'I'm thinking there's not too hard to get to,' Lott said.
Caul's world turned red. The heavy-lidded gaze of the fiend snapped to full fury. He hated when people assumed he was stupid. That just because he was large, he was also slow. His teachers had always treated him like the large simpleton taking up precious classroom space until the jails caught up with him. At some point, he bought into their beliefs about him and it angered him. But he stuffed that anger back onto itself, allowing indo smoke to chill him out most days. Today he needed to wipe that 'better than you' grin off the tan-skinned one's face. With his FedEx uniform — as if that made him someone. Caul snarled and charged Lott without further comment.
'It wasn't my fault,' Caul said as he swung, to the ghosts only he knew.
Skin the color of burnt butter, and with the delicate features of a male model playing at being thug, Lott danced out of the way of Caul's lumbering charge. True to his word, Lott skittered up Caul's back, wrapping his legs around the brute's chest while attempting to subdue him with a choke-hold. Caul cantered backwards, slamming Lott into the wall of the Wok of China. The air escaped from Lott with a sudden gasp.
King's vision blurred the scene before him, shifting, merging with another scene as familiar as memory. Caul lumbered toward him, stumbling from the shadows of a massive cave. Past two great fires he strode toward King. The giant gnawed on the bone of a human clutched in one hairy hand. Blood smeared about his lips like barbecue sauce after a ribs repast. The dreamy deja vu sensation annoyed King, like weed getting his head up at the most inopportune times. King shook his head to clear it, then jumped back, barely avoiding Caul's thrown punch.
King ducked under the clumsy attack, cursing himself for an ill-thought-out strategy with no end game in mind. The fact that he and Lott's blood got so roiled at the idea of someone menacing Lady G was all but dismissed by the pair. The threat of the Caliburn was just that: an empty threat. King was loath to draw the weapon if the situation didn't warrant it. Ever since the Glein River incident. The weapon called when it demanded to be used. On its terms; any time else was an abuse. King threw a couple of quick jabs into the man's kidneys which seemed to annoy him more than anything else. What did he hope to accomplish? His only plan was to beat this man's ass under the guise of asking him to move on.
The mistake most people made — it occurred to King as he stepped out of range of Caul's massive swipes while leading him away from a shaken Lott — was to use the same weapons against all enemies. There was nothing to be hoped for going toe-to-toe with Caul. That was fighting a superior foe on his terms. No, the only weapon against strength and size was smallness, stealth, and speed.
As if reading from the same battle manual, Lott charged Caul, tackling him at the knees. The giant collapsed to his knees, catching himself before his head hit the concrete. Scrabbling for purchase, he hoped to wrench Lott into his grasp.
King withdrew his Caliburn. The gold glistened in the early morning light. Lott's eyes widened. Caul turned, following Lott's gaze, his sight landing on the gun. Shifting his grip, King swung the weapon in a low arc, clocking Caul just above the temple.
'So what do we do now?' Lott asked.
'Call the police?' King examined the unconscious giant.
'And say what? Where I come from, snitches get stitches.'
'Self-defense.'
'Trouble just seems to keep finding you.'
The morning had barely dawned.
A pair of New Balance tennis shoes — gray and mottled with mold — dangled from the overhead phone line. A schoolyard prank gone awry to the casual passer-by; an advertisement, or ominous warning and cause for alarm, to those more in the know. King sucked his teeth in disgust and wondered how long they had been there and if it were too late to stave off the attempted infection of his neighborhood. His philosophy was simple: if a community didn't take control of itself and one guy entered who could think, the community would have a problem. If people in the neighborhood took control, however, that guy knew he had opposition. Most times before he stood against opposition, he would leave for an unprepared, less-resistant neighborhood. Now, in LA or Gary, they might go toeto-toe with opposition. Not here. Not in Indianapolis. Not yet.
'Back it up.' King waved the Outreach Inc. van back a few more feet then held his palms up for it to stop. Armed with a broom, he jogged around to the front and hopped up along the hood to the roof in a limber movement.
'This is stupid,' Wayne said. Brushing back a few of his long braids which had fallen into his face, he turned all the way around, revealing a scar on the back of his neck. A tight knit shirt stretched across him, showing off the stocky build of a football player, with the light gait of someone who knew how to use their size should the necessity warrant. A quick smile broke up what otherwise would have been a hard face. 'You better not leave any shoe prints up there.'
'A little work now prevents a huge, pain-in-thebehind worth of work down the road.'
Breton Drive separated the assemblage of townhouses of Breton Court from Jonathan Jennings Public School 109. The school was designated a zerotolerance zone and once Night's drug crew had been dismantled, it was one in deed as well as word. King stared at the shoes as if they personally mocked him.
'It's a pair of shoes.'
'It's a declaration,' King said. 'Says someone intends on dealing out of here soon. It's a set-up notice. Well, message received. Now we're sending one back.'
'Yeah, throw up a pair of tennis shoes and see how many brothers it takes to take them down.'
'Two. One to do the work and another to wear his ass out with complaining about it.' King waved the broom handle about, a blind conductor directing an unseen orchestra. Eventually one of his haphazard swings connected with the shoes and they tumbled free. 'There. Now they know. You try to set up shop in this neighborhood, there are folks around here who care enough to stop it.'
'Uh huh. If you close your eyes, you can hear your applause.'
'Come on.' King gathered the shoes, holding them with two fingers well away from him. 'We going to be late.'
Fumbling for change, Percy emptied out his pockets, carefully counting out each penny with great deliberation. Percy tipped nearly three bills. Droplets of sweat swelled, coalesced, and then ran as a trickle down the darker knot above his left eyebrow. In the shape of a crescent moon, the keloid etched his burnt mochacomplected skin. He huffed with anxiousness under the weight of the eyes of the man behind the cash register of the Hoosier Pete convenience mart. The line behind him now ran three customers deep, with the bell on the door jangling as more people entered the gas station convenience store. A stack of Giant Sweet Tarts piled in front of him, his nervousness increased as he glanced at the total on the cash register and then his quickly dwindling pile of change. The pennies eventually stopped. Twelve cents short. Percy stepped back dumbfounded as if a set of equations didn't equal out.
'Come on, man. You see him all the time. You know he good for it,' an older man said, dressed in an offwhite hat with matching shirt and slacks with a pair of sandals. Old-school casual. A toothpick protruded from his mouth, a cup of coffee and a newspaper filled his hands.
'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
