A vegetable odor filled the room, the smell of spent seed seeped into the woods. They turned and froze at Lott's entrance. Two of the men held the girl down, each one clamping down on an arm, though one attempted to cup her breast. The third, the tall one, pulled at her panties. Spitting into his hand, he slowly began to stroke himself. The more she fought, the more excited he got. Despite Lott's unexpected entrance, he kept touching himself.
"What the hell are you doing?" Lott yelled.
"What it look like, money?" The first one looked up from the struggling girl.
"You want in on this train?" the tall one asked.
The girl locked eyes with Lott. A few acne bumps dotted her forehead, red and swollen against her toffee-colored skin. For a moment, all he saw was Lady G. Then she came more into focus as the girl she was. A little thinner and lighter skinned, though still in need of having her honor defended. Lott took two steps in and planted his foot into the crotch of the first boy. The other two scrambled to their feet, but not before he put his full weight behind a punch that dropped one to the floor.
"Get out!" Lott yelled to her.
The girl tore out without hesitation. The third man leapt at Lott, grappling him about the middle. Lott kicked backwards, slamming them both into the wall, taking the wind out of the assailant. Then the ground fell away from under him. All he could think of was all the friends he'd hurt, the trust he'd betrayed. The life he'd fucked up. Panting, the tallest one noted the fight leaving Lott and began to punch him. Lott took the blows to the ribs and the stomach, but not in the face though, as he wrapped up and collapsed into a ball. Sirens snapped the men out of their rage fugue, the tallest administering another kick before cutting out.
"The hero got his ass wa-za-za-zah-whooppedzz!" the tall one shouted on the way out. Then, in case he was a snitch, too, he warned, "Keep your mouth shut."
Lott stayed on the floor, with the pain as comforting as any blanket.
CHAPTER FOUR
Near the intersection of Sussex Avenue and Faygate, two streets over from Martin Luther King Jr Boulevard, the houses on the block were piled on one another. With barely a few feet between them and their small, fenced-in yards, each was close enough that everyone could hear everyone else's business. However, most people neither saw nor heard anything, especially at the two-story home on the corner. Bound to his wheelchair after his wounds suffered at King's hands, Dred remembered being confined to the house. Many nights he retreated to his chamber, bereft of any furniture, more cavern than room. Its steep shadows gave the illusion of it being deeper than it was. Bay windows faced the moon, yet the light never seemed to penetrate much beyond being a dim glow about the window. He found a certain comfort to his cave. Despite owning several stash houses, money houses, pea shake houses — none in his name, of course — he needed a place to lay his head. A place to call his own.
The muscle memory, or lack thereof, of the wheelchair faded as he now walked down the stairs, into the hall in front of the living room. The clack-clack-clack of paws on hardwood floors echoed behind him as Baylon's dog trotted past the open doorway. Baylon manned the doorway, allowing entry to Naptown Red.
"What you no good?" Naptown Red's uneven skin tone gave him the appearance of a high yella Rorschach test. His bulbous eyes, yellowed and bloodshot, were framed by black moles. His auburn hair had once been straightened, but now came back in natural, though no comb had touched it in a while. Whiskey seared his breath and seeped from his pores. The man tugged at his privates before reaching out for a hand clasp.
"Ballin'. Shot callin'." Dred took his hand and bumped shoulders with him, unaffected by the gesture. He nodded toward the next room where the others had gathered. Of course Red had been the last to arrive. He thought it proved that he was the man, that everyone waited on him. But as far as Dred was concerned, every now and then you got a fool. Naptown Red was so far behind and always sleeping on the game — a mistake his mom should've corrected before he was born.
Dred tired of a life of inconvenience and neglect. Every off-center smile was a threat; every unturned eye a challenge; every undeferred step disrespect, so easily insulted because "respect" was what defined them. Look at them, his foot soldiers. Naptown Red, scheming-ass nigga, not fooling anyone; Baylon, a tragic, perpetual fuckup; Garlan, so insecure in his role as muscle, certainly no Mulysa, but he'd have to do; and Nine, who insinuated herself into the group with promises of handling a particularly meddlesome problem for him. Something about being in her presence made you want to trust her. Love her. Shaped by rage, formed by scorn, molded by uninterest, Mulysa was a magnificent hatred. Now he sat at court waiting on a judge to let him know if he could sleep in his own bed tonight.
Eyes half-closed in on-setting ennui, Baylon stood on the fringes as the others gathered. His body reeked with the stench of death. From its sockets, pale yellow, bulbous, unnatural eyes — eyes which had seen so much, like staring into the sun — were dulled to lifelessness. His clothes seemed to cling tightly to his body like seaweed to a sunken ship. Baylon took a few uncertain steps. The grave called, but he continued to resist it. The air, stale and musty, swirled about to embrace his lithe form. Melancholia and weariness enveloped him, though his horrid body hid a certain nobility. The silence was tangible around him, as if taking one last peek at his gravesite, longing for his disturbed peace. He knew that folks considered him soft. He used to be, but now he'd been through a lot. Lost a lot. Being in the life changed you. You didn't get to just throw on a suit and enter the square world. You were boxed in and down for life. Little more than a dog gone savage from pain.
"You remember me? I was part of Rellik's crew." Garlan sidled up to him with a practiced hardness. He lightly fingered his ring.
"Want something to drink? I think I got some scotch." His voice little more than a croak. Baylon's mouth opened and closed. His breath reeked of a swamp bed.
"This shit's getting deep."
"What you mean?"
"You can't feel it? Like a noose closing in on us."
"Bout time."
Garlan glanced at him, made a mental note correcting whatever assumption he had made about the man, and started to move toward his spot on the couch.
"It's like a convention of unfuckables in here." Nine pushed past them. She took the unoccupied chair off to the side of the group, a regal pose to her bearing.
Naptown Red had the gift of assessing threats. He could take the temperature of a room with a glance and know who the true players were and who were the busters. Dred called the shots cause he was the man with a plan and the resources. Not because anyone especially feared him. There was an insecurity to him that Red knew he could exploit to roll him if need be. Garlan was straight-up soft. How he became an enforcer was further testimony to Dred's weakness. Dred didn't want anyone he deemed too great a threat at the table. Mulysa was buck. Even the new boys, Melle and Noles, he insulated himself from through Garlan. Baylon was spent meat, a used-up husk of a soldier. He was fierce in his day though. Which left the sister. Nine. She was a potential problem.
"Let me holler at you for a minute, baby."
"How you gonna try and push up on me? Your chest looks like Treebeard mated with a sad manatee." Nine's skin was the color of scorched oak, her face both passionate and cruel, her eyes vaguely Asian. She spread her finely manicured fingers as a stop sign. Her nails glinted like talons decorated for a kill.
"How'd you earn a place at the table? I've never heard of you."
"Oh the breadth and depth of what you've never heard of. You never needed to hear of me. I play the game at a whole different level. The fact that you've heard of me now means that you are now at a new level. Me, I've always been here. Right under your nose."