At the other end of the room, the cushions were spread as a makeshift mattress, stained in blood, piss, and come, yet ready for business again. Baylon guarded the door, a careful eye on the streets.
"I don't think you hear me. B, are you having trouble understanding me?"
"I hear you just fine, Dred," Baylon said.
"Griff, am I not using the King's English correctly?"
"Like you was born to it."
"Then why is this group of fools operating in my neighborhood? Why do I have to come down here and see to some petty bullshit?"
"Some niggas are hard of skull. Maybe need their ears cleaned out," Griff said.
Truth was, Dred was in a mood to make his presence felt. Sometimes he couldn't resist a little knucklehead stuff. It was the life. He had several stops to make that required his personal touch. And he'd heard some disturbing whispers about Night. Word on the street was that he was setting up his own shop, had crews working on his watch and was lining up his own distribution. That was the only reason Dred's interest was alerted. He had the distribution into Indianapolis locked up. Even the Hispanic gangs came through him. He had tied things up nicely to where, though still new to the scene, lit tle more than a name whispered among the operators – he doubted even the police had gotten onto him yet – he could step away from handling the product, short of major deals. Like the meeting he was soon to be late for. But before he became a com plete ghost, he needed to personally rattle a few cages.
"Rent's due, motherfucker. That plain enough for you?"
"I'm just a wrong time, wrong place brother. This ain't even my joint." The man cupped his crotch and draped his chest with his other arm. "I hear you, Dred. I didn't mean no disrespect."
"Is that a glamour working?" Dred asked, suddenly suspicious. He studied the man, searching for a flaw or telltale giveaway. "You the one been having women coming in and out of here at all times, like that ain't going to draw no notice. What you call yourself doing? Maximizing your resources? Running dope and girls? Hope you ain't fool enough to run guns, too. Griff?"
"I believe we have the night's proceeds." Griff held a paper bag loosely filled with cash. Not enough for Dred's notice, but enough for him to justify the diver sion.
"What? We got a problem?"
"Nah," the man said.
"I think we got a problem."
With a strength and ferocity that surprised them all, Dred upended the couch and spilled the man onto the floor. Before the man could struggle to his feet, Dred straddled him, his hot breath steaming the man's face. Dred headbutted him into senselessness, then slapped him like he was a hooker short with his money. The man's nose exploded and covered his face with blood.
"Don't you ever," Dred said between subsequent slaps, "let me see you" slap "up in my territory" slap "without my explicit say so." Slap. "Explicit, mother fucker."
The man fell backward in a pool of his own blood. His heart unmoved, Baylon wondered how many women the man had similarly beaten. The man crawled, a dog in cowering retreat, taking a foot to his side from Dred.
"Dred, man, we got what we came for. If we're going to make that other thing…" Griff trailed off in half a singsong voice. Griff had leapfrogged Baylon in the hierarchy. Nothing had been openly said but Baylon knew the deal.
The rituals and things he'd seen – things that were never explained nor even talked about – didn't bother Griff. He considered himself a needtoknow soldier. His brutally efficient fearlessness, and lack of questions, caused Dred to favor him in subtle ways. Tended to go to him first when something needed to be done. Seemed to favor his company outside of conducting business. Spoke of him quite favorably when he wasn't around. Things Baylon was certain was never done or said about him. The Ndibu led, it was still business as usual. Folks scurried to curry favor or step on the back of even their brother to get to the next level. There was no such thing as enough: not enough women, not enough money, not enough rep, not enough power. Discontent was its own raison d'etre.
As Baylon saw things, Night had his own ambitions, they all did, but Night saw himself as the rightful heir to the throne of the streets and Dred as a pretender to it. Baylon's strategic thinking was what made him valuable to Dred, but not valuable enough. He was being pushed aside, reduced to a consigliere within his own crew.
Dred and Griff turned toward Baylon. After an other check of the streets from the slit of the window beside the door, he nodded. Without instruction, Griff led the way, clutching the bag full of cash, knowing to keep money and product away from Dred. To insulate him. Dred followed. Baylon gave one last glance at the dope dealer who moaned as he crawled back onto the couch. Discarded as soon as he was inconvenient.
The dope dealer stared straight at him. "Sir Baylon, this is the boundary of your life. Turn back and you may save yourself." And with that, the man vanished.
Baylon imagined the trajectory of his life as him running. Running through a dark forest, heedless of what lay ahead, knowing that he couldn't remain where he was. His fate chased after him, undeterred and dogged, closing in on him like an inexorable curtain. He fought against the listing hopelessness. He stood on the precipice knowing the time to change ticked away quickly. He closed his eyes and waited, giving into his destiny.
The squeal of car tires shattered the night like a hunting horn signaling the death of their prey. The car slowed to a deliberate crawl. Griff released his hold on the paper bag, whatever warrior sense or maybe just in tune to the scent of violence and blood and death in the air alerting him to action. Without hesitation, he leapt between the approaching car and Dred. For his part, Dred stood there. Not frozen, as if the impending violence caught him short. No, he wore a different face. One of resignation. Of giving in to the inevitable. Of a time coming full circle.
Baylon withdrew his knife. The blade snapped to life with a sharp click.
From the lowered car windows, several gun barrels protruded. The first shot caught Griff before he could reach Dred. The shot caught him in the shoulder spinning him, then a second shot caught him in the side sending him towards Baylon. As Griff's body ca reened toward him, Baylon – perhaps on instinct, perhaps the knife had a will of its own, perhaps many things Baylon preferred to not think about – brought the knife to bear. It plunged into Griff's gut. His accusing eyes widened in shock, fresh pain atop his bullet wounds. He gripped Baylon's shirt, a desperate grasp which pulled him down on top of him. The action drove the blade deeper into him as they landed. Baylon cradled his head. The blood from the mortal cut covered his front. He peered into Griff's eyes until the light left them, but not before his countenance fixed in a look of knowing. There were no secrets from the dead.
Dred arced his fingers down in a wave. The night seemed to split, carved open with the gesture, eldritch shadows catching the first volley of bullets. A shotgun barrel leveled at him. Its thunderous report caused Baylon to cover Griff as if he could shield him from any further damage. The shrapnel tore through the arcane shield Dred had cast and caught him fully in his gullet. The blast knocked him from his feet.
The car sped off into the night.
Baylon stood, surveying the damage. Not realizing his cell phone had found its way into his hand or that he had punched in the digits 911 and babbled non sensically into it. He folded the knife and tossed it down a sewer grate until he could retrieve it later.
Baylon wondered if he had ever had an honest moment in his life. A time of perfect truth. The ritual of dressing in front of the mirror, the care he took in picking out his wardrobe, the fastidiousness of his look was so much wasted effort. He knew it. His men knew it.