"Can you ever forgive me? I can't lose you. I don't want things to end like this."
"I can forgive you. I can forgive both of you. But the trust, the bond? That's ghost." King rubbed his temples, both exhausted and as if they threatened to burst. "Both of you, go. We need some time to think."
"King…" Lady G began.
"Just go."
King turned his back and waited for the sounds of their departure to subside. The dream was nothing but a nightmare dressed up in whore's make-up. Wayne was the first to approach him.
"That went better than I expected. You all right?" Wayne sidled up next to him and put a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"I'm good. Tired. What about the Black thing?"
"Black? Screw Black. What about us?"
"Life don't stop. There are things bigger than us going on."
"That's been the whole problem: it's only been us. You keep missing that." Wayne turned to face him. A slight quaver filled his voice as if hiding his own hurt. "We all want you to be okay. Lott, Lady G, Wayne. Even Merle."
King remained impassive.
"Man, you one of the most tortured souls I've ever come across. You ain't never met an opportunity to brood you couldn't pass up. All right, man, I'll let it go."
King dreamed of birthing something that would protect his people, of building a kingdom, a way of living for generations to model after. And he had the hubris to believe he was the man to bring this dream to his community. Perhaps he couldn't admit that his reach exceeded his grasp. In his few short years on earth, he'd long ago realized that he didn't know everything; that he wasn't as good as he thought. That he was afraid. For all of his hard work, he was just another knucklehead out to prove himself because he believed that no one loved him. Everyone had lies built into them that whispered to them during dark times.
Percy and Prez followed silently behind them. Not knowing what to say, not wanting to ruin the silence.
King paced back and forth. Everywhere he looked there was something to piss him off. On the wall were pictures which now mocked him. Each snapshot a memory that bit into his heart. One of him and the mayor. Him and Pastor Winburn. Him and some of the kids he'd worked with. Rok. The Boars. Tristan. Iz. Prez. So many faces. A few dozen kids so far. Ghosts of his past. How many of them did he let crash at the center? How many of them did he let raid his refrigerator? How many of them laughed at him now? A collage of failure. Maybe he started too old. Maybe he should have gone after the pee wees. Get them before they became loyal to the game. The sadness was tangible, a blanket fallen over their neighborhood thickest in this very room. Wayne hated the air of resignation. Of surrender. It was like death.
"You hear about that little girl?" Wayne asked in order to switch topics. If death was already in the room, they might as well deal with it.
"Lyonessa." King rubbed his face and waited for the next pounding.
"She wasn't even in the game."
"She was in it whether she choose to be or not. Her brother, Lonzo…"
"Black."
"Black. He puts her in the game. Same with me and Nakia. So I take her off the board."
"How she doing?"
"Nakia? She good."
"You being done on visitation?"
"It ain't like that. I can see my baby girl when I want."
"But?"
"But… you see the life I lead." On the defensive, King lumbered back and forth, his anger fueled by the fact that he was angry at the wrong people. Or there were so many people to be angry at. In a moment he could make a few phone calls, rally some knuckleheaded boys and rain down pain on Black or whoever else needed hurting. Whoever. Else. Many nights the thought tempted him.
"You married to your mission."
"I'm on call 24/7. And…"
"… you've made your share of enemies."
"Folks that would take things out on my family. And my friends."
"Your friends seem to be doing a good enough job of that on they own."
"Yeah." King stopped. "Man, it feels like they got me on some sort of timetable to get better." He turned to Wayne, who did his best to hide his smirk. He had a way of putting things in perspective. The man was frustrating. Could make his point and make you smile. It was his heart. Wayne had one of those hearts that made you feel better just by being around him.
"They mean well. We want you well. But you not."
"I'm trying."
"I know."
"Dred's on the move."
"I'm just saying… We gonna need all the friends we can get. You need to give them a chance to show how sorry they are."
"You worse than Ecktor, man. What, you, he, and Big Momma all have a meeting to get your stories straight?"
"You're a good man, King. With greatness in you. Sometimes you have to be encouraged to do the right thing. To live into that greatness."
"I still love them. Both of them."
"We all do. They still family."
"Make sure they're okay."
"You planning on going somewhere?"
"I just know I won't always be around."
"I got it handled."
Life never stopped. King reached past Wayne to grab hold of Prez. The boy smiled, locked in a playful headlock. His emotions spent, it was the most he had in him. But Prez took it. Wayne hustled Percy to hurry on. Sadness leadened the boy's steps. He hurt for everyone and didn't know how to be there. For King. For Lady G. For Lott. For Rhianna. For Wayne. They were his family, the way family should be. And they hurt. He needed to do something or else they might all fall apart and go their own way. Wayne locked up the building.
King was the first to notice the car slow. It wasn't the car which drew his attention, but like a piece of his soul returning home which alerted him. For King, life slowed to a crawl. His nose flared. Spit flew from his mouth. A sudden heat swept over him. He seemed to sweat from everywhere at once. For a brief few seconds, there was a sudden calm. His eyes grew wide as his mind took in what he was seeing. He hoped his voice wouldn't crack as he called out. "Get down!"
Dred raised his gun. King recognized the Caliburn immediately and the sense of another betrayal overwhelmed him. The report thundered. King's ears rang. His balance thrown off, time slowed. A bullet slammed into his shoulder and spun him around, like a warm knife slid into him with ease. Another pop followed as a second bullet tore through the side of his neck. The smell of blood was the odor of death. Perhaps his body went into shock, but King did not feel any pain, only the peace of acceptance washing over him. Perhaps it was relief. The earth fell from underneath him and shadows engulfed him.
Across town, from within Nine's embrace, Merle cried out "No!"
"What is it?" She wrapped her arms around him even tighter.
"The dolorous stroke."
"Then the end draws near."
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Security and Housing Unit – often called the Shoe – housed everyone who was under the age of eighteen detained in the Marion County Lock Up. In the protected block of juveniles, its guests spent twenty-three hours a day in cells. Artificially set by their lights, their days were out of the prisoners' control. They were told when they could eat and when they could shower. Privacy was a dream of another life.
The previous night Rondell "Mulysa" Cheldric dreamed he was a child, lost in a forest, trying to make his way home. The brush grew thicker as he ran. All he knew was that something chased him. Though unseen, the prey's sense of an impending threat, that a creature stalked him and had been after him for a while, remained with him. His lungs burned with each breath. The muscles in his legs ached. Pain shot up his shins. The joints of his shoulders grew sore. Exhaustion overtook him. A weariness that seeped down to his bones. Slumped over in a collapsed heap, he waited. The predator still in the shadows. Nearby. Salivating at its soonto-be-had kill. Mulysa woke as he always did: bone-tired and resigned.
In juvenile, he used to imagine himself as a top-secret spy caught by enemy agents and i
mprisoned. His days idled along with daydreaming plots to make daring escape. His imagination was his true escape. His fantasy was, if nothing else, consistent. When he was younger, he imagined it was his father that was the spy, always called away on important missions. As he got older, within a few years actually, after a lifestyle filled with danger and intrigue, though heroic, he decided that his dad had been killed in action. Only in the last year did he conclude that fantasy was for children.
Life in the Shoe was about boundaries and limits. The cell closed in on his mind. Lonely, confined, a lack of privacy; the tedium alone could drive someone to madness. The darkness made noises. Tears sobbed into pillows. The rutting sounds of rage and power being rammed into any who gave the appearance of weakness. His life was a prison.
He was two men: Mulysa and Rondell, battling it out, and Rondell was about dead. Reduced to an animal going about with survival instincts on high alert, constantly on the lookout for any of the innumerable enemies he'd made. He was a fallen man. Weren't but two ways to go from here: up, or embrace the darkness and finality of his life. And the game itself was slow suicide. All of the devilish things he'd done, each act a step in his journey toward here. Being locked down, swept under society's rug, allowed him to see the bigger picture, and his life for what it was worth.
A big steaming pile of shit.
Today, he was due in court. His public defender assured him that this was just a matter of going through the motions. The police could have him under suspicion for any of a number of things, but with only a circumstantial case, he was going to walk. He wore his orange jumpsuit with a measure of pride.
A young boy with an old face – and eyes which had lost their innocence too soon – was next up before the judge.
"What's up, homie? Are you a thug?" the boy asked.
"Who asking?" Mulysa eyed him with bored wariness.
"I'm just sayin'. I got my own hoes," he said with too much enthusiasm and empty braggadocio. "I do some crazy shit. I ain't got time for that mess. My ass hurts from doing all this sitting. Waiting on my Johnny to get me off."
"Nukka, you still got your baby teeth." Mulysa couldn't be bothered to muster a bemused smile – more of a sneer masking a mild state of melancholy.
"I know how to jail," the boy said as his case was called. "Straight-up thug."
Never show weakness, never back down, never step aside. The boy had already internalized some of the basic rules. The boy reminded Mulysa of how he was at that age: already a lost cause, beyond redemption. He knew what fate awaited the young'un, what few true options he had, and how he had embraced them.
They had pulled Judge Rolfingsmeyer, a fairminded jurist, with just an independent enough streak to piss off liberals and conservatives alike. This made him popular among the people. A jovial face, the judge's robes draped like a muumuu over him. At the moment, he appeared to be suffering a migraine as he rubbed his temples.
"I never wanted to hurt nobody. I just want to be a terrorist and blow stuff up," the boy shouted out.
"You're too young to be doing these kinds of things. I mean, look at you: you haven't even grown out of your cute stage," Judge Rolfingsmeyer said. "I just want to eat you up."
"Fuck you, judge." The boy flipped him off. A bailiff immediately escorted him out. The judge ordered him held over for family court to decide the best course of action.
"Well, my, my, my. They grow up fast," the judge remarked to his bailiff.
The hood was the main world Mulysa knew. Life in the Shoe was like a vacation in his summer spot. But in the court, mostly white faces greeted him from the judge to the bailiffs to the lawyers. He was in their world now. When they called his name or his case number, all he heard the word "nigger". Everything dripped with contempt. From the bench, the judge's words ran down his nose to him.
On the streets, he could defend himself. He'd go toe-to-toe with any fool who dared step to him. But in this world the assumptions weren't always physical. The pain crushed him in inner spaces, places he couldn't trace and rarely let himself acknowledge. He didn't know how to defend himself against this kind of attack. He only had his anger, and he stacked onto the kindling pile of his previous resentments and hates. His fist clenched out of reflex and his public aid lawyer nudged his arm and he relaxed.
Mulysa strode toward the judge, eyes meeting his, unafraid. Pride marched him forward now, as he was under the careful scrutiny of those in the gallery as well as those whose cases were up next. It was time for the show. Never show weakness, never back down, never step aside.
His court-appointed lawyer took apart the state's case, such as it was. He was little more than a person of interest, suspected of having knowledge in a few crimes. The death of Lamont "Rok" Walters, even the fire at the Camlann apartments. Because the search was ruled illegal, the police didn't even have the drug charges to hold over his head. Not to mention how he was treated while a guest of the state.
"Son, sounds like you been into all sorts of mess," Judge Rolfingsmeyer said. "But it's not like the state has much of a case left. Got no reason to hold you on remand. A bit of an overreach, wouldn't you say, counselor?"
The state prosecutor mumbled to himself. Mulysa didn't like to be talked to that way. He tolerated it from Colvin. Mulysa grimaced under the pain of his own headache. They were getting worse now. Like a metal spike driven into his eye to stab him in his brain.
"You're going to be on a nine o'clock probation. You understand?"
"Yes, your honor."
"So if your friends show up at ten-thirty at night and say 'Hey, we got a big ol' bag of weed'," the judge put on a street affect to perfection, "'let's go smoke,' what should you do?"
"I'd have to tell them 'Man, y'all shoulda been here earlier cuz I'm on curfew."
Mulysa's public defender lowered his head.
"Right…" Judge Rolfingsmeyer glanced up from
the stack of papers before him. "The correct answer is 'weed is illegal and I still have to drop a piss test.' But I suppose that's as good as I'm getting."
With that, Judge Rolfingsmeyer signed the papers and Mulysa was once again back on the streets.
Prez hated to visit his father. He knew in his heart of hearts that no one begrudged him his visits with his old man, especially now. Imminent death had a way of forcing that: cancer ate at his father's insides. Death rarely weighed on Prez, though its specter hung like a shadow over his soul.
Especially now, considering King. It wasn't as if Prez could talk to King. Though King had said it best before he was shot: "Forgiveness is the only way to let go of the past. Relationships are fragile. Repair the rift between you and your father before much more damage is done. You don't know when the people you love will be called home. Time is always short." Some things were morbidly expected, no, not expected, but rather unsurprising; only the method of his father's eventual demise had been up for grabs. Diet was never a particularly high concern as he ate pig's feet and barbecue ribs, and fried everything, washed down with vodka and Coke. Or brandy and Coke. Or rum and Coke. The man loved Coke. Say what you will, the man was brand-loyal, thus his twopack-a-day Kool habit. And exercise? Only if you counted his four-hundred-videotape porn collection, some of which he inherited from his father; and his predilection for chasing women other than his mother. So Prez had long resigned himself to the fact that his father was not long for this world. The only surprise was that he lasted so long.
The family had a cancer scare a few years back. Months of agonizing waits, treatments, and surgeries culminated in the removal of a lung. The crisis seemed over, the doctors confident that they got it all. His father lost a lot of weight ("the chemo diet", he called it) and gave up smoking. The family took its cue from him, hanging their hopes on his own lust for life. That was then.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Prez suspected that his father started smoking and drinking in earnest again in the hopes of dying. Like maybe he took a look at the measure of his life, realized what a waste
his was, and decided that it wasn't worth it. Prez wasn't even sure things worked that way, but the thought stayed with him. The cost of treatment had strained the family's resources to the breaking point, but all they thought about was getting him better. However, Prez recognized the anger in his father's eyes, behind the laughter and bravado. Anger that he was ineffectual as a provider; anger that his body betrayed him; anger that he was no longer his own man.
So when the cancer returned, he chose to die the way he lived: at home.
Prez hadn't been home since he left a couple years back to stay with Big Momma. She had brought him up here, cause kin was kin, and she wasn't trying to get between folks, and she wanted to help mend things when she could. The way she saw it, that's how good church folks did: stay up in your business and help, whether you wanted it or not. Folks didn't always know what was good for them. She was God's little busybody.
King's War: The Knights of Breton Court 3 Page 12
