'What's up, Rhianna?' Lott sidled next to her.
'I'm standing here going over my list of reasons I shouldn't kill myself and can only come up with three reasons and one of them involves a stuffed French toast breakfast I'd promised myself for later in the week. Which only means that next week I'll still have to re-evaluate.'
'Still hustling then.'
'We all hustle. But not full-time though. Just to feed the kids when my man don't help out. I got regulars who I go with.'
'Rellik's your pimp?'
'Nah, I just have to play by his rules.' She blew smoke out the side of her mouth, away from Lott. 'I ain't like the hos in it to feed a habit. I don't mess with no drugs. Don't mess with no pimps. I just clear things with Rellik's crew.'
'Listen, I need you to get word to someone.'
'What I look like, a messenger service?'
'Girl, you know and I know ain't fewer people tighter on the vine than you.' Some folks went places others couldn't go and heard things most people couldn't. Or shouldn't. Murder, gossip, or drug news. Even more so than the ghetto telegraph of stoop to barbershop.
'Service ain't free. A girl's gotta earn.'
'I didn't ask for a freebie.' Lott pulled out his wallet, careful not to let Rhianna see how much remained in it. She was still one of his people, but he knew his people. Money had a way of making even friends a mark to run game on.
'Options always open. For you.'
'Yeah.' Lott shifted an awkward pause. 'I'm putting word on the wire for a meeting. Done got a hold of Rellik. Need to get up with this dude Colvin.'
'Look at you… carrying King's water an' all. Getting all the players to the table is he?'
'Something like that.'
'What about Dred?'
The name shot through him like a bullet through the spine. Caught him short, an anxious skip of unfinished business to his heart. 'If he around, he knows.'
'Ears everywhere. So no insult not to invite him direct. Others though might not be more sensitive.'
'Who?'
'Naptown Red.' Rhianna tapped off the ash of her cigarette.
'Who?'
'Bit player.'
'So why invite him?'
'Just saying. Niggas like to get their ego stroked.'
'Rellik. Dred. Colvin. Respect due the real players.' Lott handed her a fifty dollar bill. 'This do?'
'They'll know before your head hits the pillow.' Rhianna blew out another stream. 'Or Lady G's.'
Broad Ripple nestled toward the near north-east part of Indianapolis. The White River wound along its north side; the ever-crowded thoroughfare of Keystone Avenue pulsed along its east; Kessler Boulevard meandered along its south; and the officious Meridian Street stood rigid guard at the west. Originally founded to be a separate village from Indianapolis proper, Broad Ripple was the result of a merger between two rival communities: Broad Ripple and Wellington, each vying for expansion. Indianapolis residents built their summer homes in Broad Ripple to retreat from the inner city. It even had its own amusement park built to rival Coney Island's, though it burned to the ground two years after its construction. A park resided there now. The quaint little homestead now sported specialty stores, nightclubs, ducks along the river, and the Monon Trail walkway.
Merle loved the old houses in Broad Ripple. If Lockerbie Square was the neo-conservative hippie of the arts community, Broad Ripple was its patchoulismelling cousin. Over-priced old neighborhoods existed in their own pocket universe, and as the times changed, so did the street names. Bellfontaine no longer existed: above Kessler Boulevard it was Cornell; below it was Guilford. So 5424 Bellfontaine was practically a rumor. A house with no street. A dwelling in the shadow of a dead street. An obvious place for her to live.
A two-story Tudor-style house, its high-pitched roof held a lone arched window, an unblinking Cyclopean eye blinded by the pulled curtains. In fact, the vinecovered windows all had their blinds drawn so that the windows appeared tinted black. Far away from the road, it was the discreet kind of house that one drove by a hundred times without ever truly noticing.
Merle rang the doorbell.
A well-preserved forty-something year-old answered the door. All sultry-eyed and smoldering saunter, she held a glass of red wine in her right hand as she held the door open with her back. Morgana.
'Look what the cat pissed on and left on my yard,' she said.
'Fountains. I love the fountains,' Merle said.
'You never cease to amuse,' Morgana noted. They all had familiar, if not quite familial, roles. Morgana was an instigator, though between her digging comments, she drank her wine under a smile. Pure malice danced in her eyes. At the best of times, she was prone to bouts of darkness, but she seemed withdrawn, either by nature or by choice. 'I see you found me.'
'Just had to know which bell to ring.'
'On a street that doesn't exist.'
'Maybe you should try a different glamour spell,' Merle said. 'Or maybe you simply tired of playing at goddess-hood.'
'One does not turn one's back on what one is,' Morgana said.
'Only you, princess, still consider us even close to gods. We never were. We were ideas. When people cease believing in gods, the gods die. When they cease to believe in ideas…' Merle said.
'They cease to dream.'
'They cease to exist.'
'And we're still here.' She set her chalice down on a table he couldn't spy within the foyer. She guarded her home and her secrets and wasn't going to let him nose around any more than she had to.
'Your son seeks you.'
'Our dance is almost over.'
'He says you have one last lesson to teach him.'
'Does he now? An ambitious little scrapling. I have more than a few tricks left in me.'
'He thinks it's almost time.'
'What do you think, mad mage?'
'I think…' Merle adjusted the fit of his aluminum cap. 'You are harder to get rid of than most things. The hardiest of cockroaches.'
'Sadly, I know you mean that as a compliment.' Morgana's eyes never left Merle. Secrets within agendas within schemes. The woman was maddening and fascinating. And had a way of stirring up old feelings.
'It's not in my best interest to be rude.'
'Ruthless, but not rude. You don't have me fooled, mage. I did learn one lesson while under your… tutelage.'
'What was that?'
'Never teach your student all of your tricks.'
'And you do have many… students.'
'Is that a hint of jealousy I hear? Don't worry, mad one, you will always have a special place in my heart.'
'And I shiver at the thought of what a cold, dark place that is. What about Dred?'
'Leave my son to me. You've done your duty. Consider me warned.'
'The least I could do. For old times' sake.'
Now that Mountain Jack's had closed down, Rick's Boatyard was King's favorite restaurant. Tucked away on the west side, it overlooked Eagle Creek Reservoir itself, on the other side of I-465, a man-made boundary that separated Breton Court and the apartments and neighborhoods surrounding it from the neighborhoods that bled into the suburbs. A chalkboard proclaimed the day's special: the chef's soup of seafood and andouille gumbo, a main
