'I heard.'
'You have to be careful about what you hear.'
'Then don't do business in my house.'
'Our.'
'Our house.' Iz offered her a now-cold French fry. Tristan ate it from her fingertips.
Love, especially the young, tempestuous variety, had a way of complicating life.
CHAPTER TEN
Stalking the periphery of the apartment on the floor below the penthouse some of his boys used as a party place, as a general Rellik sometimes felt reduced to middle-management duties. Shit, downright janitor's duties. Rellik had always been ridden hard, hard enough to be pushed into a bad place. That constant grind wore on a person, eroding like wind-scourged trees rather than smoothed by sandpaper. Glass, trash, used condoms, all the usual remains from an all-night party. He needed to send guys over to clean the place or Sister Jackie, the building community liaison, would be pissed. She could make things difficult, getting the tenants riled up, bringing in police attention, complaining to the superintendent or property owner. With her flat, broad nose and swollen lips, dark rings under her eyes, she had the face of a woman smacked with a 2X4. With the body of a mack truck, broad and immovable, she had a stroke a few years back which didn't seem to slow her down much. The burdens of management weighed on his shoulders as the managerial woes of a bored CEO weren't exactly what he imagined the life of a king being. He had to work around community leaders like Pastor Winburn, or deal with Sister Jackie who was like a one-woman labor union. It was simple business: don't piss off mommas and the neighborhood complains less. He wanted to be more than a criminal, so he'd work with politicos, community groups, churches looking to turn gang members' lives around, whoever. He made a mental note to assign some of the peewees to clean the building, such menial jobs being exactly in their job description. Their asses would jump if he said so. Funny how they could run his errands yet couldn't be bothered to work at McDonald's as being too good to earn minimum wage or be bossed around.
'They here?' Rellik asked.
'Most of them,' Garlan said. They stood in the landing of the stairwell, overlooking the gathering. 'Some of these fools wouldn't know a watch to save they life.'
'They lack discipline.'
'I got it handled.' The implication clear that if Garlan couldn't handle his people, Rellik would find someone who would.
By his count, Rellik had nearly a hundred folks — peewees, soldiers, and wannabes — to coordinate. The way a man looks at a boy and sizes him up, he needed to pull together his whole crew to see what he was working with. Which meant he needed a space to hold meetings. When he ran his crew, he brought in a few of his boys he'd known since high school. These days, with so many doing jail, dead, or out the game entirely, his officer crew was pretty small since he trusted so few. Garlan was solid and was a liaison between him and his unfamiliar crew. He thought it would be a good idea to hold it in a church. Pastor Winburn was one of those do-good types always out for an opportunity to build up relationships with Rellik's type. With such a convergence of opportunity and need, he was practically obligated to have this meeting at Good News. As long as the Pastor minded his own when it was time to get down to business.
This summit meeting saved him the trouble of visiting all the crews separately. His security detail, led by Garlan, drove ahead to give them all clear from rival gangs. At his arrival, one member, Rok, collected all the drugs and cash and had them escorted from the scene so there was never a direct link to Rellik. When a dealer went to prison or was killed, the crew took care of his family. It lessened the worry about a coup, fostering loyalty to the crew.
Over the next few hours, with Garlan a step behind him high on the rush of power, Rellik grilled his crew. He asked about any loss of regulars, measuring the impact of encroachment by other crews. The Treize. ICU. He fielded any reports of product complaints or any of their regulars buying from someone else. Anyone watching. No one new popped up on that front besides Cantrell, partnered with that crooked-ass cracka, Lee. Pastor Winburn, Sister Jackie. He even put his ear to the ground about any new hustlers working the scene. He didn't care how low on the hustle pyramid they were. Geno. Rhianna. Omarosa. If they operated within his sphere of influence or were potential threats, he wanted to know about them. Like King. Lastly, he asked about any niggas. Naptown Red, fool nigga trying to play. Colvin, on the other hand, bore keeping an eye on.
Next they took sales reports, tallying the week's receipts, drugs lost or stolen, inventory lost. Members causing problems. Like settling the dispute between Rok and The Boars, each of whom ran a six-person crew.
'No disrespect, Boars…' Rok rose quickly through the thin ranks, promoted more due to the thin talent pool of who was available, like some ghetto affirmative action. A young buck, skin the color of weak tea, rail thin and with a softness about him. An uncomfortable fit, he was unsure about his position but he took to the job and enjoyed the level of respect it engendered. However, he didn't wear the mantle with ease and his men sensed it.
'The Boars.' Black as seal skin, with a full beard shaved low and a bald head, Bo 'The Boars' Little was a beefy boy in a man's body. He was the left tackle for Northwest High School because the nigga just loved to hit people. Needing some walk-around money, he got into the game. No, that wasn't the real reason. Already having the adulation of fans and peers, he found it wasn't enough. He craved the street rep.
'Ain't but one of you out here calling yourself Boars. We ain't confusing you with anyone.' Rok had honest eyes, but there were no truth tellers out here and Rellik trusted the honest-looking ones least.
'The Boars. You mean no disrespect? Respect my name.' The Boars gravitated to power, craved it like he was hitting a pipe. Greedy, ambitious, brutal, and simple, barely contained anger steeped in his mean little eyes.
'All I'm saying, The Boars, is that I've come up short.'
'That's your problem.'
'No, it's both of your problem,' Rellik said. 'Rok thinks he was underpaid. The Boars thinks someone was lying about how much product was moved. Someone's in the wrong. Give us a minute.'
Rellik and Garlan stepped toward a corner, all eyes on them, a tide of steady murmurs.
'Who you believe?' Rellik asked.
'The Boars is an earner. Little man's too soft. Probably lost the product or had folks steady taking him off.'
'Yeah. That's possible. My gut tells me The Boars is gearing up for his own operation, though. Skimming bits here and there to build up a war chest to buy in on a package. No one noticed until Rok caught him. No one.'
Garlan chafed under this latest bit of schooling from Rellik. The OG dude might have seen himself as trying to raise up some young uns, but Garlan was a man. A man with pride who didn't need to be undercut every time he turned around. 'So what we gonna do?'
'It's a light offense. A beat-down should do it.'
'He a big boy. You up to it?'
'Heh.' Rellik reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring. Old and worn, silver strands wove in an intricate pattern and black filled in the empty spaces. 'This is for you.'
'What is it?'
'Power. You earned it.'
Garlan took the ring. He turned it in his hand several times, inspecting it, then slipped it on. The ring fit his finger like he was born to wear it. 'Now what?'
'You turn it and no one can see you.' Rellik leveled his gaze at him to assure him that he was serious. 'You want to test it? Handle The Boars.'
Garlan turned toward The Boars. The man had him by half a foot and over a hundred pounds easy. Not enough to make water pump through his veins, but enough to give him pause. Garlan looked back at Rellik, who pantomimed the turning of the ring. Garlan did.
The world turned silver and black, like staring at film negatives. The effect dizzied Garlan, who stumbled with his first steps. He steadied himself, quickly becoming used to seeing the world in shades of gray. A few heads
