'I'm no one's victim. My, such an awfully cynical attitude.'
'These are cynical times.'
'I know. No room for magic in anyone's soul.' Omarosa shifted allowing a better view of her cleavage.
'Magic?' Lee's eyes obliged her gesture.
'Everyday magic. Like, say, a chance encounter between a man and a woman who hit it off immediately. That spark, that fortune, that synchronicity of crossed paths.'
'The magic,' Lee repeated, his voice faraway. Entranced by her beauty. There was something different about this girl. Something enchanting. Intoxicating. The longer she lingered the more she seemed to fill up his mind. Already the hump who had his ass handed to him faded into the mists of distant memory. Lee's standard credo, how anything could happen at any moment on the streets, fell by the wayside, his guard dropping despite himself.
'Exactly. I'm sure this isn't the worst thing you've ever seen.'
'Not the worst things I'd seen by half.'
Words tumbled out of his heart to this stranger as if they were long-time lovers. 'This one time I was called to a scene where a new mother hadn't slept in three days. You could see it in her face, all drawn and gray, even the rings around her eyes had rings. She received no support from friends or family. I don't even know for sure if she had either. Too many people find themselves alone and when a baby comes along, they don't know what to do with this intrusion into their personal space. So she chopped up her baby and left the pile of limbs in the center of her bed. She just stood there, blood all over her as if someone else had come in and did it. She turned to me and said that she still wanted another baby. A chance to prove that she could be a good mother.'
'I guess we all want second chances.' Omarosa met his gaze. Her intensity made his insides squirm.
'So what are you doing out here if you aren't working the stroll?'
'I'm merely an observer of life's little games. A people-watcher. And the Phoenix gives me plenty to watch.'
'Is that so? I always thought that we ought to go in, bust some heads, and send those assholes a message.' Lee backed up, suddenly aware of her blackness, despite her hypnotic green eyes. 'That's not racist: if someone's an asshole, I'm gonna treat them like an asshole, because assholishness knows no color. It's not my fault most everyone out here's an asshole.'
'Most.' Omarosa smiled, a delicious curve to her lips. She had watched the detective and his partner staking out Dred's crew for a while now, but she hadn't guessed the gang mess had wormed its way so under his skin that he'd taken to working it on his own time. Or maybe… maybe his partner had gotten into his head. Omarosa was never one to pass up an opportunity. 'Now the way I see it, you're a real man. I'm tired of all these wannabe hoodlums trying to play hard. Want to talk that 'whose dick is this?' mess out one side of their mouth and talk about how women ain't nothing but tricks and gold diggers out the other. Like there's any gold to be found in them trifling fools other than in they mouth.
'I need a real man. One who knows how to handle a woman who's been bad. One who can put me in my place, not let me walk all over him like I'm better than him. Who do I think I am? I'm no better than any other of these… well, you know. You deserve better.
'So, you want to ride my black ass? Take me down a few notches?'
Lee's heart thudded so hard it pained his chest. His saliva turned thick, he suddenly found it difficult to swallow. His palms slickened as they rested on the steering wheel. He leaned over, opened the passenger side door, and she climbed in.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Baylon tugged at his crotch, adjusting the fit of his pants, primping in the mirror. Long sleeves made him invisible. In long sleeves he was straight, a nine to five working man who no one would give a second glance to. Hair cut low, but without flash, no gold, no grill, no tattoos, he could walk into any church or office or restaurant or store and be treated as Joe A. MiddleClassCitizen.
For this meeting, he went with short sleeves. The short sleeves showed he'd been working out, made him appear harder. He scratched the head of his pit bull. Even his dog was more affectation than necessity. His troops needed to see him as the shot caller, second only to Dred in word and deed. As it stood, they begrudgingly followed orders and too often challenged his authority by asking to hear them from Dred himself. It boiled down to how he carried himself. Maybe he would never escape Griff's long shadow.
'Yeah, you still the fairest one of them all, nigga.' Griff sidled next to him, examining his reflection up and down in the mirror. 'But you'll never be me.'
'I know.' Baylon spritzed on some cologne.
'You don't have the heart.'
'I know.'
'Your men sense it.'
'Then I'll have to make them… respect the office.'
The house leaned between two others just like it. King, Wayne, and Lott observed the comings and goings without a plan. They just wanted more information. If Michelle had a bounty on her, it had to come from one of the local dealers. His neighborhood was under assault and he had not taken notice of it until now. A young man approached another, neither out of high school. The one palmed the cash, slid into his pocket, while he scanned the streets. A smooth, practiced move.
A group of young boys gathered only a halfblock away. Fixed with industrial intent, they tore strips of newspaper into dollar sized scraps. They took their assembled 'bills' and fashioned wads for themselves. They'd pull it out of their pocket and peel off a couple bills to one another. One took his stack and threw it into the air to the chants of 'Make it rain'.
And King's heart seethed.
Before he was aware of himself, he strode toward the men.
• • •
Austere but clean, the brown walls had a greasy film to them, like a kitchen with a long history of deep frying everything. A tinge of smoke in the air mixed with faint fumes of alcohol. A cracked fixture filtered cold light into the room, casting a yellowish pallor. The electric money counter unattended on the counter, they were on the count, their duties interrupted by a tryst. Junie straddled the couch, one leg sprawled over the back. He sat alone, god of the couch, master of all he surveyed. Waiting for Parker to finish. His fatigue pants around his ankles, he was laying pipe to a jumpoff girl, pumping furiously in plain view, a voyeuristic thrill heightening his performance. Junie squinted at the girl, trying to place her. These tricks started to blur together after awhile.
Junie loved that boy after his fashion, conjuring vague plans for Parker's future, but also hated him. Hated him for making him see himself. As he was, not who he dreamt he was.
'You bout done over there?'
'I don't give a fuck. You feel me? I don't give,' Parker retorted in close to an insulting tone. 'A. Fuck.' Tall, but skinny. Heartless, he had done had all the life damn near ground out of him. His smile, even his laugh, was joyless. He could shoot or otherwise inflict all manner of cruelty without a moment's hesitation. He was perfect. The secret to enforcement wasn't a matter of the most intimidating body, but the precision of the coldest heart.
Parker carried around his share of pain, let it accrue in his belly until it knotted the muscles in his shoulders. Pain he was all too happy to dish out. Not one for confession, he was one of those mute motherfuckers, just as soon turn to an icy glare and stone lips rather than admit to anything personal or true. Stoic silence was his definition of holding his head up. Of being a man. He'd never admit to anything like abuse. Bitches were abused. Yet when he was eleven, a friend of his mother's came to stay at their house. It was how family did, drop in and board with their people for a minute as they pass through. Every night the woman secretly summoned Parker to her room. Three raps against the wall separating Parker's room from his sister's. Each night. As his sister slept in the next bed, the woman had him go down on her. His first sexual experience outside of nutting off to his father's stash of Player magazines. She had no special love for or attachment to him. During the days, she dismissed him, choosing to talk only to adults. Beyond the initial conversation where she told him how special he was, asked him if he
