Rok perked up at Mulysa's name. And noted the hate with which Tristan spat his name.
"Mulysa?" Wayne remembered him from King's summit meeting. As he recalled, he and Tristan didn't seem cozy, more like work colleagues who tried to remain civil to one another. "He did this?"
"Yeah, but I'm gonna straighten his shit out."
"What does that…?"
Tristan hefted her backpack. "I'm trusting her with you. Do right by her."
"You can't…"
With that, Tristan slipped out the front door with two fingers raised. "Deuces."
Wayne punched a number into his cellphone. His call went directly to voicemail. He cussed to himself before deciding to send Rok to find him and/or Rellik. He left a message anyway on the off-chance he would check it.
"King, we have a problem…"
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The eastside of Indianapolis suffered a slow, debilitating death. An early casualty, some say a reason, was the Camlann Housing Project. The project hadn't changed much: poverty reservations in practice. The police called it three-story run-ups, since no one was fool enough to walk if they could help it. Project was the right word for it: it was always a project in progress. There was always talk about the city giving it a face lift, much like they did the now-trendier art district of the downtown streets. Talk, anyway. Everyone also knew that the talk would never amount to much. At best, the complex would get a new coat of paint, something far short of a true refurbishing, but enough for people to forget and move along, abandoning its residents.
Mulysa rolled a tight one and sparked it up, a party of one. Breaking Iz off capped his night. Her over-muscled dyke friend would need handling, but if he were any judge of people, for the right price, she'd come around. Enough Benjamins brought the light of reason. Not that it mattered. When he got his head up like this, his thoughts drifted to dark places. Maybe it was time to put that bitch in her place. Use one bitch to check another. He brushed the hilt of his dagger. The image of him stabbing her in her breast and drinking blood from her nipple hardened him. Some real gangsta shit that would have people whispering his name in sheer terror. Yeah, he liked how that played.
He could smash a box of cookies about then.
Break-ins were the equivalent of nightly sport, robberies an experiment in ghetto math — taking nothing from nothing. Fights broke out regularly over the most trivial matters, mostly just to remind each other that they were still alive, usually an affront to one's pride since reputation was all that one truly owned here. Rowdy teens tried to be heard over the familiar hip hop drone of beats and attitude that passed for music; their cars and motorcycles peeling through the parking lots as they showed out for their friends. Many a night Mulysa fantasized about running piano wire across the street… about neck high. It wasn't the cracked dry wall or the fallen-off fixtures that he remembered most. It was having to shake out his sheets before he went to bed to clear them of cockroaches. He hated their midnight scurrying.
They scurried like over-muscled dykes sneaking up on him in the night. Tristan slipped in soundlessly, a wraith fully intent to flense Mulysa where he reclined. But to attack from behind without him knowing or prepared, that wasn't enough. That wasn't honorable. It was something he would do.
"I know you there." Mulysa didn't turn around. "It took you long enough to get here."
"We got some business to discuss."
Tristan's blades curved around each fist. Her grip tightened and loosened in steady rhythm, almost matching her heartbeat. She slackened her grip as if resolved to a new course of action, twirled them about her fingers in a gunslinger's flourish, and sheathed them.
Mulysa, for his part, didn't lower his bottom bitch. The time to discuss business was passed. Maybe it was time to test this overly muscled bitch after all. Put her in her place to make her see reason. Save him the Benjamins.
"This about your girlfriend?"
Goaded by the memory of Iz curled up on the floor, eyes slung back, with barely a trace of recognition in her eyes, the woman she loved buried underneath skeins of her high, her fallenness, her desires, and her crushed hope, Tristan charged after him. Mulysa leapt from the couch and lunged at her. She deflected the blow and snuck him in the kidneys. The two of them toppled over the couch.
Mulysa couldn't get leverage, kept off-balance by Tristan's shifting attack. He attempted a broad slash which she easily dodged and pinned his blade hand, smashing it against the floorboards, fingers dug into his wrist, until he released it. He raised his knee into her side, a glancing blow, but it knocked her enough to allow him to scrabble from under her. She fell heavily onto her back.
Scrambling to his feet, they circled each other in the dim light. The room was cramped and its shadows pressed in close from the odd outcroppings of the layout. Mulysa feinted with his knife, now ready, hoping to draw her into another impulsive mistake. Tristan smirked, thinking him a man hiding behind his penis, one which was smaller than he realized. The crunch of trash underfoot broke the tense silence. Mulysa might have had the superior muscle, but his was built by lifting weights and punching bags which couldn't hit back. Tristan's muscle had been formed strictly by hard living, a life of constant battle for each breath she took. If Mulysa had realized that, he was certain that with his bitch in hand, he was more than her superior. They continued to revolve around each other in their delicate dance when Tristan slipped on a plastic bag. She flailed her arms to recover her balance, but Mulysa seized the opportunity to pounce on her with a killing stroke. She parried the blow as best she could, twisting her body out of the blade's trajectory, but the tip of the blade still pierced her side. Mulysa moved faster than she expected. He turned around with a high elbow to her jaw. They tussled through the room, with only the sounds of the grunts of absorbed punches heard. Bodies still entwined, neither getting an upper hand on the other, they slammed into the wall.
Still in close quarters, blood seeping from her wound, Tristan grappled for his blade hand once more. Her teeth ground against each other in a mad smile as she exerted the last of her strength into squeezing his wrist. Something popped in her grasp and the blade fell. Mulysa stifled a cry. Tristan head-butted him, which sent him to the floor. She bounded on top of him, grabbing for anything within reach. Handfuls of donut wrappers and moldy paper, and crammed them into Mulysa's mouth. She pressed a wadded up back of McDonald's into his face, blindly lashing out at him.
Heavy thuds at the door halted them.
"Police!" a voice cried.
Mulysa let go first only enough to check Tristan's reaction. If she flexed, they'd be right back fighting. But Tristan didn't move and allowed Mulysa to back away a few steps. He smoothed out his clothes, lip bleeding, fumed, trying to catch his breath.
"Don't make me go all P Diddy on you, nukka. Send you to Haughville and have you fetch me some breast milk from a Korean woman to wash down some donuts from Long's."
"This shit ain't over." Tristan turned toward the window. "Deuces."
The Martindale-Brightwood neighborhood had been designated a sensitive area. Riots broke out a few years back, over what no one quite remembered. However, the Black Panthers were active here, as was the Nation of Islam, and various church leaders. Each with good intentions, to help those forgotten by the system, give voice to those whose cries went unheard. To draw attention to the plight of their brothers and sisters. Each out to save their community… and in the process, either make names for themselves or prove their continuing relevance. King, Dred, and Rellik gathered at Good Hope. News of Colvin's effrontery traveled the vine quickly. A crisis was inevitable. Though neither Dred nor Rellik signed on with King, they were curious to see how he'd manage to lead them. It was his test. They knew they couldn't send in their usual troops. Street-level soldiers were fine if Colvin was a street knucklehead encroaching on territory or this was a case of some other day-in-the-life bullshit. Once things got… supernatural, only a few were qualified. Or experienced enough. Judging from Rok
's reaction to what was going on, his face a mix of skepticism and trepidation, they'd be lost out there on their own. Merle ushered Dred and Rellik inside, but Baylon lingered back, catching Dred's attention. King studied the poor wretch. He remembered his confident, flexing gait, built like a human Rottweiler with half-closed eyes as if bored. Not this thinned, ashy creature whose eyes were cratered within wrinkles.
"What happened to you, man?" King asked.
"After Michelle, you left me. Cut me out of your life." Baylon still felt things. He always had. His momma always said that was his problem: he felt things too deeply. It was why she believed he wasn't cut out for this here game. Every time he saw King, he wanted to apologize, to beg for forgiveness for fucking everything up. Nothing was the same: not the crew, not the block, not the family, not him. Everything got so disconnected. Everyone had to go their own way if only to not be reminded of what had been. Or what could have been. "It was too much."
"We were like brothers."
"That's why it hurt me so deep."
"You should've said that."
"I was a different man then."
"Look at you now. Out to save the whole hood. Everyone's redeemable, right?"
"Right."
"Even me?"
"Even… you. But you can't just say 'I'm sorry' as if that's all there is to it. You've got to change your ways. Prove that you've changed. Make up for some of the hurts you've caused. You may not make things right, but it's a start."
"What about us?"
"I done told you, too much time's passed. What we were…"
"Aces."
"We won't be again. Different time. Different place. Different man."
"But, if I could show I've changed…"
"We'll see. One step at a time." King didn't want to extinguish all hope, especially when his tenor reeked of wanting things… the way they used to be.
Ambition was the headiest of drugs. In its name, Dred was ready to sacrifice them — Baylon, Griff, Night, and Rellik — to get their power and reign supreme in the Egbo Society. Had no problem leaving Baylon to take the fall for it all. From there, with the power and mantle of authority, he would demand a place among the dons. Craddock. Bedivere. Howell. Fat old men whose time had passed. The dons collected tribute far removed from the street. He would be the young blood, the vision, necessary to take them to the next level.
Rellik studied Dred and thought about Wayne. In them he saw his future and alternate present. In Dred, he knew all the life would offer him. His days would be no more than chasing dollars, fending off takeovers, living life on a razor edge which threatened to slit his throat if he fell wrong. The life of the gun: putting down enemies only to have new ones rise up. It never ended and the thought exhausted him.
On the other hand, Wayne's was a life he couldn't imagine having. One equally fraught with peril, but buoyed by friendship. Loyalty. Trust. Life. Concepts all too alien to his reality. Rellik wanted to die. More like he was ready for it. He all but said goodbye to Wayne the last time they talked.
"You tippin' out?" Wayne asked. The summit conversation still heavy on his mind.
"I'm done, Wayne," Rellik said. "Ain't got the heart for it no more."
"Words like that could get you killed out here."
"I got it handled."
"Where you going to go?" Wayne grabbed his arm lightly. "I got a couch."
"Looking out for your big brother? I got a place in mind. It's OK." He hugged Wayne then broke free.
Tired of the killing, tired of the death, tired of the senselessness, Rellik knew he'd never be free of this life because he was in it too deep. No one would just let him out. Those under him would take him out to replace him. Those above him couldn't just let him out as a free agent. He knew too much, knew where too many bodies were buried. Ride or die or not, Rellik wouldn't be trusted. He didn't want to die crying for his mama like most men did in the end. He just wanted to go home.
"Colvin done lost his Goddamned mind," Rellik shouted.
"So it's begun," Merle said.
"What do we know about him?" King asked.
"He one of them Baltimore niggas," Dred said.
"He East Coast?" King asked.
"Naw, Baltimore Avenue. East side. Three-O Baltimore, forty-second and Post, tenth Street Dime Life. You know how they run."
"Just as soon split your wig as say please," Rellik said.
"Happy trappin' and gun slappin'," Merle said.
"Can't you do something about him?" Rellik asked.
His irritation at Merle reminded King of Wayne. Only then did he realize that he was about to mount a campaign and none of his most trusted people were with him. Wayne was tied up with Outreach Inc. who knew where Lott and Lady G were. Even Percy was nowhere to be found. Only Merle stood by him. The empty seats at the table mocked him. King bridged his fingers in front of him as Dred and Rellik spoke. He'd been so tired lately, so off his game, his mind harried and soft. He didn't know Rellik and certainly didn't trust Dred. However, matters of mutual self-interest bound them to him.
"He's right. Colvin's doing what he loves. There's no talking to him," Dred pushed. King felt like he was leading him. There was always the trap of the precipice with his words.
"What you fittin' to do? Make a citizen's arrest?" Rellik asked.
"We stop him." King didn't know what he meant, what all he was willing to do. He had to walk lightly between being a snitch and needing police involvement. But Merle was right, Colvin was above their pay grade. It was the same reason they would have to face Colvin themselves, not send in their soldiers.
Dred pounced on the opening. "King's right. We aren't peaceable people. We fight for it. We take it. It's over."
"You hood as fuck, man," Rellik said. "That's your answer to everything."
"What say you, O Prince of Nap?" Dred said with a hint of contempt.
"Careful now," Merle said, though to King or to Dred no one was sure.
"Heavy be the head," Dred said, a serpent whispering into King's ear. "Don't grasp after power if you aren't prepared to wield it."
Rising from his seat, King released the magazine of his Caliburn. Pressing against the spring, he thumbed the top shell then palmed the magazine back into the grip. He tucked it into the waistband of his jeans, the grip turned rightward. Easily grasped by his right hand, it felt as natural in his dip as a sword in its scabbard. "Let's go."
"That's my young dude." Dred glanced back to King. "Time to tool up, son."
Smoke damaged the brick of the building facade from a fire over a decade ago. The cramped alcove, dark from the broken lights, but not black like the steep stairwells of the Phoenix Apartments, smelled of piss and neglect.
On the tip of Omarosa, they had run Rondell Cheldric, aka "Mulysa", through the Bureau of Criminal Identification. His sheet ran longer than anything he had presumably read, a litany of assaults, robberies, suspected in three rape cases — he even did a bid on a manslaughter — Mulysa was a keg of dynamite searching for an excuse to blow.
Huddled in the entranceway, the overhang was large enough to hold Lee and Cantrell and the first of the SWAT officers who held the breaching ram. Lee pressed his ear against the door, listening for any sound. Nothing. Cantrell flanked him. His case, his suspect, his bust, Lee would take the door, he told them plainly, not a man to be trifled with when it came to taking doors. Playtime stopped and everyone became strict professionals because taking doors was ten seconds of life or death. Octavia arrived on scene to supervise the take-down.
"Police!" he shouted and his fists thudded against the door. Lee took a deep breath. With his gun aimed at the floor in his right hand, Lee raised his left to count things down. Backing away from the door, they all gave head nods to signal that they were ready.
Three.
Two.
One.
The SWAT officer swung the ram. The door jambs splintered as his momentum carried him through. The men fanned in, eyes darting about. "Police!"
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Taking one step into the foyer, Lee tried to determine if anyone was in the house. Flashlight beams cut through the darkness, criss-crossing like sabers. Omarosa said this Mulysa character stayed here. At times there were other squatters, but Mulysa was all about playing well with others and thus was probably alone by now. He had a way of creating messes that came back on him. The commotion continued as the word "Police" was shouted in the back rooms followed by the response "Clear!" They trudged through a carpet of fast-food wrappers and animal droppings. Lee grew disgusted that anyone lived here at all. Lee thought he heard something from somewhere in back. A furtive movement by a back window. They cleared the closets leaving only the bathroom at the end of the hall. The door was locked.
"You in there?" Lee demanded.
"Yes."
"Rondell Cheldric?"
"Yes." The voice sounded calm to the point of sounding rather annoyed.
"Come out. We want to talk to you."
"Can it wait?"
"No." Lee glanced at Cantrell with a perturbed, yet "is this guy for real" expression. Lee kicked in the door, fearing evidence being flushed. Mulysa stood at the sink, unflinching as his door crashed in, standing in front of a cracked mirror daubing a knot under his eye. His dingy clothes gave him the appearance of a postal carrier who did double duty as a trash collector. From the stench, the only evidence flushed needed to be.
"Hands where we can see them," Lee said.
Mulysa finished wiping his face. Either he was as cool as they came, or just plain stupid. He underestimated how close he came to getting his ticket punched with each uncooperative second.
"Can I help you?" Mulysa asked.
"We got a few questions for you," Lee said.
"No need for the drama. I would've let you in, but as you can see, I was, um, indisposed."
"You're coming with us."
"Sure." Mulysa had about reached his point. His blood was up after his tussle with Tristan and his head a little murky as he came down from his high. The cloak of civility strained him to breaking.
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