the weight of violence in them, were the opening salvos in the battle of heart. Tristan stood there, waiting for him to move aside. Mulysa had no choice but to finish his business. To back down, to slink away, meant she'd won without a fight. Most battles were won through the power of presence, of intimidation, reducing life out here to a perpetual pissing match. No wonder every street and alley smelled of stale urine.

  "Whatever, nukka," Mulysa said, turning aside. The thing about security heads was that they were always happiest in times of war. Despite Colvin's lack of people skills, he understood that. Friend or foe, war was war and he wouldn't mind a chance to go toe-to-toe with Tristan and her hard-bodied self neither. She was heavily muscled like a man, but he'd jailed before and believed his ten inches of pipe might turn her around on the whole pussy-munching thing.

  Tristan led them to a room on the other side of the kitchen area, further away from Iz. The hallway went down two steps and wound around the corner past another door which the city had sealed with plywood. An alcove filled with pellets of feces she hoped belonged to a cat. Streams of empty donut packages, papers, wrappers, moldy magazines. Clothes and soiled towels from previous occupants. Shafts of light burrowed through the sides of the boarded-up window. The room was private enough from ears seen and unseen.

  "What the job?" Tristan asked.

  "Meet me up at that lot across from the fairgrounds. We can hook up there and I'll break it down. Tomorrow. Eleven."

  "In the morning?"

  "Shit, girl, I ain't trying to roll out before noon."

  "I don't know."

  "Pays two large." Actually three, but if she went for the two, he'd pocket the difference. "Two and a half."

  "You don't even know the job."

  "I know you," Tristan said.

  "Done. Don't forget your gear. We gonna squad up for real, nukka."

  "Good times."

  Tristan watched Mulysa leave before joining Iz in their living room. Milk crates and old chairs, three backpacks in the corner. Tristan had two, one with her work gear in it. Iz ignored her entrance, chewing languidly on a French fry. She ate the small ones first, saving the long ones, her favorites, for last.

  "I got a thing tomorrow night," Tristan said.

  "I heard."

  "You have to be careful about what you hear."

  "Then don't do business in my house."

  "Our."

  "Our house." Iz offered her a now-cold French fry. Tristan ate it from her fingertips.

  Love, especially the young, tempestuous variety, had a way of complicating life.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Stalking the periphery of the apartment on the floor below the penthouse some of his boys used as a party place, as a general Rellik sometimes felt reduced to middle-management duties. Shit, downright janitor's duties. Rellik had always been ridden hard, hard enough to be pushed into a bad place. That constant grind wore on a person, eroding like wind-scourged trees rather than smoothed by sandpaper. Glass, trash, used condoms, all the usual remains from an all-night party. He needed to send guys over to clean the place or Sister Jackie, the building community liaison, would be pissed. She could make things difficult, getting the tenants riled up, bringing in police attention, complaining to the superintendent or property owner. With her flat, broad nose and swollen lips, dark rings under her eyes, she had the face of a woman smacked with a 2X4. With the body of a mack truck, broad and immovable, she had a stroke a few years back which didn't seem to slow her down much. The burdens of management weighed on his shoulders as the managerial woes of a bored CEO weren't exactly what he imagined the life of a king being. He had to work around community leaders like Pastor Winburn, or deal with Sister Jackie who was like a one-woman labor union. It was simple business: don't piss off mommas and the neighborhood complains less. He wanted to be more than a criminal, so he'd work with politicos, community groups, churches looking to turn gang members' lives around, whoever. He made a mental note to assign some of the peewees to clean the building, such menial jobs being exactly in their job description. Their asses would jump if he said so. Funny how they could run his errands yet couldn't be bothered to work at McDonald's as being too good to earn minimum wage or be bossed around.

  "They here?" Rellik asked.

  "Most of them," Garlan said. They stood in the landing of the stairwell, overlooking the gathering. "Some of these fools wouldn't know a watch to save they life."

  "They lack discipline."

  "I got it handled." The implication clear that if Garlan couldn't handle his people, Rellik would find someone who would.

  By his count, Rellik had nearly a hundred folks — peewees, soldiers, and wannabes — to coordinate. The way a man looks at a boy and sizes him up, he needed to pull together his whole crew to see what he was working with. Which meant he needed a space to hold meetings. When he ran his crew, he brought in a few of his boys he'd known since high school. These days, with so many doing jail, dead, or out the game entirely, his officer crew was pretty small since he trusted so few. Garlan was solid and was a liaison between him and his unfamiliar crew. He thought it would be a good idea to hold it in a churc
h. Pastor Winburn was one of those do-good types always out for an opportunity to build up relationships with Rellik's type. With such a convergence of opportunity and need, he was practically obligated to have this meeting at Good News. As long as the Pastor minded his own when it was time to get down to business.

  This summit meeting saved him the trouble of visiting all the crews separately. His security detail, led by Garlan, drove ahead to give them all clear from rival gangs. At his arrival, one member, Rok, collected all the drugs and cash and had them escorted from the scene so there was never a direct link to Rellik. When a dealer went to prison or was killed, the crew took care of his family. It lessened the worry about a coup, fostering loyalty to the crew.

  Over the next few hours, with Garlan a step behind him high on the rush of power, Rellik grilled his crew. He asked about any loss of regulars, measuring the impact of encroachment by other crews. The Treize. ICU. He fielded any reports of product complaints or any of their regulars buying from someone else. Anyone watching. No one new popped up on that front besides Cantrell, partnered with that crooked-ass cracka, Lee. Pastor Winburn, Sister Jackie. He even put his ear to the ground about any new hustlers working the scene. He didn't care how low on the hustle pyramid they were. Geno. Rhianna. Omarosa. If they operated within his sphere of influence or were potential threats, he wanted to know about them. Like King. Lastly, he asked about any niggas. Naptown Red, fool nigga trying to play. Colvin, on the other hand, bore keeping an eye on.

  Next they took sales reports, tallying the week's receipts, drugs lost or stolen, inventory lost. Members causing problems. Like settling the dispute between Rok and The Boars, each of whom ran a six-person crew.

  "No disrespect, Boars…" Rok rose quickly through the thin ranks, promoted more due to the thin talent pool of who was available, like some ghetto affirmative action. A young buck, skin the color of weak tea, rail thin and with a softness about him. An uncomfortable fit, he was unsure about his position but he took to the job and enjoyed the level of respect it engendered. However, he didn't wear the mantle with ease and his men sensed it.