King Maker: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 1 Page 7

  "You got to get some game. Can't come up in here looking like Super Mario in black face."

  "Look here, Negro Gump…"

  "Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so," Percy began to sing to himself. He rocked back and forth, contenting himself to wait them out. There was only so much for them to make fun of: he was slow, fat, had yellow teeth, was not especially handsome, and his clothes were secondhand filthy. Though his nose was long numb to it, he knew that he stank. Wayne's eyes filled with pity every time he saw him and it made Percy sad to see him sometimes. Lady G and Miss Rhianna, they'd laugh and laugh and laugh – they had such pretty laughs – but eventually they exhausted themselves. There were worse fates, he knew, like being ignored entirely.

  "Ladies, that's enough," Wayne snapped. He made a production of him clearing his plate in disgust, letting the girls' eyes linger on him, and joining the boy at his table. Percy lowered his eyes even more, his shoulders sank and he leaned his head away from him, the same body language Kay assumed when painfully cornered but not wanting to attack. "They didn't mean anything, Percy."

  "I know." The world was a simple place to Percy. There were good people (like Wayne) and there were bad people (like Prez). Better to be born simple and not realize the horrors around you. He looked up at Wayne with complete trust in his eyes. Theirs were a simple little band, assembled by loss.

  "Sometimes they go a little too far."

  "I know."

  "I happen to know they care about you." Wayne placed his hand on his shoulder. The boy flinched at the touch then shied away as if shamed by the contact.

  "I know."

  "You're probably the safest guy in their world and they don't know how to act around you."

  Lady G got up and walked over to the piano that sat at the other end of the room. It had been donated by a family which had no further need of it, but hadn't been serviced in a while. She pecked tunelessly at it. Percy closed his eyes as if enjoying a concert recital.

  "They can't trust. When you trust someone only to have them do you dirty…" Percy trailed off as he observed Wayne studying a crumpled piece of paper. He pushed the piece of paper under another.

  "Who is she?" Wayne noticed the resemblance to Rhianna but said nothing.

  "Just a girl," he said. "Little ones to Him belong. They are weak but He is strong."

  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 bub
bled 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 th
e 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.