Crying out to an invisible friend who obviously didn't give two shits about him because if He were any kind of friend, He'd have never let him get as low as He did.
The image of Fathead's 'what the fuck?' grimace as if betrayed flashed in his head.
'I don't know what to say. Even if I believe in Him,' Prez said.
'Then tell Him that. And what you want,' King said.
'God, I don't believe in you, but I need help. I can't keep going like this. I need help.' Broken, wondering when he'd feel whole again, faith was the only thread left to carry him through. And hopefully not unravel the tapestry of his life. He didn't think he'd have the strength to fight through the difficult moments without the faith that things would get better.
King nodded for him to continue.
'Dad, please.' And he didn't know if he were talking to God or his own father. 'Please help me. Why won't you talk to me?'
CHAPTER NINE
The eastside of Indianapolis, a model of urban decay under the city's knowing eye, was left like a corpse, while people spoke of what a shame it was. With nothing for them to do, no jobs, where poor folks lived. Only a couple of places existed for kids to hang out. A Boys' Club down on 30th Street, but soon as a kid acted a fool, they kicked him out. No sit down, no nothing. Bam! If they had their way at school, soon as a kid bucked, they kicked him out. No sit down, no nothing. Gone! Kicked out of school. Kicked out of the Boys' Club. So with Momma at work and no daddy around, they were left to sit around and play video games all day, talk on the phone, get on the computer, or run out in the streets. Where Colvin could prey on them.
Colvin radiated a bloodless calm as he stepped with the carriage of authority. Deep, hollow eyes in constant assessment, creating a mental checklist of who was doing what or rather who wasn't. Melle had become one of his top earners, the little man due to be promoted. A young hothead in a wife beater and baggy blue jean shorts, with the scarecrow build of a krumper. He had shaved off his wild, unchecked Afro because Five-O could identify him from blocks away. Noles was a slack-jawed plate of hot mess who only sprang to work when he knew someone in charge of his wallet was around. One of Colvin's white boys, with hair in a Caesar cut, a razor-thin goatee and a random growth of a beard only over his Adam's apple. He dressed like a redneck business executive. Otherwise, he did as little as possible while talking a big game about his exploits, usually taking credit for other people's work.
The abandoned Camlann Apartment building on Oriental Avenue, three stories of what was once a showcase place. Many organizations had put in bids to rehab the building, but the owner refused to sell and refused to do anything with it except allow it to wither. So the city declared eminent domain and it was due to be razed. The lawsuits and counter lawsuits had delayed the process, allowing it to further fall into dangerous dilapidation. Left to politicians, it would stand for years, a testimony to pain and suffering and lost hope.
The informal gallery smelled of burnt crack, urine, vomit, sweat, and other noxious effluvia. With mattresses strewn about, the apartment served as both flop house and sexual bartering place. On the stairwell and landings, overseen by Noles, a group of young men stood about, guards at a check point, drinking and smoking while doing their duty. An endless sea of shadows in thick down jackets and work boots. The unventilated chamber concentrated the vile smell. Puddles of an unknown liquid pooled, stepped around by all passers-by.
'Tell him,' a young red-headed woman said, her eyes aged and used up, her skin dusty. Her breasts hung low in her grungy gray T-shirt, once pink with the word 'Hotness' now missing its 't', she remained plumpish despite her habit, loose flesh hanging with a collected slackness, cradling her three year-old.
'I'll suck your dick,' the toddler said on cue.
The woman beamed with pride, her eyes alight with the intimation that the offer was no mere party trick. It wasn't the first time Colvin had such an offer. A few years back, a lady traded her nieces for $50 of crack. It was a rolling party for six months, molesting them at will until he got bored and passed them on to his crew. Eventually they were sold to The Pall as street earners. Colvin stepped past the woman, leaving her for Noles to deal with. His appointment was with Mulysa.
The bare bulb burned to life at the tug of the dangling string that scattered dust in its beam. Stripped down to his shirt, Mulysa sat cross-legged in the center of the room, his bottom bitch next to him in easy reach. Bowls of herbs and holy water were placed in a sort of unholy feng shui arrangement apparent only to him.
'We 'bout ready?' Colvin asked.
'Damn, nukka. This shit ain't easy.' Mulysa opened his eyes, ending his prayer and meditation.
'Don't act like I'm one of them knuckleheads you got working outside. I'm from a bloodline of magic and not easily impressed with a summoner.'
It was a quiet dig, fully intended as Mulysa heard it, as a slight meant to humble him and keep him in his place. Colvin didn't want him to think too much of his gifts or what he did. His service was expected. His obedience was expected. His talents brought to the table a given, or else why bring him in?
'A-ight then.' Mulysa chafed nonetheless, not anxious to please or prove his worth, but to simply be respected. And he'd get that respect.
Lacking an original grimoire or anything, only what he could glean from the internet, he nevertheless took ritual magic very seriously. Especially since it served as an additional source of (undeclared and thus untaxed by Colvin) income for him. He didn't consider himself a major-league summoner, but he knew enough to be able to call up a spirit, any supernatural force, really, and subjugate it to his will. More or less. Enough to keep them from tearing him to shreds like so much used Kleenex. He fondled his bitch, studying the way the golden light of the brazier reflected from it. While visualizing flames, he dragged the blade against his floorboards, carving a magic circle with the knife as a barrier against the outside and to help him focus.
Incanting in an old tongue, he mimicked the words more than pronounced them. They almost seemed to form themselves and spring from his lips, as if all they needed was the attempt to stir them for them to finish the articulation. The words came easy to Mulysa.
'Come in the stillness, Come in the night Come soon and bring delight Beckoning, beckoning, left hand and right Come now, come tonight Come malice, come; come malice, come. Peter stands at the gate, Waiting for your vengeful hate. Come malice, come!'
In his mind, he ran around a fairy ring on the first night of the new moon. Alone and thus without embarrassment. Nothing he could do around these nukkas without ridicule. Simple motherfuckers never cracked a book unless there was a dollar in it for them. They didn't understand power. Or the sacrifices of what it took to lead.
Music and laughter bubbled up from the ground. A trickle of green light began as a teardrop suspended in mid-air, pooling before trailing down. The pulse thickened, a seam cut by invisible scissors.
Colvin's heart leapt. The panorama resonated with an ancient part of his fey heritage. The sounds, the smells recalled a pageantry his life longed for, opened a door to memories, blood memories old and familiar. Then came the tramp of men marching, the sound near and distinct.
A troop of men, if men such creatures be called, emerged. Red Caps. None taller than three feet high, with wiry builds other than their bulbous bellies. Their iron boots ground into the wooden floorboards with an impatient scrape. Long and curved, claws sharp as steel carried slings which allowed them to throw stones from faraway positions. Long stockinged caps, faded to a dull pink, covered brush-wire hair. Ragged, pointed teeth within drawn, gaunt faces gave them a sullen quality. Except for the poisonous glare of their red eyes. Every time Colvin laid eyes on them, he squashed the need to laugh at their absurd appearance. Much like the pygmy tribes of Africa, their diminutive appearance belied the fact that they were among the most feared warriors of any tribe. Red Caps made homes in crumbling castles and haunted places with a reputation for evil events. And nothing was more evil than the neglected poor.
'I have a job for them,' Colvin said.
'Omarosa?' Mulysa asked, but got no reply. They were long overdue to get payback over the mess with Broyn.
'Want I should lead them?'
