death.
'And now what? They all gone. Went down protecting you. Loving you. All the people who love you? Gone. They all fucked and you fucked them. It's just you now. All alone.'
'This ain't over,' King said.
'I know. We've got plenty of story left to write, you and me.' Dred turned his back and walked away.
'It's not true, you know,' Merle said, but in the end this battle was between him and Dred. The last temptation of the Pendragon.
'What's not?'
'About you being alone. You'll always have me. Well, sorta.'
King searched about. 'Where is he?'
'I, too, have wondered about Sir Rupert. Always underfoot when not wanted. Not a brown hair to be found once bullets start flying.'
'Baylon.' King's voice was without patience, joy, or strength.
'He's gone. I fear he thinks he has disappointed the crown he sought to serve. He stays under the bridge by the Mexican joints by your house. But… perhaps it'd be best to let things lie. To let some truths, some realities, go unknown.'
A quizzical stare etched on King's face. He hated the moments when it felt as if Merle read from a script only he was privy to. A script he could only hint at rather than say anything directly about. King made a circle with his finger and Merle nodded that he'd clean up the mess. An anonymous call to the authorities, from a homeless man who had stumbled across a body in the woods. He'd be held for questioning, no doubt. But it meant a free meal. Maybe two.
Better than the days ahead for King.
EPILOGUE
Every few years some politician or preacher would whip the City-County Council or the media into a frenzy, usually set off by some act of violence against a child or some other innocent — and there'd be talk about tearing down the Phoenix Apartments. There'd be discussions about the failure of projects, the entrenchedness and intractability of poverty and the need for radical new approaches to the problem. Remarkably, most of the 'holistic approaches' involved razing the lot and building an upscale town-house development, with a few hundred units of public housing.
All of the talk would crash against the inertia of reality: the projects were forever. The islands of poverty weren't going to be demolished, no one was going to relocate thousands of black folks. Well-intentioned neighbors (read: scared white folks) would block construction of housing for black folks in their neighborhoods. Any sprucing- up of the existing projects failed to grapple with the reality of what it meant to be poor: they had little resources to maintain buildings and property. So now the previous hope for urban renewal was ready for demolition again. Such was the way of all such buildings.
On the penthouse floor of the Phoenix Apartments, a group of men gathered. Dred poured Cristal into a series of tall stemmed glasses eager to bear the mantle of king of the streets. He would christen his own knights.
'What King has joined together, let no man tear asunder,' Dred toasted. 'Where do we stand?'
Naptown Red chimed in, first raising his glass in salute. 'Shit done fell off. Word is Rellik is out the game entirely, leaves open all of Night's operations.'
'He packaged it up nicely for us. Got it running efficiently. You and the young un ready to step up?'
Garlan nodded. He played with the ring, sliding it up and down his finger though it no longer slipped past his first joint. The Cristal stung his lips, too dry for his tastes, but didn't wince or complain. It was time to step up his game.
'Colvin's out the way now, too,' Broyn said. 'And Mulysa's in lock-up.'
'Then it's done. This here piece is ours,' Dred said.
'What about King?' Naptown Red asked.
'He's out of play. The bigger worry is Merle. He's the loose cog in our machine. If we can take out that crazy-ass motherfucker…'
A knock pounded at the door. Not quite a cop knock, but one which demanded attention. Dred nodded toward Broyn.
'It's for you,' he said from the foyer. A woman trailed behind him.
Her winter coat slimmed at the waist and drew attention to her too-tight jeans. Fur-lined white boots ended with a stiletto heel. Her skin the color of scorched oak, her handsome face both passionate and cruel. A comely form steeped in ambition. And eyes the same as Morgana's. 'I hear you have a problem I might be able to help you with. Where can a girl go to get put on?'
'What's your name?' Dred asked.
'Nine,' she said. 'Think of me as an answer to prayer.'
The circle is now complete, Dred thought. It's just you now, King. You are all alone and I'm out here, waiting for you.
Lott gave Lady G his hand to help her down the embankment. A scree of pebbles shifted underfoot as she slid down. The path had been worn down to the tan ground, but plenty of growth covered the entrance to the bridge squat. She slipped into the shade of the overpass with unequaled elegance. Piles of discarded fast-food bags and bottles of soda lay around the site, a couple bottles filled with a murky yellow liquid.
'Someone stay here?' Lott asked.
'Yeah. Rotates though. You know how it go. No one here now. I come here to think sometimes. It's kinda nice back here around summer time. Everything grown up and stuff. Like a jungle.' She leaned against the embankment, her arms folded behind her back. 'You lucky.'
'What you mean?'
'You get to go out, run the streets. Do your do. Make your secret plans. You boys and your big plans.'
'Wonder what they're up to?'
'Something more important than us.' Her hightoned voice curdled into mild scorn. She pierced him with her midnight eyes.
They both knew the weight of loneliness, its ache and the wounds it left behind. Her hard look softened around the edges, as did the coldness in her voice. Frightened and bold at the same time, while she boasted of having no interest in boys, her sole encounter having been violent. Yet she had a way of drawing them to her and making them protect her.
There was a lot to admire about Lott. Things others didn't always appreciate. His bravery, he had heart for days. His lack of cleverness, because he didn't play games. He wasn't always stuck in his own head, lost in his thoughts. And she wanted him to think only of her.
'He loves you,' Lott admitted.
'He doesn't love me. He thinks he loves me.' The words stopped in her throat. 'I don't know if he can love. Not really. I don't know if he even feels.'
'And you?'
'I love him. But not the way I…'
'Don't…' His yearning for her paralyzed him, like the Biblical Lot's wife, a pillar of salted lust. She stood close beside him. Her face kept him guarded and stirred up.
Suddenly hot and shy, his was more than a brotherly affection and flirtation. A charged moment. As long as his eyes were fixed on the running water of the slowflowing creek, on the sounds of traffic rumbling overhead, he was safe. If he trembled, if he turned around to see the reality of his potential mistake, he was undone. The desire to want to hold her, to feel the press of her lips, or her breasts against him as they embraced, he would certainly be drawn. His legs quavered as if unable to support his weight, the thought of his friendship with King pushed deep within. The thought of his personal integrity ignored. He could no longer hear the spirit of his own conscience. Lady G filled his soul and he was lost. Her scent filled him. His immobile face ever ready to smile for her.
