'This ain't a rap video, fool.' Lott shoved him playfully in the back of the head. Wayne, Lott, and Prez took up positions as escorts, feeling every bit as ridiculous as Wal-Mart greeters, but King wanted the arrivals to be respected and welcomed.
'They're going to be late,' King reassured them. His leather coat swirled around him like a low-lying cloud, perfectly framing the image of Dr Martin Luther King Jr on his black T-shirt. His Caliburn was safely tucked away, but not on his person, per the rules of parlay.
'Had to prove who's the biggest man. Make the others wait,' Wayne agreed.
'So we could be here all night just waiting for them to show.' Detective Cantrell stood arms folded over one another, his face a sculpture of solemn, bemused, skepticism. His posture the incarnation of the words 'I told you so.'
'Someone has to be first,' King said.
In the face of the event possibly flopping on its face, Pastor Winburn beamed in silence toward King with something akin to pride.
The cleaning staff came through Oldfields every other evening with great care, erasing any traces of that day's traffic. Eight historically refurbished rooms reflected their 1930s appearance. Pristine furniture of a bygone era, preserved, restored, dusted, polished dead dreams. Visitors typically started at the Entrance Hall, with its circular staircase and then moved into the Great Hall, the grand artery of the house that accessed most of the other rooms. It was the main room for entertaining.
However, the players weren't gathering to entertain.
Lined up within the long drive of Oldfields, the various crew leaders pulled up with their respective security entourages. Sports cars, SUVs, long green Continentals, all freshly washed, with immaculate rims: a funeral procession, built on the backs of a poisoned community. The first out of the vehicle was always bodyguard. Foot soldiers guarded the cars. No one worried about any beefs because all parlays were respected and any issues squashed.
'I think that's Rellik's ride pulling up,' Prez said.
Garlan stepped out of the Cadillac CTS-V first, followed by The Boars and Rok, checking the place out with a quick scan before giving a nod to Rellik. He shook out his shirt in one final act of preening, then walked toward Oldfields. Lott and Prez moved to greet him, but Wayne put his arm up to hold them back.
'I got this,' he said in a flat tone devoid of any humor or joy, a tone so unfamiliar to either of them it froze them in their tracks. Wayne walked toward Rellik. He didn't have any words prepared. He hadn't rehearsed this moment in his head. Once his brother left the family, his name was hardly brought up. A ghost who ran the streets, he might as well have been as dead as his other brothers. He had heard Gavain was out and given the worlds they ran in, knew the possibility of them running into one another was constant. But not necessarily inevitable. When King detailed his scheme, the idea of seeing his brother still didn't seem real to Wayne. Yet here they were.
'Wayne.' For his part, Rellik didn't know how to play the situation either, besides cool. It had been too long and without any vibe of brotherly affection, wasn't no point in going too far out the way to be… brotherly.
'Gavain.' Wayne moved in. The scar of the back of his neck itched. Garlan took note, ready to move, but relaxed as the two embraced. More cordial than any true warmth. It was a start.
'Don't no one call me that no more.' He cut his eyes toward Garlan. 'It's Rellik.'
'I heard that's who you were now. Which is it, killer or relic?'
'Which do you hope it is?' Rellik let the question hang in the air. 'You look good, money. Played a little ball, I heard.'
'For a minute. Blew out my wheel though.'
'Now you out here saving kids.'
'They save themselves. I'm just here to help them stay out they own way.'
'Keeping them from drowning.' He wondered if Wayne had any love in his heart for him. Gary. Rath. Their deaths weren't his fault but they were under his care. They were his charges, his responsibility, and he fucked it up. He fucked everything up. His actions blew up the family as they were never the same afterward. Just walking into the house made him sad. His mother's eyes betrayed the sense of blame and judgment she never gave voice to. Not that their eyes ever met. She spoke to him when she had to, always pleasant enough. But that was all it ever was. Brief. Courteous. Affectionless.
'Come on. Folks'll be lining up soon. Let's get you situated.' Lott sensed the apprehension of the moment ushered them along.
'King,' Wayne introduced. 'This is Rellik of the Merky Water crew. My brother.'
Rellik was the old brother and he shamed Wayne. He was the hope of the family, the one they all admired, and yet he proved himself every bit the fuck-up his father was. And his father before him. Wayne was the good one, the heart of the family. If pressed, the most Wayne might have confessed to was… annoyance at Gavain. His presence, the idea of him, to be caught up around him and his nonsense would have been too much for Wayne and what he wanted to do and how he approached the world. Better for Gavain to become Rellik, the villain he believed the family and the community viewed him as anyway.
King raised an eyebrow. Wayne rarely talked about his family and King hadn't pressed. Still, this might have been a bit of information he might've mentioned.
'What's up?' The pair clasped hands and bumped shoulders. 'You can go on inside. Wayne will take care of you. Your people are free to hang out in the front room.'
Rellik and Wayne departed, followed by his entourage. Within the door, Cantrell waved a metal detector wand as a security check. No weapons allowed past that point. The steps had barely been cleared when the next set of cars arrived. Mulysa and Tristan were the first out of the car. Broyn exited next. Colvin cut through the center of them, flanked by Mulysa and Tristan.
'Colvin,' Merle whispered. 'He stinks of fey.'
'He favors Omarosa,' King said.
'He should. He's her twin.'
'Keep an eye on your wallet then.'
'Colvin of the ICU set,' Prez announced.
'King, well met.' Colvin ignored all except King. The two squared off, not with any tension, but in a moment of sizing one another up. Colvin a man of languid grace, King much larger, but with a fluidity of his own. They clasped hands and bumped shoulders, then King dismissed Prez to escort Colvin to the inner chamber. They led the entourage to the great room where Pastor Winburn began the dance of getting to know the kids. Flat-faced and downcast gazes, not a smile among the lot, they were a bored classroom with a substitute teacher. Lott remained next to King, not wishing to leave him alone as the last of their little gathering showed up. He knew the toll this must take on him and didn't want to leave his friend hurting any more than he had to.
'King.' Dred's voice ran like ice water along his back. Dred's scraggily goatee never grew in right, adding to the natural boyish look of his face. His nest of hair coiled out in serpentine aggression. Eyes the color of cold onyx, though bloodshot and rheumy, fixed on him.
'Dred.'
'Parlay's a beautiful thing. A time for old friends to reacquaint themselves and chat freely.'
'Wouldn't have asked you here otherwise.' A shuffle along the shadows drew King's attention. Baylon stepped into view. King remembered his once-flexing gait. Not quite the full pimping stroll, but enough to convey the fluid movement of his prison-built bulk. Eyes half-closed in onsetting ennui, as if bored with all he surveyed. The man before him was shriveled, not in size, but in the way he carried himself. Like a drained old man with a stiff-jointed shuffle. His jogging suit had seen better days, but not damn sight of a washer. 'Damn, son. You look rough.'
'Such are the winds of fortune,' Dred said.
'Come on. Let's go inside.'
Naptown Red scurried up the steps just as Detective Cantrell Williams was set to close the door. He wanted to arrive last, making the others wait on him. He parked his whip over in the lot of the museum proper and walked over, not wanting anyone to see his rusted-out '88 Oldsmobile. The car was pimping in its day, a classic, to Red's mind, but might have gotten him laughed out this here player's ball.
'Damn, you trying to rush a nigga?' Red asked.
'Who are you?' Cantrell studied him.
'Naptown Red.' Black moles formed a constellation around each of his bloodshot, heavy eyes. The color of his
