The second factor? The townhouses had since been bought up primarily by three owners who, in an act just shy of collusion, opted to let the property run down, renting to Section 8 tenants or anyone who had cash in hand. While the word "gentrification" hadn't been bandied about, their goal was to sell off the whole piece for development and by "development" they envisioned razing the entire lot.
Merle plodded along the creek line which ran the length of Breton Court from 38th Street. Sir Rupert had long scampered off, perhaps to survey the scene from his own vantage point. No matter, Merle recognized layabouts and ne'er-do-wells when he saw them.
"What you need, old timer? You look like you need to get up." A young man, more boy than man, stepped toward him. His slightly faded blue jeans had rolled-up cuffs and sagged just below his blue and white striped boxer shorts despite the presence of a skull-buckled chain through the belt loops. Rhinestones dotted his black shirt.
"All's not right in Who-ville," Merle said.
"What you got, Dollar?" Another young man sported a formidably sized pair of black Timberland boots, smothered in a hooded jacket with a frog across its back. Merle couldn't help but think of the cartoon with the frog singing "Hello my baby, hello my darling" when no one but his owner was around.
"Don't know. You up?" Dollar asked, never one to let any potential sale slip past. The court had been a quiet stretch of real estate until Dollar built it up into a profitable venture. He was due to be moved up the ranks soon, climbing the corporate ladder, to get away from actually handling product.
"No, no. Just passing through," Merle said while he fished in his pockets as if he misplaced his wallet.
"What? We some sightseeing stop? Get right or get gone."
"I'm tired of these ghetto tourist types. 'Let's see how the po' folks be living.'" The Timberland-booted man stepped nearer, a hulk of aggression needing to be vented.
"Come on, man. Green said no drama less we had no choice." Dollar understood that in such stark economic times, fiscal responsibilities demanded certain precaution. Ever-present muscle was the cost of doing business. But some of these young bucks were too eager to make a name, thinking that being crazy was the surest route to success. It was a headache he didn't need.
"Green?" Merle had hoped to never hear that name again. He buried the gleam of recognition too late.
"You know Green?" Dollar tilted his head with piqued curiosity.
"Yes. Uh, not really. Maybe I've heard the name."
"I bet his country ass is a snitch." Mr Size 12 Boots gave him an exaggerated sniff. "Yeah, he smells like a snitch bitch."
Merle waved his fingers in front of him as if with a sudden display of jazz hands. "These are not the droids you are looking for."
"Are you making fun of me?" Before Merle could respond, the young man punched him in the gut with such force that Merle crumpled to the ground. With blood in the water, the Timberland boot slammed into his side three or four times for good measure before the man bent over to grab him by the lapels. "Yeah, I'm gonna give you a name to remember."
"My man." Dollar backed up a step or two, looking over his shoulder for Green, instead spying another approaching figure. "Ease up."
"We got a problem?" Tall and straight, visibly muscled, but not with the dieseled artifice of prison weight, the man had the complexion of burnt cocoa. His eyes burned with a stern glint, both decisive and sure. Hard, but not in a street tough way, his walk was street savvy, with a hint of the swagger of someone who knew how handsome he was. Carrying himself properly was a survival tool. Level chin, squared up, not moving too fast which betrayed fear. The streets hadn't changed much in the years Merle had wandered them. If your body language portrayed you as scared, you became nothing but prey. Despite the oversized black T-shirt with a Jackie Robinson portrait, the young man wasn't much older than the other man-boys. He cold-eyed both Dollar and Mr Size 12, though not so hard as to give Mr Size 12 a challenge he'd have no choice but to respond to.
"Nah, we ain't got a problem. Simply a misunderstanding," Dollar said.
"He in the wrong place at the wrong time," Mr Size 12 said. "He needed… directions."
"He's just an old man." The man turned to Mr Size 12 with a weary disappointment. For a moment, the two seemed to square off, an untold story between them, but Mr Size 12 without displaying a measure of backing down, withdrew nonetheless. It was as if his spirit, if not his bearing, deserted him. "Come on, man, he isn't even worth the hassle. Things that slow out here?"
"Come on. Fun's fun, but we still on the clock," Dollar said.
The Timberland-booted man cocked his hand like a gun, fired off a shot at Merle, then trailed Dollar.
"You all right? You know them?" The man's gaze followed them, disappointment rife in his eyes as he helped Merle to his feet.
"All jackals and hyenas… without a lion in sight." Merle brushed the leaves and loose dirt from him, though his many-stained jacket reeked of grime.
"Uh huh."
"Who is my would-be savior?"
"My name's King. King James White."
"Merle."
"Merle what?" King asked.
"At your service, oh King." Merle bowed before King's steady gaze.
"Great."
"Damn, son. You broke him off a piece for real." Dollar laughed as they made their way back to the spot. Brief distraction aside, they were still on the grind, though he always had his eye out for new talent. "You ready to step up to this here game?"
"I'm here to put in work. I'm tired of playing out here." Prez knew what he was going to hear from Big Momma. Not even in her house and already he'd found the streets. But he'd been watching Dollar from way back, a few years at least. Steady slinging, always in fine clothes and just enough bling to set it off. It was either the game or continue to attend Northwest High School. Though the ladies were fine up in there, ladies could be had just as easily out here. No point in wasting everyone's time killing time and taking up space in school when he needed to be out here doing dirt.
"Anxious to make a name for yourself."
"Something like that."
"I feel you. Look here, you hang with us for a minute. Think of yourself as an apprentice or some shit. See how we do. We got our eyes on you and we'll see how you handle yourself."
"Yeah?"
They bumped fists. A new day, same as it ever was.
Ultimately stemming from the nearby Eagle Creek reservoir, creeks bordered the Breton Court condos along the south and east. Not too long ago, several kids had followed the tributaries back to the reservoir and drowned. The tragedy was still repeated at supper time to children who dawdled too long after the street lights went on. The main drive of Breton Court was laid out like a horseshoe with elongated tips. As one went down either side, individual courts of townhouses faced one another. King lived at the base of the horseshoe. A few townhouses were still owned and rented out by people who simply refused to sell to the three owners even if they didn't live there.
King stayed in one of those. His condo overlooked the southern bend of the creek, now overgrown with weeds and filled with discarded shopping carts from the nearly vacant strip mall on the other side of it. It was better than living out of a car which he had done for months. Clumped between his court of condos and the next were trash dumpsters. A black raincoat and a pair of jutting legs dangled from one. Merle fell from his perch, a tangle of legs and arms in an awkward sprawl, then drew the collar of his black trench coat up about his neck, though there was no chill to the air. The aluminum foil helmet was a nice touch.