King's Justice: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 2 (14 page)

  He'd come in hoping to catch a word, not be blasted by the fire-hose torrent of judgment. He didn't have time to formulate any response before Pastor Winburn continued.

  "I guess that's my warning to you. Serving as your personal prophet. The role of a prophet is to bring the word of the Lord to bear on a specific situation, to shake up your spiritual life. You have to make a choice. What the future holds if you stay on your present course frightens me.

  "On the other hand, God is a God of restoration. He's restoring hope in this neighborhood. He's restoring lives. He's restoring dignity. And you do it one person at a time. You need to be a part of His program, not Him getting on board with yours. A leader leads by example. You can say what you want from the pulpit, but you have to go where your people are. Model what it is you're teaching. Christ met needs then preached the gospel."

  King shifted his weight under the appraisal. Part of him still sought the old man's approval. "I'm just one man."

  "One man makes very little difference. I don't care who you are, King. But all of us together, we can do anything. Now choose." Pastor Winburn had always challenged him, pushed him to be a better man. He laid the facts out like a dinner spread on a table then said "now choose." Right or wrong, it was always his choice to make and Pastor Winburn would be there.

  King stood up to leave. Pastor Winburn spread his arms in a way that reminded him of holding his hand out to a dog to let it catch his scent before petting him. The pastor put his arms around him in an embrace. King didn't exactly return the hug, but he didn't pull away either. He returned his Caliburn to his dip.

 

Cool air cut through King, his T-shirt offering little protection against the elements. Sitting on the front stoop of the church, he needed a few moments to collect his thoughts, to sift through Pastor Winburn's words. The old man had a way of getting under his skin and pushing his buttons. The neighborhood smelled of car exhaust and backed-up sewers. Damp sidewalk and pooled water against the curb provided evidence of the rain burst. The cars sped along, too many in a need of muffler repair, their tires rumbling over the uneven strips in the road. The church faced a network of alleys, carving up the block and snaking between homes. Brown vines filigreed the fences. Pairs of sneakers hung from the lines overhead. A shuffling from the alleyway caught his attention, putting King on high alert. A figure staggered out of the alley, and then collapsed. King darted across the street to the wail of screeching tires and blaring horns. King crouched over the crumpled form and rolled him over. It took him a moment to place the emaciated face.

  "Prez?" King asked.

  Somewhere between what should have been his sophomore or junior year of high school, the boy stank of nicotine, stale beer, and crack sweat, shaking like a pair of dice. Cuts on his face were half-healed, jelly-like wounds of having been raked with talon-like fingernails. His face bruised to blue, his lips swollen and split. His hair littered with flecks of fuzz and pebbles. A series of scrapes and scratches along his long, lanky arms.

  "King?"

  "It's me, Prez."

  "They're out there. And they're coming for us."

 
 
 

 
Rellik was a jailhouse nigga through and through. He'd spent more time inside the system than out and found the rhythms of prison life more natural than the existence folks called freedom. By the age of fifteen he'd already entered the system and had to bury his mother from prison. Running the Merky Water set from inside; since his family couldn't afford it, he sent his gang to the funeral home to make the arrangements and pay for it. If he wanted the prison shut down, it got shut down that day. The guards and superintendent were impotent and apathetic: they were there to make sure no one escaped. Everything else was just paperwork. Even the chaplain was scared to talk to him about Christ. Heaven would be better off without him as far as clergy was concerned.

  The streets ran little differently than The Ave. There were crews to be overseen. Po-po, be they Cos or FiveO, to deal with. Product to move. Rival factions to navigate. Power to be seized. No one operated in a vacuum and he knew no one could survive without allegiances and loyalty.

  The lines of territory were ambiguous at the moment. Everyone respected the space Dred had carved out, too afraid to outright move into it for fear of his retaliation, despite his general absence. It was as if he haunted the streets, and his ghost terrified them. Back in the overly romanticized day, none of the crew were allowed to touch drugs, but they could strong-arm around it, make sure a dealer broke them off some. Eventually money, especially with so much of it to be had, drove things out of whack and dudes started selling it. It got so good that when the original kings got locked up, the dons never said anything against the drug-dealing. They allowed the selling to keep going. Back then, the gang was a unit. They talked of family. Old school.

  New crews set up shop along the edges of Rellik's reclaimed territory, though none ventured into Breton Court. King blocked that. King. That young buck might prove to be a problem later, so Rellik made a note to keep an eye on him. Night's crew was in chaos, easily absorbed into Rellik's Merky Water. The Treize carved up the far west side, just south of Breton Court but inching ever northward. Which left ICU and other independent operators. That was always their mistake. The Nights and Dreds of the world viewed themselves as operators, the game little more than a means to an end. Business. New school.

  His black Cadillac CTS-V, a new whip, was probably too flashy but he allowed himself the indulgence. The smell and feel of a new ride was the one thing he missed as much as pussy and no amount of closing his eyes pretending a hole was a hole would allow him to simulate the experience of driving. As he pulled up to the Meadows, now Phoenix, Apartments, young men stood at attention, the peewees taking note at the respect the older ones issued. Hip hop blared as smoke wafted about, nicotine cutting the marijuana smell. These boys were unfocused and undisciplined. The last of the package took forever to unload. More time spent tugging on their junk and showing out for the ladies rather than doing business. There was plenty of time for that nonsense off the clock, but on, business was business and they needed to be professionals. Low-ranking members ran errands for him. Affectless, young, with dead eyes. He didn't let them carry guns unless they were gearing up for war.

  The apartments thrummed with life in the ordinary. Families reclined in lawn chairs on their porches absorbing the neighborhood sights like it was a beautiful sunset. Kids along the curb drew chalk rainbows on the sidewalk. A few teens held court beside some bushes, pestering each other in a courtship dance of showing and chasing ass. Reassured by the rightness of the scene, Rellik approached with the easy saunter of a cowboy entering a saloon. Hands extended to him, heads nodded as he walked by, the subtleties of recognition and welcome. He came, he saw, he got over.

  He simply wanted a place to die, publicly if not privately, accepting the evaluation of his life. For the briefest of moments, he wondered what the hell he was doing. For all of his machinations, he had no real plan or direction. Only the reflex of same old, same old, wallowing in fresher, bigger piles of shit, biding time until he was killed or jailed… and calling it a life. Then he remembered this was the only life he knew, the only one he'd been shown, and he'd make the most of it.

  "What's the good word, Rhianna?"
That girl got
around
, he thought.

  "Still hustling, baby." Rhianna paced the sidewalk wearing a half-jacket with nothing underneath, exposing her pierced belly and a tattoo on the small of her back, over blue jeans. A cigarette pursed between fingers, she held it out for him to take a pull. He waved it off. She blew smoke from the side of her mouth.

  "We all hustlers. We all informants, too, if the right circumstances pop off." All hustles were respected as long as they didn't fuck up anyone else's hustle. Which made trading in information such a delicate balancing act. Secrets were power, much of their power residing in them being kept. It wasn't always healthy to see or hear too much. The wrong word to the wrong ears could result in a bloody smile opening up along one's throat.

  "Hear what happened to The Pall?" Rhianna crossed her arms and took another drag. She always had an angle to play. Information was simply another commodity to be traded. Good ears collected information someone wanted and smart ears kept it to themselves, unless presented with a situation: like an ass-kicking or contempt charges, bruises or jail. Or worse. "Ain't that some shit. Pimping ain't easy."

  "Pimping can get you dead if you ain't careful."

  Pimping was a full-time job, not a good side business. Strictly speaking from a business point of view, the margins simply weren't too great, on either side. The problem was ignorance. From the ho side, they earned their little twenty dollars, then they spent their little twenty dollars. Rock, rings, whatever, it got spent. They couldn't earn enough because they spent it, or more, as soon as they got it. So every day they started off with nothing, or worse, in the hole which made them scramble and claw all the more. From the pimp side, between keeping a stable fed and clothed, needing to have bail money on hand, hospital visits, drug use, and them being prone to thieving, prostitutes required too much attention. Rellik settled for a flat fee to handle out-of-control johns and allowed both to operate in his territory.

  "All right, what you want to know?"

  "Where's Dred?" Rellik asked.

  "That's the question of the day."

  "Maybe you need to concentrate on finding an answer." All the charm drained from his eyes. Beneath his stoic exterior, his flat lifeless eyes – the dark constellation of freckles around them squinched into something ugly – and fixed grimace, he exuded the promise of violence. A blind fury – the most knucklehead aspects of it held in check – once released keened with the force of nature. The inevitable, non-negotiable, firestorm. Rellik hated unknowns. He needed to know where Dred was and what he was up to, and if she didn't know she could certainly find out.

  "All right, Rellik." Rhianna butted out her cigarette

against the bus stop sign, then ground it under the flat of her pumps.

  "You got something for me?"

  "You know I do." An honest prostitute, or as close to one if there were such a creature. She played things as straight as could be expected, kind of like the tide: regular, expected, the occasional terror, but mostly scrolled in her relentless sort of way. Also, she was a bit of a romantic, still clinging to the hope of her prince. Such was the fairy tale she wrote for herself, but every story had a monster in it.

  The Meadows, now Phoenix, Apartments held all manner of hustlers: pimps, car thieves, shoe/shirt sellers, prostitutes, squeegee men, food sellers, clothing makers, baby-sitting, candy sellers. People sold license plates, Social Security cards and small appliances out of their vans. They pirated gas, electricity, or cable. Everyone had their own hustle, part of the shadow economy of the streets. Rellik collected a tax on all action occurring in his territory, even taxing pimps for use of stairwells, alleys, or empty apartments. He'd control the flow of things as long as they abided by his rules. They couldn't hustle out in the open. It drew police along with other unwanted scrutiny and he wasn't interested in any additional attention. Nor could they hustle during family events. Neither could the homeless nor strangers. BBQs, block parties, family reunions, after-church picnics. Nothing. They couldn't hustle by playgrounds. They had to respect the kids. And none of them could loiter there either.

  "You know you need to move someplace else," Rellik said.

  "Damn, nigga. You hard." Rhianna ran her hand along her locklets as if primping them into place, then turned on her heel.

  "Relentless."

 

Everyone needed a place to put their head up. He could've stayed at the Phoenix Apartments, move into Night's old spot, but he left that to Garlan. No point in punking the boy out of his own place. Besides, he was a potential earner needing room to come into his own. Rellik respected that and in his own way, nurtured it. He chose to hold up in an abandoned home down on 24th and Pennsylvania, a bright lime-colored house from the Arts and Crafts era with brown doors and trim, clay-tiled roof and a wrap-around porch made of stones. Some fiends had got to wilding there not too long ago and the property stood abandoned, even by fiends and other squatters. Its windows were boarded up, sealed outside and fortified inside. The first-floor interior was gutted out. At one point it had been carved up into four apartments; now only the original walls were in place, much of the lathing exposed, brittle ribs on an emaciated retiree. Much of the recessed cabinets and shelves had been pulled out. The basement door nailed shut. Mildew rotted the stairs through, discouraging anyone from mounting them.

  Upstairs was little different. With much of the plumbing exposed, a cracked toilet bled thick urine, its base coated in a grimy yellow paste where urine had dried. Two of the bedrooms were left bare, rotted mattresses piled in the corners. A locked door cordoned off the master bedroom. A fresh coat of white paint on the walls. A walk-in closet converted into a bathroom. The wood floor had been refinished and polished. Boards protected the windows, more to keep prying eyes out; twin windows led to a deck outside above the porch, an emergency exit should he need one. A large flatscreen television hung on the wall adjacent to the one which backed the long leather couch on which a woman perched, reading a book.

  "I heard you were out." She curled on the couch, legs drawn under her, allowing her skirt to reveal enough of her perfectly shaped legs to draw his eyes along them. "I see you've done something to the place."