King's War: The Knights of Breton Court 3

by Maurice Broaddus

  She punched him in his throat.

  Her father reeled backward, unable to catch his breath. She pounced into him, letting her weight and momentum do most of the work in toppling him backward. Next to the fork she had once so carefully placed on her napkin. She pressed the tines to his eye and waited until she had his full attention.

  "You come near me again…" She shifted her position, drawing her knee into his crotch. "You touch me again, and I'll kill you."

  "You are dead to me."

  Tristan put her full weight on her knee to push herself up, then ran out of the house. Into the waiting arms of the night. To the streets…

  ...where Mulysa found her.

  "What's a fine girl like you doing out here?" Mulysa asked, his voice all silvery and polished in that way roughnecks could be.

  "Chilling." Though terrified and alone, Tristan wasn't going to admit any vulnerability, silvery and polished or not. Mulysa sized her up with a glance.

  "Where you stay at?"

  "Around."

  "Girl, why you playing? I know these here streets like the back of my hand."

  There it was. She was penniless. Hungry. Hurting. And Mulysa was there with his big wad of cash. Taking her to expensive restaurants, well, shit, Olive Garden anyway. Treating her like she was worth something.

  "You got potential."

  "Potential to do what?"

  "Be in this here game. Come work for me."

  "Doing what?" Tristan knew the moment would arrive. Nothing was free, especially from a man. He'd fed her, clothed her, and put her up. Rent was due.

  "I got something for you." He slid a wooden box over to her. "Didn't I say I'd take care of you?"

  She opened the box up. Inside were two thin blades. She'd never seen anything like them. She could grip them like brass knuckles, but the edges jutted out at angles. She loved the way they caught the light and their perfect balance in her hands.

  "You right, you right." Though his tone said, "you most certainly do."

  "What do you want me to do with these?"

  "You got all that hate and anger in you. I just want to put it to good use. Get you paid."

  Tristan went out early in the morning and would stray into rivals' territories at seven in the morning. Catch them when they'd been out all night, catch them drowsy or otherwise slipping. And get them. She staked out places from behind bushes for hours. Rain, sleep, snow, heat, she would do whatever it took, suffer whatever conditions to get to her enemy.

  The things she did in Mulysa's name were bad enough. When she found Iz only a year later, she was a different woman. Hard. Skilled. Feared. No one knew her name, she had no name as far as she was concerned. She was simply an extension of Mulysa's will. His name rang out because he could always call her down. His shadow. His weapon of choice. Iz changed all of that.

  Iz she found in an alley. She reminded her of a kitten which had been abandoned to fend for itself. Dirty. Bleeding from a hundred little scratches. Infested with who knows what. Living under abandoned cars. Lost. Frightened. Could practically fit into the palm of her hand. The kind of kitten that immediately got into her heart and made her want to protect it. Not only safeguard it, but be the kind of person worthy, privileged enough, to be with it. With her. Iz always thought that Tristan saved her life, but Tristan knew it was the other way around.

  Mulysa took Iz away from her. She would have done anything for Iz and proved so on many an occasion.

  He got her back on drugs after Iz fought so hard to get clean. And he touched her. Touched her the way Tristan's father wanted to touch her.

  And he had to pay.

  The blades curved naturally around her palms like an extension of her arm. He would pay. And pay again.

  Dreadlocks started in the middle of his head, the front half faded, Prez shifted in his seat, adjusting it further into a lean position as if the person who sat in the seat before him wasn't gangster enough. None of which fooled Naptown Red. He sensed Prez's lingering discomfort, his church-boy heart beating through his thug-lite exterior. Didn't matter, though, since it wasn't as if the church bus was going to pick him up out here.

  Both sides of the street were lined with parked cars for blocks in either direction. Naptown Red parked around back then led them around to the front of the house. The wall thrummed with the pulse of the music inside. A couple of the neighbors hung out on their porches, drink and cigarettes in hand, shooting the shit. It wasn't as if they were going to call the police at the first sound of drunk and/or loud niggas on the lawn. Enjoying his role as concierge and consummate host, Naptown Red smiled, hearing the music bump as soon as they opened the doors.

  This wasn't some basement party, all dim lights, slow jams, and grinding on the dancefloor. No, the party was all the way live: bright, loud, and a little crazy. Li'l Jon skeet-skeet-skeeted from the DJ's turntable, the bass turned so loud that it threatened an assault charge. Naptown Red took in a deep whiff. Sure, there were the usual chips and shit in bowls scattered strategically through the house so that no guest had to stray too far to snack, but that wasn't the kicker. Marble's Soul Kitchen catered the party: collard greens, macaroni and cheese, sweet potatoes, and fried chicken. Red needed them to know that he would take better care of them than their mommas. And the best part, ladies walked around with silver trays, serving beer, wine, or (inexpensive) champagne.

  Topless.

  "They cool?" the brother at the door asked, stopping Fathead and Prez. Samoan had to run in his family, because he topped four bills easy. Dressed in all black, he gave a wary stare at Fathead. His Tshirt was a dirty shade of beige over a pair of blue sweatpants. He wore dress shoes though he had no socks. No watch either; his minutes stretched into hours and melted into days. Lost.

  "Yeah, they with me."

  "What was that about?" Prez asked.

  "Cover. Shit, I ain't trying to feed a house full of hungry-ass niggas out of pocket. Brothers don't go anywhere else for a dinner and a show for free. Twenty dollars a head, plus they got to tip the ladies. And they were happy to pay the twenty dollars." Now that they knew what they were getting, Naptown Red already had it figured out that next time he would charge $50. Word was out as soon as he had a full house. Sell it as an exclusive ticket and let word of mouth take care of the rest.

  "Didn't you used to go out with her?" Fathead pointed to a high yellow-complexioned honey, a little on the thin side, but tall and proud. Her small breasts popped pertly with each step. A tight Jheri curl, that looked like a baby Afro from a distance, crowned her. She grinned defiantly, taking a higher step for an additional bounce.

  "Yeah, I hit that." She wore the navy-blue shorts of a flight attendant's uniform and blue hose and matching pumps. He loved the way she rolled and pitched, too bad he couldn't remember her name. Sometimes he just opened his mouth and whatever line of shit trickled out he worked with, counting on his charm and wit to see him through. Mostly, he stalled for time to think of a way to turn the situation to his advantage. "I get down like Sprite, except that I don't obey my thirst, I obey my look. That's my motto."

  Naptown Red left Prez to find his own footing at the party. Church boy or not, he still had eyes that worked and there was no harm in perusing the smorgasbord of flesh that he – as consummate host considerate enough to turn up the air conditioning to make sure the nipples stayed popped – had laid out. Red toured the party, giving his guests the opportunity to thank him and tell him how much the bomb his party was. Playing it cool, he gave a slight head nod, letting his eyes tell the rest. The party had splintered into discrete clusters of conversations and activities. Leering thugs pretended to watch the large-screen TV set to pre-season football, ogling any nipple in sight. He thought about getting another TV and setting up a PlayStation console on it, but he didn't know how that would go over. Maybe next time. Thick rolls of smoke billowed from the dining room.

  But the women were the center attraction, exactly how he wanted it (thus he nixed his plans to add vi
deo games: if it came down between titties and John Madden, it was a toss-up. And they could get John Madden at home, but only Red could provide the titties). The white women looked straight out of a "Blondes On Blacks" porn site, just this side of white trash – that upscale Jerry Springer demographic that brothas couldn't resist. The sistas stepped right out of a rap video. The more modest ones wore lingerie which revealed more than if they had simply come topless, so Red didn't complain. The party threatened to overwhelm him. Red made his way to him, pointedly rubbing against one of the ladies "mmm-hmm"-ing his approval in her ear. She craned her neck to flash him a smile.

  "I'm all about the squilla. He'll be here," Naptown Red said, but Prez had lost interest in anything that he had to say. Following the strength of Prez's gaze only to land on the figure of a young lady dancing on a nearby table. She wore a white cowboy hat and matching leather skirt and boots. Her ensemble practically glowed against her mocha skin. Auburn hair flowed out the back of her hat. Long slender legs uncrossed and crossed quickly when she sat in mid-routine. A tattoo, like the top half of two red balls, peeked from above her skirt.

  Her eyes searched Naptown Red for the tell. He nodded, letting her know that a large tip was heading her way. She turned, without saying a word, and pushed Prez onto the couch. Whatever mild protests he offered ceased when the DJ picked up on the cue and interrupted an Usher cut with another Li'l Jon cut. She turned her backside to Prez, her body catching the rhythm of the song. She slinked backward, her body contorting into a languid curving "S" that made its way toward him. Swishing side to side, she made a tentative dip into his lap. Turning to face him, she ran her hands down his chest, crouching between his legs as she continued to let her hands trail lower.

  Prez jumped.

  The gathering crowd laughed. Red feared that his plan might backfire, causing Prez to be the center of humiliation, but the guys soon started cheering Prez and the girl on. She stood up, shaking about a few more times before settling into Prez's lap for real. She let out an approving "ooo" much to the delight of Prez, whose back was clapped for the honor.

  "Come on, I got more to show you," Red said.

  "Aren't your guests going to miss you?" Prez asked.

  "With all them titties to stare at? They probably don't even know that I'm out." Naptown Red beamed with a cobra's smile. "We got business in back."

  "That where the hidden sex rooms are?" Fathead asked, not able to keep the eagerness out of his voice. Naptown Red explained that the rumors circulating about his parties – rumors he, himself, started – was all about marketing. He made it sound as if there was an extra level of party available to the truly connected. Much like the exclusive – rumored to be high-stakes-only – poker game. It all added to the mystique, coming to life behind the closed doors, away from the noise and temptation.

  "What we playing?" Fathead asked. "Texas Hold 'Em?"

  "You been watching them white boys on TV too long." Naptown Red pictured himself as a prince who ruled with style. He didn't need all the chestthumping and territory-marking pissing contests that came with having to prove their bona fides. No, he'd simply get a feel for them over cards. Some James Bond villain shit, except none of that punk-ass baccarat mess. They'd play Spades.

  "Hup. He got the king of spades," Fathead said. He had a habit of thinning his eyebrows whenever he was on meth. These days, two scabby rectangles above his eyes scarred his face and made him appear constantly startled. He knew one girl who removed her eyelashes, convinced they were antennae broadcasting her business to the FBI. With lips like cracked rubber, the flesh of his cheeks eaten away, and a ring of fat swelling his neck, Fathead soldiered on.

  "It ain't what you got, it's how you play 'em," Naptown Red said.

  "There are still three cards that can take that king." Prez ordered his cards. He'd come a long way from when King found him scrounging around for bits of rock behind where Dred's soldiers had been slinging, hoping for anything that might have spilled out. A life that revolved around doing enough work to scrape together enough for another blast. Those days weren't too far in his rearview mirror, but King's words echoed in his head. He was full of potential and could do anything he wanted. It was time to start living into that potential. But he didn't know where to begin. Or how. Only that he had to do something, somehow begin his journey. King believed in him and he wanted to justify that belief.

  Trapped in a cycle of need and placating need, he constantly sought attention to soothe some deep ache inside. Wayne helped him focus on his future and had him reading all sorts of books to stimulate his mind and his curiosity. A New Kind of Christian. The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Black Boy. Blue Like Jazz. And the Bible, of course.

  "Don't confuse being a character with having it," Wayne told him.

  He knew he was being shaped into something new. Something wondrous. And he prayed for Wayne. And King.

  "I hope someone does for you what you've done for me."

  The residents of Breton Court, the Phoenix Apartments, and so many places in between, had long given up on themselves. But King – a street legend – thought he was ready. And Prez wanted to prove to him that he was. No matter what it cost him.

  "West side niggas had to go east side cause King had that place locked down. That's a whole lot of unexploited real estate."

  "So what you looking for?" Prez asked.

  "Drilling rights, motherfucker. What you think?" Naptown Red asked. "You think you ready to put in some work?"

  "If there's work to be done," Prez said. "I'm here to do it."

  So he decided to get on with Naptown Red. Maybe learn some of the inside news and feed it to King. He doubted King and them would approve, but he figured he could handle the risk considering the potential payoff.

  "Time to raise up, gentlemen."

  "Your time is done."

  Naptown Red thought about setting up a dogfighting ring in a daycare. Something to carve out his own niche in the game. Low risk, low overhead. Low pay-off. If he wanted a steady stream of ends, he'd have to get his own connect and set up his own operation.

  "Uh oh, she coming," Prez said. "When he sat back, I knew he had that one."

  "Come on wit it," Fathead said.

  "All right, Cleetus," Red said, throwing the queen of spades on the table. Prez had good eyes and good instincts. Way better than Fathead. He could handle himself under pressure. Cards revealed a lot about a man. While Prez kept quiet and watched people, Fathead was all bluster and bluff.

  Naptown Red stacked the deck.

  "Uh oh, the sleepy giant wants some," Fathead said.

  Fathead's life was divided between BC and AC: Before Crack and After Crack. BC he remembered that Christmas time was the best time of the year, poor or not. His folks got together, got a little tree, strung up some lights. They had a few presents. Nothing big or fancy, that wasn't the point. They spent time together, had their little traditions and showed each other they were family. Folks came over and cooked; family came together and they laughed.

  AC, no one came over.

  His first year of high school, BC, he had nice clothes and used to always wear designer merchandise. When he dressed, he came correct, knew who to hang with and how to hang with them. He was down with his music, down with his sports, shit, by his world's standards, he was a man of high culture. But he still felt like a piece of shit. A wound, a black hole of pain sucked all of the contentment and hope for happiness out of his life.

  The first time he got high, AC, he got paranoid, convinced people were out to get him. He ended up hiding under the bed, bawling his eyes out like a little bitch. The drug was that overwhelming. He snorted deeply, letting it drip down the back of his throat, leaving a dull medicinal taste. His eyes pitched and rolled behind their lids, tracing intricate patterns of light and color. The high never fixed him, never felt comfortable.

  "That your book?" Fathead asked.

  "Nuh uh. You got to follow suit," Prez said.

  "I better not s
ee you play a diamond."

  Look at 'em thinking hard. It was so easy for Red to identify bullshit. Fathead's pupils dilated to the outer rims of the corneas. His eyes appeared to flatten. His black fingernails scratched at his Styrofoam cup then itched along his arm. He had carved the word "guilty" onto his left shoulder. He'd spent too much time in his uncle's meth lab. Some trailer over by Mars Hill. Places easily destroyed and abandoned. As disposable as the people. With the windows shut and the blinds drawn, the smell of ammonia seeped into everything. All the places had the same tangles of tubing between glass jars and bowls, stacks of jam jars and measuring cups unless they went upscale, using Vision Ware bowls or something.

  "Cut by my own partner," Naptown Red said.

  "Yeah, he straight-up novice," Prez echoed.

  "This lady came into the shop today," Fathead began, trying to shift topics from his inept play. "Showing pictures of herself buck naked or with just a thong on. She big, but she don't care if she looks big or not. Cause she's a freak."