Rows of lockers. Signs regarding contraband. Warnings about personal safety. The gray walls. The gray and white linoleum. Rellik would miss none of this place, though it was the world he knew best. Clouds, like torn fabric, churned with menace in the afternoon sky. Under the harsh glare of the sun, he dreamt of freedom. The sky stretched, an infinite canopy of possibilities. In it, he cold lose himself and fly. He could forget that he was surrounded by concrete and that his feet remained locked to his earthen path. He took in a deep breath.
Rellik, a true OG, was coming home.
After a few hours on the bus, Rellik was ready to stretch his legs. It took a while to get his mind around the name The Phoenix Apartments. When he went inside, the projects were still called The Meadows. His mother moved him and his brother there to start over. As a kid, he ran the hallways, threw rocks at passing cars, rang doorbells and ran, and raced swings in the playground only to leap from them at the apogee to go sailing along the concrete slab. He played stinky finger with Gayle Harmon in an alcove. Lost his cherry in an Impala in the parking lot. Despite the name change and a fresh coat of paint, it was still the closest thing to home that he knew. Some things never changed and some people were fixtures.
"Look at this motherfucker right here," said an old man with a head too small for his body, from beneath the hood of a car. Revealing a teak complexion, and gray goatee, when he fully stepped from behind the car, he fumbled inside his shirt pocket for a pair of thick, black-framed glasses as if double-checking a vision.
Rellik returned a long, penetrating stare. "Geno."
The old man screwed up his face in mock disgust then raised his hand to give him a pound. Geno was one of the neighborhood home repair and handymen, and was old when Rellik went in. An odd-jobber by trade and practice, he could fix refrigerators or televisions, bring in free electricity or gas, even install AC. The story of his life fell into two parts. In part one, during his real life, he held various blue-collar jobs. Then his story went the way of many stories and slipped into part two. He got laid off, lost the lease on his apartment, and became homeless. He squatted in any vacant apartment in the Meadows, now Phoenix, staying out of folks' way except to offer his services. Since he didn't "truck with no drugs" – and neither brought nor followed trouble – he was loved by the tenants.
"What's going on?" Rellik scanned the deserted lot. Eyes peeped him from the playground's lone bench attended by three boys. One took off after locking eyes with Rellik. Restless and frowning, still learning to wear the mask of street toughness.
"Same old, same old. You probably know the comings and goings round here better than most."
"They up there?"
"What's left of them." Geno wiped the oil dipstick with a rag then returned the rag to his back pocket.
"Same spot?"
"Yeah. Too lazy to change things up too much."
Careless and undisciplined. Too confident in their setup despite so much evidence to the contrary of it being a good one. Despite Five-O all but setting up shop here, coming and going as they pleased as if they owned the place. His boy from way back, Night had held things down, but with him out of the picture, operations were slipping.
It had been a while since he'd been to Night's "penthouse", two adjoining apartments on the sixth floor, the top floor of the tallest of the Meadows-nowPhoenix. The first laid out with a large screen plasma television. Four junior knuckleheads wrestled over the Wii controllers, shouting at each other, as they trashtalked their way through a game.
"I hope I'm not interrupting?" Rellik asked.
The crew froze in their spots, a garden of hoodlum statues along the couch and from the kitchen a steady beam of bewildered glares as they wondered how this fool got into their place without making a sound. The front door was reinforced, a bar locking it into place to slow down anyone using a ram to bust in. A man stood guard on it. And yet here this man stood, carefree and bold, unbothered by the host of men now drawing down on him. Rellik swished his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other.
"Nigga, what's up?" A small-statured boy rose up, flexing manhood, but the smell of his mother's milk was still fresh on his breath. Small twists crowned his head, the beginnings of a thick mop of braids. Eyes the color of cooked honey studied him with practiced hardness. Despite how short he was, he had a bit of a hard body, gym locker room edge, probably the only class he didn't cut. The skunky odor of fresh bud clung to his clothes; he had the look of a marginal student who smoked marijuana to exclusion of everything else. No church, no friends, no sports, if he held a job he'd soon quit it as his grades careened towards failure. Lounging around smoking endo and playing Wii, obviously he didn't care what his life choices did to his folks. Yeah, Rellik broke him down in an instant. Because he used to be this kid.
"This is what's up," Rellik answered. "You ever point a gun at me again, I'll kill you. Now who am I talking to?"
"You talking to me." The boy held his hand up to put his men on pause.
"Am I talking to the right man?"
"You talking to me." The boy's voice gained an additional measure of stroke to it.
"You know who I am?"
"If I had to guess, I'd say you Rellik."
"A man shouldn't have to guess. He should know."
"I hear things. Heard you was getting out. Didn't think you'd jump back in as your first stop."
"A man's got to go to the folks who'd have his back." Rellik turned to all the guns. With a nod from the boy, the weapons lowered. "Who am I dealing with?"
"Garlan."
"Garlan." The name brought to mind his little brother Gary. Maybe this was what he might have looked like as a teen. "The crew good?"
"We got some niggas." Garlan hardened his face, except for the thin smile across his lips. It dared Rellik, let him know who had the power.
Rellik learned early on that he was good at fighting. The anger and the darkness were his only friends. Gave speed to his hands, gave strength to his legs, thickened his ability to take punishment. And not only could he take it, he could dispense it without conscience. The pain demanded regular sacrifice to assuage its hunger. Though many thought he was an idiot because of his girth and his lumbering stalk, he sought it out. But he was no bully. If the fight was fair – against another boy his size or bigger – it was on. "Good. You don't trust me. Caution's good. Till I prove myself, I don't need to know shit. He who controls information controls power."
"How you get in here?"
"I'm strictly old-school. I'll tell you this much: there are many doors if you know how to open them. Night's other place, next door, anyone been in it?"
"Can't get in."
"Good." The men still focused their wary intent on him. But they'd lowered their guard. Probably none had trained with Night. Assuming he was in a training mood.
"You trying to take over?" Garlan asked.
"I ain't trying shit."
When Rellik was a kid, he began shoplifting; he rationalized his taking what he wanted because he was in need. A black hole of desire for comic books, action figures, clothes, electronics. He deserved it. He was hard and wanted to get high. And though he told the parole board about his plans for culinary school or maybe barber school, prison only hardened him further. And he sought power. Rellik gestured an all but Garlan collapsed. "We got a problem?"
"They all right?" Garlan asked though he didn't back down in his posture.
"Asleep."
"I got some folks I want you to meet. Strictly introductions. You don't like them, they off in any way to you, we move on."
"Yeah, I'm talking to the right man." Rellik took a seat on the couch. The other boys stirred to consciousness and cleared out for him. "I've been gone for a minute, so I'll need to go handle my business. We straight?"
"Yeah, we cool."
"Niggas will try to get at you all the time. Niggas take kindness for weakness. You have to be able to see the big picture, not just your next move. It's time to finesse this shi
t."
CHAPTER FOUR
Broyn DeForest drove with the care of a driver's education student under final review. The stretch of I-65 connecting Chicago and Indianapolis was the easiest part of the drive and was so familiar to him by now, he could make the run with his eyes closed. He set his nondescript white Toyota Corolla – sometimes a gray Honda Accord – on cruise control at exactly the speed limit and stayed in the right-hand lane for the entire trip. Once he was within a city, he grew more nervous. Being so conscious of using his turn signals and not weaving in and out of the constant stop and go of traffic went against his natural rhythm of impatient driving. No, today he was on the clock. Three kilos of raw product sat in the trunk. It might as well have been a beating heart under some floorboards the way it occupied his conscience.
It used to be that Broyn made this run barely once a quarter and that was usually only for a kilo. Colvin's operation worked in the shadow of Night and Dred, between the cracks of their respective territories. He'd carved out such a nice niche for himself, many feared that he would draw the attention of either of them and be swallowed up whole. Then two things happened. One, Night's operation fell apart seemingly overnight as news of his demise spread quickly along the street. At the same time Dred took a step back. The streets bubbled with rumors from Dred turning federal witness to Night getting capped, to the bizarre involving voodoo or some shit. Or maybe not so bizarre, considering the second thing. Colvin recruited some new… muscle.
Colvin had stepped up the game.
These days Broyn made the run twice a month and was told to be prepared to switch to weekly soon. Now, it wasn't simply a matter of pick up and drop off, but deliveries to be made. The first exchange was simple enough. Simple, if one didn't mind a trip to Gary, Indiana. Broyn would sooner deal direct with some of the dons in Chicago rather than have to stop in Gary. The city still competed to be the murder capital of the country. From downtown, he made his way to the usual spot Colvin had him do business from toward the main gate of the steel mill. Over on Broadway, north of Fourth, there was an abandoned train station on the right between two railroad overpasses. The sign on its front pillar read "No Parking. Cabs Only." though few cars ventured its way. A desolate, lonely place, an echo of ache within the city, the once-magnificent showpiece had been reduced to a home for pigeons and vagrants. The building was a mausoleum of silence and decay. Secluded enough for a simple transaction.
Broyn would leave a taped-down grocery bag filled with cash under his seat and the trunk of his car popped open. He'd step out and make small talk with his contact, Myron Smalls, who folks called "Stink." Broyn thought that – as fucked up as his own name was, with his mother trying to spell "Brian" some unique way – he couldn't go through life being called "Stink." They'd both watch for police. All Broyn had to do was get back in the car: the money would be gone and the product in the trunk. He didn't have to check. Then it was an uncomplicated drive back to Indianapolis. With Colvin positioning himself as a supplier now, Broyn made the reconnect, dropped off one kilo to another crew – though he hated dealing with the Treize – and then took the rest to a cutting house where it could be whacked and packaged and distributed. A smooth operation, all things considered.
His hair in twists, a scraggily beard jutted off his chin, a trail of razor bumps dotted down his face. Turning onto Lafayette Road heading toward Georgetown Road, already known as the drug corridor of the west side of Indianapolis, he hated that Colvin insisted on this route. It was as if Colvin dared the police, too. Carrying real weight, it was Broyn's ass on the hook for the years and was in no mood to taunt Five-O.
"What if they take me off?" Broyn had asked Colvin before he took off.
"They won't take you off. You travel under the protection of my name." Colvin had a dangerous sing-song to his voice.
"Yeah, but what if…"
Colvin's unwavering glare silenced him. All Broyn knew was that he was no Mulysa, Colvin's new right hand. No one even thought about fucking with Mulysa. Maybe that was Colvin's play: daring a motherfucker to mess with his shit. Broyn hated the idea of being the potential object lesson of some bold fool out to make a name for himself, but Colvin was not to be denied.
Rain-slick and deserted, especially this time of night, the bleed of wet asphalt wound past an apartment complex and gave way to an industrial park Georgetown Road got past 71st Street. The arms of the railroad crossing lowered, with Broyn not wanting to gun the engine to beat the train for fear of drawing unwanted attention.
Nervous enough already, his imagination called up images of bangers rolling up alongside him or car jackers creeping up on him. Checking his side mirrors with suspicious eyes for any lurching shadows, he adjusted his rearview mirror. The red lights blinked alternately, winking eyes taunting him. Bushes overgrew the view of the tracks. The rain fell at an intermittent spatter, not enough to justify turning the wipers on, but enough to obscure his windshield. Having to turn the wiper blades on then off only served to increase his anxiousness. The car idled with a mild thrum. He wished he had that internal steeliness Mulysa projected, much less Colvin. They never seemed to care, equally at ease watching television, being questioned by police, or staring down gun barrels.
Broyn threw the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and kicked the taped-down bag of money from his first delivery under the seat. Certain he saw a movement, he squinted as he peeked through the rain-blurred windshield, then flipped the wipers on again. The warning bells of an approaching train clanged.
The car roof buckled under the sudden weight of something landing on it. Broyn scrambled for the gun he kept in the glove compartment – stupid, he knew, but he hated to go completely unprotected with so much product and cash, and the idea of Colvin's name as a shield was cold comfort to him. Peering out each side window, nothing appeared, but he'd be damned before he got out and checked the car. First looking left and then right, Broyn double-checked to make sure no one approached. His right arm slung behind the passenger seat, gun in hand, he prepared to put the car in reverse and book the hell out. A tap came from his driver's side window.
The length of a sawed-off shot gun greeted him.
A nest of fine braids draped from the finely sculptured face of an ebony beauty with skin like heavily creamed coffee. Her almond eyes missed nothing; she stood unperturbed by the rain. Broyn knew many black women who'd have thrown hell-to-pay fits being caught in the rain after having their hair done. She had a model's bearing, the nose, the cheeks, like European royalty. Except for her pointed ears. A pair of handcuffs dangled from her belt loops. She toted the shotgun with the casual swing of a matching purse. Omarosa.
"You know what I want." Her voice had a sexy, if terrifying, thunder to it. More so in her whisper. "Slowly. We all professionals here."
Besides the exuberance in her eye, the thrill of the game or her part in it, something else swam in her eyes. Something dark. Something terrifying. Something monstrous which lurked beneath her beauty. A slack-jawed looseness to his face, he dropped his gun with a flourish to show her he was cooperating, his hands in plain sight. Leaning forward, he reached for the taped-down bag, while his other hand lowered the window. He dropped the bag outside.
"And the trunk."
Come on, Broyn's contorted face seemed to say. He hunched his shoulders.
"A girl's got to earn, too," she grunted with annoyance.
He forced himself to turn from the shotgun, taking it on faith that she was professional enough to not twitch and send his brains spraying onto the passenger-side window. Still, over and over, his mind imagined the clap of thunder before his world turned black. Suppressing a shiver, he reached under his seat for the trunk release. Too scared to know what to do with them, unable to move, possibly in shock, he held his hands out, his mind so disconnected from the action, it was as if they floated on their own. Probably more trying to wrap his head around what to tell Colvin. His eyes were drawn to the pulsing red lights. Almost hypnotic. Then she was gone.
Subtle wasn't in Lee McCarrell's vocabulary. The door exploded open with his first kick. Shock and awe were his calling cards, not because they worked especially well, but more because he enjoyed the rabbit responses his entrance brought. Them "uh-oh" eyes. The dazed lucidity of junkies caught mid-cop. The fear and panic of a dealer. The copper tang of adrenaline on his tongue.
"You raising up on me?" Lee roared to the halfdozen young bucks lounging around the room. He often sprinkled his words with a liberal dose of street affect, letting them know he understood them and spoke to them in a language they understood. Them. Not us. These were nameless pukes. Omarosa had fed him their names, little more than chum in the pool of sharks. The possibility of her growing bored of him distracted him. Not that it mattered. There was no warranty on relationships and this one had about run its course. He'd made a meal on the tips she'd given him over the months. And he never questioned how she knew so much, or so accurately, for fear of busting a cap in the ass of his fine golden goose. She assured him this would be a bust worth his while, even if these were low-level players.
King's Justice: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 2 Page 6
