King Maker kobc-1

by Maurice Broaddus

  "Come on, man," Griff announced, a kid whose dinner had been spoiled. "We gotta get out of here."

  Baylon took the knife, the proud owner of a matching set.

  Laying naked next to Omarosa, Lee became suddenly self-conscious of how much his bed smelled like ball sweat and cheap aftershave. The sheets were rough and stiff, not fit for a woman like her. Omarosa slept barely making a sound, little more than an observed presence in his bed. That was the only way he could think to describe her. As if he took his eyes from her, she'd disappear, a wisp in the night. So he stayed up watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Taking in her scent. Listening for the sound of her slightest stirring.

  "I'm awake, you know. I'm not going to disappear on you."

  "I'm trained police. I specialize in finding folks intent on disappearing."

  "That what you were doing at the Phoenix?" Omarosa asked.

  "Nah, I was looking at you."

  "Ah, the fates conspiring for us to meet." She curled up, the sheet wrapped around her. A portrait of seduction, her every movement was choreographed to elicit an effect from him.

  "Something like that." Lee sat up. He never imagined himself bedding a black girl. His mind focusing on the black part of her description, he rolled the idea around in his head. Not that he bought into the stereotypes of black people's sexual prowess. He contented himself with knowing what to do with what he had. "What do you do?"

  "Do you care or is that some residual Protestant guilt rearing its head?"

  "Catholic. Very residual."

  "Do you even remember my name? No, never mind, don't strain yourself." Her voice little more than a low purr, she made him feel both inadequate and important at the same time. "What do you know about dogs?"

  "They bark, shit, eat, and sleep," Lee said.

  "They fight, too."

  "Not legally."

  "How often do you stake out for legal operations?"

  "What are you getting at?"

  "I just hear tell of a dog-fighting ring."

  "Not my beat."

  "So you'd think. You gang task force."

  "How'd you-"

  "I know things," Omarosa said. "Now, who do you think runs the dog fights?"

  "I'm listening."

  "Lots of rules go into these things so that shit don't accidentally jump off."

  "Even police."

  "Po-po go where they go. Can't be helped. Cost of doing business."

  "So you know where one of these fights is going to be held?"

  "Maybe. But I'll take some convincing to give it up."

  Suddenly uncomfortable, he didn't know if he was capable of anything approaching tender.

  But the thought of her riding him again rekindled an erection.

  Junie didn't know how things got so out of control so quickly. One minute he and Parker chilled in the house, getting their heads up with a little weed, catching up on television. The next, raised voices outside put him on high alert. Donning his professional grimace, he stormed outside to see if there was a problem. Two camps of men squared off, beefing over the corner. He didn't have time to sort through the nonsense. Locked in an aggressive lope, he peeled off a couple rounds. The men scattered.

  "Night!" one of them called out. "I got you. Get behind me."

  The blood drained from his face. His sallow and wasted complexion reflected in the car window, full of hate and wariness. Oh shit. Did I just fire at Night? The full realization left his legs weakened. He forced himself to a steady gait. Duplicity he learned was in his own nature. With a level voice he called out, "Dred says hello, motherfucker."

  He watched his head, making sure he wasn't seen. It wasn't much of a plan, but better the shit not fall back on him. His was already a life of a false resigna tion. A false life filled with scorn.

  Junie knew when he first learned to carry the mix of rage and shame. In fourth grade, his teacher, Mrs Crider, a bunhaired brunette with a pinched face and aristocratic manner, made him a member of the safety patrol. This was back in the day when fellow students wore white sashes and were given badges and were charged with seeing their fellow students across the streets. This was a matter of high prestige, and short of student council or making the honor roll, only the most responsible or favored were chosen for the function. Junie was neither. Instead, as he could only surmise later, that Mrs Crider attempted to reach him. To give him a connection to the idea of school and his fellow students. It wasn't lost on him, even at the time, that his post was the most remote, where no student or quasiresponsible parent would allow their child to cross, especially escorted only by a three feet tall scrawny black kid with unkempt hair and questionable hygiene habits. Defying all odds, and despite Junie's reluctance, the blatant and transparent manipulation worked. He actually swelled with pride when the safety patrol was dismissed early and he rose as one of the chosen lot, eyes of his fellow classmates on him, to at tend to his duties. Nor did he feel ridiculous, lone black boy at the ass end of an isolated stretch of road, barely within eyesight of the nearest safety patrol member, as he waved and returned the allclear signal. It worked, that was, until like every else in Junie's life it turned to shit and was taken away from him.

  As brilliant as Mrs Crider had been getting him to care about being responsible, she had a sizeable deficit when it came to sustaining that limited sense of self esteem she had successfully fanned to life. One day in class, she called upon Junie to answer a question. Flustered at the sudden attention, he stammered about. Mrs Crider stood there, silent and waiting. The eyes of his fellow classmates pressed in on him. He grew so desperately nervous, he knocked his books and papers to the ground. They scattered with a furious, though unintentional, shower. Springing out of his chair, he fell to his knees to gather up the papers. That was when he heard her, Mrs Crider, laughing at him. He was so perfectly pathetic: lone black boy, white teacher looming over him, white classmates a chorus of openmouthed laughter and fingerpointing. The words "fuck you" flew out of his mouth without thought, but they hung in the air like the empty echo of gunshot. The two little words stilled the laughter. Mrs Crider's eyes narrowed into an unforgiving glare and she sent him to the principal's office.

  He never walked as a safety patrol member again.

  Actually, he didn't walk as much of anything again. Whether he realized it or not, that was when the educational system lost him. He went through the motions of school for another four years or so, but he was already done. There was no reaching him after that. He had turned his back on the institution knowing that whatever path for his life he was to chart, it wouldn't be through any hallowed halls of higher learning.

  And on quiet days in what passed for reflection for one Juneteenth Walker, he wondered how many Mrs Criders shut down countless Junies each day.

  He retreated into the house.

  "Any problems?" Parker asked.

  "Just some nonsense," Junie said. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

  Octavia Burke never lamented her quick rise in the ranks. She didn't have time for political games nor did she buy into either affirmative action or workplace racism. Either were self-defeating traps of a game she refused to play. Like her mother, she was nobody's victim. "You kiss butt, then you kick it." her mother always said, not one to pay attention to firsts either. First black nurse hired at Wishard Hospital. First black nurse promoted to department head. First black nurse elected to serve on the board. Strong and vital, nothing got in her way. Her fierce determination came at a cost. There was always a sadness about her, like she were missing out on something. She was always closed off, a cool aloofness she never intended with her children. Passed onto her children.

  So when Octavia's first husband told her that she had trouble letting folks in, it came as no surprise. Nor was she surprised when he left.

  She kicked her shoes off at the front door and hung her coat up. The house, silent and dark. A residual flow from upstairs, probably her second husband in bed watching television. Home was her oas
is. Away from the madness of the office away from the detritus of the streets who took up so much of her time. She was happy to be home. It centered her and it saddened her that she spent so little time here. She continued her after-work ritual. Shoes, coat, then food. The microwave and oven were bereft of a plate of food. Whatever they had done for dinner didn't include her. The checkin calls of "when will you be home" were fewer and further between, tired of "I'll grab a bite on the way home" or "don't wait up, it's a long one".

  Then the boys. Long asleep, she made a point of peeking in on them if only to reassure herself that they were still alive and that she could pick them out of a line-up. To each boy, she'd sit on the edge of his bed and stroke their hair. To let them know she was present and loved them, even if they weren't awake to know. The simple gesture allowed the day to drain out of her, all of the misery and hopelessness and futility of her work. And it was the only time they'd let her love on them anyway. They were getting so damn big.

  Their marriage had hit a bad patch. Her long hours, the Job, were worse than having a man on the side. She suspected he filled the void of her absence with… someone. No, that wasn't fair. It wasn't in him. The only thing he filled himself with was quiet, festering resentment. Never going to bed at the same time. Letting the gulf between them fallow.

  The television played coolly in the background. He watched an episode of that new medical drama she liked so much where all the oversexed doctors looked barely old enough to drive. It was a show they decided to watch together. Or so she thought.

  Without betraying any hurt feelings, she walked into their bathroom to brush her teeth and closed the door. His passive-aggressive point having been made, he turned off the television. She came out wearing an old T-shirt. She slipped into her side of the bed. The same old night-time dance.

  Percy watched the whole scene go down. The three men who confronted those soldiers, unarmed except for their bravery and determination. How the other man came out — another soldier, he could tell, but terrified of the men. Firing wildly because the men were true.

  His heart soared.

  Dred stood in the littered living room of the aban doned house the crew squatted in and used as a stash house. One hand in his pants pocket, he checked his watch on the other, a bored spectator with more pressing concerns. Griff loomed over the dope dealer they'd caught unawares. The man sat up in the ruined couch, its cushions missing and he in his boxers startled from the nap he was taking along its box springs.

  At the other end of the room, the cushions were spread as a makeshift mattress, stained in blood, piss, and come, yet ready for business again. Baylon guarded the door, a careful eye on the streets.

  "I don't think you hear me. B, are you having trouble understanding me?"

  "I hear you just fine, Dred," Baylon said.

  "Griff, am I not using the King's English correctly?"

  "Like you was born to it."

  "Then why is this group of fools operating in my neighborhood? Why do I have to come down here and see to some petty bullshit?"

  "Some niggas are hard of skull. Maybe need their ears cleaned out," Griff said.

  Truth was, Dred was in a mood to make his presence felt. Sometimes he couldn't resist a little knucklehead stuff. It was the life. He had several stops to make that required his personal touch. And he'd heard some disturbing whispers about Night. Word on the street was that he was setting up his own shop, had crews working on his watch and was lining up his own distribution. That was the only reason Dred's interest was alerted. He had the distribution into Indianapolis locked up. Even the Hispanic gangs came through him. He had tied things up nicely to where, though still new to the scene, lit tle more than a name whispered among the operators — he doubted even the police had gotten onto him yet — he could step away from handling the product, short of major deals. Like the meeting he was soon to be late for. But before he became a com plete ghost, he needed to personally rattle a few cages.

  "Rent's due, motherfucker. That plain enough for you?"

  "I'm just a wrong time, wrong place brother. This ain't even my joint." The man cupped his crotch and draped his chest with his other arm. "I hear you, Dred. I didn't mean no disrespect."

  "Is that a glamour working?" Dred asked, suddenly suspicious. He studied the man, searching for a flaw or telltale giveaway. "You the one been having women coming in and out of here at all times, like that ain't going to draw no notice. What you call yourself doing? Maximizing your resources? Running dope and girls? Hope you ain't fool enough to run guns, too. Griff?"

  "I believe we have the night's proceeds." Griff held a paper bag loosely filled with cash. Not enough for Dred's notice, but enough for him to justify the diver sion.

  "What? We got a problem?"

  "Nah," the man said.

  "I think we got a problem."

  With a strength and ferocity that surprised them all, Dred upended the couch and spilled the man onto the floor. Before the man could struggle to his feet, Dred straddled him, his hot breath steaming the man's face. Dred headbutted him into senselessness, then slapped him like he was a hooker short with his money. The man's nose exploded and covered his face with blood.

  "Don't you ever," Dred said between subsequent slaps, "let me see you" slap "up in my territory" slap "without my explicit say so." Slap. "Explicit, mother fucker."

  The man fell backward in a pool of his own blood. His heart unmoved, Baylon wondered how many women the man had similarly beaten. The man crawled, a dog in cowering retreat, taking a foot to his side from Dred.

  "Dred, man, we got what we came for. If we're going to make that other thing…" Griff trailed off in half a singsong voice. Griff had leapfrogged Baylon in the hierarchy. Nothing had been openly said but Baylon knew the deal.

  The rituals and things he'd seen — things that were never explained nor even talked about — didn't bother Griff. He considered himself a needtoknow soldier. His brutally efficient fearlessness, and lack of questions, caused Dred to favor him in subtle ways. Tended to go to him first when something needed to be done. Seemed to favor his company outside of conducting business. Spoke of him quite favorably when he wasn't around. Things Baylon was certain was never done or said about him. The Ndibu led, it was still business as usual. Folks scurried to curry favor or step on the back of even their brother to get to the next level. There was no such thing as enough: not enough women, not enough money, not enough rep, not enough power. Discontent was its own raison d'etre.

  As Baylon saw things, Night had his own ambitions, they all did, but Night saw himself as the rightful heir to the throne of the streets and Dred as a pretender to it. Baylon's strategic thinking was what made him valuable to Dred, but not valuable enough. He was being pushed aside, reduced to a consigliere within his own crew.

  Dred and Griff turned toward Baylon. After an other check of the streets from the slit of the window beside the door, he nodded. Without instruction, Griff led the way, clutching the bag full of cash, knowing to keep money and product away from Dred. To insulate him. Dred followed. Baylon gave one last glance at the dope dealer who moaned as he crawled back onto the couch. Discarded as soon as he was inconvenient.

  The dope dealer stared straight at him. "Sir Baylon, this is the boundary of your life. Turn back and you may save yourself." And with that, the man vanished.

  Baylon imagined the trajectory of his life as him running. Running through a dark forest, heedless of what lay ahead, knowing that he couldn't remain where he was. His fate chased after him, undeterred and dogged, closing in on him like an inexorable curtain. He fought against the listing hopelessness. He stood on the precipice knowing the time to change ticked away quickly. He closed his eyes and waited, giving into his destiny.

  The squeal of car tires shattered the night like a hunting horn signaling the death of their prey. The car slowed to a deliberate crawl. Griff released his hold on the paper bag, whatever warrior sense or maybe just in tune to the scent of violence and blood and
death in the air alerting him to action. Without hesitation, he leapt between the approaching car and Dred. For his part, Dred stood there. Not frozen, as if the impending violence caught him short. No, he wore a different face. One of resignation. Of giving in to the inevitable. Of a time coming full circle.

  Baylon withdrew his knife. The blade snapped to life with a sharp click.

  From the lowered car windows, several gun barrels protruded. The first shot caught Griff before he could reach Dred. The shot caught him in the shoulder spinning him, then a second shot caught him in the side sending him towards Baylon. As Griff's body ca reened toward him, Baylon — perhaps on instinct, perhaps the knife had a will of its own, perhaps many things Baylon preferred to not think about — brought the knife to bear. It plunged into Griff's gut. His accusing eyes widened in shock, fresh pain atop his bullet wounds. He gripped Baylon's shirt, a desperate grasp which pulled him down on top of him. The action drove the blade deeper into him as they landed. Baylon cradled his head. The blood from the mortal cut covered his front. He peered into Griff's eyes until the light left them, but not before his countenance fixed in a look of knowing. There were no secrets from the dead.

  Dred arced his fingers down in a wave. The night seemed to split, carved open with the gesture, eldritch shadows catching the first volley of bullets. A shotgun barrel leveled at him. Its thunderous report caused Baylon to cover Griff as if he could shield him from any further damage. The shrapnel tore through the arcane shield Dred had cast and caught him fully in his gullet. The blast knocked him from his feet.

  The car sped off into the night.

  Baylon stood, surveying the damage. Not realizing his cell phone had found its way into his hand or that he had punched in the digits 911 and babbled non sensically into it. He folded the knife and tossed it down a sewer grate until he could retrieve it later.