fingers. The dice came up sixes. Money changed hands amidst grumbles about the boxcar roll.
'Y'all want in?' The Boars asked.
'I'm in,' Rok said, throwing a few ends onto the pile. They were still a crew and not only didn't he throw and punch, he was equally unnerved by the invisible assault. It also helped that he lost the last roll to The Boars.
'Who's up? Who's up? Who's up?' The Boars continued.
'If I ain't steppin' on something…'
'Yeah?' The tentative way Rok approached getting into The Boars' business, almost deferential, appealed to him.
'It true?'
'What?'
'I heard you got them boys.'
'Who?'
'Dred's crew.'
'Walked straight up on a buster and capped him in the head,' another echoed.
'Served him up. One in the face,' a third chimed in.
Rumors swirled about the bodies dropping all over town. Some with a simple bullet to the head. Some scenes described as straight out of a horror film, with bodies tore up, raked through, and blood everywhere. The Boars didn't mind some of that name recognition landing on him. Though he didn't want to directly claim it either. It was a dangerous business taking another person's credit.
'Same blood, not the same heart.'
'You ice cold, man. There's no forgiveness to you.'
'I hear that. A lot.' The Boars snapped his fingers at the dice roll.
'It's all that Cobra you be drinking.'
'I don't drink that watered-down piss. The KKK runs that shit.'
'Shut up, fool. You think the KKK runs everything,' Rok said.
'It's why he don't wear no Sean Jean gear,' another voiced added.
'But that's P Diddy's line,' Rok said. 'Sound like maybe his competitors started a rumor.'
'Klan. I'm telling you,' The Boars said.
'I never did trust that too-pretty nigga no way,' a peewee said. They all turned to see who had snuck into their circle.
'Why do so many niggas have to be such sugar drops?' The Boars lightly shoved Rok. 'You too, nigga. You have to come strong. We need to get you on a workout bench. Get you pumped up.'
Still rattling the dice in his hand like dead men's bones, he paused when he noticed the duo approaching.
Mulysa wanted his name to ring out, the sole ambition of his eyes jacked up by drugs. A stain dirtying everything he touched, he was a melanoma on the skin of his family. One they attempted to scrape off. For as long as he could remember, he learned to take the beatings, the abuse. And learned to smile — that dangerous half- smirk ready to jump off — because in the back of his mind he thought 'one day.' One day he'd be big enough. Like a pit bull bred to fight, he responded to what he'd been taught. He dined on pain and suffering every day and internalized it. It got in him, built his muscles, wired his thinking, flowed through his veins. The pain, the anger, the hate. He closed the space between them, meaning to crowd them. His hands shook when his blood got to racing. His arm twitched, the flinch that signaled he was about to go hard.
A tightness clutched his stomach as he remembered the child he had been. Sneaking a cup of sugar and a packet of Kool Aid in a sandwich bag for him and his friends. They'd all lick their fingers and swipe at the pile of powder until there was nothing left but a gooey pile. Every break between what few high school classes he attended spent smoking blunts. Weed affected him in ways different from his friends. More deeply. Something he couldn't identify drove him and he couldn't stop. He smirked at the idea of his friends. He couldn't recall any of their names now, and even their faces were vaguely recalled silhouettes.
Mulysa took a corner, sold dime bags of marijuana for his cousin who had a supplier out of the eastside. Then came juvenile, which completed his education. Confined with gunmen and killers, it kept him low and it killed anything good in him. Something he planned on passing along to Tristan.
'What's up?' Tristan asked.
'I'm drunk. That's what's up.'
'Recognize.' She knew that fire dancing in his eyes. That rush which at any moment might spring at her. 'What's with these fools?'
'Let me milk this cow. Y'all just hold the tail,' Mulysa said.
'I ain't trying to do no jail.'
'See this here? This is a pack of dogs. Each one scrappin' for their piece. Times are a little lean and they a little wild so it's easy for them to scrap too hard over a little piece of meat. Some try to go off by themselves, some try to set them up as the big dog.'
'And you here cause you the Alpha dog?' Tristan asked.
'Naw. Colvin's the Alpha dog. I'm the stick he uses to train them. You, too.'
'Train them for what?'
'Shit. You beat a dog when he a young pup, he thinks twice about rising up on you later on.'
At the sight of Mulysa, thickly muscled, an upright pit bull, and Tristan, rangy yet sturdy, no play in her eyes and scattered. The boys with the appointment knew it was pointless to run. They eye-fucked the locals to scare the need to witness out of them.
Mulysa menaced a smile.
Tristan lagged behind without having to be told. A sign of intelligence, Mulysa thought. She knew her business. The first time Tristan hooked up with Mulysa, she and Iz were completely ass-out. She dozed during the day under a bridge while Iz went to school and stayed up to guard them at night. One time while she slept, some fool jacked all her stuff; just grabbed her backpack and took off. She never cried when she told Iz, only took her hand and leaned her head onto her shoulder. A rare moment of lowering her guard.
They'd have left then but Indianapolis was all Tristan knew. Then Mulysa showed up. Said he recognized talent when he saw it. The bullshit didn't matter, the money did. Though she felt no obligation to him, in a way, he was there for them when no one else was. He was a predator of the first order and she was every bit on guard around him as when she was on the streets. The money was straight though.
Rok opted not to move as Tristan attempted to brush by — a tacit challenge she understood but had little patience for.
'What we got here? A little game among gentlemen?' Mulysa dropped to his knees and hovered over the money. 'Civility is the name of the game.'
'What you here for?' The Boars asked.
'You do the speeding, you get a ticket.'
'Whose street are we speeding on?'
'Colvin's,' Mulysa said.
'Colvin? Shee-it. I thought you were talking about someone serious. Not that high yella, wannabe peckerwood.' The Boars assessed his six-to-two advantage and confidence crept into his posture. 'He's another one. Got a little sugar in his tank.'
'You sure that's the tone you want to take with me, nukka?'
'You might want to look around you, dog. You and the missus… you a little out-gunned up in this piece.' The Boars challenged with his eyes, though a skim of sweat trickled along his hairline.
Born on Christmas Day, Mulysa was taken in by CPS at two. A dealer friend called CPS, having been given the boy to pay off a debt. He was five years old when he was first raped and beaten in a foster home. With no place else to go, he went back into the system.
'What led to arson?' Arson followed battery as juvenile followed boys' school. All sort of docs tried to crawl into his head. He suffered headaches. Adderall, Wellbutrin, a prescribed menagerie to address his anger problems, they often found it safer to sedate him with drugs. None helped. His mom and dad came into money, a settlement from an accident from when a security guard wrenched his mother's arm in a store (the fact that she was there to shoplift notwithstanding) and they got him back. Even sent him to a private school. His thoughts drifted to jail and
