CHAPTER NINE

 
The eastside of Indianapolis, a model of urban decay under the city's knowing eye, was left like a corpse, while people spoke of what a shame it was. With nothing for them to do, no jobs, where poor folks lived. Only a couple of places existed for kids to hang out. A Boys' Club down on 30th Street, but soon as a kid acted a fool, they kicked him out. No sit down, no nothing. Bam! If they had their way at school, soon as a kid bucked, they kicked him out. No sit down, no nothing. Gone! Kicked out of school. Kicked out of the Boys' Club. So with Momma at work and no daddy around, they were left to sit around and play video games all day, talk on the phone, get on the computer, or run out in the streets. Where Colvin could prey on them.

  Colvin radiated a bloodless calm as he stepped with the carriage of authority. Deep, hollow eyes in constant assessment, creating a mental checklist of who was doing what or rather who wasn't. Melle had become one of his top earners, the little man due to be promoted. A young hothead in a wife beater and baggy blue jean shorts, with the scarecrow build of a krumper. He had shaved off his wild, unchecked Afro because Five-O could identify him from blocks away. Noles was a slack-jawed plate of hot mess who only sprang to work when he knew someone in charge of his wallet was around. One of Colvin's white boys, with hair in a Caesar cut, a razor-thin goatee and a random growth of a beard only over his Adam's apple. He dressed like a redneck business executive. Otherwise, he did as little as possible while talking a big game about his exploits, usually taking credit for other people's work.

  The abandoned Camlann Apartment building on Oriental Avenue, three stories of what was once a showcase place. Many organizations had put in bids to rehab the building, but the owner refused to sell and refused to do anything with it except allow it to wither. So the city declared eminent domain and it was due to be razed. The lawsuits and counter lawsuits had delayed the process, allowing it to further fall into dangerous dilapidation. Left to politicians, it would stand for years, a testimony to pain and suffering and lost hope.

  The informal gallery smelled of burnt crack, urine, vomit, sweat, and other noxious effluvia. With mattresses strewn about, the apartment served as both flop house and sexual bartering place. On the stairwell and landings, overseen by Noles, a group of young men stood about, guards at a check point, drinking and smoking while doing their duty. An endless sea of shadows in thick down jackets and work boots. The unventilated chamber concentrated the vile smell. Puddles of an unknown liquid pooled, stepped around by all passers-by.

  "Tell him," a young red-headed woman said, her eyes aged and used up, her skin dusty. Her breasts hung low in her grungy gray T-shirt, once pink with the word "Hotness" now missing its "t", she remained plumpish despite her habit, loose flesh hanging with a collected slackness, cradling her three year-old.

  "I'll suck your dick," the toddler said on cue.

  The woman beamed with pride, her eyes alight with the intimation that the offer was no mere party trick. It wasn't the first time Colvin had such an offer. A few years back, a lady traded her nieces for $50 of crack. It was a rolling party for six months, molesting them at will until he got bored and passed them on to his crew. Eventually they were sold to The Pall as street earners. Colvin stepped past the woman, leaving her for Noles to deal with. His appointment was with Mulysa.

  The bare bulb burned to life at the tug of the dangling string that scattered dust in its beam. Stripped down to his shirt, Mulysa sat cross-legged in the center of the room, his bottom bitch next to him in easy reach. Bowls of herbs and holy water were placed in a sort of unholy feng shui arrangement apparent only to him.

  "We 'bout ready?" Colvin asked.

  "Damn, nukka. This shit ain't easy." Mulysa opened his eyes, ending his prayer and meditation.

  "Don't act like I'm one of them knuckleheads you got working outside. I'm from a bloodline of magic and not easily impressed with a summoner."

  It was a quiet dig, fully intended as Mulysa heard it, as a slight meant to humble him and keep him in his place. Colvin didn't want him to think too much of his gifts or what he did. His service was expected. His obedience was expected. His talents brought to the table a given, or else why bring him in?

  "A-ight then." Mulysa chafed nonetheless, not anxious to please or prove his worth, but to simply be respected. And he'd get that respect.

  Lacking an original grimoire or anything, only what he could glean from the internet, he nevertheless took ritual magic very seriously. Especially since it served as an additional source of (undeclared and thus untaxed by Colvin) income for him. He didn't consider himself a major-league summoner, but he knew enough to be able to call up a spirit, any supernatural force, really, and subjugate it to his will. More or less. Enough to keep them from tearing him to shreds like so much used Kleenex. He fondled his bitch, studying the way the golden light of the brazier reflected from it. While visualizing flames, he dragged the blade against his floorboards, carving a magic circle with the knife as a barrier against the outside and to help him focus.

  Incanting in an old tongue, he mimicked the words more than pronounced them. They almost seemed to form themselves and spring from his lips, as if all they needed was the attempt to stir them for them to finish the articulation. The words came easy to Mulysa.

 

  In his mind, he ran around a fairy ring on the first night of the new moon. Alone and thus without embarrassment. Nothing he could do around these nukkas without ridicule. Simple motherfuckers never cracked a book unless there was a dollar in it for them. They didn't understand power. Or the sacrifices of what it took to lead.

  Music and laughter bubbled up from the ground. A trickle of green light began as a teardrop suspended in mid-air, pooling before trailing down. The pulse thickened, a seam cut by invisible scissors.

  Colvin's heart leapt. The panorama resonated with an ancient part of his fey heritage. The sounds, the smells recalled a pageantry his life longed for, opened a door to memories, blood memories old and familiar. Then came the tramp of men marching, the sound near and distinct.

  A troop of men, if men such creatures be called, emerged. Red Caps. None taller than three feet high, with wiry builds other than their bulbous bellies. Their iron boots ground into the wooden floorboards with an impatient scrape. Long and curved, claws sharp as steel carried slings which allowed them to throw stones from faraway positions. Long stockinged caps, faded to a dull pink, covered brush-wire hair. Ragged, pointed teeth within drawn, gaunt faces gave them a sullen quality. Except for the poisonous glare of their red eyes. Every time Colvin laid eyes on them, he squashed the need to laugh at their absurd appearance. Much like the pygmy tribes of Africa, their diminutive appearance belied the fact that they were among the most feared warriors of any tribe. Red Caps made homes in crumbling castles and haunted places with a reputation for evil events. And nothing was more evil than the neglected poor.

  "I have a job for them," Colvin said.

  "Omarosa?" Mulysa asked, but got no reply. They were long overdue to get payback over the mess with Broyn.

  "Want I should lead them?"

  "I got it." The implication being that he didn't trust Mulysa with a task he deemed too delicate.

  "I summoned them, I should lead them."

  "Who have you ever led? Don't strain yourself, I got this. Your gifts are better served elsewhere. Make sure our other talent is ready to go."

  "A-ight." Part of Mulysa seethed. He'd risen as far as he was able and wasn't about to be trusted with more. His bubbling anger needed to be vented. Someone had to hurt.

 

A squirrel bounded along the black, cracked pavement of the sidewalk at a house just a little south of the Phoenix Apartments. Rumor had it that this was once Dred's mother's home. Rumor had it that Dred's mother had a bit of a falling out of some sort with her son and hadn't been seen since. Rumor had it that the home was once one of his convenient banks. To the non-discerning eye, it was just another boarded-up two-story. The squirrel stopped, indifferent as it sniffed the air, then scampered up a pole and ran along an overhead wire. It hopped over the pair of tied sneakers dangling from it. Again, it paused, this time it chirped, a squawk reminiscent of a chicken, its tail raised like a cobra striking the air.

  A tree hung low over the roof, its branches scraping the shingles and brushing the overhead lines. A group of three young men cloistered along the sidewalk. Today's topics steered towards trick, lesbian bitches, LeBron James, the latest product, exaggerated tales of Omarosa, whispers about Dred, Young Jeezy, and rims.

  Sir Rupert dropped nuts on them.

  "What the fuck?!?" They threw up their arms to shield themselves.

  "Ah, Sir Rupert." Merle snuck past the distracted lookouts. "Ever the gentlemen's gentlemen."

  It was said that when the angels fell, the ones who fell on land became faeries and the ones who fell into the sea became selkies. It was said that he was born the son of an incubus and a virtuous woman, though he doubted anyone had ever once considered the mad harridan Mab virtuous. A tale well spoke, however, once said that she met a priest and asked him if there were any way for her soul to be saved. "Of course," he said, "none are beyond saving. Why don't you say the Our Father with me. 'Our Father which art in heaven…'" After a hesitant tremble, she opened her mouth and began speaking. "Our father which wert in heaven…" She caught herself, mid-prayer to the fallen one. The priest, mouth agape, watched as she ran off in tears. Later it was whispered that upon his birth, Merle was entrusted to that priest at birth who hurried him to a baptismal fount.

  Merle adjusted the fitting of his aluminum foil cap. The voices said a lot of things and it was harder and harder to sift through them all and divine the ones worth listening to. Merle delighted in mystery and causing wonder. Wise and subtle with the gift of prophecy, he knew the dark corners of the human heart and moved, like a dream. And dreams were what brought him here.

  "I feel like I am walking backwards through my life, passing myself on the way down." Merle fingered the small stone in his pocket. He'd found it at the first scene where the bodies at the Phoenix Apartments had been discovered. "I see angels," he repeated to himself. After he heard snippets of Prez's story he choose to investigate that scene. He wished he'd been able to examine the bodies like he did in the old times. Searching for a hairless spot in its side or any lump beneath the skin, any sign that they had been trow-shot. The strange pellet slipped back into his pocket. According to the old ways, anyone who found an elf arrow was immune from their hurt if they kept it with them at all times. If it were given away, the generous soul was liable to be kidnapped away by the faeries. "Youth is primal. And wasted."

  Though not along a ley line, a natural place of power, Merle was still drawn to this place. If he thought of magic as a lake that folks dipped from, leaving ripples in the wake of their use, he could track back the riptides created from massive use. Someone was pumping like a lift station from here. The familiar click of a switchblade springing to life froze Merle in his tracks. The blade then closed. Closer still, it snapped open again and clicked closed. Nearer still, it snapped open again. Merle turned. Baylon held his dagger like a sword pointed toward the ground.

  "You're certainly the biggest fairy I have ever seen," Merle said. "I will scoff at you with a slight French accent."

  Baylon smelled of the grave and atrophied muscles, the stench of bed sores, the mildewed tang of body odor and spilled food. Grass stained his once-white Fila jogging suit, as did dirt and the grime of trash bins. He gestured with the weapon for Merle to walk toward the rear door. Once a faithful lieutenant, he didn't know why he stayed with Dred. They were boys from way back and there was a time Baylon would have done anything for him. Back in the early days after joining the Egbo Society. Him, Griff, Dred, Night and Rellik. When they were one huge family. When they had it all and thought it would last forever. They were living the dream. Dred brought him on board, with the lure of the two of them starting and building their little slice of the kingdom together. Baylon imagined the two of them weathering any storm and fighting back enemies of all stripes. Together. The two of them. Dred provided the vision, Baylon made it happen; the head and the facilitator. He supposed some of that was hero worship, with the way Dred swooped in and was there for him after the death of King's cousin, Michelle. A terrible misunderstanding which ended when her life did and was the death knell of Baylon and King's friendship. Dred was there, picked up the pieces of his life, and gave him purpose and direction again. Saving him from his darkness.

  Then Dred stole it all from him.

  It had to be Dred. One moment Dred was in a wheelchair from a bullet wound Baylon blamed himself for; the next he walked around as if the bullet had never plunged into his flesh, split muscle, vessels, and nerves; while Baylon became trapped between life and death like a zuvembie. He didn't know what Dred did, but the life, the vitality of his essence drained from him. Dred never denied responsibility, hell, he didn't deign to answer Baylon at all.

  These days, Dred went his own way. Baylon seemed almost an inconvenience to him now, an uncomfortable reminder of what used to be. Yet he shuffled about, still followed him around, still connected to Dred. Still jumping to obey his orders. All from behind the scenes, like a secret Dred was ashamed to share with the rest of his crew. A faithful dog, though even the most faithful dog could only be kicked so many times before it didn't come home again.

  Baylon ushered Merle up the stairs, recalling the days before the transformation, before the bullet changed everything. Though inside prison, Rellik had been promoted to general, overseeing all of Indiana. Neither Dred nor Night were connected to any gang, but came up under his colors. Night was reluctant to bring in Dred. Too unknown, but bowed because of the flex to his step and the power he represented. He learned the rituals, the prayers, and they never realized how much he knew.

  Merle entered the chamber. Smoke slinked along the floor, thin wisps dissipating with each step. The clouds reverberated through his bones with a stony chill.

  Dred mastered the dragon's breath, or what was left of the residual embers within the earth after the passing of the dragon. The age of magic had been pronounced dead many times; every time the rumors proved premature. The age of science was at its zenith, but it too now waned though many hadn't realized it. But Merle did. Just as he recognized the smoke ritual.

  The Iboga was a small perennial shrub of the Apocynaceae family used by the Bwiti cult. Its roots contained a powerful hallucinogen that provided a mystical experience. The root tasted of copper, bitter to the tongue, which numbed the inner part of his mouth. With bloodshot eyes ringed by fatigue, Dred remained awake for the entire night, accompanied by a state of euphoria with hallucinations. The room blurred, as if lost in a fugue of heat waves, then slowly faded. Dred's heart slowed. He matched his breathing to theirs, those whose dreams he wished to intrude upon. Nudging a thread, not shaping the tapestry, he willed a dream into them. Then, as if sensing Merle's presence, his heart sped back up and his attention focused. He returned to the living presence, a leopard-swift predator with a new scent.

  "We need to talk."

 

Any abandoned house was fair game for a squat. At Washington and Oriental Streets, the Camlann Apartments weren't the worst Tristan and Iz ever stayed in. They shared their last place with two other couples, with one room lined with a tarp to collect feces.

  Tristan passed a few fiends who staggered about, zombies to the pipe. A couch had been discarded by one of the nearby homes and now was in steady use on the front lawn. Squatters had a lifestyle of running: running from police, family, someone they owed money. A portly redhead, with a mischievous smile and bright blue eyes that never met her eyes, stumbled with her lumbering gait. She was shy, except for the occasional passing bon mot. With a snaggle-tooth smile, she wrapped a belt around her arm and prepared to launch.

  The unimaginative brown eyes of her male companion tracked her movements with all the dullness of a cow chewing. Nearing a freshly pressed and overstarched white shirt with loud patterned tie, Khaki pants, and hair laid flat on his head in a Caesar style, he must've been going to or returning from an interview. Scratching his arms, he needed to shave the ridiculous patch of hair at his throat. A baby cried from down the alley. Tristan tried not to think about it though alleys always managed to trigger memories. They appeared different during the daytime, different but the same. She'd been on her knees in enough of them. A dick inside her mouth while two others waited their turn. Boys playing at manhood, passing the time it took their friend to finally ejaculate in her mouth by calling her a litany of degrading names. Nausea welled at the dehumanizing memory, more like a typhoon of emotion given a physical thrust. She gave that part of herself to feed their habit. Pussy was currency and it was better than being a career baby momma. The things people did in the service of love and need.

  Love was every bit as potent as heroin. Not even love, most of the time but all of the underlying feelings folks called being in love. The desire, the jealousy, the possessiveness, the need – when you broke down love, it was a junkie's craving. All-consuming, filled your very being and devoured your mind to the point you couldn't think straight. And was willing to do just about anything to please or provide. The nearly chemical impulse some people had on her heart, their absence could spiral her into depression if she didn't hear from them. Her mind occupied itself with the anxiousness of wondering where they were, what they were doing, and who they were doing it with, addicted to the motions of romance. Perhaps just the idea. Still, she needed, craved to hear Iz's voice.

  Wrapped within a hoodie with a black pearl and a heart, dagger through it, over a long tank top, down to mid-thigh, with too tight, skinny jeans tucked into boots, red accented Iz's hair, lip gloss, and eyelashes. Her long legs were unhappy at rest. Tristan loved her smooth white skin. Dropping the bag of McDonald's, Tristan snuck up behind Iz and wrapped her arms around her and held her close. Iz stopped what she was doing, closed her eyes, and snuggled into the embrace. And they danced.

  "You didn't call me on your way home," Tristan said.

  "What, you need me to check in with you?"

  "No, just like to hear you is all. Like to keep you company while you walking. Know you OK."

  "It can be a little smothering," Iz said.

  "I just want to protect you."

  "What were you going to do? Put on a cape and fly to wherever I was?" Iz turned to face her, not breaking the embrace.

  "You are protecting me. Just you being around makes me feel safe. I just don't always need you so…"

  "Close? Am I that bad?" Tristan asked with an uncharacteristic ping of hurt in her voice. Like a child who worked so hard on a clay ashtray for her father, only to have him dismiss it as ugly and useless. And her filling in the unspoken rest "just like me."

  "It's not bad. I enjoy spending time with you. I just need some space of my own. Room to make my own mistakes."

  "I'm not going to apologize for being there for you."

  "No one told you to. Just loosen up some." Iz swatted her arm.

  "I can do that."

  People like Iz needed people like Tristan. People to stop others from hurting and misusing them, no matter who, even if it were their own father. People to watch out for them when they ran away from home, changed their name, and carved out a new life at a new school. People who did whatever it took to provide money and shelter for them, or save money for community college (Ivy Tech or even IUPUI); even if it meant their own degradation. Until they were able to put their other learned skills to better use. Her blades weighed heavily in her jacket.

  "That man came by here looking for you." Iz broke their embrace. She had her serious business face on.

  "Who? Mulysa?"

  "Yeah." Iz refused to let his name drip from her lips. "I don't like him coming around here."

  "I told him not to. Especially when I'm not here."

  "I don't like the way he looks at me."

  "He looks at everyone that way," Tristan said.

  "Not you."

  "Only cause he wants to keep his eyes." Memories of the alley scraped her. "Anyway, he might have work for me."

  "I don't want you working for him. I don't like what it does to you."

  "Now who's being over-protective?"

  "I'm not kidding, Tris."

  "Knock, knock." Mulysa announced from the door. Though not physically all that large, he filled the entranceway, imposing himself in its space.

  "Speak the devil's name." Iz also hated the way Mulysa thought he could come and go as he pleased.

  Tristan had her blades in her hand as reflex. The blades twirled between her fingers with an easy grace, an implied threat. Mulysa cold-eyed her, not daring her to make a move, but letting her know with the deadness in his eyes that he didn't care either way.

  "What you need, Mul?" Tristan tucked her blades back into her jacket.

  "Got a job for you."

  Iz sucked her teeth, grabbed the bag of McDonald's, and left the room.

  Mulysa's gaze followed her out of the room, sizing up her assets like a top piece of sirloin. He mentally licked his lips. He wanted Izzy to himself and then in his budding stable. Jealous of Tristan getting to lay with her and run her tongue into that fine pussy. He pictured himself, ramming his tongue into Iz's ass, turning her out for real.

  "Mul. Get your eyes off my girl."

  "Your girl."

  "My. Girl. Mine."

  The emphasis of the words, the weight of violence in them, were the opening salvos in the battle of heart. Tristan stood there, waiting for him to move aside. Mulysa had no choice but to finish his business. To back down, to slink away, meant she'd won without a fight. Most battles were won through the power of presence, of intimidation, reducing life out here to a perpetual pissing match. No wonder every street and alley smelled of stale urine.

  "Whatever, nukka," Mulysa said, turning aside. The thing about security heads was that they were always happiest in times of war. Despite Colvin's lack of people skills, he understood that. Friend or foe, war was war and he wouldn't mind a chance to go toe-to-toe with Tristan and her hard-bodied self neither. She was heavily muscled like a man, but he'd jailed before and believed his ten inches of pipe might turn her around on the whole pussy-munching thing.

  Tristan led them to a room on the other side of the kitchen area, further away from Iz. The hallway went down two steps and wound around the corner past another door which the city had sealed with plywood. An alcove filled with pellets of feces she hoped belonged to a cat. Streams of empty donut packages, papers, wrappers, moldy magazines. Clothes and soiled towels from previous occupants. Shafts of light burrowed through the sides of the boarded-up window. The room was private enough from ears seen and unseen.

  "What the job?" Tristan asked.

  "Meet me up at that lot across from the fairgrounds. We can hook up there and I'll break it down. Tomorrow. Eleven."

  "In the morning?"

  "Shit, girl, I ain't trying to roll out before noon."

  "I don't know."

  "Pays two large." Actually three, but if she went for the two, he'd pocket the difference. "Two and a half."

  "You don't even know the job."

  "I know you," Tristan said.

  "Done. Don't forget your gear. We gonna squad up for real, nukka."

  "Good times."

  Tristan watched Mulysa leave before joining Iz in their living room. Milk crates and old chairs, three backpacks in the corner. Tristan had two, one with her work gear in it. Iz ignored her entrance, chewing languidly on a French fry. She ate the small ones first, saving the long ones, her favorites, for last.

  "I got a thing tomorrow night," Tristan said.

  "I heard."

  "You have to be careful about what you hear."

  "Then don't do business in my house."

  "Our."

  "Our house." Iz offered her a now-cold French fry. Tristan ate it from her fingertips.

  Love, especially the young, tempestuous variety, had a way of complicating life.