King's Justice: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 2 Read online

  "Nah, it's all right. I'll put something back." Percy's downcast eyes rarely met anyone's gaze.

  "No, it ain't all right. It's not the point," Old School said.

  "He not have it, he put something back. It's only twelve cents." The Indian cashier had witnessed variations of this scene every day. In a few minutes, he'd be due to be cussed out. Maybe called a sand nigger, despite being born in an Indianapolis suburb. Or told that his mother should have aborted him; that was, when he wasn't being accused of having sexual congress with her. He knew it was coming and the reality of the scene playing out again frustrated him.

  "That's my point. It's only twelve cents."

  "Twelve cents is twelve cents," the cashier said. He pulled at his black-streaked white beard. Weary eyes drifted from Percy to the lengthening line. He knew it was pointless to reason with people once they built up a head of steam, but he went through the motions anyway. "He short twelve cents. I let that go. You short twelve cents. I let that go. By end of day, no more shop."

  "Leave that boy alone. You see he simple," another voice cried from behind Old School.

  Percy grabbed a pack of Giant Sweet Tarts, but was told to put it down. This was about principle now. The rising hostility in the shop rattled Percy. Each face a mirror of anger, distrust, and resentment. Everyone was just so… mad. He felt bad for the man behind the cashier and searched his pockets again hoping he missed a quarter.

  "Your shop is in our neighborhood," Old School said. "No more customers means no more shop, too. You move in here, happy enough to take our money out of the neighborhood, but you can't be bothered to be a part of it."

  The Indian man trembled with his own missing rage. Uncertain eyes, not wanting any trouble, also didn't want to be cheated. The constant accusations, the constant attempts of folks to get over on him; the constant vigilance exhausted him. They didn't see their machinations as attempts to take food out of his family's mouths. The ugly mood in the neighborhood had been building for weeks now. This was why he bought a gun.

  "Look at you. Even now I bet you think we going to rob you. Typical." Old School sipped from the coffee he hadn't yet purchased.

  "This is bullshit. We regulars, too," the agitated customer behind him amened. "Can't you be bothered to know us?"

  "Fellas, fellas… it's all right. I got it." The name badge on the arm of the FedEx uniform read "Lott Carey" and featured a grill-revealing smile. A thick, navy-colored sweatshirt over matching pants, the uniform had the formality of one having donned armor in preparation to joust. Lott strolled toward the front of the line with his pimp-roll strut for all the eyes to see. Obviously pleased with his "swooping in like a superhero saving the day" entrance moment, his smile showed off the row of faux gold caps which grilled his teeth.

  "Thanks, Lott." Percy shoveled his candy into his about-two-sizes-too-small jacket.

  The Indian gentleman took the quarter with a sigh of relief and handed the change to Percy, who then pocketed it.

  Lott watched his change go into Percy's pocket but didn't say anything. "Come on, we going to be late."

  Despite the elbows pummeling her side – and the mad screeching of what sounded like a cat being slowly lowered into a wood chipper – Big Momma was slow to wake. Her eyes fluttered, spot-checking the rising sun against the accusing red glow of the night stand clock's numbers. With the care of not wanting to crush a newborn, she rolled over. The boy wailed, locked in a nightmare, and thrashed about beside her. She pulled her night gown tighter around her, conscious of the possibility of her heavy bosom spilling out.

  "Had! Had, boy, wake up. It's OK, it's OK. Momma's here. Momma's here." She shushed the boy awake, reassuring him while guiding him from whatever nocturnal terror lay in wait for him each night. The boy's eyes focused with a hint of recognition, though Big Momma was rarely certain about what actually flitted through the ten year-old's addled mind. Had's mother smoked crack while pregnant, increasing her habit as it went along as if medicating herself through the pregnancy. The effects of which played out like a sad movie across his sullen face. His somber brow furrowed, fine crease lines worried into his head.

  With Pokémon characters splayed all along them, the pajamas seemed wholly too young for him, yet fit him both physically and mentally. The brightness of the clothes only made his dark skin appear that much darker. He popped his thumb into his mouth and began to suck.

  "Help me, Lord. Lord Jesus help me." Big Momma drew up her sheet. Holes began to wear through the threadbare material. She made do, treating them gently and kept neat, because she wouldn't be buying new ones for a while. Poverty was no excuse to not carry her head high. She threw the sheets from her and sat up, checking the curlers in her head. Thankful he was awake but quiet, she left Had in the bed. Her bones grated with her first morning steps as she eased into her day with a resigned sigh. The floorboard creaked under her uneasy waddle. She poked her head in Lady G's room only to see clothes slung along the headboard of the bed, perhaps to dry. The piles littered the floor without any discernible pattern except maybe to be able to know where all of her earthly belongings were in case she had to scoop and run. But it had been months and Lady G had neither scooped nor run.

  Each step brought a huff as she descended in a sideways canter. Black smudges trailed along the wall. Creating a mental to-do list for that weekend, she'd have to scrub them and tell the kids to use the banister like they were supposed to. She ambled along the plastic runner from the door through the living room. Faded family photos and Polaroids hung on the wall next to a painting of a very European and beatific Jesus. Plastic covered her couches. Folding chairs centered around a large television. Toys littered the floor. Crayons rested on a beat-up coffee table. Gospel music played from the kitchen, always Mahalia Jackson. The kitchen still smelled of chicken and macaroni from the previous night's dinner. Cereal boxes, cookies, and bags of chips lined the top of the refrigerator.

  Lady G wiped her hands on a towel then placed it back on the oven door. A pink bandana tied her hair back. She pulled the sleeves of her black hoodie back down her arms. Black jeans led to black-trimmed pink boots. The remaining dishes from the sink were now dried and stacked nicely on a rack on the wiped-down counter. A few acne bumps dotted her forehead, red and swollen against her toffee-colored skin. Before Big Momma could step fully into the kitchen, Lady G turned her back to shield the view of her hands.

  "Had awake?" Lady G pulled her fingerless gloves over her burn-scarred hands.

  "Boy's going to send me to an early grave." Big Momma paused out of respect. Folks had secrets and shames, stuff they either weren't ready to talk about or would never talk about. There was no point in pressuring them with crowding them or leaving them without the space to protect their dignity. She averted her eyes by pretending to fuss about her day's clothes. "You up awful early."

  "I already ironed your good blouse," Lady G said. "Started coffee. Got breakfast ready."

  "I know I got no right this morning." Big Momma didn't have much by way of too many rules, but she didn't want to be taken advantage of. Everyone had to pitch in somehow, if not rent or bill money, then helping out around the house. No one lived free because life was about handling your responsibilities. Big Momma picked up the blouse in faux inspection. She sniffed the shirt, enjoying its freshly starched smell. When she took Lady G in, she wanted no more than to give the girl someplace stable. She had a lot to give, seeds scattered and sometimes they fell in thorny places, like with Prez (oh, that boy broke her heart) and sometimes the soil was fertile and grew up quickly. Like with Lady G. "But can I ask one more thing?"

  "You always got the right." Lady G was one of the rare ones. She wasn't as hard as she believed she was. Hard, yes, because a child shouldn't have to live the way she had had to or see the things she'd had. Still, she wasn't through-and-through hard, the kind of hard that used up all the good and innocent inside. No, Lady G still had an innocence she protected, a vulnerability she treasured.

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sp; "Can you get Had washed and dressed?"

  "Sure thing, Big Momma."

  Had was a new case. He slipped in behind Big Momma to a bowl Lady G filled with cereal. Tipping the bowl to his mouth, he lapped noisily from it, all smacking lips and deep-throated gurgles. The little boy was a set of wide, inquisitive eyes over the rim of the bowl. His head seemed two sizes too big for his body. He stopped mid-slurp, as if aware for the first time that others were in the room.

  "He's always just made those noises ever since you took him in," Lady G said.

  "The sound of leftover nightmares, girl." Big Momma checked the wall clock. "Look at the time. Go ahead and go on, girl. You going to be late."

  "What about Had?" "Never mind. I got him. You go."

  The days of the week blurred into a dismal sameness, but Sundays broke them out of their lethargy. This day was one with a spell cast on it, all blue skies and cutting chill. The Outreach Inc. van pulled up in front of one of the row homes which led to Breton Court.

  "Right here, man." King pointed to the side of the road.

  "You sure about this?" Wayne slumped forward on the steering wheel.

  "We stop the little things, the big things take care of themselves."

  "Looks to me like you trying to tackle big things, little things, and everything in between." Wayne checked his watch and thought to himself: we settle more ghetto mess before 9am than most people do all day. He pushed against the driver's seat, which sighed as he exited.

  King opened his door without glancing back, purposeful and focused, and walked with that determined saunter of his. Directly to the second door from the end. He rapped five times, loud, but not a po-po knock. A plumpish woman, short but unintimidated, cold-eyed him.

  "Excuse me, ma'am. I need to see you and your husband."

  "What is it?" She wrapped her shawl around her tighter, about to get her church on, as she sized him up. She fixed a hard but without attitude mask on her face, her mood preparing to be potentially fouled by this busybody, do-gooder type who was probably used to his looks getting doors opened for him.

  "Your son, he was down paintballing the candy lady's house. He needs to get down there and clean it up."

  "DeMarcus? Get over here, boy." Pipe-cleaner arms ducked behind his mother. Ten years old if a day, unsure of the stranger at the door and instinctively seeking shelter behind his formidable mother. "This man says you out shooting up a woman's house with that paint gun of yours."

  "Wasn't me." The words sputtered out as reflex. He stared without shame at King.

  "Don't lie to me, boy," his mother said, used to coaxing the truth or at least navigating the lies of boys.

  "Before we get po-po out here. Clean it up or FiveO." King met the boy's eyes. Treating him like a man capable of accepting responsibility for his actions. He had to catch them while they were young. "Which one he want?"

  "I'm sorry, Momma." The voice was barely audible.

  "What you do that for?" The mother grabbed him by the shoulders, more embarrassed than anything else.

  "That old lady was talking crazy to me," the boy whispered, cornered by truth.

  "So you go down and tear up her house?" King pressed.

  "Thanks, we got this." The mother's still-respectful tone didn't invite dispute.

  "Got my eye on you. Be checking on that house tomorrow," King said as a parting reminder to DeMarcus.

  "You too much, man," Wayne said as they turned up the corner heading toward their actual destination.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You too much. What a brother can't ease up for nothing?" Wayne nodded up the way to the figure approaching them. "Lookee here, lookee here."

  Poured into her jeans, braless beneath her halter top, her sashay had men erect from half a block away, Rhianna Perkins sauntered up. Always down for a party, a party that needed to be paid for when it was over, her eyes glimmered with recognition. Her hair flared, interlocked locklets in need of re-twisting. Despite the swell of her belly, she carried herself with a fierce sexiness. Upon closer inspection, her worn, bruised skin added a hint of purple to her sepia complexion. Something about her easy crocodile smile made her appear much older than her sixteen years.

  "When you gonna come see about me?" she asked.

  "I do. I never forgot about you. You're still part of our neighborhood," King said. "We got to all pull together."

  "You all harambee like a motherfucker now." She licked her lips as if appraising a freshly prepared plate of filet mignon. "I know, you gone all crusader now."

  "Just a man on a mission."

  "You never struck me as a missionary man. Lady G don't give it up easy, so it must get lonely. Maybe I can help."

  Scenes like this normally amused Wayne. King was a visionary type. It wasn't as if he considered himself above other people, he just wasn't as much a man of the people as he liked to believe he was. He was so caught up in how things ought to be, the behavior of people often left him confused. So whenever he was confronted with a situation he couldn't talk or punch his way out of, he was left with an awkwardness with belied his level cool. However, the sight of Rhianna hurt both of their hearts. The daily reality they had to relearn was that not everyone could or wanted to be saved.

  "Come on now, sister. You better than this."

  "I'm just open about what I do. Those other girls do dirt, too, they just like to hide it."

  King had a reputation for being largely indifferent to women. Most blamed his break-up with his baby's momma and his subsequent estrangement from his daughter, Nakia. Yet, despite his protestations and the various walls he'd built around himself, Lady G got under his skin and invaded his heart like a hostile takeover. She held his interest and attention in a way few women had. And part of him feared that in the sharing of this tiny part of himself, he had done something dangerous. Which he had, for her. Lady G. King was drawn to her and she to him. He decided to risk loving Lady G, then and always.

  "Come on, man," Wayne said, "let's get inside."

  The Church of the Brethren was a victim of a spate of local fires. Fire investigators suspected drug addicts illegally squatting. Without the necessary insurance to rebuild, the standalone building was left as little more than a warehouse lot. Burn marks scored the edges of the sallow, off-white façade. Sheets of plywood – with the date of its condemnation spray-painted across it – served as the door. The stain glass windows above the doors remained intact. Off-white and yellow painted wood mixed with brick which had been equally painted, marred by scorch marks.

  "I heard what you did down at Badon Hill," Wayne said.

  "What'd I do?" King pulled at the rear door, the nails of the board pulling free with ease.

  "Brought down another gang trying to get a stranglehold in the neighborhood."

  "Man, I haven't done half the stuff they say I've done," King said.

  "That's how legends get born."

  "That's how fools get dead."

  "If that's the case, we in the right place."

  The inside of the building had been gutted, the stripped, water-damaged walls and seared columns stood revealed like charred bones. The remains of a soot-covered choir loft split down the middle before toppled pews which couldn't be salvaged. Black rocks scattered across the floor, like fossilized cockroaches. A giant cable spool commanded the center of the room.

  "No chairs?" Wayne asked.

  "No coffee and donuts either. We ain't going to be here that long, so I figured we could stand. I just thought it was important that we met."

  "A symbol, good and round. You think like a king." Merle scratched his thigh, abating the itch of whatever had crawled on him during the night. The old man had his back to them though he seemed to appear out of nowhere. Unlike King's leather jacket, Merle wore a long black raincoat whose lining had been removed. A tall man, but the coat hung loosely on him, like a scarecrow lost within a blanket. A cap made of aluminum foil crowned his head. He stroked tufts of his scraggily reddish beard as he
searched about the room as if he had whispered something.

  "Each of us has a role to play," King continued, unperturbed.

  "What's his? Minister of Drunken Crazy Talk?" Wayne asked.

  "Hand holder. Life guider. Purpose pointer. Gift shaper," Merle said.

  "Ass painer."

  "Hold up. Here come the others," King said.

  King didn't need to even turn to know Lady G had come into the room. His heart knew and leapt at her presence. His mood, so fierce and dark before, lifted like a breeze blowing away storm clouds. A shock ran up his body, his breath shortened in shivering excitement. In the same way, when she left a room, his world grew a little bleak.

  Percy ducked under the door entrance. King didn't know what to do with him. Everywhere they went, the big boy-man was there. Not quite underfoot, but always around. He meant well, knew the players, and had a heart to match his girth, but King wondered if that was enough.