CHAPTER FOUR

If the corner were a slave plantation, Dollar was the overseer, the Negro chosen to ensure the other Negroes performed their assigned tasks. His tall, gangly frame – like a basketball player with not enough bulk – filled out his white Notre Dame jogging suit, his bloodshot glare held the menace of a whip ready to scourge any who weren't keeping up their end. A poorly grown goatee outlined his jaw. A black wavecap pulled snug under the jogging suit's hood. His crew were the field Negroes, steady grinding, toiling away; from the lookouts down the way to the runner passing product. The fiends? They were house Negroes, come to beg scraps from their master's table. Some he knew, others were just faces. These brokendown fools he knew because they ran with his boy, Tavon. Loose Tooth, the player formerly known as CashMoney, carried quite a bit of weight to him for a fiend. Though he had to be pushing forty, his body hadn't quite given into the wasting yet, but his mouth hadn't seen the inside of a dentist's office probably since the mid-'80s. Miss Jane, on the other hand, her dusty ass had to have an eye on her at all times. Always running games, she'd be the one who'd alert the master to any slaves trying to make an escape. In the end, they were all slaves to the game.

  Junie studied the scene with the desperation of a man cramming for finals he forgot were that day. He and Parker had waited until Green left. Though neither would have used the word "preternatural" to describe his mien, they knew that Green cast an aura that filled their veins with water. Once sufficient time had elapsed after his departure – his presence still managing to hold court for a time – they were ready to make their move. While Dollar's crew was occupied bullshitting with a couple of fiends, the pair crept toward them. They kept their weapons pointed toward the ground in their loping gait toward their targets. Young, black, and poor, they were the most dangerous men in America, with no hope and nothing to lose.

  "They coming up the block, yo," a lookout on a bike yelled as he whizzed by Dollar.

  Dollar chose the entrance of Breton Court for a reason (as if he had a choice once Green told him where to set up). Two rows of townhouses ran alongside the main drag of Breton Court, plus outstretched arms from the court proper, each having another row of townhouses facing each other separated by a grassy yard. The rears of the two rows between the main drag and the outstretched arm of condos formed an alley of sorts, the fenced-in back patios providing a series of nooks where bodies could hide or deals be transacted with minimal intrusion. Rising up from one of the posts that served as his seat, Dollar dispatched his boys to the bushes that decorated the ends of the townhouses, wasted landscaping that served mostly to hide stashes and weapons. Guns were also hidden among the concrete bricks used to prop open the back patio doors. With the choreography of a ballet company, their movements swift and sure, the troops were ready for them.

  Parker didn't have much more of a plan than to walk up and start busting caps. Their only other real option was a drive-by, but that lacked the personal touch, the demonstration of heart, that would cause their names to ring out. Hitching up his baggy jeans as he broke into a jog – another gun firmly in the waistband of his boxers hidden beneath his black hoodie and trailing white T-shirt – Parker aimed his Glock 17. The fiends and bystander scattered with the first shot, though Miss Jane ducked into the bushes with the presence of mind to use the distraction to raid Dollar's stashes. Parker turned his gun sideways, the way he'd often seen it done in movies, only dimly aware that he wasn't coming close to hitting anything he aimed at. A hot casing popped up and caught him under his eye, the searing pain causing him to clutch at his face and move between the cars parked in the front lot.

  Junie fired, not so much aiming as swinging his arm toward any movement. Dollar's boys hid among the bushes and ran between patio cavities. A couple ran across the grass yard throwing careless shots in the general direction of the parked cars.

  A car window exploded over Junie's head. He crouched down even further, both hands instinctively covering his head to shield him from the rain of glass. Guns still in hand, he accidentally set off a round, blasting out another window. Dollar ran into the open, figuring the safest place to be was right in front of them. He fired at the cars, then ducked behind the car furthest from them. Parker threw his arm around the corner and peeled off a few more shots. Junie's heart pounded so hard his chest hurt. The taste of copper pennies filled his mouth, a mix of adrenaline and fear. No one admitted that they didn't want to die, though truth be told, Parker no longer cared much either way.

  Dollar's boys could've penned them in at this point, were they not too busy cowering in their nooks or bushes, throwing shots without bothering to see where they were landing. Parker calmly reloaded while crouched behind a car bumper. He nodded to Junie and pulled out his second gun so that he could fire off both as they backed out. He saw that in the movies, also. No control, no discipline, it was no mystery why no one caught a bullet. Little boys playing cowboys having a shootout to prove their manhood to others. Undoubtedly the story would grow in the re-telling, with tales of derring-do and uncanny accuracy.

  No matter how many bodies anyone would claim to have dropped, the only casualties this day were innocent cars and the neighborhood tranquility.

 

"No one saw dick."

  Lee McCarrell's hard-boned face was all jaw and forehead with mean green eyes that bore through folks. A street-wise knucklehead all about kicking down doors, he did one year of patrol, did some time as a part of a special detail out of the mayor's office, and now slummed in Gang Crimes until he could move on to do SWAT work. Lee tired of being the white cop, the presumed racist out to lock up more brothas. His thoughts bubbled with their familiar boil. It wasn't his fault so many brothers were up to no good. He'd be just as happy locking up Koreans or being unemployed entirely if it meant no more bad guys. You'd think these people, if not being grateful, would at least save their anger for the… animals (yeah, he thought it), their own that preyed on the rest of them. No, they protected them, hid them from the cracka devil out to take away their freedom. Hell, they deserved what they got.

  Detective First Grade, Octavia Burke sipped from her bottled water, constantly scanning the streets with her large eyes. She wore her brownish-black hair naturally. Freckles dotted her medium complexion on either side of her wide-ish nose. She shifted her broad shoulders along the seat, getting comfortable, her thick frame part of her "100% po-lice" bearing.

  "Not much here either," Octavia said, adopting a rather Zen attitude about her presumed status of police House Negro. The residents of the Phoenix Apartments had closed ranks once again. As bad as they wanted the crime stopped, they didn't want the label of snitch put on them. For every one criminal arrested, that left plenty behind that the good citizens had to live with. So when chased by the police, the greater of two evils, suspects found plenty of open doors and places to hide. Word on the street was that there was even a buried stash of community guns. The "cracker devil" and "house nigger" faced little cooperation. "Seems once the shots started, everyone scattered. No one got a good look at anyone. Can't even get a consistent number of participants."

  "Actual detective work. I like this." Maybe it was a trick of the light, but Lee had been letting his hair grow out and it now threatened to become a fullblown mullet, a hairstyle choice which did not combine well with his porn-star mustache. "Deaf, blind, and dumb. No wonder criminals make a home here. What more could they ask for than such cooperative neighbors."

  "Take it easy." Octavia slowly grew accustomed to Lee's rhythms and how tightly wound he got about the job. Tilting her angular face, she revealed the hard lines of her profile. She couldn't let him go off half-cocked and ill-tempered, running roughshod over citizens. He'd become his own self-fulfilling prophecy: the boogeyman white police everyone warned about.

  "How am I supposed to take it easy?" Lee slammed the steering wheel. "We're nowhere. That many bullets flying and we're nowhere."

  "You being upset and making the both of us miserable isn't going to make it any better. Things are what they are."

  "Practicing for your television appearance?"

  Their lieutenant had tapped Octavia to do the press conference updating the good citizens of Indianapolis on their lack of progress on the case. Not that Lee was jealous, since public relations wasn't his area of expertise. It would have been nice, however, to have been considered.

  "Now you're going to break bad on me?" she asked.

  "I'm just saying. I don't want to slow you down, have you slumming with us actual investigators when promotions come around."

  "Why don't you calm your ass down. Just because a captain's slot opened up doesn't mean they're going to offer it to me. Or that I'd take it."

  "Bull and shit. Bet you can't wait to be a bigger boss. Go to all those lunches, rub elbows with the politicos. Sure beats actual police work. Don't open your mouth to me."

  Octavia tired of always having to nursemaid her partner, tip-toeing around whatever latest snit he wound himself into. His provocative tone was the last straw. "I'm sorry. I mistook myself for your superior officer. But I guess I'm not a boss, but a black boss to you, so you can talk to me any way you see fit."

  "There we go. What'd that take, fifteen seconds, to make this a racial thing?"

  "With you it's always a racial thing. A black thing. Black junkies. Black skels. Black police. All dirtying up your Leave it to Beaver world."

  "You can kiss my Leave it to Beaver ass."

  "Sure, I'm just your black boss."

  "You can kiss my Leave it to Beaver ass, ma'am. Feel free to jam me up any way you feel."

  "Yeah, cause we're all out to get you. Watch out now. One of my 'homies' is coming up behind you. He may want to screw you out of a promotion." Octavia turned to study the passing cityscape through her window, feeling the onset of yet another headache. Part of her understood his frustration, shared it, though now it was impossible to commiserate about it. They drove back to the station in complete silence, both their thoughts drifting to what it would take to break the grip that silenced so many tongues. Maybe it boiled down to who folks feared more: the police or the predators.

  Most good police work amounted to waiting and paperwork, so one had to learn how to wait. Patience was her gift. Unlike her partner. Reading between the lines of his risky jacket, and listening to the gossipy sewing circle known as the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department, rumors of suspected corruption dogged him. The rumor mill gave him too much credit. Lee was more of a soldier, not bright enough to pull off true corruption, though he occasionally found extra money from a drug dealer. Nothing serious, little more than keeping the change found between couch cushions. Still, it was nice to be married to a city councilwoman's daughter, even better, a councilwoman on the budget committee. He would die "100% po-lice" long before he'd ever be fired, no matter how badly he screwed up.

  "Traffic stops or domestics?"

  "Domestics. Doesn't matter who's in the wrong, you never know when your victim will turn on you once you threaten to lock up the other." Lee sighed, letting his anger go along with the silence. "Going through the door or clearing the attic?"

  "Attic. I seen too many horror movies, so sticking my head through a dark hole? No thanks."

  "Come on, now. These days a black woman in a horror movie has to make it to the end. It's affirmative-action Hollywood these days." Lee lived to push her buttons. Octavia did three years of patrol work, moved to vice, prostitution decoy, and then moved to Gang Crimes. After the Pyrcioch case, she was promoted to detective. He could read a jacket, too. All that and she still walked as if she had to prove her worth on the job.

  "I see your diversity training has paid off." Octavia coolly glanced at him sideways.

  "I've learned a heightened respect for others. An appreciation for other cultures and worldviews. I can only hope to use my newfound…" He stumbled for the right word.

  "Sensitivity?"

  "Yes, thank you," he continued in his faux-polite manner. "My newfound sensitivity in order to facilitate others in moving forward in the job."

  In the end, she tolerated her partner's half-acracka antics. Too often a cop's prejudice got the better of him, aimed at the poorest community in which he served. Today it was blacks. Tomorrow he'd forget about blacks and hate Hispanics. "You're full of shit. And you shouldn't burn through so much coffee. You'll be up and down to piss all night."

  "That's why God created partners. And," Lee pointed to a man approaching the corner in order to cop, "why He created junkies too stupid to pick out cops obviously sitting on a corner."

  "Lookie here, lookie here. Poor dumbass Tavon."

  They had set up on Night's crew and had the beginnings of an outline of his organization worked out. They knew about Night who operated out of the Phoenix (all they had on him was a name, which was more than they had on his rival). One of Night's operations, Green's actually, was a red, two-story house known as The Shack, a pea shake house offering neighborhood games similar to Hoosier Lottery's Pick Three or Pick Four games. Since the money didn't flow to the state, they were illegal. Everyone knew it, hustlers, cops, citizens, and politicians, but that activity never led to bodies dropping and lined too many pockets, so a convenient blind eye was turned.

  The police currently attempted to get up on Night's lieutenant Green – as high up on the food chain as they had worked – and, right now, Green's boys were doing sloppy work. Probably the reason Green was on the streets as much as he was. The detectives waited because before long someone had to pick up the count. However, Tavon Little provided them an opportunity they couldn't pass up.

  Tavon paused on the corner with an eye on the car parked in front of a nearby house. The trunk, left agape while the owner ran stuff into the house, called to him with a sultry seduction, open and inviting. Wiping his mouth, he double-checked to make sure the coast was clear, Tavon hitched up his pants and nonchalantly strode toward the car.

  The pair of detectives skulked from their car to intercept him. He veered off his beeline to the trunk like a gazelle who'd picked up the scent of hyenas. Half-throwing his hands up in a "why me/why now?" declaration, he moved out of sight of his would-be suppliers. The last thing he needed was to be seen with black police old enough to be his mother, and worse, this redneck fool who'd love to see him dangling from a noose. Or a bumper.

  "Tay-Von Little." Octavia started in, emphasizing his name. Conversations were a finesse game and she hoped she had at least imparted that much to her erstwhile colleague. "Tavon, Tavon, Tavon."

  "Officer Burke." Tavon shrank against the tall wooden fence separating the prying eyes of neighbors. Burke and McCarrell crowded him. He chewed on a black-tipped fingernail, his bony body retreating further into his grim-stained, one-time-gray hoodie.

"Detective," she corrected.

  "My bad. De-Tec-Tive Burke." Tavon addressed only her. "What can I do for you?"

  "Just looking for some information. A name really. Someone in Baylon's crew."

  "Baylon's crew? They ain't around here."

  "We know that, Tae. We didn't want to put you in the awkward position of dealing out your hook-up. Every organization has a weak link and if anyone knows about spotting a weak link, it'd be you."

  "I don't know if I can help you, Detective Burke."

  "Tavon, you watch Bugs Bunny cartoons?" Lee grabbed the man's jaw and turned his face to meet his, having grown a little hot about the casual disrespect shown by this bit of junkie trash. He decided he needed to get his attention.

  "Yeah." Tavon muttered through his clenched jaw.

  "You remember the ones with the coyote?"

  "Yeah, Road Runner."

  "Nah. The other ones, the ones with the sheep dog. You see, every day was the same. The sheep dog and Mr Wile E. Coyote would ride to work together, break for lunch together, but when they were on the clock – you know, once that work whistle blew – it was all business. Coyote would try and steal sheep. The sheep dog would drop an anvil on his head to handle his business."

  "Tavon," Octavia, picking up on Lee's thread, pointed to him, "this here's my anvil."

  "A name or maybe I should let you ride up front with me," Lee said.

  "Huh?" Tavon said.

  "You know, all cozy like. Take a tour of the corners."

  "No need to go to any trouble." Tavon raised his hands.

  "Let your boys see you riding in style with po-po. Maybe drop you off on one of your favorite corners. How does that sound?"

  "Juneteenth Walker. Folks call him Junie," Tavon said with a quickness.

  "Junie? He like folks calling him that?" Octavia asked.

  "What's that matter?"

  "I'm just saying. His momma, all proud of her beautiful baby boy names him after a black holiday, the celebration of our emancipation, but he turns around and the streets call him Junie. Junie… like he's some kind of bug."

  "That's the point," Tavon said. "You don't get to choose your name. Those with power over you name you."

  "That's a fucked-up way of looking at things," Lee offered.

  "It's a fucked-up life."

  "We'll check this out. If you on the level, there'll be something in it for you down the road."

  "This here's America." Tavon's eyes grew wide with the lucidity spurred by capitalism. "We believe in credit, but with all of this economic uncertainty – downturns and shit – we also a cash down payment sort of people."

  Octavia fished out a twenty dollar bill. She held it up when he snatched for it. "Your info better be straight or else my anvil will have an excuse to drop all over you."

  "We're cool." Tavon grabbed the bill and ducked out of their little enclave before he could be seen.

  "What you think?" Octavia asked.

  "Be nice to find out where this motherfucker lays his head. Hold on, I got something so that this night's not a total waste."

  Lee pulled some firecrackers out from under the backseat of their car. Octavia rolled her eyes and slipped into the driver's side. Lee tossed the lit firecrackers into some nearby bushes. Watching folks jump into each other's pockets wasn't her idea of entertainment as the touts and lookouts scurried for their covey holes, a few soldiers, hands on weapons, popped their heads out to see what was what. Lee grinned with the glee of a kid kicking over an anthill.

 

No one knew where Green lived. When folks needed him, they caught up with him on his cell.

  His coat hung from a nail lodged in a bullet hole in the wall. A series of cracks in the plaster filigreed his wall. The water-damaged ceiling and floorboards trapped mildew within their spaces, so thick at times, breathing was a chore. Or would be to any but Green. The rest of his place was unfurnished for all intents and purposes. Surrounding a card table were mismatched chairs, from a broken La-Z-Boy to a lawn chair, not that he entertained often. Plywood covered the window creating the darkness of a cave which obscured the stained walls. A bare bulb dangled from the ceiling. Radiators filled the abandoned house though they, too, were long-stilled. From the bathroom came the stench of excrement and urine from a paper-clogged toilet, though the clawfoot bathtub next to it remained bone-dry. No electricity, no gas, no water. Burn marks trailed along the window sills from previous squatters. There was no bed or mattress to be found in the bedroom. For all practical purposes, the room was a walk in the closet, wall-to-wall with suits, coats, shoes, and brims.

  Green stood.

  "How's business?" Merle asked.

  "Steady mobbin'. People always want to get their head up." Green's voice was dry as kindling. "What do you want, mage?"

  "Can't two old friends share a moment?"

  "Is that what we are now?"

  "Depends, do you still have that thing for heads?" Merle asked.

  "I see you haven't tired of your word games."

  "Chop, chop, fizz, fizz. Oh what a relief it is."

  "He's returned, hasn't he?" Green said, still not turning to meet Merle.

  "He's been here a while."

  "It's really him?"

  "Slowly finding himself. Here, there be dragons, or so I hear." Merle ran his finger along the edges of the jutting sconces as if performing a white glove inspection. "How's the old lady?"

  "In seclusion. Well guarded. What do you want?"

  "A name. What's in a name? Bercilak. Bredbeddle. Bernlak. I guess it depends on who you ask."

  "I won't ask again." Green remained rooted to his spot, unflinching, yet his gaze followed Merle.

  "Really? Third time's a charm."

  His gray-flecked red sideburns straggled out from beneath the aluminum foil helmet he'd crafted. The voices of the dead or else gone were getting harder to sift through. His body aged one way, his spirit the other, he thought, though he couldn't remember which aged which way. "Damn it, Mab. Can't you be quiet for a moment?"

  "I see Dred is not the only one haunted by echoes of his mother."

  "You can be reached," Merle said.

  "And you can be killed."

  "A year and a day. A year and a day. The challenge comes full circle."

  "Bah."

  "A year and a day. Nothing is evergreen. Do what you always do."

  In a thought, the flesh of Green's hand stretched and tore, raking the shape of a shorn branch, with one side beveled to form a close approximation of a blade. He swung the slicing hand in an arc directed at Merle's neck, but the mage had already vanished into the night, abandoning the elemental. Which was just as well. He'd grown restless and still had an errand to run.

 

• • •

 

Inside the Phoenix Apartments, the woman had a name. A mother of three whose baby daddy walked out when the pressures of taking care of a family proved too hard to shoulder. She worked two jobs to make ends meet, refusing to go on welfare. Not so much due to pride as much as never again wanting to be dependent on anyone – a lesson she wanted to pass on to her children.

  She let her sister live with them in the Phoenix Apartments, paid half the rent, and bought most of the groceries. In trade, her sister watched the kids after school and read to them before they went to bed. Though honest and hard-working, she wasn't a saint. On weekends she and her sister weaved each other's hair and they got their party on; she deserved to let off steam and have a life. Her body held up fairly well after three kids. Sure, her breasts sagged more than she would have liked and she had a pudginess to her belly that spilled over her too-tight, low-cut jeans; but she had thick thighs and knew how to carry herself in a way to accentuate her assets. The woman had a life.

  None of which mattered to Green.

  The woman, while out at a party, stumbled across Dollar putting Prez on in the life, overseeing his initiation. He had drawn the joker from the deck of cards and was meant to take out a random mark. His shot went wide of his intended target and had the misfortune to strike Conant Walker through the Walker family's window. The woman had been staggering down the sidewalk when she witnessed the shooting. When Dollar and Prez broke out, she was sure she hadn't been spotted. As the days passed, what she had seen ground on her conscience. She was careful, only telling her sister about the possibility of her going to the police. She was positive she had only told her. Fairly positive anyway.

  None of which mattered to Green.

  "Snitching is a lifestyle choice." Green circled the woman who was tied to one of her kitchen chairs. Her home was modest and clean. Poor didn't have to mean dirty, she had always instructed her children. The floors were swept regularly, the countertops wiped down and the house picked up. She was in the middle of mopping the kitchen when Green kicked in her front door, leading Dollar and Prez, as he, too, had a mess to clean up. Dollar and Prez brandished guns, directing the kids to sit against the wall. Green forced her to sit in the chair as they used zip strips to bind her hands behind her. Her sister was out for the evening. "Usually a choice to shorten one's lifestyle."

  "I'm not going to tell anyone, I swear."

  "That we're all for damn sure. What we have here is an opportunity for an object lesson."

  His chinchilla coat hung from his broad shoulders like the mane of a lion, Green reached into the folds of his burnt orange suit jacket. The woman flinched, the correct impulse, though he withdrew only a tiny box. The children were a chorus of stifled cries and hitching breaths.

  "Open it." Green placed it in her trembling hands. Complying, she found three brand-new razor blades. "Chew them."

  The woman's eyes flared open in disbelief. Green stood, fixing his impassive gaze on her. The box shook in her hands.

  "I can't."

  "No, you won't. A distinct, though subtle, difference. You simply lack the proper motivation. Prez, shoot one of the children."

  "No!" the woman screamed.

  Prez glanced over at him with questioning eyes. The night he shot Conant Walker, his shot hadn't gone wide on accident. While many thought him a stone-cold killer, one stare into Green's terrible eyes… he knew that Green knew different. Prez was in, but he still had to prove himself to Green. The children huddled closer together. The youngest girl burst into fresh tears.

  "I didn't stutter, nigga. Shoot one of them," Green reiterated.

  "No, wait. Please don't hurt my babies."

  "Do what you have to do."

  The woman closed her eyes and opened her mouth. Green, dark priest of the streets, placed the blades like a communion wafer on the flat of her tongue. She closed her mouth gingerly around them. Hot tears trailed down her face. Her eyes pleaded with Green for this gesture to suffice, that she'd learned her lesson and her place. She swallowed involuntarily, the blades shifted in her mouth, and she let loose a muffled whimper.

  "I said chew. Don't make me tell you again."

  She lowered then clamped her jaw. With each action the blade sliced through her tongue, sharp knives through the tenderest of veal. She coughed up a mouthful of blood to the raised wails of her children. A blade slashed through her cheek.

  "That's enough."

  The words echoed from down a long tunnel the way the woman heard them. Still, carefully as she could muster, she let the blades fall from her mouth.

  "Good girl." Green knelt down, his coat draped about him like James Brown preparing to be walked off stage. He met her eye-to-eye but spoke loud enough for the children to hear. "You even think about talking to po-po and there is a price to be paid. Gentlemen, can you wrap up this little lesson?"

  Prez watched as Dollar stepped to the woman and fired once into her face. Blood mixed with brain matter splattered her clean kitchen walls and her blood pooled on her freshly mopped floors. Dollar took out his penis and peed on her, nodding to Prez to join him. Prez started to turn to Green, but opted to avoid the gaze that bled into an eternity of nights. Instead, he pissed on the woman.

  With that, Green led the men out of the apartment. Before closing the door Green whispered to the children: "Tell everyone what you saw here. Everyone except the police."