"You have your serious face on. What happened?" King asked.
"King, there's something I got to tell you. It's about Prez."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
King slouched over his knees. The pain in his side and neck faded into afterthoughts as he reached over toward his clothes. The ones he was brought in with had to be cut from him. Pastor Winburn had brought a change of clothes upon hearing King had awoken.
"What are you doing?" Pastor Winburn handed him his clothes.
"I need to see the body."
"You know I can't let you do that, King. Family only."
"I'm the closest thing to kin that boy's got."
"Still…"
"Do me this solid."
A black T-shirt with the word "Resistance" across the top. Underneath were portraits of his heroes. Sojourner Truth. Marcus Garvey. Angela Davis. John Carlos and Tommie Smith. Rosa Parks. Frederick Douglass. Harriet Tubman. Malcolm X. Dr Martin Luther King Jr. The shirt stretched over his muscular frame, showing off his thick arms. Pastor Winburn took the liberty of purchasing a new pair of black Chuck Taylors to replace his blood-splattered set.
Taking tentative steps, King walked slowly down the hall, his legs still getting used to being upright. He slung his leather coat over his arms in front of him, following Pastor Winburn as if a bereaved relative.
The cold room had a blue tint to it. A single body on a metal table, a sheet drawn over it. The medical examiner, a ghost in blue scrubs, pulled back the sheet. The side of Prez's face reduced to a hole exploded out; even cleaned up, a cavern of flesh and skull ruined his former eye. Scores of bruises riddled his chest. Some strange wounds not made by blade, gun, or fist had the stink of magic about them.
Cantrell worked a double tour, exhausted but undaunted. Rubbing the fatigue from his eyes, he watched the pantomime play out from the next room. King broken up about the boy's death, his meaty hands slammed into his skull as he paced about. His mouth opened in a voiceless cry. The boy was like they all were: born into a family, into a situation, given a lifetime of choices and experiences to shape what he became, takes the path of his life, and then it was over. All that remained were the people left in his wake who mourned him. Lives he touched, for good or for ill. The same ride for everyone. Cantrell gave him a moment after the pastor left before he walked in.
"I don't know what you plan to do or how someone like you carries this. Don't know if you pray, go see your pastor, or go to where you lay your head and plot your comeback."
"Might do them all." King didn't turn at the sound of the detective's voice. Prez stared at him. The hole in his face held a steady gaze and gave voice to all of King's doubts and failings.
"Let us handle it."
"You got any leads?"
"Do you? I know, I know. No snitching." Cantrell threw his hands up as if backing off.
"It ain't that. There's what I know versus what you can prove."
"What do you mean?"
"I know who did it, but can't prove it."
"Give me a name."
"What good's a name going to do you? You can't act on it. Can't get a warrant. It won't provide you any witnesses. I might as well tell you my horoscope for all the good it will do you."
"Every little bit helps."
"You know and I know Dred's behind this. Behind all of this mess. But you're trapped by rules and laws."
"And you're not? King, don't let me find you on the wrong side of some vigilante shit. I will come down on you just as hard as I would Dred."
"I know."
King returned to his room. Wayne. Lott. Percy. La Payasa. Lady G. They assembled at his word and waited for him. He paused to take in the scene. Here they were gathered together for the first time in far too long. His knights. Battered. Bruised. Tested. But they'd come out the other side. They weren't many, but they might be enough.
"What's the word?" King asked.
La Payasa stepped forward. "Dred's muscling up. Taking stock of who he got left." Unadorned, she didn't know how she fit in with this crew. They were family and she was the outsider.
"Making way the hounds of war." Knowing what it was like to be the new person in a tightknit group, King touched her lightly on her arm. His smile welcomed her as an equal.
"Something like that."
"Where?"
"Camlann." La Payasa's expression turned sour, as if she'd eaten some bad cabbage.
"What is it?" King asked.
"It's a place. Site of some new building project or something. But you don't understand. Word was loud on the street."
"Too loud?"
"Yeah, like they want people to know."
"A trap," Wayne said.
"That's what I think," La Payasa agreed.
"Then I'll give him a mouse to spring it," King said.
"King, I don't think that's wise," Wayne said.
"I can't ask you to join me." King turned to the rest of them. "Any of you. But I need to stop this madness."
"Then you'll need this." Lady G removed a bundle from her purse and handed it to King. The weight felt familiar and right as he unwrapped it. Even before he saw it, he knew part of him had returned. A 9mm, gold dragons rearing up along the contrasting black grips. His Caliburn. "I kept it for you."
"Let's do this."
Lee's place consisted of a mattress and a box set as the lone furnishings in his bedroom. Plastic Totes held his clothes. Scattered newspaper and leftover Chinese takeout boxes buried the phone. Lee realized it took a particular brand of self-loathing to put himself through this relationship. On the good days, he rationalized that he was in this for the experience. Omarosa was a fine piece of ass and a great lay. And she provided solid intel as a notquite-on-the-books confidential informant. He wasn't planning on bringing her home to meet his mother. That conversation wouldn't go welclass="underline" "Hi, Mom. This is Omarosa. She makes her living taking off drug dealers. She may even be a prostitute on the side, but she's hell in the sack. How many grandkids do you want?" It was what it was: itch-scratching. A perfect, walk-away arrangement. By all rights, checking his man card, he shouldn't have any gripes.
But then there were the bad days. The days when he woke up, alone, and had time to think about his life. The days when he suspected he was ultimately without anyone who cared about him. A boss who despised him, a partner who tolerated him, and Omarosa, a woman who expressed nothing but open disdain for him, fucked him as if he were beneath her — all but held her nose while doing him — and if she had two kind words for him, they were never strung together in the same sentence.
Omarosa slowly twirled before him, her hips moving in full controlled circles, each muscle knowing exactly what it was doing. All Lee could do was stand there like a grinning idiot hick — what she often reduced him to — simply happy to be in the same room as her. She gyrated close to him, her ass rubbing against his crotch and then pulling away. He reached out to grasp her, but she eluded him, while staying on beat to the music. She danced close again. He raised his hands, but stopped short, fearing she might abandon him again. With a tantalizing slowness, she peeled his shirt off of him, lifting it over his now-raised arms. His thin chest and muscled arms had a wiry strength to them. He thought better of wrapping them around her.
"How come we never go to your place?" Lee asked.
"Because I don't want you to know where I live." Omarosa took a half-step back. "What's the matter, too on point? Did I hurt your feelings?"
"Would you care if you did?"