"The Boars stretched out on the roof. Pulling his coat over him, he figured he could wait them out. Sneak off before dawn once the scene was secured by only a couple of cops.
Bo Little might have taken a beating, but The Boars handled his business.
At his desk, Cantrell turned the framed pictures of his wife and kids face-down before walking Prez past his desk to the interrogation room. Cantrell always knew he wanted to be a cop. Wanting to be where the action jumped off, he chose the most violent beat as a rookie. He wanted to make a difference. His was a simple plan. Let black kids in the neighborhoods see one of them. Have a cop treat them as a citizen, both valued and respected. Each person he met with a steady gaze, firm handshake, and served with honesty and diligence. He was the kind of detective who constantly asked questions and needed answers and didn't stop until he had them. For his effort, he was treated as the enemy: more blue than black. It broke his heart a little every time he had to haul in another brother in cuffs. Chains.
"You breaking my arm. You breaking my arm," Fathead said as he was ushered into a seat by Lee.
"You ain't got to do all that. We barely touching you." In contrast, Lee could give a shit about community. He couldn't tell you why he became a cop. Falling into it more than anything else, his sheer mediocrity allowing him to rise through the ranks. More diligent fuck-up than conscientious detective, most figured he'd have long been drummed out of the force. Except that he had an eye for the streets. He understood its rhythms and at the same time loathed that intimate knowledge. He was one with the musk and misery of the city's grimy underbelly. These days, the two graying strands in his mustache disconcerted him more than his clearance rate.
Lee was that kind of police. The kind who drank vodka because it had no smell even though it did. The kind who hid bottles around the house: in the basin of the toilet, in a kitchen cabinet, in the trunk of his car, in a desk drawer. The kind who wore his relationship with alcohol on his face. The kind who had no friends besides his brother officers and even those he had a propensity to piss on then piss off. The kind with no relationship to speak of; only sex with the occasional prostitute or other lost soul cast adrift in a bar. The kind with no family, no home, no roots, with his one-bedroom apartment having one room too many. Utilitarian at best, a television, couch, refrigerator, microwave, and a place to shit was all he needed.
All he had was the job. A job he hated most of the time but would be lost without.
"This case sucks. But they always suck till I get someone in jail." Cantrell snatched the folder from his desk. Opening the door, he found Fathead pouring a lot of sugar into his coffee.
"Can you get me some donuts?"
"Detective McCarrell read you your rights?" Ignoring him, Cantrell took off his jacket and wrapped it around the chair closest to the door. His chair. If Fathead was ever going through the door to see the light of day and freedom again, he had to go through Cantrell.
Fathead nodded while his fingers fussed with each other in nervous fumbling.
"We ran your prints. Your name is Bartholomew DiGora. Why they call you Fathead?"
"I don't know. Just a name, I guess," he mumbled, eyes cast shoeward.
"I love this room, Fathead. The truth comes out in this room." Cantrell perched on the edge of the table that separated them. "Mind if I call you Fathead? I don't mean to be presumptuous."
"It's all right." The boy wore a constant quizzical expression, more of a listener type.
"I just didn't want to disrespect you. Figure in the end, all a man's got is his good name. folks want to trample on that, they disrespect the man. I figure, you show a man respect, give him his due as a man. Less'n they do something to lose that respect. You feel me?"
"I guess."
"Now your boys, Preston Wilcox and Robert Ither — who you know as Prez and Naptown Red — them I got no use for. Prez's new to me. Looks like a bit of a burnout, but he ain't been in the system. Red, he a bit of a problem. He been in and out as long as he been breathing. He's what we call incorrigible."
"What you mean?"
"Mean he gonna see the inside of a cell for a long time. He one of them three-strike brothers. Unless…"
"Unless what?"
"Unless he makes a deal," Cantrell offered, helpfully resting his fists, knuckles down, into the table. "You see, we got a little girl dead. You knuckleheads want to sling to one another, do harm to one another, that's one thing. It ain't cool, but it's part of the game. You do what you got to do, we do what we got to do. But bodies start dropping, especially a little girl…" Cantrell removed an eight-by-ten glossy from a manila folder and placed a photograph of Lyonessa Maurila Ramona Perez in front of him. "Well, folks come down hard on something like that. Put a brother under the jail for something like that. You hear what I'm saying?"
"Yeah."
"Now we got witnesses. Puts three people in an SUV." Not a lie, per se, about the witness. More like a poker bluff, and Cantrell knew from poker faces.
"I was at home."
"How you remember? I ain't told you what day."
"Everybody know. I was home sick."
"All day?"
"All day," Fathead echoed.
"Anyone vouch for you?"
"I ain't got no one. Sick alone. In bed."
"You ain't got no one? No one to take care of you when you sick? No one to be with you when you alone? No one to have your back when you in a jam?"
"No."
"Cause you know you in a jam, right?"
"What you mean?"
"The kind of weight we seized? Someone's going up for a long time. And that's if we can't put you in that SUV. But someone will. Cause you ain't got no one."
"No." Fathead's bloodshot eyes drifted into a sullen gaze.
"Not even Red. What you think he's going to tell us when I say there were three people in the SUV and that he can lessen his years by giving them up?" Cantrell came around the table again to meet his gaze. His voice lowered to a whisper. "A little girl is dead. Someone's going to pay."
Fathead was unmoved, in the way the truly innocent were unconcerned. A little cocky cause he knew he wasn't there. So Cantrell changed tack.
"On the other hand, I wonder what Red will tell me. Like whose dope that was. Think he'll put it on you if I ask him for a name? He doesn't exactly strike me as a stand-up guy." Cantrell's eyes bored into him like trained laser sights on a target.
Fathead squirmed, his lips taut and bloodless. Cantrell knew he had him. It was time for one of his artfully told lies.
"Then again," Cantrell's voice dropped to a confidential drawl, "if I were to ask you for a name, you probably will be looking at a walk. I'm no lawyer, but I can talk to the District Attorney. Let him know how cooperative you were."
"One of my lieutenants have a problem, he squash it. I got zero knowledge."
"Lieutenants? Come on, now, let's be straight: you low man on the totem pole. Ain't shit you got to say to me about that."
"I know I ain't no cheese-eating rodent."
"I wouldn't want to cast no aspersions, if you know what I'm saying."
"I'm not a snitch."
"I'm not asking you to snitch. Just… speculate." Boy, you better swallow your pride like it's your favorite dish, Cantrell thought to himself. "You got a name for me?"
Fathead calculated the numbers in his head. A lot of dope meant a lot of years. Federal time maybe. Conspiracy. Murder. Intent to distribute. They were looking to close a lot of cases on him. Who had his back? Some public defender, his Johnny Cochran? Nah, they would take one look at him and be skipping out of work. Wasn't like Dred was going to post bond or nothing. Barely put up for Mulysa, and he stood tall with him for years. Plus, it wasn't like they were on the clock for him. They were on their own. He was on his own.
"I said, you got a name for me?" Cantrell repeated.
"Dred."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A wanderer by nature, Lott never dreamed of peace or justice or lov
e or being loved. He barely planned into the following week. He hated being trapped in a story that had been written about him. That he was "the betrayer" or "the outcast" or "the unredeemable one" (despite the fact that some of those stories were only written in his own head). He feared that he'd never be able to outrun those stories; that he'd never have the chance to write a new story of himself; that the stories would always define him and he'd be powerless to do more than be moved around more like pieces than characters.
"If you must die, die for something greater than yourself. Better yet, live. Live to serve others."
He longed to believe King's words again. To be a part of King's crusade. To be led by King again. It had been a while since he visited the Eagle Terrace apartments, an obtuse layout of living spaces, a large swathe of pot-holed asphalt surrounded by labyrinthine walls of rooms winding along curving streets. The first time in a long time he walked its sidewalks alone.
"Jesus help me," he cried out to the sky. In his heart he prayed that there was a peace to be had on the other side of war. Lott startled the Hispanic woman carrying two bags of groceries. Keeping a wary eye on him, she paused then walked a wider path around him. On any other evening, he'd have offered to carry her groceries for her. Now her wary eyes could see to his heart and know his sins. Everyone could. It weighed him down, pressed on him with a constant smothering.
Writhing in Lady G's embrace was what he had so longed for. Anticipated. Now the image was burned into his mind and tasted like ashes in his mouth. The cost was too high. He tried to not think about all the relationships he'd damaged, all the people he had hurt, all the damage he had caused. He no longer belonged anywhere. Rootless and wandering not by choice but by circumstance.
Redemption was a dream he tried not to put too much hope in. All he wanted was to be restored in their eyes. For them to look at him and see the Lott of old. Their boy. Not this stain that sullied their memories. The idea came to him that maybe he could nudge the process along. Perhaps if he could come to their rescue, help them in some way, maybe they'd be able to forgive him. Sure, their lips said they forgave him, but he recognized that look in their eyes. The one that said they'd never look at him the same. That look of resentment mixed with distrust. The look of his mother after too many drinks. The look of the endless parade of "uncles" who streamed through his life. The look of something that needed to be flushed out of their lives.
Loneliness gnawed at Lott's reason. Solitude was painful. Isolation the worst form of torture. Scared, longed to reach out. He hopelessly wanted someone to find him. To reach out to him. To hold him. Any attention. The madness of alienation created a desperation which drove folks to strange places, to reach out in strange ways.
So he banged on the front door of Black's grandmother's front door.
Blunt smoke thickened in the air of the house party. Drinks bobbed by freely. Cholos lined the walls, corners, and couches bragging about work they had put in. Whoever told the best story received handstacks in response. Black was offered a hit, out of respect, knowing he'd refuse. Tonight he didn't drink either.
His grandmother had stayed with one of his aunts for a week, Black sprawled along the black leather couch. With his slight build, gaunt face, and his determined eyes, he exuded power and fierceness. In a Celtics jersey and shorts, his extensive tattoos were on full display. Two young women snuggled on either side of him. Stroking his arm, the side of his face and whispering breathy seductions into his ear, their attentions annoyed him more than anything. He needed to clear his head.
Standing abruptly, all eyes turned to him. The room held its breath. They took their cues from him, and of late his mood was foul and brooding. He thought what his people needed was an excuse to let off some steam, but it wasn't what he needed. He nodded and everyone relaxed and went back to chatting. Intimate conversations as his boys chatted up the ladies. The laughter. The bumping music. Marijuana, cigarettes, sweat, and re-breathed alcohol.
La Payasa shadowed him from across the room. When he stood, she stood. When he relaxed, she relaxed. She trailed him into the kitchen. He walked across the green and white tiled floor to the refrigerator and grabbed a Corona. Elbows on the counter, he leaned back and waited for La Payasa. Eyes closed, he imagined a great sea. Born to Tomas and Angelina, he'd always had an affinity for water. Tomas often took him fishing. It wasn't the act itself he enjoyed. Truth be told, the idea of sitting around holding a rod like a limp dick waiting to be pulled never appealed to him. But spending time with his father, those times he treasured. Tomas worked two jobs: one as a butcher, he had been a butcher in Mexico before he moved here; and as an off-the-books security guard at a nightclub. It was at the latter job where three black kids, looking for an easy mark, ran across him. They took his father from him. That was the story he was told. His mother went mad with grief. He had to step up and be the man of the family. He was eleven.
"Everything all right?" La Payasa asked. Black respected La Payasa. Few wanted to actually squeeze the trigger though all would brag on it later. She had heart. Her word was bond.
There wasn't anyone who couldn't be made happy by the thought of deep, placid water. The languid waves lapped the shore, yet stretched out into the horizon. "Yeah, it's all good."
"This business with Dred and his crew…"
"What about it?"
"It's bad for business."
"Then they shouldn't have started it. What were we supposed to do? Let them come around here? Dictate to us how we should handle our business?"
Brothers. Uncles. Cousins. All were members of the nation. This was his birthright. The gang took him in, raised him, and showed him how to become a man. He had been a member of the nation for seven years. At five foot four, Black didn't back down from anyone. The gang didn't take just anyone. They had to have heart. That was what the initiation was about. He was violated. Four or five dudes set to beat his ass. Black went through it two times in a row. He wanted his brothers to know he was down for them twice as much as anyone else. The nation these days had no structure. Not like the old days, when they had a constitution which forbade things like rape, hard drug use, and snitching. Well, some things hadn't changed. But the nation fractured, with every crew going for themselves. Black was a disciple of the old ways. He understood that if you had power, you had control, and control was the endgame.
Too late, Black's mother worried about his affiliation with the gang. She thought the devil took him over. One night, she tried to perform an exorcism. She drugged him and then threw him in the bathtub. Lit candles. Cursed at him. Spat at him. Broke raw eggs to smear on him. Lonzo had little idea what was going on. But then the eggs turned black. And she cried that he was lost to her.
"All the bodies dropping brings too much attention. The police. The reporters. It's a big spotlight on us. You let it get personal."
"They killed Lyonessa. They…"
"I know. But before then."
"All my business is personal. I'm not going to let anyone disrespect me or my shorties. If you're afraid of dying, this is the wrong game for you."
His father came to him in dreams. It was he who first told Black about how his mother hired the boys to kill him. His father watched as he crept into her bedroom one night and wrapped his hands around her throat. Eyes teared up with pleading, she reached up, clawing at his face and arms. A son killing his mother, he knew he was beyond forgiveness. That he was cursed with no soul. And would burn.
He closed his eyes, too afraid of the final death rattle of his mother, when he noticed the smell and her renewed struggle. It smelled of rancid meat set to flame. When he opened his yes, his mother's hands slackened, her arms fallen to her side. But her skin where his hands met her throat blistered. Large pustules swelled then burst like over-ripe fruit, pus spilled out like lactating wounds. Her skin charred.
Black turned his palm upward, only to see strangers at the end of his arms.
Someone banged on the front door.
Black adjusted
his gloves.
Lady G's image haunted Lott, creeping into his mind whenever he lowered his guard or sat still long enough. The odd crook of her smile. The press of her skin. His fingers could still trace each supple curve of her body because she had so totally filled his mind and consumed his heart. She was a fever dream that had not yet broken despite the fallout from them getting together. Part of him clutched to every moment they shared, attempting to track back to when it all started. Everything began with a moment. A furtive glance, sultry and lingering, which signaled the okay to become intimate. Unspoken. Between them. Their little secret. Knowing looks and personal touches like their own inside joke. So it was natural, after Garlan kidnapped her and Lott rescued her, that their inhibitions lowered from the adrenaline rush of the adventure. From there it was like coming down from their high, in passion's ebb.
Then things fell apart.
No matter how much he wished, things could never go back to the way they were before. They were broken and someone had to pay.
"You Black?" Lott asked. The man was shorter than he expected. A young girl stepped past them then off to the side, positioning herself to his flank and in the shadows. Her hair, blonde with black roots, flew her colors.
"Who asking?"
"Lott."
"You one of King's crew." If Black had heard about the situation between Lott and King — and Lord knew that word traveled fast on the street vine — he gave no indication. Not that it mattered. Lott knew. Most days he wanted to give in to the desire to get blunted and stop feeling so much. But he deserved to feel it all. The guilt, the shame, pressed in on him with such weight he was convinced everyone could just see it.
"Yeah, that's me."
"What's your angle like, homes?" Black asked. Not quite what Lott was expecting with his bald head and full beard. Five foot four, about a buck seventy, posed in an aggressive stance in order not to convey weakness.
"I come in peace, if you are."
"Seems you ain't got a choice. You traveling awfully light."
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