King Maker: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 1 (16 page)

  They made a strange pair, Wayne and the volunteer: he with his broad, muscular frame and unforgiving face, a scar on the back of his neck and a tattoo of a pentacle on the front. She, a head and a half shorter than him, with her bookish glasses and chin stud. A study in contradictions. Wayne thought she was the type who had to try out the streets for a minute, long enough to make herself feel better about her place in the greater scheme of things. Young, pretty, and privileged, a typical white girl, ready to get back into her daddy-bought BMW or something parked around the corner. At least she didn't drop her "g"s and put on a slang affectation. That level of condescension would have just pissed him off.

  A scree of rocks led up to the railroad tracks used to get to the black-tarped rooftops of the abandoned warehouses. Each measured step tested for soft spots, with Wayne treading first, though in an anxious sweat about whether the roof would support his, much less their combined, weight. Dubbed the Hispanic railroad because of the high Hispanic population typically found there, rotted cherry tomatoes, discarded beer cans, and free floating trash mined the rooftop. Moldy sleeping bags, rugs, and crocheted blankets doubled as doors to block the biting wind, from the smashed-in roof compartments squatters now called home.

  A group of Hispanic men sang along to Tom Petty's "Free Falling," their accents delighting in the chorus as they held what they called a "dance contest". The contest amounted to them smoking while drinking beer, bouncing as the music blared from a duct-taped radio. They accepted Wayne's offer of water, but one man fixated on the female volunteer and began proclaiming how "I hate me some Jesus." A couple of the man's friends pulled him away, chastising him for saying such things. Wayne fixed his hard stare on the man, putting himself between her and the homeless man, allowing her to make her way back to the tracks before he backed away.

  They next went to West Street and Kentucky Avenue to what was known as "The Tubes". The buildings across from the water station had been tagged. ESG. Treize. MerkyWater. HeadCase. ICU (the letters written within a circle). Torn-up quarry remains littered a field that led from a sanitation workstation to a path down the bank of the White River. Concrete tubes normally used in sewer work had sheets of plastic draped across their ends. A man with dirty blond hair and a week's worth of facial growth sat in front of a small fire. His USA sweatshirt and blue jeans looked nearly new, but he had neither shoes nor socks.

  "How you doing, sir?" Wayne asked after having announced that Outreach had arrived with food and water. With a head nod, he sent the volunteer back to the van to grab a few pairs of socks.

  "Good, good." The man studied the small dancing flames, his hands absently scouring for more brush.

  "How long you been out here?"

  "A couple weeks. I'm in the Army and I'm due to be shipped out in a few days. Then me and my wife will be straight." A feminine mumble asking who was there was met with harsh whispers about Outreach and water. The volunteer returned with some socks.

  "Have you seen any teenagers around?" She handed the man the socks. "We're especially on the lookout for teenage girls."

  "I hear there's some under the bridge. A group of them. We came up here to have some quiet."

  "Thank you." Wayne left the man an additional bottle of water and a few snacks.

  Downtown was the medium of rats and lies. A parade of headlights scurried to nowhere, slowed by the occasional horse-drawn carriage, a quaint throwback to an earlier age's gentility. The steam from the downtown grates, shallow graves for the beasts that lived within the bowels of the city. The Bridge meant either the McCarty Street bridge or the Washington Street and they got lucky on their first try with the Washington Street bridge. Not too far from one of the downtown strolls, the tresses under the bridge were used as small apartments: quiet places where folks could stay warm. Not so quiet if Rhianna had her voice raised.

  Wayne hated navigating the steep incline, especially at night. Concrete slabs jutted out at irregular intervals forming a make-shift stairwell down the embankment. The thick growth of trees hindered easy movement. He stayed at the top shining his flashlight so that the volunteer could go first then he proceeded down largely in the dark. Funny, he always felt stronger at mid-day; now his movements seemed clumsy. The tall bonfire by the riverside, surrounded on all sides by trees: the scene looked picturesque.

  "Nine o'clock in the morning ain't no booty call," Rhianna's rasp strained.

  "I ain't gonna trip," Lady G retorted. "Believe what you want to believe. Don't matter what time of day it is, some fool call and all he has is sex on the mind, it's a booty call."

  "You just jealous cause Prez don't call you," Rhianna said behind her G-funk nose and slightly bucked teeth. She nursed the pus pocket on her finger from where she got stabbed. They could've stayed with Rhianna's people, but this close to rent day, tensions boiled over, toilet paper sheets counted, and food carefully guarded. Sometimes the drama just wasn't worth it. She'd been couch-surfing with friends who lived over in the Phoenix when she met Trevant. But it was Prez who stepped to her.

  Lady G clucked under her breath. "Girl… boo. You stand by yourself, you stay by yourself."

  "I'm glad to hear you say that, G," Wayne interrupted.

  "What you doing down here?" Lady G gave Wayne a hug.

  "Looking for you."

  "How you been?" Lady G turned to hug the volunteer. She was awful with names, but the volunteer had been present enough to warrant a hug. Trust wasn't a commodity easily given. Even Rhianna would more easily trade her body than risk trusting someone.

  "Better now." The volunteer squeezed an additional time before releasing her. Rhianna moved in for her hug.

  "You ladies need anything?" Wayne huffed as he stumbled down the last few steps of the hillside.

  "Rhianna needs better taste in men," Lady G offered.

  "Oh?"

  "She's trippin'," Rhianna said.

  "Don't show out cause you hanging around that retarded boy," Lady G said. "He up there, topside, him and his boy, Trevant. Surprised you didn't see 'em. Wannabe dope dealers."

  "Rhianna…" Wayne thickly laid on the sound of disappointment in his voice.

  "They ain't real drug dealers. They just playing."

  "Call themselves ESG," Lady G said.

  "What's that stand for?" Wayne asked.

  "Eggs, Sausage, and Grits."

  "Ain't that some shit?" The words flew out of Wayne's mouth before he received a scolding glance from the volunteer. They tried not to use profanities in front of the clients, trying to walk the line of being real yet being an example. Wayne bristled at the idea of being an example, uncomfortable with the idea of being a role model.

  "That ain't the worst. They up there selling burn bags to folks." Lady G still had her "I'm gonna tell" air about her.

  "You can get a beat down behind that mess," Wayne said.

  "You telling me? That's why I keep telling Rhianna to drop his sorry behind."

  A car screeched to a halt above them. The quartet froze where they stood. Slamming doors were soon followed by raised voices. Wayne moved to shield them, as if protecting them from anything that might fall from above. The shouts, the trumpeting of machismo attempting to get the other party to back down, curdled into abrupt screams. Lady G stifled her own scream, then pointed to the trestle above them. Wayne ushered the girls up there, and they scrambled into one of the holes in the bottom of a support structure. The small alcoves formed a series of tiny compartments with the holes acting as the entrance, though it reminded Wayne too much of sticking his head through an attic door into unknowable darkness. Knowing that he stood no chance in hell of squeezing through the hole, Wayne signaled that he was going topside to investigate. The volunteer shot him eyes pleading for him to stay, but realized he was too exposed to whatever was out there. Rhianna thrust her thumb into her mouth and put her other hand against an ear as she began to rock back and forth. Her mother had warned her to quit sucking her thumb before it bucked her teeth.

  Wayne slowly lumbered up the hill.

 

Prez didn't care what you called him as long as he got called. Though Green had brought him on, he felt it was on an interim basis until he proved himself. In the meantime, until he saw some real money, he still had to make ends so he financed what he termed "independent entrepreneurial enterprises": burn bags. Dried-out baking soda passed for crack and stepped-on oregano for weed – the pair had an assortment of burn bags they sold to newbies. After every sale they set up somewhere new should anyone decide to come back on them. Unfortunately, their current location didn't have much by way of foot traffic, but Prez was more interested in hooking up with his girl. Rhianna was all right enough, not as fine as her girl, Lady G, but she had a fat ass and threw her back into her work.

  "I wish some fool would try to come up on us." Trevant, all of thirteen years old, still retained much of his baby fat, especially about the neck. Prez thought it apropos to start calling him Turkey because of all of his would-be gangsta gobbling. "I'd tell him, 'It's Li'l Nam, shortie. It's how we do this bitch.'"

  Li'l Nam was the nom-de-guerre of the area just south of the Phoenix Apartments. Trevant was an east side nigga who'd come to truck with Prez and some of Night's boys on the west side because no one else would have his dusty ass. Well, Prez's either, which was why they were left dealing burn bags and calling themselves ESG.

  "Damn, fool, you can't keep going off on every fiend we deal with," Prez said.

  "Why not? It's not like they're going to quit buying."

  "Customer service, nigga. Ain't you ever heard of it? It's not like we the only ones selling." Prez might as well have been speaking in Mandarin judging from the vacant stare Trevant returned.

  After chewing on his words, and with them spit out his other ear, Trevant continued. "I seen niggas get smoked right in front of me."

  "Yeah, you hard, brotha." Prez eyed the street. Knowing he'd been dismissed, Trevant slipped on a set of headphones to listen to the new Nas.

  A Ford Focus screeched to a halt. Prez tapped Trevant on his jacket and nodded toward the idling vehicle. They prepared their wares but also checked their escape route should things go bad. Two people, a man and a woman, stepped out the car, the suspension on the Focus squawking in relief at their exit. They couldn't be dissatisfied customers. They'd have remembered selling to these two.

  "They must be part-Samoan," Prez whispered.

  "Some ugly-ass Samoans, then," Trevant said, not nearly quietly enough. "Nice suits though."

  "What you need, money? ESG can set you up with whatever," Prez said.

  "ESG? What weak-ass shit you selling?" the woman asked. Well, Prez presumed her to be a woman.

  "Don't matter none. Dred don't like it, so the shit's got to stop," the man's voice boomed.

  "Free country. Live and let live," Trevant said.

  She whirled and grabbed Trevant by the throat and lifted him into the air like so much a sack of leaves. "Move, or worse, make me have to chase you and you'll get what your friend's about to get. We've got a message for Night and you're just the man to deliver it."

  "Wha-what's that?" Prez asked.

  The woman grabbed Trevant's arm and pulled. The skin around his shoulder stretched, the bones shifted at odd angles until a dull pop freed the joint. The flesh ripped, the last bits of frayed tendons tearing free amidst a spray of blood. The boy screamed over the cries of "holy shit, holy shit, holy shit" repeated by Prez. She waved the bloody stump at him, trying to refocus his attention on her.

  "You with me? Good." Blood gurgled out the arm, ribbons of veins and shorn flesh dangled. She fixed her eyes on him and raised the arm to her mouth. Not blinking, she took a huge bite from it and chewed slowly. The smell of piss from Prez let her know she had his full attention. "Tell your folks what you saw. Let them know the Durham Brothers are in town and Dred's done fucking around with them. And just so you don't forget…"

  With her nod, her brother upended Trevant and the two of them each took a leg in a hand. Being around bridges always had the Durham Brothers especially enervated. Trevant's next scream scored itself into Prez's mind, even as the image of his flesh unzipping before him would forever scar his psyche. Trevant's insides splayed out in spools as he was ripped from ass to sternum.

  "Go." The woman licked her lips.

  Prez ran off into the night, forgetting all about Rhianna.

  "Fe, fi, fo, fum," the man said and sniffed in the direction of Wayne, who thought himself well hidden by the foliage lining the bridge.

  "Leave him, we've made our point," Michaela said. "Besides, the tale will spread faster with more witnesses."

 
 

Only the desire remained.

  Tavon Little didn't care that he killed himself a bit at a time. Squatting to eye level with the table, he carefully doled out the powdered heroin; his works spread out like instruments in an operating theater. He sprayed water from the syringe (Evian – he was particular). He loved this part of it, when he wasn't too sick, the dick-hard anticipation of the ever briefly sated hunger. The match's flame caught the bottom of the bottle cap. Slowly he loaded his syringe, the puff of pink in the bottom of his spike confirmed entry. He shut his eyes and slammed it all home, indifferent to the possibility of an overdose. So what if he did? It'd be a rush all the way. A high to end all highs.

  He leaned against the rotted drywall and let the first wave of the blast crash into his skull. A slight moan escaped his cracked lips. He pulled one side of his old Army jacket over his dirty tank top to try and keep in some heat. Except for the grime and the worn cuffs, it was in pretty good shape. With his red sweatpants he considered himself the height of fashion. Yeah, he was set for tonight. Tomorrow he'd have to come up with a new hustle to set them up, but he wasn't worried. He still had a good head on him – he couldn't survive the game long if he didn't – but he also suffered from a good heart. Anywhere except here and that was probably a good thing. He simply wasn't wired to do what it took to survive, to prey on his own. Hell, he could barely lie to people he knew, so no stick-ups and no moves that might hurt someone. And it meant that he often suffered bad luck, like yesterday, the C-Devils weren't shit.