'I mean, you cute and all…' Her hand rested on his. Not flirty, but knowing. She enjoyed the effect she had on him. She played the silly games girls play, confusing him one moment, making him jealous the next. The petty cruelties of love. Craving his affections and attentions, she knew that she kept him for herself, held his heart by a dog leash.
The sound of her voice felt too near. 'But you with King.'
'I know.'
What he said about King was true, but she felt like the bride of a war husband, a man divided between mission and family. Living such a split life, carving up bits of himself doled out to everyone who needed him or even just asked, King was his own worst enemy. And no one saw it, no one looked out for him. They simply kept lining up to take from him. And she also respected the image they represented in front of the group and she wanted to be seen as warm, loving, nice, and loyal.
Lott fit her. She loved Lott for his bravery, courtesy, boldness, and lack of guile, but it was more than that. Lott allowed her to be her. Young and silly, not always serious and driven. She didn't have to live up to how he saw her but could just… be. Lott was a simple man with a simple code and who would risk his life, but not his brothers'. He didn't have King's moodiness, darkness, and pent-up secrets. King was a frustrating, closed book while Lott was an open, simple one. At times she wanted to just hold him, stroke his hair. The idea of her and Lott was too costly so she blocked the idea out of her mind. But whenever he was around, whenever it was her and him, it was as if her thoughts and actions shifted into automatic pilot.
'You OK?' Lott asked. 'You drifted off.'
'But I was going to say that you're, I don't know, my best friend.'
'Yeah.' Lott rose, his body too aware of her presence. That was his way: rather than be tempted or mentally toy with things he shouldn't, he'd leave. 'Anyway, I gotta bounce. Gonna meet King.'
'Be careful.'
'I will. Uh, could I borrow your scarf?' the chill of the air didn't bother him, he simply wanted to have something of hers close to his heart.
'Yeah.' She handed her knight errant her slight blue veil.
Their shadows held hands.
There were wars and there were wars, and Naptown Red was a soldier to the bone. The idea of a war on drugs amused him. Wasn't no president launched troops into the hood searching for crack pipes of mass destruction. Nor were any planes deployed to bomb coca fields. No, there were police sent in to lock niggas up for trying to earn, the government mad too little of these dollars were lining its pockets. The money was out there, steady flowing, and where money went, so went power and interest.
All the wars did was turn police into frontline troops on the opposing side of the community. No one talked to the police. Police no longer talked to the community, trained to eye them with suspicion and dread, fomenting a spirit of distrust and uncooperation. They turned innocent bystanders, hard-working citizens not in the game, into enemy non-combatants. And Red into a freelance mercenary, because in times of war, soldiers were at a premium. He couldn't think of anyone he knew that didn't have someone who'd been locked up, was locked up, or was on paper.
The midnight air cool and crisp, he felt no pain beneath the sodium glare of the street lights. A bottle of Crown Royal wrapped in a paper bag, he held court at the Rural Inn on the corner of Rural and Michigan Street. He took a healthy sip and it bit into him real nice. Close to drunk, the low warm got his head up in a nice way. Roger's 'I Want to be Your Man' was stuck in his head so he hummed along.
'What's up, nukka?' Mulysa's hands remained in his pockets.
'You come see about me?' Red offered him a taste. They danced the dance of street cordiality, through tightened jaws and forced smiles.
'You still looking?'
'I was just thinking that soldiers are at a premium out here.'
'Who you down with?'
'I got no set,' Red said.
'Everyone works for someone.'
'I got my man, but he lets me be. Sets me up, lets me do my thing. I break him off.' Mulysa stared down the block. 'Like you want to do for me.'
'Exactly.' Red pointed with the bag-wrapped bottle and winked a bloodshot yellow eye.
'What I got to do?'
'See? A well-trained dog ain't used to being off leash. What you want to do? I could set you up on a package. You could run girls.'
'Yeah. All of that.'
'You a Renaissance nigga. I like that. Why don't you round up a girl or two and get started. Got someone in mind?' Red asked through the haze of a knowing leer.
'Yeah.'
'Good. The sooner you get on that, the sooner you on your path to complete independence.'
Hot Trimz closed at 6pm most days. Wasn't open at all on Sundays. However, they kept special hours for 'appointments.' Some clients kept discreet hours or otherwise demanded special treatment. If the price was right, the entire staff stayed over.
Omarosa leaned back in the chair as Bunny threaded one of her eyebrows. A short, stout woman, with red and purple hair crowning her head — the lone white woman on staff — Bunny's glasses pushed low on her nose. Her eyes held to grim slits giving her face a pinched expression as she concentrated. The cow bell at the front door clanged. Omarosa drew her sawed-off shotgun into her lap.
'Relax,' Bunny assured her. 'The boys got this.'
Omarosa listened with lethal intent.
'How many you got?' Broyn asked.
'My book's full up,' Old School said.
'Yeah. I can see that.' Broyn eyed the row of empty benches. 'How about later?'
'Tomorrow.' Old School pulled out his appointment book.
'Name a time.'
'7.30, 8pm. After-shop hours.'
'A-ight.'
D watched him until he slow-dipped out of sight. Omarosa relaxed her grip on her weapon, but didn't lower it back to her side.
'Let's have a Halloween party then go streaking out in the Quads,' Bunny yelled over the top of the partition.
'How bout I just get buck nekkid right here,' Old School said.
'Aw naw. Not buck nekkid.'
'You'll have to take that out back,' D said from his office as he tallied the day's receipts.
'I could do it up in the front window,' Old School said.
'Not in the front window!' Bunny yelled.
'Some of them cougars might come in here to see what's poppin'.'
'A cougar ain't looking for another cougar.'
'Dag, Bunny, I thought you and me was cool.'
'We cool. Just don't call me Bunny.'
The cowbell clanged again. D made a note to get a real door chime. Again. King strode in.
'She in?' King stuck his head into D's office.
'Don't you have an office?' D asked.
'Yeah, yours.' The pair bumped fists.
'She round back.'
An optometrist shop was two buildings north of the barber shop. Along its back wall, a six-pointed star bookended by the letters G and D along with two three-pronged pitchforks were spray painted. No such tagging occurred on the shop. D prided himself on Hot Trimz being sacred ground. Everyone needed their haircut. D had enough juice left over from his bid in jail and his time on the streets. He knew the game, respected the game, but
