who loved him. Whom he loved. Pangs of guilt gnawed at him whenever he went by their old spot, overwhelmed by a sense that home was forever lost to him. No one wanted any part of him, they all turned their backs on him so that he could move on. And perhaps they could escape the chaos he brought with him. He didn't blame them. He hated himself probably more than they did. He had no idea what real betrayal was, what depths he was capable of sinking to.
'I am not a man,' he thought.
He always had this vision of the kind of man he wanted to be. Noble, but a bit of a roughneck. Honorable. Honest. True. Trustworthy. A hoodrat knight. He didn't want to be the kind of man his father was. Quick to dive into any bit of pussy that strayed across his path. No matter whose woman she was or whether Lott's mother was in the picture, Lott's father was a ghost in his childhood and absent in his adulthood.
Lott lined up his next shot. Dribbled again. Let it fly. It clanged off the rim and off to the side toward a group of fellas.
'Li'l help,' he said, nodding toward the ball that rested in the grass by them. The men cut him a sideways glance, one sucked his teeth, and kept playing. Lott picked up his backpack and walked off, not wanting to feel their judgment or their pity.
Off 52nd Street and Georgetown, along a windy bend, was a tiny church, Bethel United Methodist, behind which was a cemetery. The last few weeks he'd called the spot home. All the drama in his world sucked up all the emotional energy, and he had nothing left to care about anything else. Not his job. Not where he lived, which was a good thing since he lost his room at the Speedway Lodge, formerly a Howard Johnson's, soon after losing his job. And the graveyard matched how he felt. Dead inside.
Lott knew too many bodies buried in this yard.
There was a spot under a tree out of view of most of the cemetery and far from the street where he stayed. The closest thing nearby was the utility shed of the apartment complex. Three men chatted up a girl. Lott's wary gaze followed them. He'd seen the 'hey, you girl' routine often enough. Brothers pushing up on a girl, trying to talk to her. He didn't like their predatory leer nor how they crowded the girl. A pack moving to cut off her escape routes. A feral gleam leapt to the eyes of the tallest of them. With the hint of a nod, the man behind her grabbed her while the other scanned the deserted lot and unlocked the storage shed. They dragged her in with the tallest man being the last to enter the shed.
'Careful. Don't jump if you can't see bottom,' Lott heard an internal voice say, but he was to his feet and half-running toward the shed before his mind caught up to things. The latch on the shed had been torn out at the hinges and the rust on the nails indicated that it hadn't been secure in a while. Pressing his ear to the door, he heard the sounds of struggle and muffled cries. His blood heated up. The door slammed open behind the force of his kick.
A vegetable odor filled the room, the smell of spent seed seeped into the woods. They turned and froze at Lott's entrance. Two of the men held the girl down, each one clamping down on an arm, though one attempted to cup her breast. The third, the tall one, pulled at her panties. Spitting into his hand, he slowly began to stroke himself. The more she fought, the more excited he got. Despite Lott's unexpected entrance, he kept touching himself.
'What the hell are you doing?' Lott yelled.
'What it look like, money?' The first one looked up from the struggling girl.
'You want in on this train?' the tall one asked.
The girl locked eyes with Lott. A few acne bumps dotted her forehead, red and swollen against her toffee- colored skin. For a moment, all he saw was Lady G. Then she came more into focus as the girl she was. A little thinner and lighter skinned, though still in need of having her honor defended. Lott took two steps in and planted his foot into the crotch of the first boy. The other two scrambled to their feet, but not before he put his full weight behind a punch that dropped one to the floor.
'Get out!' Lott yelled to her.
The girl tore out without hesitation. The third man leapt at Lott, grappling him about the middle. Lott kicked backwards, slamming them both into the wall, taking the wind out of the assailant. Then the ground fell away from under him. All he could think of was all the friends he'd hurt, the trust he'd betrayed. The life he'd fucked up. Panting, the tallest one noted the fight leaving Lott and began to punch him. Lott took the blows to the ribs and the stomach, but not in the face though, as he wrapped up and collapsed into a ball. Sirens snapped the men out of their rage fugue, the tallest administering another kick before cutting out.
'The hero got his ass wa-za-za-zah-whooppedzz!' the tall one shouted on the way out. Then, in case he was a snitch, too, he warned, 'Keep your mouth shut.'
Lott stayed on the floor, with the pain as comforting as any blanket.
CHAPTER FOUR
Near the intersection of Sussex Avenue and Faygate, two streets over from Martin Luther King Jr Boulevard, the houses on the block were piled on one another. With barely a few feet between them and their small, fenced-in yards, each was close enough that everyone could hear everyone else's business. However, most people neither saw nor heard anything, especially at the two-story home on the corner. Bound to his wheelchair after his wounds suffered at King's hands, Dred remembered being confined to the house. Many nights he retreated to his chamber, bereft of any furniture, more cavern than room. Its steep shadows gave the illusion of it being deeper than it was. Bay windows faced the moon, yet the light never seemed to penetrate much beyond being a dim glow about the window. He found a certain comfort to his cave. Despite owning several stash houses, money houses, pea shake houses — none in his name, of course — he needed a place to lay his head. A place to call his own.
The muscle memory, or lack thereof, of the wheelchair faded as he now walked down the stairs, into the hall in front of the living room. The clack-clack-clack of paws on hardwood floors echoed behind him as Baylon's dog trotted past the open doorway. Baylon manned the doorway, allowing entry to Naptown Red.
'What you no good?' Naptown Red's uneven skin tone gave him the appearance of a high yella Rorschach test. His bulbous eyes, yellowed and bloodshot, were framed by black moles. His auburn hair had once been straightened, but now came back in natural, though no comb had touched it in a while. Whiskey seared his breath and seeped from his pores. The man tugged at his privates before reaching out for a hand clasp.
'Ballin'. Shot callin'.' Dred took his hand and bumped shoulders with him, unaffected by the gesture. He nodded toward the next room where the others had gathered. Of course Red had been the last to arrive. He thought it proved that he was the man, that everyone waited on him. But as far as Dred was concerned, every now and then you got a fool. Naptown Red was so far behind and always sleeping on the game — a mistake his mom should've corrected before he was born.
Dred tired of a life of inconvenience and neglect. Every off-center smile was a threat; every unturned eye a challenge; every undeferred step disrespect, so easily insulted because 'respect' was what defined them. Look at them, his foot soldiers. Naptown Red, scheming-ass nigga, not fooling anyone; Baylon, a tragic, perpetual fuckup; Garlan, so insecure in his role as muscle, certainly no Mulysa, but he'd have to do; and Nine, who insinuated herself into the group with promises of handling a particularly meddlesome problem for him. Something about being in her presence made you want to trust her. Love her. Shaped by rage, formed by scorn, molded by uninterest, Mulysa was a magnificent hatred. Now he sat at court waiting on a judge to let him know if he could sleep in his own bed tonight.
Eyes half-closed in on-setting ennui, Baylon stood on the fringes as the others gathered. His body reeked with the stench of death. From its sockets, pale yellow, bulbous, unnatural eyes — eyes which had seen so much, like staring into the sun — were dulled to lifelessness. His clothes seemed to cling tightly to his body like seaweed to a sunken ship. Baylon took a few uncertain steps. The grave called, but he continued to resist it. The air, stale and musty, swirled about to embrace his lithe form. Melancholia and weariness enveloped him, though his horrid body hid a certain nobility. The silence was tangible around him, as if taking one last peek at his gravesite, longing for his disturbed peace. He knew that folks considered him soft. He used to be, but now he'd been through a lot. Lost a lot. Being in the life changed you. You didn't get to just throw on a suit and enter the square world. You were boxed in and down for life. Little more than a dog gone savage from pain.
