CHAPTER TEN

 

 

 

Stalking the periphery of the apartment on the floor below the penthouse some of his boys used as a party place, as a general Rellik sometimes felt reduced to middle-management duties. Shit, downright janitor's duties. Rellik had always been ridden hard, hard enough to be pushed into a bad place. That constant grind wore on a person, eroding like wind-scourged trees rather than smoothed by sandpaper. Glass, trash, used condoms, all the usual remains from an all-night party. He needed to send guys over to clean the place or Sister Jackie, the building community liaison, would be pissed. She could make things difficult, getting the tenants riled up, bringing in police attention, complaining to the superintendent or property owner. With her flat, broad nose and swollen lips, dark rings under her eyes, she had the face of a woman smacked with a 2X4. With the body of a mack truck, broad and immovable, she had a stroke a few years back which didn't seem to slow her down much. The burdens of management weighed on his shoulders as the managerial woes of a bored CEO weren't exactly what he imagined the life of a king being. He had to work around community leaders like Pastor Winburn, or deal with Sister Jackie who was like a one-woman labor union. It was simple business: don't piss off mommas and the neighborhood complains less. He wanted to be more than a criminal, so he'd work with politicos, community groups, churches looking to turn gang members' lives around, whoever. He made a mental note to assign some of the peewees to clean the building, such menial jobs being exactly in their job description. Their asses would jump if he said so. Funny how they could run his errands yet couldn't be bothered to work at McDonald's as being too good to earn minimum wage or be bossed around.

  "They here?" Rellik asked.

  "Most of them," Garlan said. They stood in the landing of the stairwell, overlooking the gathering. "Some of these fools wouldn't know a watch to save they life."

  "They lack discipline."

  "I got it handled." The implication clear that if Garlan couldn't handle his people, Rellik would find someone who would.

  By his count, Rellik had nearly a hundred folks – peewees, soldiers, and wannabes – to coordinate. The way a man looks at a boy and sizes him up, he needed to pull together his whole crew to see what he was working with. Which meant he needed a space to hold meetings. When he ran his crew, he brought in a few of his boys he'd known since high school. These days, with so many doing jail, dead, or out the game entirely, his officer crew was pretty small since he trusted so few. Garlan was solid and was a liaison between him and his unfamiliar crew. He thought it would be a good idea to hold it in a church. Pastor Winburn was one of those do-good types always out for an opportunity to build up relationships with Rellik's type. With such a convergence of opportunity and need, he was practically obligated to have this meeting at Good News. As long as the Pastor minded his own when it was time to get down to business.

  This summit meeting saved him the trouble of visiting all the crews separately. His security detail, led by Garlan, drove ahead to give them all clear from rival gangs. At his arrival, one member, Rok, collected all the drugs and cash and had them escorted from the scene so there was never a direct link to Rellik. When a dealer went to prison or was killed, the crew took care of his family. It lessened the worry about a coup, fostering loyalty to the crew.

  Over the next few hours, with Garlan a step behind him high on the rush of power, Rellik grilled his crew. He asked about any loss of regulars, measuring the impact of encroachment by other crews. The Treize. ICU. He fielded any reports of product complaints or any of their regulars buying from someone else. Anyone watching. No one new popped up on that front besides Cantrell, partnered with that crooked-ass cracka, Lee. Pastor Winburn, Sister Jackie. He even put his ear to the ground about any new hustlers working the scene. He didn't care how low on the hustle pyramid they were. Geno. Rhianna. Omarosa. If they operated within his sphere of influence or were potential threats, he wanted to know about them. Like King. Lastly, he asked about any niggas. Naptown Red, fool nigga trying to play. Colvin, on the other hand, bore keeping an eye on.

  Next they took sales reports, tallying the week's receipts, drugs lost or stolen, inventory lost. Members causing problems. Like settling the dispute between Rok and The Boars, each of whom ran a six-person crew.

  "No disrespect, Boars…" Rok rose quickly through the thin ranks, promoted more due to the thin talent pool of who was available, like some ghetto affirmative action. A young buck, skin the color of weak tea, rail thin and with a softness about him. An uncomfortable fit, he was unsure about his position but he took to the job and enjoyed the level of respect it engendered. However, he didn't wear the mantle with ease and his men sensed it.

  "The Boars." Black as seal skin, with a full beard shaved low and a bald head, Bo "The Boars" Little was a beefy boy in a man's body. He was the left tackle for Northwest High School because the nigga just loved to hit people. Needing some walk-around money, he got into the game. No, that wasn't the real reason. Already having the adulation of fans and peers, he found it wasn't enough. He craved the street rep.

  "Ain't but one of you out here calling yourself Boars. We ain't confusing you with anyone." Rok had honest eyes, but there were no truth tellers out here and Rellik trusted the honest-looking ones least.

  "The Boars. You mean no disrespect? Respect my name." The Boars gravitated to power, craved it like he was hitting a pipe. Greedy, ambitious, brutal, and simple, barely contained anger steeped in his mean little eyes.

  "All I'm saying, The Boars, is that I've come up short."

  "That's your problem."

  "No, it's both of your problem," Rellik said. "Rok thinks he was underpaid. The Boars thinks someone was lying about how much product was moved. Someone's in the wrong. Give us a minute."

  Rellik and Garlan stepped toward a corner, all eyes on them, a tide of steady murmurs.

  "Who you believe?" Rellik asked.

  "The Boars is an earner. Little man's too soft. Probably lost the product or had folks steady taking him off."

  "Yeah. That's possible. My gut tells me The Boars is gearing up for his own operation, though. Skimming bits here and there to build up a war chest to buy in on a package. No one noticed until Rok caught him. No one."

  Garlan chafed under this latest bit of schooling from Rellik. The OG dude might have seen himself as trying to raise up some young uns, but Garlan was a man. A man with pride who didn't need to be undercut every time he turned around. "So what we gonna do?"

  "It's a light offense. A beat-down should do it."

  "He a big boy. You up to it?"

  "Heh." Rellik reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring. Old and worn, silver strands wove in an intricate pattern and black filled in the empty spaces. "This is for you."

  "What is it?"

  "Power. You earned it."

  Garlan took the ring. He turned it in his hand several times, inspecting it, then slipped it on. The ring fit his finger like he was born to wear it. "Now what?"

  "You turn it and no one can see you." Rellik leveled his gaze at him to assure him that he was serious. "You want to test it? Handle The Boars."

  Garlan turned toward The Boars. The man had him by half a foot and over a hundred pounds easy. Not enough to make water pump through his veins, but enough to give him pause. Garlan looked back at Rellik, who pantomimed the turning of the ring. Garlan did.

  The world turned silver and black, like staring at film negatives. The effect dizzied Garlan, who stumbled with his first steps. He steadied himself, quickly becoming used to seeing the world in shades of gray. A few heads turned, those who had been watching Garlan and Rellik chat now craned about, searching for any trace of them. Garlan approached Rok and waved his hand in front of him. Then flipped him off. Rok gave no indication of seeing him, but grew uneasy, feeling crowded. Garlan stepped back and the boy seemed to relax a bit.

  The Boars stank up close. One of those stale-sweat jungle funks some brothers couldn't scrub off no matter how many showers they took or how much cologne they put on. As he neared, The Boars tensed, suddenly on edge. Obviously a fighter, some ancient warrior sense within, alerted him; he assumed a defensive posture. His boys backed away from him, possibly simply fearing that he might swing at them.

  Garlan circled the man, wary and testing his limits. The Boars' frame was even more massive up close. What some might have taken as fat was more muscle than not. From his stance, he knew how to use his weight and was much lighter on his feet than one might guess. Still, no matter the size, every Goliath could be taken down by a well-placed stone.

  Garlan punched him in the throat. The Boars clutched at his neck, bending forward enough for Garlan to land a heavy punch which exploded his nose. It was strictly cosmetic damage, but he aimed for an effect of blood spurting everywhere rather than damage. Toying with him, Garlan jabbed at the man's kidneys, an ax taken to an old oak, bit by bit, wearing him down. The Boars swung wild, hitting only air. The scent of blood started to get Garlan's head up. He swept The Boars feet from under him and rained kicks into his side. The Boars curled up to protect himself as best he could, not knowing how many assailants he had to fend off.

  "That's enough," Rellik said. During quiet moments, he wondered if he'd been away from the game too long. Perhaps prison was too far removed from the grind of the streets, made him out of touch with these boys. All doubts were pushed aside because the rules never changed. Public punishments acted as a deterrence. All ambitions ran through the head and he decided when you were ready to step up. And they ensured solidarity, because they were all on the same page now.

  He dreamt of being like the Black Panthers of the '60s, agitating for real change and improvement in the neighborhoods. Oblivious to the irony of drug trade and violence eating away at community. Rellik knew the power he had. Wages, shifts, spikes in supply and demand, they were all part of the calculations of industry. The game took care of its players. He felt the obligation to take care of his people. His soldiers couldn't do drugs. The last thing he needed was one of them tweaking out or having their heads not in business. He demanded they stay in school or at least got their GED. He donated money to youth centers, bought sports equipment and computers. He was all about the trickle-down theory: drug money redistributed fiends' money back into the community, and he was a key player in that system. True, there were the Nights, Dreds, Colvins, and fools of the game who were little different from corporate execs who embezzled pension plans for their own gain. But Rellik was about the system. Then there was the police, always with their hands out deciding which businesses could launder cash or which crew could operate freely. Biggest crooks of them all. Never around when you need them, but Johnny on the spot after the fact.

  "Rip currents, like a levee break, form channels which pull everything in them out to the reservoir," the sheriff, a fat white man who hid behind mirrored sunglasses and a broad hat, explained. "Usually a wave hits the beach and flows back to the lake as gentle backwash. The way this little alcove here is set up, with the strong winds blowing towards the shore, water collects on the beach side of a sand bar. When the trapped water breaches the sand bar, it flows away real quick from the beach and forms a vortex beyond the surf."

  Gavain sat in the sheriff's car with a blanket wrapped loosely around him. He shivered under the blaring sun and toasty wind. His mother hollered then collapsed at the sight of men loading her sons, sheets pulled over their heads, into the ambulance. Gavain stared at the lake, thinking about the hands that pulled him to shore, sparing him.

  He missed his brother.

  "How'd that feel to you?" Rellik said to the air. "You need to turn the ring back."

  Garlan appeared in front of him. "It felt good. Right."

  "You get used to it pretty quickly. Sometime a nigga's just got to be beat-down." Rellik watched some of the young'uns help The Boars to his feet, help he shrugged off. "They have to fear you."

  "They do."

  "They do now. Before, you were one of them, you might have told them what to do, but to them you gave suggestions, not orders that demanded to be followed. Most of them followed because they were too lazy to come up with something else. The Boars was different. Just biding his time.

  "I love these niggas. They my family. But I don't trust them. No one. Especially my friends. The higher up you go, the less you can afford to go soft." Rellik didn't mind though. As he worked toward his larger ambitions, his goal was to go mainstream, to get out the game and take his people legit.

  "We got any more problems, we squash them now." Rellik prepared to wrap up the meeting. "You pay taxes, you get to call the police or your city councilman. You niggas ain't paid a cent in taxes. But you know we all know. Round here, we all pay. And we only have Merky Water to call on. This here's your job. A job's a job and when you're here, you on the clock. Your ass needs to be here on time and on point. You put in the work, you get paid. This ain't no minimum-wage gig so you better take pride in it."

  With that, the group was dismissed.

  "Any new business?" Rellik asked Garlan away from listening ears.

  "Got a line on raw product sounds pretty good."

  "From who?"

  "From Dred."

  "Oh, yeah?" Rellik asked. "He play too many games. Spike that shit with something. You never know."

  "He a steady connect."

  "Got to think of this like a business. Dude over here wants to sell to me at regular rate now, make sure I'm a steady connect then discount me twenty percent next year. Dude over there wants to discount me ten percent now if I sign up with him. Who would you go with?"

  "In this world, there'll always be fiends. Think longterm and go with the deeper discount."

  "You thinking. I like that, but naw. Thing you forget is that ain't nothing guaranteed. This time next year, you, me, either dude could be locked up, dead, or out of the game. Take your discount upfront."

  "Go for the guaranteed money."

  "That's my nigga," Rellik said. "And leave Dred alone. That nigga's never up to anything good."

 

• • • •

 

A mural of a Jamaican flag filled the left third of the wall. An Ethiopian flag was painted on the right third, the two framing a portrait of Haile Selassie. Dred perched beneath it, ensconced in a high-backed wicker chair. A thick plume of smoke issued from the side of his mouth. Short and stocky, he had a prison workout body despite the fact that Dred had never seen the inside of a cell. Wearing a Pelle Pelle red hooded jogging outfit, the word "DEATH" scrawled over crossbones. Dismissing Baylon with a nod – the half-dead man retreated to a far corner engulfed by shadows – his vaguely Asiatic eyes studied Merle.

  Baylon thought he detected a trace of fear in Dred's eyes. From what he observed, Dred took several steps away from the streets licking his wounds and regrouping, rethinking his strategy. Perhaps he over-reached with his first charge at power, his feint at King, underestimating the man.

  "I know all your thoughts," Dred said. "Every move you're going to make."

  "That makes one of us. Please excuse all of the gibberish going on in my head." His mouth caught in an exuberant grin, Merle reached into one of the deep pockets of his raincoat. His slate-gray eyes sparkled with amusement. He took off his aluminum cap, wiped a thick coat of sweat from its brow – squeezing his eyes at the onset of the voices – and returned it to his head. "Luckily, I usually say what I'm thinking."

  "I don't need you to tell me what you are thinking. In fact, it's easier if you don't because most of what comes out of your mouth is lies anyway. Everyone has body language. Most folks don't think about the message they send out: a curled lip, a hunched shoulder, a twitch here or there. I do."

  "It must be exhausting to be you."

  "It is. It really is." Dred stepped to Merle, close, almost too close. Some might have taken it as a threat or challenge. Merle was unmoved. The artifice of the bum as crazy-ass cracka was obvious, almost on the verge of a glamour. In fact, it was a glamour of sorts: the glamour of the mundane. The lowest of the low was often ignored.

  "Well, since you know all my thoughts and what comes out of my mouth is lies anyway, why are we talking?"

  "It's part of the game."

  "Games? I like games." Merle smacked loudly as if enjoying a piece of candy.

  "It's like playing chess."

  "I've never been real good at chess," Merle said. "But it sounds like you'd be great at it. Thinking so far ahead. An enemy you can read."

  Dred ushered him into the anteroom. A chess board occupied the center of the room, exquisitely carved jade pieces all over it, a game already in progress. Dred took a seat. He gestured for Merle to sit across from him but the mage remained standing.

  "In chess, you have pieces. Cold, porcelain pieces are useless. I need to be able to read the guy behind the pawns. I don't know if that makes sense. It does to me and that's all that counts."

"You study the player, not his game."

  "Try to get in his head. Fuck with him a little. Get him talking about anything, then his language and body movements will betray him. How quickly he moves his piece. How tightly he grips it. How firmly he places it. You watch his face and body. It all telegraphs his thinking and strategy. His motivations."

  "His tells."

  "Every word, every phrase. It's all about nuance. It's all about learning how to read people."

  "So which am I? Pawn or guy behind the pawns?" Merle asked.

  "Both… I suspect." Which was as true as Dred could guess. There was always someone between Merle and the drama. No direct contact, always directing others. He hadn't quite decided if Merle moved King or if both were subject to a greater gamesman making them fulfill their roles. Either way, his moves had to be accounted for. Dred moved a knight to take out a pawn and place his opponent's rook in jeopardy. He then spun the table to play as his opponent.

  "You have your mother's eyes."

  "Do you know where she is, world mage?"

  "She's nearby. Closer than either of us care to admit."

  "I need to see her. She has one last lesson for me."

  "She'll be the death of both of us," Merle said, taking greater interest in the game.

  "I don't think so. I think her time draws to an end."

  "But that's not what you summoned me here for."

  "No. I need to know if King is the man you think he is."

  "The sapling mage is at a crossroads? Neither this way nor that?"

  "Something like that. I hear things. Rumors about what King hopes to do and achieve. And I want to believe in it. In him."

  "He's just a man. A dream."

  "I believe that, though I don't know if you do." Even as Dred rethought the game, his strategy, and his position, he never revealed his entire hand. Through the last of the dragon's breath, he had poked and prodded, testing his opponents and teasing out their weakness. He could already tell that they were on edge, not as sharp. Exhausted and harried… and thus vulnerable.

  "You also have doubts."

  "I just need to know what's this nigga's story."

  "You know it as well as anybody."

  "I mean, what's he about?"

  "He's the story."

  "He's a story. The echo of a story. Young, charismatic, do-gooder types. Social organizer, community activist type. Troubled youth made good, with a rise to prominence backed by a religious leader."

  "You make that sound like a bad thing."

  "You know your Bible?"

  "We haven't always seen eye-to-eye."

  "Revelation 17:11 – 'And the beast that was, and is not, even he is the eighth, and is of the seven, and goeth into perdition.' Daniel 8:23 – 'And in the latter time of their kingdom, when the transgressors are come to the full, a king of fierce countenance, and understanding dark sentences, shall stand up.' Daniel 11:36 – 'And the king shall do according to his will; and he shall exalt himself, and magnify himself above every god, and shall speak marvelous things against the God of gods, and shall prosper till the indignation be accomplished: for that that is determined shall be done.'"

  "What are you trying to say?"

  "I'm not trying to say anything. It's already been said. Even foretold."

  "If you think King is some sort of… Antichrist, then this would be one of those non eye-to-eye moments."

  "I think King is an echo of the past that points to the future. He may mean well, but he doesn't see how his actions can hurt people.

  "Says the drug lord."

  "I'm a simple businessman. No further ambition than to make money. What I do, hundreds of others do. But King, he's special isn't he?"

  Merle remained silent.

  "King has potential," Dred said. "He draws people in, sweeps them along despite themselves, like a tidal vortex. It's what he does. Unites people, forges a kingdom, accrues power. Until…"

  "Until what?"

  "Until it all falls apart. Tell me, is he the real deal? Is he a man worth following?"

  "You are your mother's son."

  Dred toppled the jade king. "Tell King I want to meet with him."

  "A parlay?"

  "If anyone can pull together a parlay, I'm sure it's him."

 

The summit meeting was the business portion of what was Rellik's homecoming party. Off to college, off to life in the military, out from prison, such rites of passage were met with community celebration. Rellik was a west side nigga at heart, but he was equally at home at the Meadows, now the Phoenix, Apartments. This wasn't some alien landscape meant to be avoided or sped through with locked car doors. This was home. Under electric-blue skies with the hint of chill in the air, but still warm enough to have a party.

  Sparing no expense, a row of three tables held a snow cone maker, a popcorn maker, as well as room for hot dog and nachos stations (which proved especially convenient for those wanting chili and cheese on their dogs instead of chips). Another table held coolers filled with juice drinks and pop. For anything harder, they needed to go to their car trunks and make their own drinks. On the far side of the church lot were three inflatable gyms. One for basketball, a jumpy slide which tottered precariously in the breeze though none of the kids cared, and a boxing ring with inflatable gloves the size of a toddler. Boys ran up on one another at full tilt with faux menace, amped up to pummel one another with the gloves which proved heavier than they anticipated.

  The DJ had to be snatched by Big Momma as the mic had to be protected from the errant freestylers. As it was, the music spun featured lyrics quickly running out of superheroes to do things with their hos. Pastor Winburn bobbed his head. "The neck knows," he said to Big Momma's mildly disapproving gaze and the giggle of some of the pre-teens.

  Three BBQ grills kept the meat coming. Geno wiped thick smears of sweat from his forehead with his apron. He manned the racks of ribs personally, not trusting anyone else's eye. He had a burger man and a chicken man, each flipping stacks of meat like a wellrehearsed orchestra.

  An area of tables had been cordoned off, the tablecloths flapping in the wind, but held down by duct tape. Chairs allowed the grown folks to eat in peace, hold court, or play cards and dominoes. Having run out of those, some of the kids had to make do with milk cartons. Seven year-old boys flashed gang signs when out of the eyeline of any other adults.

  On the other side of the church, The Boars and other young men crouched in the shadows hunched over their piles of cash. He shook a set of dice, eyes heavy on him, all still conscious of the beat-down he took, but now it was business as usual and none dared speak of it. They gave him room to lick the wounds to his pride and they feared his eruption to reclaim it if provoked. Money spread on the concrete. The Boars rolled the bones and snapped his fingers. The dice came up sixes. Money changed hands amidst grumbles about the boxcar roll.

  "Y'all want in?" The Boars asked.

  "I'm in," Rok said, throwing a few ends onto the pile. They were still a crew and not only didn't he throw and punch, he was equally unnerved by the invisible assault. It also helped that he lost the last roll to The Boars.

  "Who's up? Who's up? Who's up?" The Boars continued.

  "If I ain't steppin' on something…"

  "Yeah?" The tentative way Rok approached getting into The Boars' business, almost deferential, appealed to him.

  "It true?"

  "What?"

  "I heard you got them boys."

  "Who?"

  "Dred's crew."

  "Walked straight up on a buster and capped him in the head," another echoed.

  "Served him up. One in the face," a third chimed in.

  Rumors swirled about the bodies dropping all over town. Some with a simple bullet to the head. Some scenes described as straight out of a horror film, with bodies tore up, raked through, and blood everywhere. The Boars didn't mind some of that name recognition landing on him. Though he didn't want to directly claim it either. It was a dangerous business taking another person's credit.

  "Same blood, not the same heart."

  "You ice cold, man. There's no forgiveness to you."

  "I hear that. A lot." The Boars snapped his fingers at the dice roll.

  "It's all that Cobra you be drinking."

  "I don't drink that watered-down piss. The KKK runs that shit."

  "Shut up, fool. You think the KKK runs everything," Rok said.

  "It's why he don't wear no Sean Jean gear," another voiced added.

  "But that's P Diddy's line," Rok said. "Sound like maybe his competitors started a rumor."

  "Klan. I'm telling you," The Boars said.

  "I never did trust that too-pretty nigga no way," a peewee said. They all turned to see who had snuck into their circle.

  "Why do so many niggas have to be such sugar drops?" The Boars lightly shoved Rok. "You too, nigga. You have to come strong. We need to get you on a workout bench. Get you pumped up."

  Still rattling the dice in his hand like dead men's bones, he paused when he noticed the duo approaching.

  Mulysa wanted his name to ring out, the sole ambition of his eyes jacked up by drugs. A stain dirtying everything he touched, he was a melanoma on the skin of his family. One they attempted to scrape off. For as long as he could remember, he learned to take the beatings, the abuse. And learned to smile – that dangerous half-smirk ready to jump off – because in the back of his mind he thought "one day." One day he'd be big enough. Like a pit bull bred to fight, he responded to what he'd been taught. He dined on pain and suffering every day and internalized it. It got in him, built his muscles, wired his thinking, flowed through his veins. The pain, the anger, the hate. He closed the space between them, meaning to crowd them. His hands shook when his blood got to racing. His arm twitched, the flinch that signaled he was about to go hard.

  A tightness clutched his stomach as he remembered the child he had been. Sneaking a cup of sugar and a packet of Kool Aid in a sandwich bag for him and his friends. They'd all lick their fingers and swipe at the pile of powder until there was nothing left but a gooey pile. Every break between what few high school classes he attended spent smoking blunts. Weed affected him in ways different from his friends. More deeply. Something he couldn't identify drove him and he couldn't stop. He smirked at the idea of his friends. He couldn't recall any of their names now, and even their faces were vaguely recalled silhouettes.

  Mulysa took a corner, sold dime bags of marijuana for his cousin who had a supplier out of the eastside. Then came juvenile, which completed his education. Confined with gunmen and killers, it kept him low and it killed anything good in him. Something he planned on passing along to Tristan.

 

"What's up?" Tristan asked.

"I'm drunk. That's what's up."

  "Recognize." She knew that fire dancing in his eyes. That rush which at any moment might spring at her. "What's with these fools?"

  "Let me milk this cow. Y'all just hold the tail," Mulysa said.

  "I ain't trying to do no jail."

  "See this here? This is a pack of dogs. Each one scrappin' for their piece. Times are a little lean and they a little wild so it's easy for them to scrap too hard over a little piece of meat. Some try to go off by themselves, some try to set them up as the big dog."

"And you here cause you the Alpha dog?" Tristan asked.

  "Naw. Colvin's the Alpha dog. I'm the stick he uses to train them. You, too."

  "Train them for what?"

  "Shit. You beat a dog when he a young pup, he thinks twice about rising up on you later on."

 

  At the sight of Mulysa, thickly muscled, an upright pit bull, and Tristan, rangy yet sturdy, no play in her eyes and scattered. The boys with the appointment knew it was pointless to run. They eye-fucked the locals to scare the need to witness out of them.

  Mulysa menaced a smile.

  Tristan lagged behind without having to be told. A sign of intelligence, Mulysa thought. She knew her business. The first time Tristan hooked up with Mulysa, she and Iz were completely ass-out. She dozed during the day under a bridge while Iz went to school and stayed up to guard them at night. One time while she slept, some fool jacked all her stuff; just grabbed her backpack and took off. She never cried when she told Iz, only took her hand and leaned her head onto her shoulder. A rare moment of lowering her guard.

  They'd have left then but Indianapolis was all Tristan knew. Then Mulysa showed up. Said he recognized talent when he saw it. The bullshit didn't matter, the money did. Though she felt no obligation to him, in a way, he was there for them when no one else was. He was a predator of the first order and she was every bit on guard around him as when she was on the streets. The money was straight though.

  Rok opted not to move as Tristan attempted to brush by – a tacit challenge she understood but had little patience for.

  "What we got here? A little game among gentlemen?" Mulysa dropped to his knees and hovered over the money. "Civility is the name of the game."

  "What you here for?" The Boars asked.

  "You do the speeding, you get a ticket."

  "Whose street are we speeding on?"

  "Colvin's," Mulysa said.

  "Colvin? Shee-it. I thought you were talking about someone serious. Not that high yella, wannabe peckerwood." The Boars assessed his six-to-two advantage and confidence crept into his posture. "He's another one. Got a little sugar in his tank."

  "You sure that's the tone you want to take with me, nukka?"

  "You might want to look around you, dog. You and the missus… you a little out-gunned up in this piece." The Boars challenged with his eyes, though a skim of sweat trickled along his hairline.

  Born on Christmas Day, Mulysa was taken in by CPS at two. A dealer friend called CPS, having been given the boy to pay off a debt. He was five years old when he was first raped and beaten in a foster home. With no place else to go, he went back into the system.

  "What led to arson?" Arson followed battery as juvenile followed boys' school. All sort of docs tried to crawl into his head. He suffered headaches. Adderall, Wellbutrin, a prescribed menagerie to address his anger problems, they often found it safer to sedate him with drugs. None helped. His mom and dad came into money, a settlement from an accident from when a security guard wrenched his mother's arm in a store (the fact that she was there to shoplift notwithstanding) and they got him back. Even sent him to a private school. His thoughts drifted to jail and the ordered life there, the peace of the streets. So one day he left. Most times he lived in an abandoned bank. Some times he dropped by the Camlann Apartments complex. The streets were his home, his headache his sole companion. No matter where he went, no one saw him. He knew he was just a joke to them. A nigger joke.

  Mulysa withdrew a knife and twirled it in his hands, the six-inch blade stopped, handle in his palm. The Boars' mouth went dry.

  "As big as your dick. Bigger."

  "It ain't the size, it's how you use it," Tristan said, her handcrafted blades curled around her fists. They were overkill, she thought, and put them away. She attacked with sudden ferocity, catching The Boars off guard. Speed and guile on her part made up for the mismatch of his bulk versus hers. Most of the shorties scattered, probably racing back to sound an alarm. Her movements were smooth and elegant. The edge of her hand chopped at his throat followed by a punch to his solar plexus. Without passion, it was nothing personal. She directed a blow to a nerve cluster in his arm, painful, and would leave him in a mood to not continue a fight. In another finesse move, she leg-swept the approaching boy, toppling him, then kicked him in the side until he curled up in surrender. They were perfunctory blows. Other than The Boars, these were boys, not hardened soldiers. Water pumped in their veins.

  Mulysa took greater relish in his attack. The crunch of bone beneath his pummeling fist only drove him to greater heights of bloodlust. His nostrils widened as if snorting the blood scent. His lips pulled back in a mad rictus. His name would ring out for sure. To march into the heart of Rellik's territory, to put a beat-down on some of his troops in the middle of his own party. Shit. He grew heady on waves of his soon-to-beswelling rep. He drew his dagger – damn near a machete, his bottom bitch – and turned to go at Rok. Tristan stepped between them.

  "Enough. I think they got the point."

  "Let's bounce before these bitches find their heart."

  "And gats." Tristan glanced back at Rok with a nod. "Deuces."