King's War: The Knights of Breton Court 3

by Maurice Broaddus

  "King provided an opportunity. See, I stepped back, let everyone think I was out the game, every wannabe shot-caller stepped into the light. Colvin, Rellik, all them fools got taken out… after they built up networks, supply lines, and connects. Did my work for me."

  "Only leaves one player. The Mexicans. And they shit is locked down," Garlan said.

  "Don't even know how all this shit started. But they take down one of ours, we take down ten of theirs. Let's see how they like that math."

  Dred knew. He'd played this game before with a girl named Michelle Lalard. He manipulated the situation to cause Baylon to have to kill her, driving a permanent wedge between him and King. And by being there for Baylon in his moment of darkness and loneliness, welcoming him with the embrace of a friend, he earned Baylon's loyalty. People never forget who was there for them when things were bleakest. Those were the people they knew they could count on when things got hot. And Dred was going to keep turning up the heat.

  "Profits are up. Our control is just about absolute." Dred peered at Baylon and Garlan with something approximating pride. "We have to work hard and stay vigilant. Done made ourselves our share of enemies."

  "Do dirt, get dirty," Garlan said. Garlan's mouth tightened as he studied the cracks in the floor tiles. It meant something to be treated with respect, to be treated like a man. Dred and his crew relieved him of that isolation, but only he knew the intimacies of his pain, how it bricked him up inside. How the desperation of loneliness and feeling unimportant added this level of crazy intensity to the people you reach out to when you're alone. The game was spinning out of control. The drama they were talking about was already too costly and there was no end in sight. He needed to slow it down or get out.

  "Everyone at this table has got respect. Earned it."

  "No disrespect," Naptown Red began, "but what have you done?" The air seemed to have been sucked out the room. The players all but physically moved away from Red, carefully distancing themselves in case he didn't check himself. "I mean, this is your show, no doubt. No doubt. But how long we gonna put up with King?"

  "King," Dred began in a slow, halting tone beset with threat, "is out of play."

  "Why not finish him?"

  "He's suffering."

  "I'm just saying, you don't want to appear soft. To the Mexicans."

  Dred had climbed the mountaintop and controlled everything. But no one knew. King had been defeated, had become despondent, and was out of the game. The cops barely knew who he was. He was so far behind the scenes, his name didn't ring out the way he wanted. Or that others would respect. He had the power of position, by way of title, but too many thought it was handed to him. That his crown was unearned. "That how you all feel?"

  "Just saying, if King had been a thorn in my side," Naptown Red's bravado becoming bolder, "even if he's hurting now, I'd go ahead and put that dog down. But it's your show."

  "Bloodless ascents," Nine said with a hint of a smirk, "blood carried out in your name but not by your hands."

  "You think too small. There's a whole world beyond the hood. Got to think big. Like businessmen. Expand the trade in ways we haven't thought about. Time to finish our hostile takeover." Dred read the room. Confident in his overall strategy, he accepted that he'd have to put in a more personal touch in order to hold the center. "Red, you and Baylon handle the Black problem. I'll take care of King."

  "We all have our part to play," Nine said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Wayne ripped the first pair of rubber gloves he tried to put on. Making a mental note to have a conversation with their volunteer coordinator, who also ordered supplies, that not everyone had "medium" sized hands, he slipped another pair on. The gloves were so tight-fitting they restricted his movement, but better ill-fitting gloves than no gloves at all. Now he was ready for the task at hand.

  Isabel "Iz" Cornwall had been admitted to the hospital. Complications from drug withdrawal on her hopelessly over-taxed immune system. The doctors administered high doses of antibiotics while observing her for a few more days. Tristan Drust, her girlfriend, dropped off her things to the Outreach Inc. house, then disappeared mysteriously yet again. Wayne recognized the restlessness on Tristan's face, the caged beast waiting to go on the hunt. Revenge seethed in her eyes. That kind of anger had a way of consuming a person, but she wasn't in a place to talk. Instead, she dropped off trash bags full of Iz's stuff.

  "The glamour leave yet?" Wayne passed a trash bag to Esther Baron.

  "What glamour?" Esther pulled on her gloves with ease, but stared at the bags with mild distrust. She hated the way she looked and was always at war with her body, from one diet to the next, counting calories and miles walked in a day. She considered herself too short (which she could do nothing about) and too dumpy (which she was determined to change). Esther was one of those people easily overlooked in a room. Not the center of attention, not quick to speak, and without the presence or immediate kind of beauty people gravitated to, she simply went about her business. Her actions spoke for her as she dove into life at Outreach Inc with both feet. She had been volunteering with Outreach Inc for over a year now because she wanted to be a part of the hope the organization represented.

  "You know, the idea of helping homeless teens. Most folks figure it's just handing out food, water, and socks, and calling it a day."

  "No, I'm in it for the long haul." Esther hid behind the belief that she would always be seen as the outsider. The rich white girl who lived in Fishers who occasionally slummed with the poor folks to make herself feel better. White liberal guilt as a fashion accessory. Whatever. People could think what they wanted, she couldn't control that. She focused on doing what she knew she ought to be doing. "Now quit."

  "Quit what?"

  "I feel like you're always testing me. Pushing me away to see if I'll leave."

  He had been. Sort of. He didn't want anyone around the kids who couldn't commit to being in their lives for months. They needed to see that folks would be there and be consistent and not simply abandon them when things got tough. They'd seen enough of that. "Well, if you say so, dig in."

  Esther opened up her bag, took a whiff, and shut it again. It smelled of moldy cellars and damp closets. "What are we doing?"

  "These are the worldly belongings of Miss Isabel Cornwall."

  "Iz?"

  "The one and the same."

  "They're soaked."

  "Yeah. Probably sat outside for a day or two."

  "Or a month." Esther tentatively opened the bag again and peeled back a layer of jeans. She hated the sticky sound they made as she pulled them apart.

  "We need to go through her things. Look for any ID or prescriptions that can help us."

  "Help us do what?"

  "Verify parts of her story. Establish who she is so that we can help her get whatever ID, papers, assistance we can. Any meds so that doctors know what she's on."

  "So we need to…"

  "… go through all her pockets."

  Esther stretched the pair of damp jean out along the floor and reached into a pocket. Something jabbed her finger and she dropped the jeans as if she'd been bit. Visions of junkie needles and a future living with Hep C or AIDS flashed through her head. Gingerly, she opened the pant pocket. It was a hair clip. "Oh."

  "You okay over there?"

  "Yeah. just surprised by all the random things I'm finding."

  "Me too." Wayne opened a pink purse. Inside was nothing but damp panties. He tossed them onto the pile of them he'd found in purses, pockets, and packages. "I have never seen a larger collection of panties in my life."

  "A girl's got to have drawers. Found some over here, too." Esther rifled through another purse. "She's fond of leopard prints."

  "Found a prescription." Wayne turned a coat pocket inside out. "Abilify."

  "Found another one." Esther smiled at keeping pace with Wayne's finds. Having two older broth ers, the blood rush of competition reared its head. "And…"

  Wayne
paused with his hands full of bras and a bewildered look on his face. The sight caused Esther to burst out laughing. "What?"

  "Here." She handed him a social security card.

  "Bam!" Wayne exclaimed. "That the biggie. This should make getting her some assistance much easier."

  "It's almost time for drop. Should I throw those in the wash?"

  "Yeah. Only cause she's in the hospital and we don't know when Tristan will be back."

  "Or if."

  "Right. But, as much as you may want to, don't get into the habit of doing that kind of stuff. I know it may seem like you're helping, but you wouldn't be. We're not their personal assistants. We don't do for them what they can do for themselves."

  "Got it. I'll take care of this. Someone's already here."

  Esther toted the two trash bags, waving off Wayne's initial move to assist her. Wayne peeked out the window. Rhianna carried her newborn, swaddled in two layers of blankets. Normally, he'd let her wait outside until it was time for drop, as it was important that the kids learned and respected boundaries. But he wasn't going to leave her outside with the little one.

  "Good evening, Rhianna." Wayne bowed before her and waved her in.

  "You so silly." Her hair flared, interlocked lockets in need of re-twisting. She carried herself with a fierce sexiness. Upon closer inspection, her worn, bruised skin added a hint of purple to her sepia complexion. Her half-jacket, with nothing underneath, exposed her pierced belly button and tattoo on the small of her back. Over blue jeans. She had the sour tang of unwashed ass.

  "How's the little man?" Wayne teased the blankets away from his face to get a better look.

  "Good."

  "What's his name?"

  "Haven't made up my mind yet."

  "So what do you call him?"

  "Baby."

  "Girl, you a trip. Let me hold him." Baby struggled as if he wanted to crawl back into her womb and wait for a better world. Wayne hoisted "Baby" with ease and noted the brief grimace of worry on Rhianna's face, and it reassured him in an odd way. Her attachment to the newborn.

  The child was all Rhianna would know of love. She'd spent too much of her teen years going to parties or hooking up. Too worried about food to dream of a future. She had no room for baby thoughts or baby dreams. And a still, quiet voice within her hoped his thoughts and dreams would rub off on her. From the moment she found out she was pregnant, she knew she didn't have a choice but to be with him. She'd have this baby. Have someone to love. Things would be different this time.

  Rhianna's mother once crossed a set. She had the rep for sleeping around, not caring which block they came from or what set they claimed. And she had a knack for choosing the precise wrong ones. Word on the street for those who listened, had it that she once dumped Geno for Speedbump, two up-and-coming young princes of the streets. The two men exchanged words. The argument was heard by Speedbump's brother, who came down to get his brother out. Bama, who was country crazy and only needed an excuse, saw the brewing fight and got his weapon. When Bama came out, all he saw was Geno and Speedbump's brother after Speedbump. He didn't realize or care that Speedbump had broken away from his pursuing brother – who only wanted to keep his brother safe. Geno caught three bullets to the back. He survived, but he was never the same. Dropped out of the game.

  The streets buzzed with the news, the blame quickly traced back to Rhianna's mom, who was set to get a retaliatory beat down. Possibly take a bullet herself when the female members of the crew caught up with her. They caught up with her at her aunt's crib. She called the police even before she heard them bang at the door. Rhianna couldn't have been older than four. Her mother beat her, slamming her face into the bathroom sink, and when Five-O showed up, she blamed the girls. The confusion bought her mother time. That evening, she was gone.

  "You alone?" Wayne asked.

  "With my boyfriend."

  "Where'd he go? Or does 'boyfriend' imply much more of a commitment to the relationship than he's ready for?"

  "He didn't even leave a tip."

  "Chivalry is dead."

  "Said he was coming through though."

  "You see Lady G lately?"

  "Nah, I ain't trying to hang with her no more."

  "Thought she was your girl."

  "She was. Till she did King like she did."

  "Everyone makes mistakes."

  "You hang with Lott?" Rhianna asked.

  "No, but he's been on the creep tip. No one knows where he's at."

  "Cause he know, too. You don't just do your boy like that."

  "We supposed to be family. Family can work through problems together, no matter how hard, because at the end of the day, we still blood."

  "I ain't trying to hear that."

  "If we can't find a way to forgive and…"

  "Ain't. Trying."

  Someone pounded on the front door then – either impatient with the lack of immediate response or just noticing the doorbell – rang the doorbell five times in a row. Wayne passed Baby back to Rhianna, his mood spoiling with each additional ring.

  "Hey, my dude." The young, white, red-headed boy had a heroin thinness to him and the disposition of someone who would sell out his dying mother for his next fix or to avoid prison. A patch covered one of his eyes, the surrounding area of his face webbed with healed-over scars.

  "What's up?" Wayne said. "You here for drop?"

  "My breezy said I could swing through. And I'm all about the free swing, you feel me?" He raised his fist for a bump. Wayne let it hang there.

  "I'm Wayne."

  "My people call me Fathead."

  "Where you stay at?"

  "Used to stay with this one dude. Partner had a cat. One day the cat turns up missing and he blamed me. Said I let it out and shit. So he kicked me out."

  "Did you?"

  "I ain't trying to keep track of no pussy that walks on four legs. Shit. Dude still owes me so I took his bike and pants."

  "You took his pants?"

  "Wasn't like they were his no way."

  This was the kind of introduction that made his job both frustrating and exhilarating. Wayne had met many "Fathead"s over the years. Nothing was ever their fault and trouble just seemed to always – completely randomly – follow them about. Still, they had their quirky charm about them – so genuine in their utter bullshit – that he couldn't help but be drawn to them. Every Fathead was an opportunity to show God's love and mercy. Wayne stepped out of the doorway to let Fathead in. Rhianna rushed up to him as if they were long-lost friends reunited at long last, and hugged him for several moments.

  "We'll be having dinner in a few minutes." Wayne put his hand on Fathead's shoulder, nudging them apart.

  "Hey man, do you have any points?"

  "We don't do needle exchanges here."

  "Oh my bad."

  Esther walked into the dining room carrying a large bowl of salad as one of the other volunteers for the night toiled away in the kitchen. She hesitated when she saw Fathead, then not wanting to stare at his eye patch, arranged the array of salad dressing.

  "No worries, baby. I ain't self-conscious of this shit. My pops put a cigarette out in my eye when I was a baby. Had a glass one, but I lost that shit. Got a marble I use sometimes. You want to see it?"

  "No, that's all right."

  "Not 'Baby'." Wayne glanced over at Rhianna and smiled at the irony. "Her name's Ms Esther."

  Percy wandered out of the kitchen. Tipping nearly three bills, he had a darker knot above his left eyebrow in the shape of a crescent moon. His downcast eyes rarely met people in the eye. Carrying a tray of cinnamon graham crackers and milk, he liked to pretend that he'd made them from his secret recipe. They were the last addition to the food set out for that evening's drop night. Wayne stood at the dining room table and gestured for them to join him. He took Esther's hand as they all clasped hands.

  "Percy, you want to bless the food?"

  "God is great, God is good. Let us thank Him for our food," Pe
rcy said. "By His hands we all are fed. Thank You, Lord, for our daily bread."

  "Amen." Wayne clapped Percy on the back. He'd come a long way from the shy boy too spooked by his own shadow to speak. And there were still untapped pools of potential they hadn't begun to reach. Percy radiated a peace about him, a simplicity many confused with him being simple.

  "Has anyone seen Prez?" Percy asked.

  "Prez ain't right." Rhianna sprawled down low in a wooden dinette chair which only matched three others pulled around the table.