"Either I'm getting slower or you getting faster," Old School said as D brushed his face with a powder-laced brush. Rubbed "botanical oils and razor relief lotion" on his head.
"You slow." D collected ten dollars from the mother.
"You don't miss nothing."
"You make me scared to get old."
"Have a good day, you hear?" Old School called after the girl. She glanced at King and smiled, not that he noticed.
For his part, King battled against a sense of personal failure. Not that he'd been entrusted with Prez or that he really knew the boy, but he felt like he'd let him down. The community bulletin board enraptured his attention. In God's Hands child care. Lawn Service. Insurance. House cleaners. The community reached out and helped its own. He had been so concerned about the big battles he forgot about the everyday ones; the people around and closest to him. King had failed Prez once and he wouldn't fail him again.
King handed Old School a twenty and didn't wait for change. Prez got up and offered Old School a fist to bump.
"I don't have time for all that snapping and slapping," Old School said. "Just shake my hand."
The bell clanged again. Detective Cantrell Williams held the door open for the young woman and son to exit. He'd have probably tipped his hat to them if he wore one. Even if he wasn't known, the room would have made him as a cop. Stiff, straight-backed walk. His stare imposed, a challenge to any who saw him. He locked onto King immediately, who nodded toward D's office. D returned an approving nod. The two closed the door behind them, King planted himself behind D's desk.
"Your boy's late," Cantrell started.
"Yeah, Lott runs that way."
"Well I ain't got all day."
"You heard my pitch or you wouldn't be here. If I'm going to have the major players come to the table for a sit down, I'm going to need police support. Or noninvolvement, as the case may be."
King understood his burgeoning rep. His name rang out on the streets in ways his father's never did. However, he also understood the ways of power. Cops had real power. They controlled where and how open the gangs operated. They could put anyone in jail at any time. Yet they rarely arrested the leaders. Perhaps it was a matter of better the devils they knew as opposed to an unstable and unpredictable leader or, worse, a power vacuum.
"You make some folks… nervous." Cantrell leaned in. The close feel of the room gave the conversation the feel of an interrogation.
"So?" King said, unintimidated. He had been brought down for questioning enough times. Suspicion of battery. Questioned about assaults. Rumors of him brandishing a weapon in public. But there were never any complaining witnesses. Only his name coming up, in vague, and soon forgotten, accounts.
"You ain't hearing me. Some in the department think you trying to do their job. Some think you trying to get dirt on them. Either way, you making enemies you don't have to make."
"That's why I reached out to you."
"Me, huh?"
"Yeah, you seem like a brotha I could trust. Could work with."
"You mean a brotha you could work." Cantrell eased back in his seat.
The two squared off, neither quite understanding how they came to this point. Distrust was part of the game, the latent defensive hostility that comes with folks always being out to get each other. They sparked each other, hackles bristling, despite wanting the same thing. King decided on a measured step backwards.
"You see that boy in there?" King nodded towards Prez.
"The raggedy dope fiend? Looks kinda rough."
"Looked rougher a few days ago when he was dryheaving all over my living room."
"What about him?"
"I brought him around a few months back. He was supposed to stay with a friend of mine and his feet barely hit the sidewalk when he fell in with Green and Night all caught up in the rippin' and runnin' of the street."
"Seems like the life caught up with him."
"It catches up to all of us. Chewed him up, got involved with that glass dick, next thing you know, I'm scraping him up out an alley."
"So?"
"So? So I failed that boy."
"You ain't responsible for decisions he made," Cantrell said.
"True. But we all in this together. He do his thing, but we don't have to let there be a 'thing' for him to get into. We have to look out for one another."
"What you want from me?"
"A light, and I mean light, police presence. You at the table, strictly as a representative."
"By light you mean out of sight but nearby."
"Parlay or not, stuff could still jump off with the wrong spark or if a knucklehead gets carried away."
"You dream big, King. I'll give you that."
"Someone's got to keep dreaming."
Cocooned in a scarlet sweater, Esther Baron stood on the front steps of her apartment building. Her thin running blood left her easily chilled. She used to live up in the suburban wasteland of Fishers, too north of Indianapolis with its cookie-cutter strip malls, chain restaurants, and monolithic culture. She thought it too far removed from the heart of the city, convicted that in her heart, she, too, was fleeing from "darker elements" as her father euphemistically put it. Irvington was much closer to her liking and personality. Ten minutes from Outreach Inc., near downtown, and one of the city's art districts, the neighborhood had history and personality.
Wayne pulled up in one of the Outreach Inc. vans. Kay poked his head out the window, tongue wagging as he took in the day in healthy gulps.
"Good morning, Sir Kay." Esther petted him through the window. Grabbing each side of his scruffy face, she let him lick her. When she opened the door, he hopped into the back and laid down in the back seat.
"Sir? He won't know what to do with such treatment," Wayne said.
"He seems like a sir. See the way he gave up his seat for a lady?"
"Chivalry isn't dead."
"I know. Just like I noticed you didn't question me calling myself a lady."
"I'm a gentleman and a scholar."
"Outreach OK with you having him in the car?"
"They got no problem whatsoever… once I promised to detail it afterward. Plus, we're on an errand of mercy."
"Where are we heading?" Esther noticed them going the opposite way on Rural from the Outreach Inc. house.
"Breton Court."
"Breton? I hear that area's pretty rough."
"It can be, but mostly things get exaggerated." Wayne made sure to keep his eyes on the road and not meet hers.
"You have any clients over there?"
"Hmm. I think I got nearly a dozen fellas fresh out of juvenile wandering around over there."
"So it might not be so exaggerated." Esther let a thin smile cross her lips. She didn't need him trying to manage her fears.
"You got a point." Wayne noticed that he sat a little taller in his seat around her. None of his slouch-behind-the-wheel-in-a-gangsta-lean stuff. The way he spoke, formalized wasn't quite the right word. Nor would he say "whitened." But being around her made him very aware of how he spoke and behaved.
"And Kay is joining us?"
"I'm dropping him off."
"Dog sitter?"
"Sort of. King was talking to me about the latest kid Big Momma done took in." There, he made a point of sounding more like him. He spared a glance to see if she noticed. Or took offense. Then he silently cursed at himself for not being able to relax around her. "Anyway, little boy they call Mad Had."
"What a horrible nickname."
"Out here isn't exactly built as a self-esteem booster."
"I see."
"Mad Had was a crack baby. Doesn't speak a lot. King got to thinking that maybe a dog might open him up some."
"Animal therapy. I've read about that.
Of course you have, Wayne thought.
They rode for a while in silence as Wayne hopped on I-65 N to take him to the west side. He fumbled at the radio tuning it into the Tom Joyner Morning Show before thinking th
at maybe Esther was more of a Bob and Tom Show girl. He flipped the stations, getting a curious glance from her.
"It's OK, you can listen to what you want."
"Passenger's prerogative. 'What thing is it which women most desire?'"
"That from a poem?"
"I don't know. I think I read it somewhere."
"Their will," Esther said with a calm resolve. Her eyes were bright and large and had a way of unsettling him whenever they fixed themselves fully on him.
"What?"
"Their will. Women want what they want."
Wayne didn't expect any answer, much less this one. He took a tentative step out on a limb to feel out her thoughts more. "Makes women sound kinda… vain." He tried to sound sensitive. Who the hell was he turning into?
"A lot are."
"So you didn't roll out the feminist side of the bed this morning."
"I certainly slept under those covers. I'm just saying when it gets down to it, women want their way. Sounds very feminist to me. Don't act like men are so deep. As long as she's young, pretty, and high-class, you'll chase her to the ends of the earth and let her have her way."
"Ah, see there, you wrong. With age comes discretion and wisdom. 'With those whose beauty is inside comes security and character.'"
"And those of… 'low degree'?" Esther wondered where those words came from. She became all too aware of their easy banter, as if reciting lines from a familiar script.
"Humility and gentility."
"You one of those 'beauty is on the inside' guys?"
"I guess I just know beauty when I see it. Even when many miss it when it's obvious."
"I see." Esther Baron smiled more fully, then self-conscious of it, turned away when it didn't leave her face.
The west side saddened Wayne as they exited on 38th Street and passed the Lafayette Square Mall and a series of increasingly vacant strip malls. More businesses had "For Lease" signs on them than not. A Texas Steakhouse had closed; a sign promising that a new Mexican restaurant was "Coming Soon" draped like a sash across it. The Krispy Kreme was boarded up. As was the O'Charley's. Red Lobster was still packing them in though.
Esther couldn't remember the last time she was on the west side. Maybe to go to the Indianapolis 500. Or picnic at Eagle Creek Park. She mentioned that to Wayne, but he grew uncomfortable at the mention of the park and changed the topic back to Breton Court.
"Not so bad," Esther said as they slowed over the speed bumps.
"Like every other apartment complex. Townhouses, technically. There's Mad Had now."
Mad Had curled up on the step outside of Big Momma's condo. Ensconced in a lawn chair, she took in the business of the neighborhood. She grinned at Wayne's approach, him with that cute little white girl at his side. The girl was short, not overweight, but thick. Had an awkward walk about her that brought to mind the image of a shuffling mushroom. But Wayne had his chest all puffed out, that dog of his on a leash like they were a couple out for a late morning stroll.
"How you doing, Big Momma?"
"I'm doing fine, baby." She pronounced "baby" as if she was talking to her grandson. "And how are you this morning, miss lady?"
"I'm doing OK." Esther stifled the need to curtsey.
Mad Had sucked his thumb in silence, his dead eyes tracking their movements.
"What brings you out this way? King's not around. Some hush-hush foolishness he's up to."
"I'm not here to see King. Got someone who wanted to say 'hi' to Had." Wayne tugged at the leash to draw Kay's attention to the boy. The dog trotted up to him gave him a sniff, then licked him like he was the last bit of gravy on a plate. Mad Had raised up, grasping the rott around his neck as if holding a life preserver.
And laughed.
"Lord, look at them," Big Momma said. "Ain't they a sight."
Mad Had stretched his legs along the ground. Kay rested his head on the boy's thigh as he was petted.
"I thought it might be a good idea to let Kay stay here for a while. Between Outreach and King, I don't get to spend as much time at home as I'd like."
"I don't have time to take care of no dog," Big Momma said.
"He's a good dog," Esther answered. "Knows how to treat a lady."
"Maybe me and Had can take care of him. Would you like that, Had?" Wayne asked. "I can check in on them. Visit my boys."
"It's your responsibility." Big Momma tried to sound firm, but her heart wasn't in it. It was the first time she'd seen Had light up with any spark of real life.
Tenth and Rural was the place hookers went when they were too old, too strung out, had the bug, or otherwise were unable to compete with the ladies working downtown. With no structure or support, they forged a life for themselves among the discarded and forgotten. The place had a way of weighing down on a body. It seeped into your bones and gnawed at your soul. Plenty of homeless folk milled around, especially after the government shut down Central State in the 1980s. Flowers, stuffed animals, and candles formed an altar of remembrance, circling a tree in front of the house of Conant Walker, six year-old murder victim.
In a white tank top which went over one shoulder and stretched over a blue halter top over a cut-off blue jean skirt, Rhianna stood on the corner smoking a square as if waiting on the bus.
"What's up, Rhianna?" Lott sidled next to her.
"I'm standing here going over my list of reasons I shouldn't kill myself and can only come up with three reasons and one of them involves a stuffed French toast breakfast I'd promised myself for later in the week. Which only means that next week I'll still have to re-evaluate."
"Still hustling then."
"We all hustle. But not full-time though. Just to feed the kids when my man don't help out. I got regulars who I go with."
"Rellik's your pimp?"
"Nah, I just have to play by his rules." She blew smoke out the side of her mouth, away from Lott. "I ain't like the hos in it to feed a habit. I don't mess with no drugs. Don't mess with no pimps. I just clear things with Rellik's crew."
"Listen, I need you to get word to someone."
"What I look like, a messenger service?"
"Girl, you know and I know ain't fewer people tighter on the vine than you." Some folks went places others couldn't go and heard things most people couldn't. Or shouldn't. Murder, gossip, or drug news. Even more so than the ghetto telegraph of stoop to barbershop.
"Service ain't free. A girl's gotta earn."
"I didn't ask for a freebie." Lott pulled out his wallet, careful not to let Rhianna see how much remained in it. She was still one of his people, but he knew his people. Money had a way of making even friends a mark to run game on.
"Options always open. For you."
"Yeah." Lott shifted an awkward pause. "I'm putting word on the wire for a meeting. Done got a hold of Rellik. Need to get up with this dude Colvin."
"Look at you… carrying King's water an' all. Getting all the players to the table is he?"
"Something like that."
"What about Dred?"
The name shot through him like a bullet through the spine. Caught him short, an anxious skip of unfinished business to his heart. "If he around, he knows."
"Ears everywhere. So no insult not to invite him direct. Others though might not be more sensitive."
"Who?"
"Naptown Red." Rhianna tapped off the ash of her cigarette.
"Who?"
"Bit player."
"So why invite him?"
"Just saying. Niggas like to get their ego stroked."
"Rellik. Dred. Colvin. Respect due the real players." Lott handed her a fifty dollar bill. "This do?"
"They'll know before your head hits the pillow." Rhianna blew out another stream. "Or Lady G's."
Broad Ripple nestled toward the near north-east part of Indianapolis. The White River wound along its north side; the ever-crowded thoroughfare of Keystone Avenue pulsed along its east; Kessler Boulevard meandered along its south; and the officious Meridian Stre
et stood rigid guard at the west. Originally founded to be a separate village from Indianapolis proper, Broad Ripple was the result of a merger between two rival communities: Broad Ripple and Wellington, each vying for expansion. Indianapolis residents built their summer homes in Broad Ripple to retreat from the inner city. It even had its own amusement park built to rival Coney Island's, though it burned to the ground two years after its construction. A park resided there now. The quaint little homestead now sported specialty stores, nightclubs, ducks along the river, and the Monon Trail walkway.
Merle loved the old houses in Broad Ripple. If Lockerbie Square was the neo-conservative hippie of the arts community, Broad Ripple was its patchoulismelling cousin. Over-priced old neighborhoods existed in their own pocket universe, and as the times changed, so did the street names. Bellfontaine no longer existed: above Kessler Boulevard it was Cornell; below it was Guilford. So 5424 Bellfontaine was practically a rumor. A house with no street. A dwelling in the shadow of a dead street. An obvious place for her to live.
A two-story Tudor-style house, its high-pitched roof held a lone arched window, an unblinking Cyclopean eye blinded by the pulled curtains. In fact, the vinecovered windows all had their blinds drawn so that the windows appeared tinted black. Far away from the road, it was the discreet kind of house that one drove by a hundred times without ever truly noticing.
Merle rang the doorbell.
A well-preserved forty-something year-old answered the door. All sultry-eyed and smoldering saunter, she held a glass of red wine in her right hand as she held the door open with her back. Morgana.
"Look what the cat pissed on and left on my yard," she said.
"Fountains. I love the fountains," Merle said.
"You never cease to amuse," Morgana noted. They all had familiar, if not quite familial, roles. Morgana was an instigator, though between her digging comments, she drank her wine under a smile. Pure malice danced in her eyes. At the best of times, she was prone to bouts of darkness, but she seemed withdrawn, either by nature or by choice. "I see you found me."
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