"Let me out of here," Prez said to the shadowed form he glimpsed through tear-blurred, half-open eyes.
"I can't do it, Prez. And you don't want me to."
King daubed the perspiration sheen from the boy's forehead, a little too sternly, definitely lacking a mother's tender touch.
Breathing through his open mouth, Prez's thrashes grew weaker. The smell of him filled the room, his sweat soaked through his shirt and sheets, a mildewed stink. Prez told himself over and over that he was going to leave all this behind him, all the thugging and gangsta posing. Even before that last deal went so wrong.
"What the fuck?" Red put fire to the blunt, drew in its smoke, closed his eyes to let it do its work, and blew out a thick stream of smoke.
"What's up?" Prez turned from the television, a rerun of some cop show on TNT. Naptown Red hunched over a table, stacks of bills in front of him and a few scattered tester packets. More than a couple he had sampled himself.
"We short. Nearly a G." The patches of his face seemed to swirl, a Rorschach in varying shades of brown. He ran his hand through his dry, straightened hair.
"What you mean?"
"You stupid, motherfucker? Fathead done shorted us. Trying to punk us out." Fathead Wallace was one of their new distributors. Red was uncertain about putting him on, but Prez vouched for him, saying they went back years, both having squat in the same places off and on.
"Let's go talk to him. I bet we can straighten things out."
"Talk? What did I tell you? 'Never let the other guy get up on you.' Anyone who tries, we got to fuck up or else we the ones who look weak."
"But there might be a simple mistake."
"You got a few hundred in your pockets you forgot to give me?" Red slipped his Taurus into his dip.
"No."
"You got a few more ounces have gone unsold?"
"No." Yes. Actually, they got smoked up behind that old burned-out church. Violating Red's other rule, "never do your own product." But, as much as Fathead was his boy and all, he wasn't about to admit to stealing from Red. Might as well cut off his own hands.
"You up for fucking someone up or are you one of them all-talk niggas?"
Prez never wanted to be thought of as weak. Not that he wanted to be one of those hollow-eyed brothers, like Green or Junie, folks so ate up by the streets they had nothing left inside. He didn't need to be hard like that or have his name ring out like that. He was no gangsta by any means, but he was no punk neither. Played out as weak, he might as well not show his face around as everyone would be seeking to get over on him. So all the way over to Fathead's place, Prez talked about how he was going to fuck up Fathead. Punched his own hand in a pantomime of a beat-down. Made the noises of someone taking a punch then pleading for them to stop. Talking all kinds of shit about "naw nigga, you shouldn't have played us. You earned this. You better let everyone know not to cross us."
Naptown Red listened patiently. He'd sparked up before they left, getting his head right before going off on a mission. Tooled up, his mind was definitely intent on getting either his money, his product, or someone's ass.
"This the right place?" They stood in front of a white shotgun house, which stood out on the block from the other more Arts and Crafts era-inspired houses.
"Yeah."
Red tamped out a cigarette, lit it, and took a long pull. Leaving the cigarette dangling from his lip, he stepped back and kicked the door in.
Two brothers reclined on a couch, jumping to attention at Red and Prez's entrance. A skinny white kid missing one eye, struggled to find his sea legs. He knocked over an opened pizza box with only a quarter of a pie left. A half-dozen empty soldiers of Blatz toppled along the table, which Prez remembered Fathead once calling "the Muskatel of beer."
"Which one of you motherfuckers is Fathead?" Red asked, as if more than one of them was missing an eye. No one spoke up. Red glanced back at Prez, then traced his eye line to the skinny boy. Prez sheepishly turned away. Fathead curled up his slip at the sting of betrayal. "You got the rest of my money, bitch?"
"What money? We straight," Fathead said. Fine scars framed his fake eye. He'd seen a movie where some dude kept having different glass eyes, like one was a yellow smiley face. Fathead wanted to draw a skull and crossbones on his. That would be some tripped out shit.
"Naw, motherfucker, we far from straight. We about a grand from straight."
"You better take that up with your boy," Fathead said, hands raised and in plain sight. "Came over here, I told him the package looked a little light. His eyes all fucked up, I knew he'd been hitting it. I ain't tryin' to rip nobody off. I'm just out to earn. And I can't earn if I burn my connect straight out the gate."
Red calculated the P/F, profits to fiending, ratio. Fathead might have been up on pizza and cheap beer, maybe a blunt or two, but that was it. Prez itched his forearm, eyes swimming in his head. In a whirl, Red grabbed the neck of one of the bottles and smashed it against Prez's skull.
"Ho shit!" Fathead skittered up the back of his couch, not taking his eyes from the scene.
Prez clutched his head and called out to the Lord, apparently now on a first-name basis with him. Naptown Red snapped his knife to life, poised to carve out his missing money from Prez's narrow behind when the sound of a high grinding metal whine pierced the room.
A seam of light split the air. Red and Fathead pushed past him, tumbling out the door. The poor fool, Prez, turned back and received a claw across his face for his troubles. Blood. So much blood. A small creature pulled its lips back to reveal teeth like a shark's. It removed its cap to daub the stain of blood left by Prez. That was the last image he remembered — the row of sharpened teeth — before King found him.
Prez knew all about the twelve-step programs. He tried them as a condition of getting food from churches. He hated the fact that churches always made him listen to their spiel before doing anything for him. They couldn't just give him a free meal, couldn't just take one look at him and see that he was in need. He always got stuck on that third step of the program. They always talked about a higher power, but prayer struck him as rather desperate. Crying out to an invisible friend who obviously didn't give two shits about him because if He were any kind of friend, He'd have never let him get as low as He did.
The image of Fathead's "what the fuck?" grimace as if betrayed flashed in his head.
"I don't know what to say. Even if I believe in Him," Prez said.
"Then tell Him that. And what you want," King said.
"God, I don't believe in you, but I need help. I can't keep going like this. I need help." Broken, wondering when he'd feel whole again, faith was the only thread left to carry him through. And hopefully not unravel the tapestry of his life. He didn't think he'd have the strength to fight through the difficult moments without the faith that things would get better.
King nodded for him to continue.
"Dad, please." And he didn't know if he were talking to God or his own father. "Please help me. Why won't you talk to me?"
CHAPTER NINE
The eastside of Indianapolis, a model of urban decay under the city's knowing eye, was left like a corpse, while people spoke of what a shame it was. With nothing for them to do, no jobs, where poor folks lived. Only a couple of places existed for kids to hang out. A Boys' Club down on 30th Street, but soon as a kid acted a fool, they kicked him out. No sit down, no nothing. Bam! If they had their way at school, soon as a kid bucked, they kicked him out. No sit down, no nothing. Gone! Kicked out of school. Kicked out of the Boys' Club. So with Momma at work and no daddy around, they were left to sit around and play video games all day, talk on the phone, get on the computer, or run out in the streets. Where Colvin could prey on them.
Colvin radiated a bloodless calm as he stepped with the carriage of authority. Deep, hollow eyes in constant assessment, creating a mental checklist of who was doing what or rather who wasn't. Melle had become one of his top earners, the little man due to be promoted. A young ho
thead in a wife beater and baggy blue jean shorts, with the scarecrow build of a krumper. He had shaved off his wild, unchecked Afro because Five-O could identify him from blocks away. Noles was a slack-jawed plate of hot mess who only sprang to work when he knew someone in charge of his wallet was around. One of Colvin's white boys, with hair in a Caesar cut, a razor-thin goatee and a random growth of a beard only over his Adam's apple. He dressed like a redneck business executive. Otherwise, he did as little as possible while talking a big game about his exploits, usually taking credit for other people's work.
The abandoned Camlann Apartment building on Oriental Avenue, three stories of what was once a showcase place. Many organizations had put in bids to rehab the building, but the owner refused to sell and refused to do anything with it except allow it to wither. So the city declared eminent domain and it was due to be razed. The lawsuits and counter lawsuits had delayed the process, allowing it to further fall into dangerous dilapidation. Left to politicians, it would stand for years, a testimony to pain and suffering and lost hope.
The informal gallery smelled of burnt crack, urine, vomit, sweat, and other noxious effluvia. With mattresses strewn about, the apartment served as both flop house and sexual bartering place. On the stairwell and landings, overseen by Noles, a group of young men stood about, guards at a check point, drinking and smoking while doing their duty. An endless sea of shadows in thick down jackets and work boots. The unventilated chamber concentrated the vile smell. Puddles of an unknown liquid pooled, stepped around by all passers-by.
"Tell him," a young red-headed woman said, her eyes aged and used up, her skin dusty. Her breasts hung low in her grungy gray T-shirt, once pink with the word "Hotness" now missing its "t", she remained plumpish despite her habit, loose flesh hanging with a collected slackness, cradling her three year-old.
"I'll suck your dick," the toddler said on cue.
The woman beamed with pride, her eyes alight with the intimation that the offer was no mere party trick. It wasn't the first time Colvin had such an offer. A few years back, a lady traded her nieces for $50 of crack. It was a rolling party for six months, molesting them at will until he got bored and passed them on to his crew. Eventually they were sold to The Pall as street earners. Colvin stepped past the woman, leaving her for Noles to deal with. His appointment was with Mulysa.
The bare bulb burned to life at the tug of the dangling string that scattered dust in its beam. Stripped down to his shirt, Mulysa sat cross-legged in the center of the room, his bottom bitch next to him in easy reach. Bowls of herbs and holy water were placed in a sort of unholy feng shui arrangement apparent only to him.
"We 'bout ready?" Colvin asked.
"Damn, nukka. This shit ain't easy." Mulysa opened his eyes, ending his prayer and meditation.
"Don't act like I'm one of them knuckleheads you got working outside. I'm from a bloodline of magic and not easily impressed with a summoner."
It was a quiet dig, fully intended as Mulysa heard it, as a slight meant to humble him and keep him in his place. Colvin didn't want him to think too much of his gifts or what he did. His service was expected. His obedience was expected. His talents brought to the table a given, or else why bring him in?
"A-ight then." Mulysa chafed nonetheless, not anxious to please or prove his worth, but to simply be respected. And he'd get that respect.
Lacking an original grimoire or anything, only what he could glean from the internet, he nevertheless took ritual magic very seriously. Especially since it served as an additional source of (undeclared and thus untaxed by Colvin) income for him. He didn't consider himself a major-league summoner, but he knew enough to be able to call up a spirit, any supernatural force, really, and subjugate it to his will. More or less. Enough to keep them from tearing him to shreds like so much used Kleenex. He fondled his bitch, studying the way the golden light of the brazier reflected from it. While visualizing flames, he dragged the blade against his floorboards, carving a magic circle with the knife as a barrier against the outside and to help him focus.
Incanting in an old tongue, he mimicked the words more than pronounced them. They almost seemed to form themselves and spring from his lips, as if all they needed was the attempt to stir them for them to finish the articulation. The words came easy to Mulysa.
"Come in the stillness, Come in the night Come soon and bring delight Beckoning, beckoning, left hand and right Come now, come tonight Come malice, come; come malice, come. Peter stands at the gate, Waiting for your vengeful hate. Come malice, come!"
In his mind, he ran around a fairy ring on the first night of the new moon. Alone and thus without embarrassment. Nothing he could do around these nukkas without ridicule. Simple motherfuckers never cracked a book unless there was a dollar in it for them. They didn't understand power. Or the sacrifices of what it took to lead.
Music and laughter bubbled up from the ground. A trickle of green light began as a teardrop suspended in mid-air, pooling before trailing down. The pulse thickened, a seam cut by invisible scissors.
Colvin's heart leapt. The panorama resonated with an ancient part of his fey heritage. The sounds, the smells recalled a pageantry his life longed for, opened a door to memories, blood memories old and familiar. Then came the tramp of men marching, the sound near and distinct.
A troop of men, if men such creatures be called, emerged. Red Caps. None taller than three feet high, with wiry builds other than their bulbous bellies. Their iron boots ground into the wooden floorboards with an impatient scrape. Long and curved, claws sharp as steel carried slings which allowed them to throw stones from faraway positions. Long stockinged caps, faded to a dull pink, covered brush-wire hair. Ragged, pointed teeth within drawn, gaunt faces gave them a sullen quality. Except for the poisonous glare of their red eyes. Every time Colvin laid eyes on them, he squashed the need to laugh at their absurd appearance. Much like the pygmy tribes of Africa, their diminutive appearance belied the fact that they were among the most feared warriors of any tribe. Red Caps made homes in crumbling castles and haunted places with a reputation for evil events. And nothing was more evil than the neglected poor.
"I have a job for them," Colvin said.
"Omarosa?" Mulysa asked, but got no reply. They were long overdue to get payback over the mess with Broyn.
"Want I should lead them?"
"I got it." The implication being that he didn't trust Mulysa with a task he deemed too delicate.
"I summoned them, I should lead them."
"Who have you ever led? Don't strain yourself, I got this. Your gifts are better served elsewhere. Make sure our other talent is ready to go."
"A-ight." Part of Mulysa seethed. He'd risen as far as he was able and wasn't about to be trusted with more. His bubbling anger needed to be vented. Someone had to hurt.
A squirrel bounded along the black, cracked pavement of the sidewalk at a house just a little south of the Phoenix Apartments. Rumor had it that this was once Dred's mother's home. Rumor had it that Dred's mother had a bit of a falling out of some sort with her son and hadn't been seen since. Rumor had it that the home was once one of his convenient banks. To the non-discerning eye, it was just another boarded-up two-story. The squirrel stopped, indifferent as it sniffed the air, then scampered up a pole and ran along an overhead wire. It hopped over the pair of tied sneakers dangling from it. Again, it paused, this time it chirped, a squawk reminiscent of a chicken, its tail raised like a cobra striking the air.
A tree hung low over the roof, its branches scraping the shingles and brushing the overhead lines. A group of three young men cloistered along the sidewalk. Today's topics steered towards trick, lesbian bitches, LeBron James, the latest product, exaggerated tales of Omarosa, whispers about Dred, Young Jeezy, and rims.
Sir Rupert dropped nuts on them.
"What the fuck?!?" They threw up their arms to shield themselves.
"Ah, Sir Rupert." Merle snuck past the distracted lookouts. "Ever the gentlemen's gentlemen."
It was said that when the angels fell, the ones who fell on land became faeries and the ones who fell into the sea became selkies. It was said that he was born the son of an incubus and a virtuous woman, though he doubted anyone had ever once considered the mad harridan Mab virtuous. A tale well spoke, however, once said that she met a priest and asked him if there were any way for her soul to be saved. "Of course," he said, "none are beyond saving. Why don't you say the Our Father with me. 'Our Father which art in heaven…'" After a hesitant tremble, she opened her mouth and began speaking. "Our father which wert in heaven…" She caught herself, mid-prayer to the fallen one. The priest, mouth agape, watched as she ran off in tears. Later it was whispered that upon his birth, Merle was entrusted to that priest at birth who hurried him to a baptismal fount.
Merle adjusted the fitting of his aluminum foil cap. The voices said a lot of things and it was harder and harder to sift through them all and divine the ones worth listening to. Merle delighted in mystery and causing wonder. Wise and subtle with the gift of prophecy, he knew the dark corners of the human heart and moved, like a dream. And dreams were what brought him here.
"I feel like I am walking backwards through my life, passing myself on the way down." Merle fingered the small stone in his pocket. He'd found it at the first scene where the bodies at the Phoenix Apartments had been discovered. "I see angels," he repeated to himself. After he heard snippets of Prez's story he choose to investigate that scene. He wished he'd been able to examine the bodies like he did in the old times. Searching for a hairless spot in its side or any lump beneath the skin, any sign that they had been trow-shot. The strange pellet slipped back into his pocket. According to the old ways, anyone who found an elf arrow was immune from their hurt if they kept it with them at all times. If it were given away, the generous soul was liable to be kidnapped away by the faeries. "Youth is primal. And wasted."
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