'How does it feel?' King asked as they collapsed against the pole. His eyes closed as he let fatigue wash over him, his sweat trickled down him, and his muscles throbbed with deep ache. Not painful, but more in a good-to-be- alive sort of way. For all of his running around, King was never truly with anyone. Never invested himself into anyone. Never gave or sacrificed much of himself. It was safer that way, he didn't have to risk much of himself. Sure, he opened himself up to a core few — Wayne, Lott, Lady G — but after that, everyone was kept at a distance. Even Pastor Winburn. After a few moments, he realized Prez hadn't said anything and he opened his eyes. Prez wept to himself.
'I forgot about this,' Prez said.
'About what?'
'I don't know. All of this. Life. I took it all for granted.'
'So what do you want to do next?'
'Live. But…' Prez trailed off.
'But what?' King knew the answer but he waited for Prez to find the words.
'I don't know where to start.'
'Make a list of what you want out of life. Nothing ridiculous.'
To be healthy again. Car. Relationship. Family. Friends. Forgiveness. King made him write them down, something tangible that he could come back to when he needed reminding. King suggested he might want to begin with finding a job. He helped Prez make a resume. The next step was for him to polish his look and present himself as professionally as possible. They both hoped for a break, just an opportunity, for a second chance.
'Either I'm getting slower or you getting faster,' Old School said as D brushed his face with a powder-laced brush. Rubbed 'botanical oils and razor relief lotion' on his head.
'You slow.' D collected ten dollars from the mother.
'You don't miss nothing.'
'You make me scared to get old.'
'Have a good day, you hear?' Old School called after the girl. She glanced at King and smiled, not that he noticed.
For his part, King battled against a sense of personal failure. Not that he'd been entrusted with Prez or that he really knew the boy, but he felt like he'd let him down. The community bulletin board enraptured his attention. In God's Hands child care. Lawn Service. Insurance. House cleaners. The community reached out and helped its own. He had been so concerned about the big battles he forgot about the everyday ones; the people around and closest to him. King had failed Prez once and he wouldn't fail him again.
King handed Old School a twenty and didn't wait for change. Prez got up and offered Old School a fist to bump.
'I don't have time for all that snapping and slapping,' Old School said. 'Just shake my hand.'
The bell clanged again. Detective Cantrell Williams held the door open for the young woman and son to exit. He'd have probably tipped his hat to them if he wore one. Even if he wasn't known, the room would have made him as a cop. Stiff, straight-backed walk. His stare imposed, a challenge to any who saw him. He locked onto King immediately, who nodded toward D's office. D returned an approving nod. The two closed the door behind them, King planted himself behind D's desk.
'Your boy's late,' Cantrell started.
'Yeah, Lott runs that way.'
'Well I ain't got all day.'
'You heard my pitch or you wouldn't be here. If I'm going to have the major players come to the table for a sit down, I'm going to need police support. Or noninvolvement, as the case may be.'
King understood his burgeoning rep. His name rang out on the streets in ways his father's never did. However, he also understood the ways of power. Cops had real power. They controlled where and how open the gangs operated. They could put anyone in jail at any time. Yet they rarely arrested the leaders. Perhaps it was a matter of better the devils they knew as opposed to an unstable and unpredictable leader or, worse, a power vacuum.
'You make some folks… nervous.' Cantrell leaned in. The close feel of the room gave the conversation the feel of an interrogation.
'So?' King said, unintimidated. He had been brought down for questioning enough times. Suspicion of battery. Questioned about assaults. Rumors of him brandishing a weapon in public. But there were never any complaining witnesses. Only his name coming up, in vague, and soon forgotten, accounts.
'You ain't hearing me. Some in the department think you trying to do their job. Some think you trying to get dirt on them. Either way, you making enemies you don't have to make.'
'That's why I reached out to you.'
'Me, huh?'
'Yeah, you seem like a brotha I could trust. Could work with.'
'You mean a brotha you could work.' Cantrell eased back in his seat.
The two squared off, neither quite understanding how they came to this point. Distrust was part of the game, the latent defensive hostility that comes with folks always being out to get each other. They sparked each other, hackles bristling, despite wanting the same thing. King decided on a measured step backwards.
'You see that boy in there?' King nodded towards Prez.
'The raggedy dope fiend? Looks kinda rough.'
'Looked rougher a few days ago when he was dryheaving all over my living room.'
'What about him?'
'I brought him around a few months back. He was supposed to stay with a friend of mine and his feet barely hit the sidewalk when he fell in with Green and Night all caught up in the rippin' and runnin' of the street.'
'Seems like the life caught up with him.'
'It catches up to all of us. Chewed him up, got involved with that glass dick, next thing you know, I'm scraping him up out an alley.'
'So?'
'So? So I failed that boy.'
'You ain't responsible for decisions he made,' Cantrell said.
'True. But we all in this together. He do his thing, but we don't have to let there be a 'thing' for him to get into. We have to look out for one another.'
'What you want from me?'
'A light, and I mean light, police presence. You at the table, strictly as a representative.'
'By light you mean out of sight but nearby.'
'Parlay or not, stuff could still jump off with the wrong spark or if a knucklehead gets carried away.'
'You dream big, King. I'll give you that.'
'Someone's got to keep dreaming.'
Cocooned in a scarlet sweater, Esther Baron stood on the front steps of her apartment building. Her thin running blood left her easily chilled. She used to live up in the suburban wasteland of Fishers, too north of Indianapolis with its cookie-cutter strip malls, chain restaurants, and monolithic culture. She thought it too far removed from the heart of the city, convicted that in her heart, she, too, was fleeing from 'darker elements' as her father euphemistically put it. Irvington was much closer to her liking and personality. Ten minutes from Outreach Inc., near downtown, and one of the city's art districts, the neighborhood had history and personality.
Wayne pulled up in one of the Outreach Inc. vans. Kay poked his head out the window, tongue wagging as he took in the day in healthy gulps.
'Good morning, Sir Kay.' Esther petted him through the window. Grabbing each side of his scruffy face, she let him lick her. When she opened the door, he hopped into the back and laid down in the back seat.
'Sir? He won't know what to do with such treatment,' Wayne said.
'He seems like a sir. See the way he gave up his seat for a lady?'
'Chivalry isn't dead.'
'I know. Just like I noticed you didn't question me calling myself a lady.'
'I'm a gentleman and a scholar.'
'Outreach OK with you having him in the car?'
