"What you mean?"
"I mean, we got Luther and we got Green." He leaned his head back and released a puff of smoke against the backdrop of the moon and away from Antwan X. "These two are running wild and the streets ain't big enough for 'em both."
"Green's no joke."
"Neither's his girl." CashMoney flicked his tongue along his teeth then spat.
"Morgana?"
"Fine. Ass. Sister. If I'm lying, I'm dying."
"I don't see how you can work for Green," Antwan X said.
"Baddest mother this side of Nasty Mike. Even Bama don't cross him."
"Bama ain't Luther." Antwan X nodded over CashMoney's shoulder. "Speak of the devil…"
"Be straight, baby." CashMoney booked inside without turning around, as if a student not wanting to be caught smoking by the principal.
The confidence of Luther's gait suggested that if he stopped, the neighborhood's orbit would have spun off its axis. Every day brought changes to the neighborhood he loved so much. Neto's Bar closed up, another bit of his childhood devoured as shop owners who'd built up a life moved out. Woolworth's, Roselyn Bakery, Meadows Music – they were here now, but for how much longer as working people left the area? No one owned anything in the neighborhood anymore. No ownership, no stake. But his name rang out and everyone beckoned occasion from him. So fuck everyone else, he had to go for his.
"All right now, brother, all right now." Antwan X clasped Luther's hands.
"Brother, Antwan." He crossed some Panthers because he had no interest in their revolution. Antwan X was neither a Panther nor Nation of Islam, choosing to call himself an independent intelligencer. He read a lot, spoke a lot, and spread a lot of the same "power to the people" bullshit. However, Luther still stepped lightly – nuff respect due and all that. Luther's rueful eyes followed the back of a man crossing the street. "Who was that?"
"One of Green's people. You been making a lot of noise with them. Here you go, brother." Antwan handed him a flyer. "Check us out when you get tired of having the man's boot on your neck. Can you dig it?"
"Right on. How's your boy?"
Antwan X raised his gloved hand. "Live righteous."
Luther returned the clenched fist and disappeared behind the black-tinted windows of the Crown Room. The darkened back room of the Crown Room was Luther's home away from home. A lone light hovered over the pool table and created an optical illusion. Until their faces or hands leaned into its protective glow, they were shadows in the darkness, voices from the spirit world for all any other knew. It was the way he preferred to conduct business. CashMoney chalked his cue stick, cocky but already high. Merle, already full of drink, shifted his eyes from the scene to the barkeep. Luther knew his days running the streets were coming to a soon end if this were the class of consigliere left to him.
"Damn." Luther's ball pulled up short.
A mild smirk on his face, CashMoney always took Luther's money on the table but never talked crazy about it out of respect. A cigarette dangled from his lip, the last inch of which was ash waiting to drop off. How CashMoney managed to smoke so much of his cigarette yet keep his ashes from falling remained a mystery. Everyone had their own gift. CashMoney leaned in for his shot. "Couple o' cats in here looking for you."
"You know them?"
"Nah."
"What'd they look like?"
"They had heat on them."
"Green's boys. Green like Spring. Green like dollars. Dollar bills. Cash money." Merle folded his arms and laid his head down next to his drink. He drooled into his craggily auburn beard. A black raincoat draped about him like a cloak and his huge bald spot reflected like a chrome cap.
"So what you think?" Luther asked CashMoney.
"Maybe sit him down for a parlay."
"Parlez. It's French," Merle interjected.
"Why you even let him in here?" CashMoney hated the crazy-ass white boy, yet Luther listened to him more than any other member of his crew. "He smells like piss."
"That's cause I had to pee. And my gentlemen's gentleman is shy. My drawers are like his… home court advantage."
Luther stumbled across Merle during one of his Thanksgiving turkey giveaways. Every so often, Luther gave back to the neighborhood he called home. It bought him a measure of goodwill – positive PR never hurt – but it was also his responsibility. Part of the code he lived by. Hundreds of hands reached up to the back of the truck – anxious, desperate, and greedy – then a ragamuffin of a white dude hops in to help hand out the frozen birds.
"They won't fly, you know. Even if you drop them from a helicopter."
"Get the fuck out of here, old man. We got this."
"Green's penumbra falls even on the Pendragon. And a squirrel's always got to get his nut."
CashMoney was ready to lay a beat down on him then and there, but Luther stayed his hand. In some way he couldn't explain, he was drawn to the homeless man. Like they were meant to be together, Merle always having advised him. Luther suspected the man knew more than he let on, the mystical gleam in the man's eye dancing with delight in its secrets.
Plus, Merle made him laugh.
"So what you think, Merle?"
"When you put the toast in the toaster who pops up? Jeeeeeeeeesus." CashMoney slammed his cue stick into the table, his patience nearing its end. Merle didn't acknowledge his outburst. "I think you can have a truce if you play things right. Too much noise on the streets brings the man down on all of us." Merle turned to CashMoney. "Makes it hard for Sir Rupert to find his nuts."
"Why you listen to this Hee Haw-lookin' motherfucka? He better not be still talking about his–"
"Sir Rupert's his squirrel," Luther insisted.
"That's not any better."
"Go on."
"That's all." Merle leaned out of the ruinous light. "You want the streets calm, call for the parlez. That's the best play."
Luther, too, stepped out of the light. The image of the vaguely Asian-looking black lady crept into his mind, unbidden, like a spell of enchantment. Passion stirred in his loins at the idea of her, pushing aside stray thoughts of Anyay and King. "His girl's awful fine."
"Who? Morgana?" CashMoney asked.
"Morgana." Luther repeated the name in little more than a whisper, savored the sound of it, caught up in the spell of her.
"Best to not think too hard on her," Merle said.
"She's always had a thing for you," CashMoney said.
"For real?"
"It's what I heard."
"What about Anyay?" Merle sat up, lucid eyes fraught with concern.
"What about her? I'm not saying I'm trying to lay the broad, just rap with her for a minute. See where her head's at. Get in Green's head a bit. Where she stay?"
Merle sighed with resignation. "You have the Pendragon spirit, true, true. Betrayed by yourself or those closest to you, such is your curse. Father, son. Son, father. The path is unclear."
"There he go with that crazy talk again," CashMoney said.
"I'll tell you this plain enough: if you get with her, there will be no truce."
"You tell me where she stay and won't be no need for a truce. I'll book," Luther said.
"She stay on Sussex Avenue, over by the Meadows Apartments." Merle cocked his ear as if listening to a voice on an unfelt breeze. "Hmm, that might not have been in my best interest."
"I dunno. Maybe I will sit down for a parlay."
"Not the right man," Merle muttered. "Not the right man, indeed. He falls before his own nature. Perchance the son." Merle staggered into the light then back into the shadows before departing the room entirely. "Coming, Sir Rupert."
The lure of the city was that there was always something new to conquer. One last score, then he was out, Luther swore. His weakness was that he had a way of making things fall apart, of never being strong enough to hold things together. The spade King Midas, but whose touch turned everything to shit.
CashMoney, his spirits raised with the departure of the drunken
would-be soothsayer, exchanged skin with Luther then chalked up his cue stick. "My man. Always finding yourself in situations, usually involving some tail. You got your hands full there, boy."
"What's up on the score?" Luther had been planning the bank heist for a while. True, it was a neighborhood bank, but money was money.
"They pick up the money once a week."
"Cash money?"
"Like my name."
"Guards?"
"Four. Two in front, two in back. Three revolvers, one 12-gauge." CashMoney studied him. "Think you can take them?"
"I still got my Caliburns." Their weight grew heavy in his shoulder holsters.
"Welcome to the revolution," CashMoney said.
"Save the militant bullshit. After the parlay and the score, I'm out."
Luther had little more than stepped into Morgana's pad before their lips met. Women weren't hard to get. His rep was whispered on the lips of those in the know and he flashed just enough for folks to know he had money. Events careened at him. Half the time he was the sole conductor of his life. The other half he felt caught up in circumstances beyond his control; at least, that was the lie he told himself when he found himself in situations he knew there'd be severe consequences for. He preferred to live in the minute.
"What about Green?" He asked not out of any worry about being discovered, but wanting to know that his conquest was complete.
"He out of town. Besides, Green don't own me. Would it matter if he did? Wouldn't you simply enjoy taking me even more if I were his?" Morgana issued a small smile. Being around her intoxicated him. Though he had never touched the stuff before, they did a line of cocaine. He hated the muddleheadedness of it, the slow creeping nausea and the lack of control that came with not being focused. He thought nothing of her then, breaking up a bud and rolling a fat, tight number.
The sounds of rutting animals soured the night. Their bodies pressed together, unbridled. Their passions flared with little thought for the next day. With each thrust he erased himself. Other than CashMoney and Merle, all the people he came up with were gone. In his heart, he knew his time was almost done, but as long as he breathed, there was time to rekindle his old fires. From the confines of her warm embrace, he answered the siren song of the streets and hoped to get out before his ship crashed against the rocks.
Piercing a fog of memory, Luther slowly recalled the past evening as the unfamiliar surroundings alarmed him. Already the spirit of regret churned in his belly. It took a few moments for the figure who loomed over him to coalesce into view.
"Baby, you gots to go."
He hadn't felt Morgana stir nor heard her get ready. Her back to him, she fitted gold hoops into her ears. Her hair styled into Afro puffs, she wore a gold one piece jumpsuit dotted with maize colored swirls. Turning, she revealed a cruel smile, a cat in the afterglow of finally devouring a mouse it had long toyed with. Whatever spell last night held him in sway had been a heady one. She slipped on a pair of sunglasses to hide her cold, calculating eyes.
"What's happening?" Luther asked.
"Green on his way over."
"Shit. I thought you said that fool was out of town?"
"He was. But he just called. Said he'll be here in a few."
Shit shit shit, Luther thought as he threw on his clothes and tucked his Caliburns into his shoulder holster. Not that he was afraid of Green, but he hated needless drama. A deal gone bad, a confrontation on the street, those were the cost of doing business. Emotional stuff – and Lord help him if Anyay heard about this – exhausted him to no end. And no matter her protestations to the contrary, another man in her bed would drive Green to… emotional stuff.
His leather jacket wrapped around him, he rammed his probing tongue past her dispassionate lips. Her kiss was dismissive at best.
The first rays of dawn punctured the night, the closest thing to a peace time the streets ever knew. Freaks finally called it a night and young ones scrambled about to get up in order to tune into Cowboy Bob's Cartoon Corral. Going over plans for the heist, he thought of King and pulled a pack of Kools from his inside pocket. He had barely drawn out a cigarette when he noticed the car. A brand new two-door Cadillac Coupe DeVille – red with a white vinyl top – its 454 big block with a four barrel carburetor idled loudly. The door was open, displaying its opera lights. A lone figure leaned against it.
Green.
Luther stifled a grin. There were few things more dangerous than a young man with a loaded gun, light trigger finger, and nothing to lose. His blood raced. Adrenalized. He finished firing up his cigarette, cocksure and slow, as he sized up the man with the hint of a goatee and his dark skin. Green had the look of a dude who'd done a couple bids in prison, not some county lock-up. His suit was cross-checked with gold and green stripes. Emerald silk lined it and his matching cuffs. Gold rimmed shades encompassed much of his face. A gold, minky velvet coat rested on his shoulders, leopard fur trimmed it from his collar to the bottom and around to the back. A matching fedora angled on his head.
"If it's not the Spade King." Green's voice was like bark being scraped.
"Green." Luther walked up to him, hands in plain sight, but unafraid.
"Here on business?"
"I'm not on a hustle. Just visiting a friend."
"A man needs to be careful of the friends he chooses. They may not always have his best interests at heart." Green sauntered toward him, inexorable and deliberate, yet heavy with promise. "You're a soldier in a war you don't even understand. You fight just to be fighting."
"What you trying to lay on me? What about you?"
"Live for the Spring, die in the Winter; in between, I soldier."
"Business as usual."
"It's never personal." Green stepped closer, his breath smelled of freshly mowed grass. "I heard you wanted to parlay."
"I'm getting out of the game."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"Mm-hmm." Green took a moment to mull over things.
Luther wanted to read the man's eyes but only saw his own image darkly reflected in the shades. Green's thoughts, like so many of the deepest players, were ever his own.
"I'm looking to tie up a few loose ends before I move on."
"You really think that's how it ends for soldiers like us? That we get the wife, the kids, the white picket fence and the happily ever after? You don't get to just walk away. You get till you get got. Blood simple."
"That so?" The weight of his Caliburns pressed against him, begging to be used. He desperately wanted to end this farce and draw down on Green.
"You drawing on me violates the parlay," Green said, though unafraid, as if reading his thoughts. "A man is only as good as his word."
"I have a simple proposal. I turn the pea shakes over to you for a taste. Ten per cent off the top, consider that my pension."
"That'd all been fine except for one thing."
"What's that?" Luther asked.
"There are always consequences to our choices and the friends we choose to make."
"We're still at parlay."
"I know that. But I can't help things if a man can't control his own troops."
The shot ripped through Luther's side like a molten thrust of a blade. He spun, drawing a Caliburn in the same balletic movement. CashMoney stood there, gun in hand. Luther squeezed the trigger, with only a resounding click in response. Unsure of what to expect, CashMoney flinched at first but with the click, returned a knowing grin. Luther scuttled to the side, but CashMoney fired off a quick three shots, the first two hitting him in the chest, the third going astray.
It caught Green in the arm.
CashMoney's face blanched in response, lowering the gun immediately.
"Oh shit, Green, I–"
"Chill, little man," Green said. His flesh began to re-knit itself, thin vines extending out as if covering a house then assuming the appearance of flesh. "No harm done, but you owe me for the cost of fixing my coat."
"Yo
u still staking me?"
"Done." Green reached into his Caddy and tossed CashMoney a small duffle bag. He inspected the contents, finding the cash and product to his liking. "Welcome to the game."
Morgana watched the street pantomime of police and ambulance lights while people scampered back and forth in vain, attending to the fallen king. As promised, CashMoney retrieved her gifts before anyone arrived on the scene. Opening her keepsake chest, she placed in it the twin Caliburns, joining the bullets she had removed from them. Such a disgraceful and ignoble death for a king.
King Maker: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 1 Page 2