the ordered life there, the peace of the streets. So one day he left. Most times he lived in an abandoned bank. Some times he dropped by the Camlann Apartments complex. The streets were his home, his headache his sole companion. No matter where he went, no one saw him. He knew he was just a joke to them. A nigger joke.
Mulysa withdrew a knife and twirled it in his hands, the six-inch blade stopped, handle in his palm. The Boars' mouth went dry.
'As big as your dick. Bigger.'
'It ain't the size, it's how you use it,' Tristan said, her handcrafted blades curled around her fists. They were overkill, she thought, and put them away. She attacked with sudden ferocity, catching The Boars off guard. Speed and guile on her part made up for the mismatch of his bulk versus hers. Most of the shorties scattered, probably racing back to sound an alarm. Her movements were smooth and elegant. The edge of her hand chopped at his throat followed by a punch to his solar plexus. Without passion, it was nothing personal. She directed a blow to a nerve cluster in his arm, painful, and would leave him in a mood to not continue a fight. In another finesse move, she leg-swept the approaching boy, toppling him, then kicked him in the side until he curled up in surrender. They were perfunctory blows. Other than The Boars, these were boys, not hardened soldiers. Water pumped in their veins.
Mulysa took greater relish in his attack. The crunch of bone beneath his pummeling fist only drove him to greater heights of bloodlust. His nostrils widened as if snorting the blood scent. His lips pulled back in a mad rictus. His name would ring out for sure. To march into the heart of Rellik's territory, to put a beat-down on some of his troops in the middle of his own party. Shit. He grew heady on waves of his soon-to-beswelling rep. He drew his dagger — damn near a machete, his bottom bitch — and turned to go at Rok. Tristan stepped between them.
'Enough. I think they got the point.'
'Let's bounce before these bitches find their heart.'
'And gats.' Tristan glanced back at Rok with a nod. 'Deuces.'
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hot Trimz had only been open a few months. Some of the barbers from Stylez across the street didn't like the booth rent arrangement and launched their own shop, taking up the space next to the Hoosier Pete convenience mart. They constantly handed out postcards to the Hoosier Pete regulars and had an ongoing special of a ten dollar haircut to any customer before 1 pm. An Obama '08 plackard hung alongside other signs: 'Walkins welcome.' 'Multicultural.' 'Stylists Wanted.' Several outdated issues of XXL, Vibe, and Scoop, the newspaper for the local night scene for black folks, lay scattered along the benches. The Commodores' 'Lady' played in the background.
A white linoleum-tiled floor lined the thin strip of a shop, black mats beneath each station. The unsturdy benches were flush against the wall, hard on the ass and back. Three barbershop hairstyle guides were on display on the walls. From the beauty salon on the other half of the shop, female stylists talked crazy to the barbers over the dividing wall.
'Bunny!' Davion 'D' Perkins, an earpiece always on his ear, said.
'I told you not to call me that,' a female voice cried from the other side of the dividing wall.
'Grow up, D,' Old School said in a tone of mock chivalry.
'Ain't that the pot calling the kettle negro?' she said.
'Old School, handle that,' D said. 'You ain't got your girl in check.'
D had fast eyes and missed nothing. In a black vest over a white T-shirt, a casual display of his former athletic build, he swept the hair from around his station.
'Look at Old School. He like a little kid, hiding his hair under his chair.'
'Look here, when you got it going on like me, you forget little details like a little hair.'
'Yeah, you know all about a little hair.' D went ahead and swept under Old School's chair.
'Why they call you 'Bunny'?' Old School asked.
'Uh oh, hurry up, here she comes,' D said.
Before she could come around the corner, a cowbell clanged against the front door as it opened. A darkskinned woman, her skin made darker against her sunflower-yellow dress, walked in. Her swollen breasts and plunging cleavage made Old School lower his glasses. No more than twenty years old, she towed a wailing four year-old.
'Boy, sit down and be still.' She plopped him down in D's chair. 'Up here looking crazy.'
'We all big boys in here,' D said, draping a drop cloth around the boy's chest. Then he clicked on a set of clippers and waved them about to let the boy get used to the noise. The child continued to bellow, inconsolable. His attention shifting from D to Old School, back to his mother. The boy's tiny hands rose and made grasping motions toward her.
'He just cutting you up.' The woman crossed her arms in a practiced pose of defiance, daring someone to cross her.
'Get your hair fresh to match your outfit,' Old School said.
'Want to check out these keys?' D pulled a jangling mass out of his pocket. The boy paused mid-bellow, an uncertain air as he studied the keys. 'You got them boys. Go to that escalade out there.'
'Let him push buttons,' Old School said.
The child burst into a renewed fit of tears, squirming out of the raised perch as the clippers neared his curly, light brown locks.
'Put some muscle in it. He'll be all right.' His mother sucked her teeth in impatience.
'You got this, D.' Old School tip-toed away from her to ease back into his chair. He flipped open the latest issue of Scoop and pretended to read.
'I know he ain't stronger than you. Just rip him.'
'He keeps moving around and I don't want to nick him,' D said.
'Hold him down. Who's the adult?'
'I ain't trying to lay hands on someone else's kids.'
The show went on for a few more minutes, D angling clippers at the boy's head, each time as if considering the best attack approach. His mother clucked, sucked her teeth, checked her watch, and muttered loud enough for all to hear about how real men could handle a crying boy. The cowbell clanked again — D made a note to get a real chime — as King strode in. Prez followed behind him scratching his arm, in a skittish manner as if ready to break out in a full sprint at the next low sound. The boy stopped crying.
In his late forties, not a speck of gray on his head or in his beard, and wearing a black lab half-coat, Old School slapped the seat of his chair. Prez wandered into his chair, first checking to see if anyone else stirred for it, and chewed on his lower lip as he eyed the line of King's hair. Old School wrapped the paper neck cuff around Prez, then his huge arms draped the cloth around him in a flourish. Turning up his nose after catching a whiff of Prez's funk, he leaned the young man's head back over the sink and began washing his hair first. 'What we need today?'
Prez's eyes caught King's, almost seeking permission to answer — if he were sure at all.
'Let's just bald him up. Go clean all the way around and start fresh,' King said.
'Change the hair, change the image,' Old School said.
It had already been a long day. King and Prez had played basketball for a few hours. It had been a while since King had been on a court. Too long. His legs lacked the grace and coordination which made the game come alive for him so long ago, like he had to learn to run all over again. Not that it mattered as Prez huffed and puffed before the score reached 2–2, having no wind and nothing close to stamina in his rubbery legs. Their game was complete slop, spending more time chasing down errant rebounds than playing. Despite his wheezing and slow gait, Prez continued to ball, jogging around the half-court, amiably hounding King and calling it defense. No one joined in their game, sensing that the game wasn't the point. There was the sense of intruding on something personal.
Though his muscles ached and his sweat reeked of toxins seeking release and his stomach roiled with sickness, Prez knew he'd be fighting against his own body for a while. Callused, scarred, and stiff, his hand felt foreign. His breath came in hard rasps, the threat of erupting into a fit of coughs with each struggling wheeze. The game slowly came back to him through a thick fog of muscle memory, as if he played on someone else's legs.
