"She round back."
An optometrist shop was two buildings north of the barber shop. Along its back wall, a six-pointed star bookended by the letters G and D along with two three-pronged pitchforks were spray painted. No such tagging occurred on the shop. D prided himself on Hot Trimz being sacred ground. Everyone needed their haircut. D had enough juice left over from his bid in jail and his time on the streets. He knew the game, respected the game, but was out of the game. Still, God didn't create a fool: dealing with the Omarosas of the world required special gloves and special dispensations. And he was willing to bend accordingly to keep the peace. For a fee.
"What you no good, Omarosa?"
"I been a good girl, King. Don't need you and your gang after me. A girl could get all to quaking in her boots."
"I hear you still sticking up Colvin's people."
"You hear an awful lot."
"Broyn was just in here sniffing around. Probably waiting outside to follow you."
"He welcome to try." Omarosa eased her finger off the sawed-off and allowed it to rest across her lap. "So what brings you my way, King?"
"I wanted to check in on you." He spoke with a purposeful affection. In ways he didn't understand, he felt some sort of fealty to her. Not that she was his charge, or him hers, but there was the charge of responsibility between them.
"I look like a girl that needs checked in on?"
"You out here without anyone. No support. No one to watch your back. No one to–"
"Love me? You worried about me, my liege." Omarosa let the last words drip with venomed honey before she sat up. Without a glance her way, Bunny knew she'd been dismissed. "The more sophisticated the mind, the more slippery the slope into self-deception."
"What do you mean?"
"That's what you came to talk to me about isn't it?"
To her mind, King had two great loves in his life: Lady G and the streets. Love was his weakness. Omarosa had once broached the topic of he and Lady G, her with her young eyes and need of a strong male in her life. And her lack of judgment. King wouldn't entertain any thought of Lady G's misplaced loyalty. It was like he couldn't hear of it.
"I know the life I'm living and I know the woman I'm with," he had told her.
"All due respect, you love the ground she pee on," Omarosa said then. His loves would be the ruin of him. The old story.
Nevertheless, even now, she pressed her point with renewed vigor. "I mean you've taken on the mantle and you wear the crown well… if lightly. Sometimes I think too lightly, but who am I to judge? The streets have been calmer though the mayor and police are quick to claim credit. You've even made it harder for a girl to earn."
"You look like a woman who has trouble taking care of herself," he smirked.
"You've done it, King. Taken hold of the streets, reached out to the young uns. Trying to train them up. You look around and see all the hurting still going on despite all you've done, and you look to do more. The problem with a man who wants to save the world is that he sometimes forgets about his family."
King feared the opposite with Lady G. Some days he considered all the work he did, the endless meetings and relationship-building to be his distraction from thinking of her. Or worse, his efforts to impress her. He knew her, understood her. Stared into the core of her, he became obsessed with her, wanted to be with her constantly. Part of him believed he could be her savior, so protective of her that he wanted to take her away from all of the hurts; desiring nothing more than to commit himself to her. Like a marriage.
And he told Lady G as much. "What we got goes deeper than a piece of paper. I'm not going to leave you. I'll be here for you as long as you let me."
King only thought about her, talked to her, wanted to be with her and was fueled by her. Lady G filled him with bliss, became his whole world. When they pressed close together and held each other, it was a tender and fierce snuggle, a desperate clutching after one another. Never wanting to let go because it was the only time he knew peace. And she felt safe. He was going to protect her forever; she would shield him as best she could. He belonged to her and her to him. They shared their essence, poured themselves out upon each other, needing the other to validate them. He wanted so badly to be loved by her. She wanted to be there for him. It all sounded so very romantic. It was a black hole of need. Things would be so much easier if he didn't give a fuck.
"Just try to have fun." Omarosa drew him back in to the moment. "It's allowed, even for you. Just don't get too attached."
"You know that's not how I roll."
"I know. You one of them 'fall in love with the pussy' niggas. But the game is deep. Any of us can get caught up if we forget that and lower our guard."
Iz sometimes missed when it was just her and Tristan. The apartment squat was nice during the rain or cold of winter, but there was something special about their summer squat. A tract of woods under the bridge across from the Indianapolis Zoo. On the banks of the White River, sealed off by a rusted trellis and a concrete overpass, it was their corner of the world. Few predators roamed the area, especially the two-legged variety. A couple of vets stayed down the way in a neighboring stretch of woods. Another homeless man who rode a yellow ten speed with duct-taped handle bars slept beneath the neighboring bridge. But this spot was theirs. A blue tarp stretched between trees; layered with plastic and insulated with blankets, it had the appearance of a tattered biodome. Yellow drums collected rain water. Tristan maintained a fire pit. Their world was them. She felt safe.
Three sets of candles, each on an overturned milk crate lit the room to a delicate amber. Too dim to read by, but enough to stave off the darkness whenever Tristan wasn't around. Sometimes Iz texted, checking her Facebook and e-mail from her cell phone. Most times she sketched in her notepad to pass the time between school and whenever Tristan returned from her business with Mulysa. Pencil etchings of black and white hands clasped together, a larger – though still clearly feminine – one engulfing another. Tristan's face. The way she captured the perpetual hurt in her eyes. The tiny scars on her neck which she never spoke about. The steel of her set jaw when she was about to hit someone. Tristan in profile peeking out the window. Tristan watched over her as she slept; Tristan not knowing that she knew she did it most nights.
"Knock, knock," Mulysa said from the doorway.
Iz froze. "Tristan's not here. I thought she was with you."
"She was, but I sent her on an errand. I'm here to see you." His eyes filled with hungry intent.
"I ain't interested." It wasn't as if she were in a seethrough teddy. A white hooded sweatshirt over another shirt and faded blue jeans. But she still felt the probe of his eyes. She always wore her running shoes. Even to bed. Even when Tristan watched over her. Iz pulled her blanket up around her, not wanting him to see anymore of her than he absolutely had to.
"I ain't asked nothing."
"Whatever you selling, whatever you proposing, I ain't interested."
"You're a rude-ass host, nukka. Least you could do is offer me a drink."
A row of bottled water stood along the window sill like an Army troop at attention. Two sleeping berths had been scooted next to each other. Clothes piled between the bedrolls and the wall, a barrier against the cold. Two backpacks leaned against the wall. One had her journal and some personal belongings. The other was one of Tristan's, mostly filled with clothes. She kept her "work" backpack with her. Iz never asked what was in it.
"You want a water?" Iz asked.
"Don't mind if I do." Mulysa pulled up one of the upended milk crates. "I did have something I wanted to discuss with you."
"My answer ain't changed."
"Hear me out now, damn. Look here, I ain't tellin' you nothin' you don't know, but you one fine piece of ass."
Iz shifted uncomfortably. Her right hand crossed her body as if shielding herself from his lecherous view. She clicked a button on her cell phone to check the time.
"Hope you weren't trying to call Tristan. You know
when she's on a job her shit gets turned off. Besides, I didn't want our conversation interrupted."
"You know she's going to kick your ass for coming in here talking shit to me."
"We ain't doing nothing but talking and having some water. I ain't done anything… untoward. In fact, I just wanted some company while I finished my business."
Mulysa rolled out his kit with the delicate precision of a watchmaker. Searching around the room, he found a jar that would satisfy his purposes and filled it with a thin layer of water. Removing a Q-Tip from a wad fastened by a rubber band, he ripped the cotton from one end. Iz's eyes widened in anticipation. He revealed a baggie of crystal and began to crush it up with a Bic lighter.
"As I was saying, you a fine piece of ass. I've noticed you for a long time. Done jacked myself off to the thought of you bouncing on the end of my dick on many an occasion. But what I was thinking was more along the lines of a business proposition."
Iz wanted to get up and run right there. The voice in her begged her to leave. The familiar itch, like worms inching along the flesh of her arm, and her mouth salivated, literally watered, at the familiar ritual. Her body remembered the dance of preparation and the anticipation of the high to come. It was never as good as the first time she slammed a load home, but she damn sure kept trying to find a blast to ride to recreate a close approximation.
"Damn you," she whispered.
"You say something?" Mulysa poured a bunch of the crystal into the jar and swirled the concoction. "Anyway, what I was thinking was maybe you'd want to get back into the trade. Maybe you talk to Tristan. I heard she used to run wild for some dick back in the day. But you? You'd be my special girl. Premium rates only. Like a ghetto escort, I'm telling you."
The worst symptom of her disease was the amnesia. The way it made her forget. She forgot her sunken-in eyes, her scaly skin, and her ancient track marks. She didn't remember the bruises, the lack of definition to her muscles, or how her skin hung slack and uneven. How some times she hunted for a vein for over ten minutes despite her diminutive frame.
Mulysa held the flame to the base of the jar until the liquid began to smoke and bubble.
Near her lowest point, she developed an abscess in her arm; the infection ran down to the bone. A mixture of white, yellow, and bloody pus seeped from the wound constantly, a cloud of stench dogged her every step. Eventually she ended up in the hospital. After they were done treating her, it left a gaping hole in her arm. They shot antibiotics into her ass and packed the wound using a long Q-Tip to stuff bandages into it. Much like the ones Mulysa had.
He dropped in the cotton then drew it up into a syringe. Pulled out and pushed, spraying the wall. Iz didn't budge at his approach. Her veins jumped up like an obedient dog called home. She watched the needle puncture her skin. There was something nearly erotic about having someone shoot you up. Blood coagulation at the head of the needles. The blood and drug mixture slammed home. Waves of pulsing warmth suffused with surreal calm. An utter vacantness to her eyes. No joy, no excitement, only need. She couldn't focus. The pattern of the floor boards dizzied her. She never hated herself as much as she did right then.
And part of her didn't care.
Didn't care about a thing.
Life was going to work out.
That certainly was the best part of the high.
Mulysa reached to unfasten her jeans. "There's more where that came from."
Water from the previous night's rain filled the dip in Big Momma's courtyard between the rows of condos. Garbage clogged the drain and filled the parking lot up to the ankles. Back from the service at Good Hope – Had in tow – high on the words of Pastor Winburn, she was all about joining in God's mission to be a blessing to the world. The drain distracted her. She hiked up her dress, wading through the water in her bare feet. Cleaning away the trash, unblocking the drain, she hummed Mahalia Jackson's version of "Precious Lord, Take My Hand" and waved at Neville Sims as he rode his maintenance wagon. Had splashed about in the water while she worked.
She watched the waters recede for a few moments then turned towards her condo. Had's hand in one of her hands, her still dry shoes in the other. Her door was ajar. One of her meaty arms slammed into Had's chest harder than she intended. There had been a series of break-ins throughout the neighborhood. Mr Stern talked about more security, but still hadn't hired anyone or put up any cameras.
Her living room remained unransacked but the house had the air of violation about it. She checked out the lower level of the condo, but nothing seemed out of place. The weight of her foot on the first step as she craned up the stairwell caused the planks to squeak. She took each step slowly, gesturing for Had to stay where he was, her back to the wall as she tried to peer around corners and over ledges. Her room was fine. Last was Lady G's. Her room only slightly more disheveled than usual. But her bed was a mess. Crayons and paper scattered atop pulled-up sheets. The light stand knocked over. Her piles of clothes tumbled over. She never had any boys up in there, but it looked like she'd been dragged out. Big Momma pulled out her cell phone, punching in numbers while still surveying the scene. Straight to voicemail. She dialed a second set.
"She's gone," Big Momma yelled into the phone.
"Who?"
"Lady G."
"What do you mean?"
"I didn't know who else to call," Big Momma said, not allowing her fears to overwhelm her voice. "I didn't want to… I couldn't get a hold of King."
"It's OK. It's OK. I'm on it."
Lott disconnected the call.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tristan and Iz had avoided corners where action jumped off. Quietly, Tristan always feared for Iz. It wasn't too long ago she was out on the streets on her own and the urge to hustle not long buried. Tristan remembered the days at correction after Iz had become a kleptomaniac. Tristan learned to make food last. Once outside again, Iz seemed happy to not have a toilet in her bedroom and to be away from her warden's manner of discipline and control, and upright rigidity. The one thing she longed more than anything else after being released was a bath. The simple pleasures of soaking in a tub. The desire, the hunger, the insatiable need fed temporarily by drugs bubbled beneath the surface. The last couple of days, Iz had been different. Secretive. Closed off. Evasive even about the little things. Even if she didn't give them voice, Tristan knew the signs. It reminded her of the last time she had to confront Iz's need. Tristan stopped at the corner store to get smokes, gone for only an hour, only to come home to Iz.
No lament was sung alone. For every fiend there was a brother or sister, mother or father, friend or colleague who sang along with them. From money stolen from purses to stuff missing around the house to lies upon denials upon disappointments heaped up as a raucous chorus.
Tristan knew the bottom was about to fall out. She ran the gauntlet of fiends milling about the place. How they avoided her eyes. How they shuffled off without a word, cockroaches scattering in her presence only to regroup once she was gone. They knew.
When Tristan pulled back the loosely placed piece of plywood and stepped into the alcove, it was as if the spirit of their place had been violated. Part of her knew Iz had been using again. The fiend was not the only one to sound the notes of denial in the junkie's lament. A little weed she could excuse. Maybe a one-time slipup, because they were only human and that heroin was the devil.
She noticed the smell first. Her blades found their way into her hands without a thought. Tristan booted open the door. Half-dressed, Iz passed the pipe to her john. The room lit to the shade of burnt honey, Tristan made sure the light glinted from her blades that he could clearly see the feral warning in her eyes. The john dropped his pipe and ran past her without so much as a backwards glance at Iz. Her arms embraced her raised knees as Iz cowered in the corner of the room. A long T-shirt barely covered her, leaving her bare buttocks visible from underneath it. Her skin a frieze of sweat trails and dirt. Sucking on a Coke can used for a pipe. Feeling more empty than high.<
br />
"Why?" Tristan's voice cracked with a hollow ache.
"Don't know. Guess I'll never be whole."
Tristan huddled on the floor with Iz and kissed her hands. "It will be all right," she promised. "I'll make sure it will be all right."
Colvin had nothing to prove.
Unarmed, unescorted, and without a security entourage, he wasn't one of the neighborhood boys out in the streets getting into fights in order to find out things about himself or test himself or others to see what they were made of. He wasn't out to learn what he could carry with him for the rest of his life. And he wasn't out to gain the respect of the street, wanting neither its fear nor love. Colvin was of the fey and such things were beneath him.
Colvin wanted power.
He stood in front of the Phoenix Apartments. Lookouts between each of the buildings and hidden in stairwells had already alerted one another to his presence. He waited until he knew all eyes were on him. They would whisper that he lost his Goddamned mind. That this high yella, half a cracka, Mr Spocklooking fool was going to come up into Rellik's home base all on his own. He half-expected someone to take a shot at him from the shadows simply to put him out of his misery.
King's Justice: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 2 Page 23