King Maker: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 1 (6 page)

  Junie held his fingers up like a gun and squeezed off a few rounds.

  "Nah, nothing like that," Parker said. "Yet. He said we should just make our presence felt."

  "A'ight."

 

Jonathan Jennings Public School 109 – named for an early governor of Indiana – was a no-tolerance zone for the drug trade, not that the fact stemmed things beyond creating a neutral zone of sorts between the two major crews, Dred and Night. Dred's lieutenant, Baylon, had been tasked by Dred with establishing a west side beachhead which started with control of the Breton Court condominiums. Night's crew, helmed by Green, Baylon's equivalent in Night's organization, held down the Breton Court corner along with three of his boys and staked a claim to much of the west side of Indianapolis. Boys was the right word: all of the street games were run by would-be men who had "teen" in their age. Except for Green. Green was eternal. It was rare for a higher-up such as Green to be seen on street level, though if anyone would, it would be him. There was no getting in Green's head, he simply was who he was.

  Junie pulled his car into the parking lot of PS 109 and adjusted the rearview mirror so that he could get a full view of the situation. He had barely gotten Green's crew into sight when Green's baleful stare locked onto him. It was almost as if Green's grim countenance, his haunting eyes in particular, filled the mirror. Junie snatched his hand back as if burned.

  "Everything all right?" Parker asked.

  "Yeah. I just wanted to get up before we do what we do." Junie reached under his seat and pulled free a rolled sandwich bag thick with chronic. Two prerolled blunts sat on top. It was well known that Junie always held a bag filled with weed at almost all times. By his account, he simply liked to carry enough to have a party any time. He was a sharing kind of guy. Truth be told, he lacked the patience and dexterity to roll a simple blunt and often had folks roll him a couple as thanks for his generosity. Junie sparked one up then and without hesitation, passed it to Parker. "Pass me my business and pop that glove box for me."

  The act itself, being treated as an equal by Junie, got Parker up as much as the weed itself, but he retained his sense of cool. He handed him back the blunt and reached across to the glove box. It fell as open as Parker's jaw at the sight of the Taurus 85. "That live?"

  "They all live, remember that. You better tuck that away if you're gonna step with me."

  "Baylon said no beefing, just be a presence."

  "Then we'll be a strapped presence. I'm like a Boy Scout up in here. Always prepared. If shit jumps off, I want to be able to hold more than my dick, you feel me?"

  Cognizant of ever-present eyes, Parker kept the gun below the window line and slipped it into the large pocket of his oversized jeans. The pair exited the car escorted by a cloud of smoke. Parker's stride changed immediately. More than just the newfound weight in his pocket altered his gait. No, his entire bearing was different, like he'd gone from boy to man for real. He imagined himself as taller, harder, like one of those dieseled brothers in lock-up. His eyes narrowed as if daring any passing motherfucker to fuck with him. Yeah, the gun juiced him like he'd been popping Viagra all evening, and when he glanced over at Junie, he realized he'd found the secret to Junie's reckless, Chief Swinging Dick stride.

 

Decorative red posts lined the curb in front of the entrance to the Breton Court rowhouses, now seats for Green's men. Green stood, a proud tree shading his men under the umbrella of his presence.

  A Mexican family had purchased the gas station/convenience store as well as the restaurant beside it. The convenience store doubled as a fast food kiosk and, knowing their demographic, served Hispanic and Jamaican dishes. Marbles, two stores down in the mini-strip of shops, catered to folks' soul food needs. Strolling down the sidewalk fresh from a run to the convenience store for some burritos and Jamaican patties, King's steps hitched as he came upon the panorama. His street-smart eyes analyzed and broke down the scene.

  The name of the older of the two who crossed the street from the school's park eluded him. They walked toward the Breton Court condos from the east side keeping pace with King's approach from the west. No one needed reminding who was at the center. Green had been around as long as anyone could remember and stayed in because he had three things working in his favor: he was smart, he wasn't greedy, and he wasn't ambitious. Green always seemed to be someone's lieutenant, the shadow advisor/enforcer to whoever wore the crown. Yet he had little interest in the throne itself. Despite the warmth of late summer, Green kept a regal demeanor. A chinchilla fur coat rested atop his suit, gold like leaves in fall, which matched his pair of Robert Waynes. The duo passed Green's crew without comment, slow-stepping in front of them, chests puffed out in a preening dare to action. Like a fine conductor, Green's sole reaction was to hold out the palm of his hand; his well-trained orchestra didn't so much as flinch.

  Suddenly, the name of the older one came to King:
Juneteenth Walker.
They'd come up together, though Junie ended up doing a nickel in juvey rather than complete high school. Whether he realized it or not, Junie had the fallen crest of a man who'd been broken by time lost, reminding King of the man who was too old to be in the club: he had the right dress, talked the right talk, but had the air of being rather… pathetic. He stopped directly in King's path.

  "You on my corner," Junie said to King, but for Green's benefit. King remained close-mouthed as if too good to speak to them. "I'm talking to you, motherfucker."

  "Excuse me?" King neither broke his mild stare nor stepped away.

  "You heard me, motherfucker. Do you know who I am?"

  "I know who you are, Junie."

  Junie's heart swelled despite the use of the nickname, part with pride as he believed his name had began ringing out on the streets and part jacked up on adrenaline and weed. He spared a glance at Parker to see if he'd heard the same thing. Parker's hand itched, wanting an excuse to pull his newfound manhood. King displayed no emotion other than his eyes saying that he could care less what they thought of him. He was mindful of the territory boundaries. Gray zones were the most dangerous. To the west, Dred. To the east, Night.

  "I heard there was a misunderstanding over real estate over here," Parker said in a poor man's stagewhisper.

  "You heard wrong," Junie said. "We expanded into unclaimed territory. Think of it as a market correction."

  "Excuse me." King pushed the cold, coiling temper of his down to a deep place. Well, a deeper place. Unlike them, he had real responsibilities and folks who depended on him and didn't have the time or patience for machismo posturing so he moved to step around them. Green glared with baleful and empty orbs.

  "Punk-ass bitch," Parker said to King's passing side. "That's what I thought."

  "We'll finish this later," Junie echoed.

  "I highly doubt it," King said.

  Life came down to crossroad moments. Staring at Junie, waiting, eyes heavy with contempt, King had no interest in this little street performance, no matter whose benefit it was for; however, he wasn't going to be pushed around in his home court. He neither sought the street nor any of the foolish sense of self it engendered. But he could and would handle his business.

  "What'd you say?" Junie asked.

  "If I have something to discuss," the cold thing slithered up King's gut, through his throat, and found a home in his mouth before he could control it again, "I doubt I'll take it up with some scrub nigga. Your boy here talks too much shit. Ain't got no call to be talking to me like that, but now you done had your say, you want to be a man, you free to step to me any time." His back stiff with resolve, King waited for Junie to make the next move though he hoped for a quiet resolution. He just wanted to put his head up for the evening. The younger one had the natural youthful swagger brought by easy access to guns and leading to reckless courage, but Junie was a punk and would always be a punk.

  "You going to be seeing me later on." Though his voice was unconvincing, Junie brushed his hand against his shirt and revealed the outline of his piece.

  "We got a problem?" Green asked as if bored with the entire affair. His voice grumbled like branches snapping in a storm.

  Junie stepped forward, Parker stayed back and to his left. Green's men withdrew a few paces, backing up Green. Junie thought about stepping to Green, but a voice in his soul cried out knowing better. Junie waited a moment too long. Fear lit his eyes as he searched for the right mix of bravado and wit. "Nah. I think we understand each other."

  The French described the feeling he would experience for the next few days as l'esprit d'escalier: all the shit you thought of to say on your way down the stairs after your butt had been clowned in front of your boy. Junie couldn't meet Parker's eyes.

  "Too many eyes on us now anyway." Parker revealed the gun butt above his waistband. "You didn't see nothing."

  "You don't want me to see shit, don't do shit where I can see it," King said, the cold thing slowly wrestled under control before it pushed its luck in the calming situation.

  "Come on, man. I think our message has been sent." Junie hoped sheer attitude would be enough to stanch the wound of bleeding pride.

  Parker turned on his heel, glanced back and then spat at his feet. He'd have pulled his piece and dusted that fool in front of Green to show him they were men to be taken seriously, but he backed his man's play. They might think they punked him, but they'd soon know what it meant to cross Baylon's men.

 

The chorus of barks from the Rottweilers stirred with his passing, Baylon walked his prize bitch, an American Pit Bull Terrier. She never barked, the "surgery" saw to that. From a distance, she was a beautiful dog, but upon closer inspection, she was a stalking hematoma of a brute. A network of still-healing scars latticed her head and legs, with recently cleaned-out puncture wounds, she was a picture of barely suppressed rage spoiling for an excuse to explode.

  From his back patio, it was only a matter of getting to the end of the row of apartments – shielded from the prying eyes of the street by a row of perpendicular facing apartments – to confront the figure waiting for him. His lawyer wanted to look down his long nose at Baylon, but couldn't. In fact, he could barely meet his eye. Baylon studied him with his harsh squint, waiting for the payoff. It was barely perceptible, but the slight movement of his small Adam's apple came: the swallow of fear. He knew he had him.

  "Things are looking good, Baylon," he said, with his high-pitched, tense voice.

  "That a fact." Baylon approached with his flexing gait. Not quite the full pimping stroll, but enough to convey the fluid movement of his prison-built bulk. "Hearing's coming up."

  "It was only a juvey charge."

  "I'm not trying to see the inside of any jail."

  "I wouldn't worry about it. The DA's entire case hinged on one witness."

  "My nosey-ass neighbor."

  "Exactly. Word around the court steps says that your neighbor's up and vanished on them."

  "Word?" Baylon asked, nonplussed, eyes halfclosed in on-setting ennui.

  "Yeah, I figure that they'll be dropping formal charges shortly." The lawyer skittishly glanced about. "You got anything for me by way of payment?"

  "Yeah, I got you." Baylon reached his hand out to shake. The lawyer took his hand, palming his future fix, then backed away quickly from the bared teeth of the dog. Baylon smirked. "Do you know how you turn a perfectly tame pet into a ruthless fighter?"

  "Not really."

  "You chain it up, beat it, starve it, tease it, then beat it some more. That's the way life is. The sooner it knows it, the sooner it's ready to handle it. Then it's ready for the fight every time out."

  "Um, OK, then I guess I'll see you at the next date." His lawyer swallowed again.

  "Whatever, man." Baylon turned on his heel in a casual dismissal of the man. He had some fools to sit down with. A row of Rottweilers' snouts protruded from under his patio. They seemed every bit the innocent dogs seeking a petting hand. He'd seen those same snouts rip apart cats thrown their way. He walked past them, short, heavy chains attached to thick collars held them at bay. He usually kept them hungry, lean for the fight, but he spoiled them the other day. Other neighbors may have seen the feeding; hell, he wanted them to see. Even if no one did, he'd spread the rumors himself, building his rep, instilling fear, and quieting any other would-be heroes or nosey-ass neighbors.

  "That's a good bitch," he said to her.

  But she said nothing.

 

The houses were piled on one another, barely a few feet between them, with their fenced-in small yards. Every now and then, one of the houses had a boy sitting absently, bouncing a basketball between his legs. Two cars couldn't pass one another on the cramped streets if anyone was parked on either side. Junie kept his head low, his eyes darting from side to side, studying the mess of kids hanging out on corners. The low bass from a passing car roused his attention, so he scuttled down the sidewalk then crossed the street abruptly. If he were worried about being followed, he needn't have been. Everyone knew where he was heading. Junie knocked on the door of the two-storey home.

  "It's me."

  Parker opened the door. Excruciating silences and averted eyes shadowed their interactions – Junie hadn't spoken to him since the incident with King James White.

  Baylon stood down the hall in the living room and glared at them with drooping, yet condescending eyes. Abandoned by family – they gave up on him long ago – his people had been scattered by the game. His friends were either dead or in jail. His life was transitory, with him moving often. Cash up front, no name on anything; as far as the system was concerned, he swam underground. Junie reached out for a hand clasp, but Baylon glanced down at the expectant hand as if it were leprous, then found a seat in the living room. All of the furniture had been pushed back against the walls for maximum room to navigate. Junie and Parker turned at the clack-clackclack of paws on hardwood floors. Baylon's dog trotted past the open doorway. Junie couldn't help but think of a shark swimming in its tank.