same theme: his hand in their pockets. Dollar delivered the first fisted blow, knocking the man's head back with the sound like a bag of ice dropped to the sidewalk. After the first punch, he seemed to lose interest, giving license to his boys to stomp and pummel the man into senselessness.
'Why'd they beat him up?' Percy asked, mouth agape and eyes lingering too obviously. It didn't pay to be too fastidious to details. Miss Jane turned his face to hers.
'Dude over there shorting them. Someone takes you off, you can't let that shit slide. Never. Once they see you as weak, you done out here. So you have to put a beatdown on them. They do it again, you got to fuck them up for real. So what you learn?'
'Don't let them read you for weak. Or soft.'
Miss Jane caught scent of some new-tested package and ambled off. Percy stood there for a moment, watching the boys play at manhood, and hummed to himself.
The day was brisk but sharp, a chill wind under a blue sky. A second-chance day, when one dreamt of doing things right this time: finish school, don't mess with that girl, get a straight job, be about family. Living life without waiting for the click of a hammer to end it all.
Baylon walked along the street of Dred's house at an easy pace. For some reason, the song 'Jesus Can Work It Out' kept running through his head: That problem that I had/I just couldn't seem to solve. He hadn't thought about that song in ages. The breakdown chant of 'work it out' brought to mind a frenzied choir and folks anxious to get caught up in the Holy Ghost. He hated the show of church.
'Baylon!' a voice called out as he walked by.
He returned the slightest of head nods.
A group of boys slung rocks down the street, not trying to hit anything in particular. Simply whiling away the time with casual destruction the way boys were prone to. At Baylon's approach, the flicker of recognition, respect, and perhaps even fear filled their eyes. They stopped their game and parted for him. Their gazes lingered on him in admiration.
'Hey B,' a sultry voice sang. Pert breasts tenting her low-cut blouse with no back over some tight blue jeans, stretched to bursting seams by her full hips. 'You got something for me.'
'Yeah, why don't you hit me up at the spot later on.' Baylon waved her off knowing a few years ago, a girl like that would have rolled her eyes in a 'Nigga, you can't step to this' way at his approach, much less chase after him. The charge of fame had pipeheads running up to him to beg for a free sample, like fans pining for an autograph. His name ringing out, he was every bit just as much a junkie, hooked on status, on being the man. He paused on the porch and surveyed the neighborhood. Then he went in.
Every time he crossed the threshold he felt transported to another place. Odd symbols etched the doorframe. When he ran his fingers along them, they gave the same sort of tingle as licking a battery. Baylon thought it unusual that Dred rarely kept any soldiers at the house. None were required here, he had told him. The kinds of enemies I've made wouldn't be stopped by thugs with guns. Baylon ignored the irony of him saying that from his wheelchair.
Dred waited for him in the spacious living room. His scraggy goatee never grew in right. He had to grow it. His face had a natural boyishness to it. The softness of retained baby fat which made him appear younger than his twenty-odd years. His nest of hair coiled out in serpentine aggression. The color of cold onyx, he glared his ancient gaze from bloodshot and rheumy eyes. Long wizened fingers propelled his chair with little exertion, his all-white Fila jogging suit matching his brand-new tennis shoes.
'You hear what happened with Green's crew?' Dred asked rhetorically.
'Everyone heard. Lots of shots.' Baylon shifted uncomfortably, standing without having been offered a seat and having the distinct impression he'd been called into the principal's office.
'A lot of noise. If the message was 'we like to make a lot of noise and bring down all sorts of unwarranted attention', message received. Those two fuck-ups couldn't be trusted to send a telegram.'
'You gonna call the Durham Brothers?' Baylon kept his sigh to himself. Junie and Parker, Junie more so, were world-class fuck-ups. Despite congratulating themselves on a ruckus well made, they needed to be sat down. Reflecting a moment, Baylon realized they weren't too dissimilar from him. They all demanded respect, yet none of them could command it. Dred continued as if picking up on his thoughts.
'Call done been made. Remember when a nigga would say 'I'm gonna hold things down' and business got handled?'
'Lots of things change.' Baylon ignored the quiet indictment.
'You got something to say?' Dred wheeled nearer. Baylon never had the sense that he looked down at him. Dred created — he didn't know how else to describe it — a vertigo effect. Despite the height differential, it was like they stared at each other eye-to-eye.
'Nah man, I'm just saying. The crew's weak. You up here. I'm up here. Back in the day, we had things on lockdown.'
'Yeah, you right. Lots of things change.'
Dred backed away from him. He tapped the small box which hung from his arm rest. The lid popped open and he withdrew a huge spliff. He fired it up. The smoke filled the room immediately, its aroma pungent, like earthy though rotted burnt vegetables. 'Think back, remember how I found you?'
Alone. Scared. Cold. Wet. Huddled in the door frame. All his friends turned against him. He still had the knife. Pulled his jacket tighter and higher, both for warmth and to not be recognized. Never felt so isolated, aban doned, and betrayed. He had never known such sheer terror. Breathing became a labored process; he was suddenly conscious of reminding himself to inhale and exhale. His heart pounded arrhythmically, hammering an unsure cadence. The girl was little more than an acquaintance, but he liked her spirit. Her light. He hated the little boys drawn to casually snuff out lights simply because they could. Her blood still on his hands. Her innocence… he took it all away the minute he introduced himself to her. She'd have been better off if they'd never met. She'd still be innocent. Safe. Alive.
How could they think that of me? Did that even sound like the person I was? They know me. They know me. He still had the knife.
Dred pulled up, the outline of his black Escalade a blurred shadow in the haphazard rain. Its parking light on, it roamed the lot like a leering hyena in search of wounded prey. Dred rolled down the window. A thick issue of smoke poured from his mouth. Like he'd been expectantly waiting. 'Get in. You're not safe here.'
'I'm not safe anywhere. Not anymore.' Baylon's panic ran so deep, he barely recognized Dred.
'I understand. Look, I ain't gonna bullshit you, you in deep. Left quite a mess back there. But we're handling it.'
'We?' Only then did he notice Night in the passenger seat.
'You don't need to worry about that. What you need to know is that your crew, your true crew, stands tall beside you.' Dred checked his rearview mirror. 'I don't mean to press you, but we gots to roll. Get in.'
Baylon ducked inside the Escalade as Dred peeled off. He drove a halfmile or so before turning on his headlights. The quiet thickened between them. Jittery eyed and drymouthed, he jumped at every brake, squeal, or car horn. Arguing, a shout, bursts of laughter. They drove aimlessly, taking in the sights of the city. The street's cacophony of life, abrupt, charged sounds which brought only terror. Edgy, he anticipated some thing bad about to happen. Ware and uneasy, he leaned forward in his seat, drawing Dred's attention in the rearview mirror.
'That girl back there? That was his cousin.'
'Wrong time, wrong place. Tragic.'
Baylon remained silent not yet knowing his play. Dred's measured words bubbled with import, calculated to appraise him at every turn. Bleak as things seemed, he knew he had options. It was an accident. It had to be. If he just went to King. Explained.
'King was your boy. Took some stones to do him like that.'
'I don't believe it. No one would.'
'A noheart nigga like you. I'm saying, no offense, that ain't your rep,' Night said to Dred's obvious dis pleasure. 'He didn't have it in him. That's all I'm saying.'
'We all have it in us. We just need the right teacher to draw it out of us. Ain't that right.'
'Bay?'
'It got done, didn't it?'
'He might be ready to step up. What you think?'
