challenge. He walked a fine line between checking Dred's thinking and obedience. But he wasn't doing his job if he didn't press Dred some. Respectfully.
'Folks need to know we here for real. We hold off, we can't maintain.'
'So instead of stepping back, you stepping up,' Nine said.
'Now you feel me. Next go round, I want product so strong it drops fiends two counties over. Look at the pieces on the table. Most of the city was divvied up between me and Night.'
'Then King came along and fucked things up.' Naptown Red swirled his empty glass in Nine's direction, expecting her to get him another drink. She glared at him as if he'd lost his damned mind then flipped him off. With both hands for good measure.
'King provided an opportunity. See, I stepped back, let everyone think I was out the game, every wannabe shot-caller stepped into the light. Colvin, Rellik, all them fools got taken out… after they built up networks, supply lines, and connects. Did my work for me.'
'Only leaves one player. The Mexicans. And they shit is locked down,' Garlan said.
'Don't even know how all this shit started. But they take down one of ours, we take down ten of theirs. Let's see how they like that math.'
Dred knew. He'd played this game before with a girl named Michelle Lalard. He manipulated the situation to cause Baylon to have to kill her, driving a permanent wedge between him and King. And by being there for Baylon in his moment of darkness and loneliness, welcoming him with the embrace of a friend, he earned Baylon's loyalty. People never forget who was there for them when things were bleakest. Those were the people they knew they could count on when things got hot. And Dred was going to keep turning up the heat.
'Profits are up. Our control is just about absolute.' Dred peered at Baylon and Garlan with something approximating pride. 'We have to work hard and stay vigilant. Done made ourselves our share of enemies.'
'Do dirt, get dirty,' Garlan said. Garlan's mouth tightened as he studied the cracks in the floor tiles. It meant something to be treated with respect, to be treated like a man. Dred and his crew relieved him of that isolation, but only he knew the intimacies of his pain, how it bricked him up inside. How the desperation of loneliness and feeling unimportant added this level of crazy intensity to the people you reach out to when you're alone. The game was spinning out of control. The drama they were talking about was already too costly and there was no end in sight. He needed to slow it down or get out.
'Everyone at this table has got respect. Earned it.'
'No disrespect,' Naptown Red began, 'but what have you done?' The air seemed to have been sucked out the room. The players all but physically moved away from Red, carefully distancing themselves in case he didn't check himself. 'I mean, this is your show, no doubt. No doubt. But how long we gonna put up with King?'
'King,' Dred began in a slow, halting tone beset with threat, 'is out of play.'
'Why not finish him?'
'He's suffering.'
'I'm just saying, you don't want to appear soft. To the Mexicans.'
Dred had climbed the mountaintop and controlled everything. But no one knew. King had been defeated, had become despondent, and was out of the game. The cops barely knew who he was. He was so far behind the scenes, his name didn't ring out the way he wanted. Or that others would respect. He had the power of position, by way of title, but too many thought it was handed to him. That his crown was unearned. 'That how you all feel?'
'Just saying, if King had been a thorn in my side,' Naptown Red's bravado becoming bolder, 'even if he's hurting now, I'd go ahead and put that dog down. But it's your show.'
'Bloodless ascents,' Nine said with a hint of a smirk, 'blood carried out in your name but not by your hands.'
'You think too small. There's a whole world beyond the hood. Got to think big. Like businessmen. Expand the trade in ways we haven't thought about. Time to finish our hostile takeover.' Dred read the room. Confident in his overall strategy, he accepted that he'd have to put in a more personal touch in order to hold the center. 'Red, you and Baylon handle the Black problem. I'll take care of King.'
'We all have our part to play,' Nine said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Wayne ripped the first pair of rubber gloves he tried to put on. Making a mental note to have a conversation with their volunteer coordinator, who also ordered supplies, that not everyone had 'medium' sized hands, he slipped another pair on. The gloves were so tight-fitting they restricted his movement, but better ill-fitting gloves than no gloves at all. Now he was ready for the task at hand.
Isabel 'Iz' Cornwall had been admitted to the hospital. Complications from drug withdrawal on her hopelessly over-taxed immune system. The doctors administered high doses of antibiotics while observing her for a few more days. Tristan Drust, her girlfriend, dropped off her things to the Outreach Inc. house, then disappeared mysteriously yet again. Wayne recognized the restlessness on Tristan's face, the caged beast waiting to go on the hunt. Revenge seethed in her eyes. That kind of anger had a way of consuming a person, but she wasn't in a place to talk. Instead, she dropped off trash bags full of Iz's stuff.
'The glamour leave yet?' Wayne passed a trash bag to Esther Baron.
'What glamour?' Esther pulled on her gloves with ease, but stared at the bags with mild distrust. She hated the way she looked and was always at war with her body, from one diet to the next, counting calories and miles walked in a day. She considered herself too short (which she could do nothing about) and too dumpy (which she was determined to change). Esther was one of those people easily overlooked in a room. Not the center of attention, not quick to speak, and without the presence or immediate kind of beauty people gravitated to, she simply went about her business. Her actions spoke for her as she dove into life at Outreach Inc with both feet. She had been volunteering with Outreach Inc for over a year now because she wanted to be a part of the hope the organization represented.
'You know, the idea of helping homeless teens. Most folks figure it's just handing out food, water, and socks, and calling it a day.'
'No, I'm in it for the long haul.' Esther hid behind the belief that she would always be seen as the outsider. The rich white girl who lived in Fishers who occasionally slummed with the poor folks to make herself feel better. White liberal guilt as a fashion accessory. Whatever. People could think what they wanted, she couldn't control that. She focused on doing what she knew she ought to be doing. 'Now quit.'
'Quit what?'
'I feel like you're always testing me. Pushing me away to see if I'll leave.'
He had been. Sort of. He didn't want anyone around the kids who couldn't commit to being in their lives for months. They needed to see that folks would be there and be consistent and not simply abandon them when things got tough. They'd seen enough of that. 'Well, if you say so, dig in.'
Esther opened up her bag, took a whiff, and shut it again. It smelled of moldy cellars and damp closets. 'What are we doing?'
'These are the worldly belongings of Miss Isabel Cornwall.'
'Iz?'
'The one and the same.'
'They're soaked.'
'Yeah. Probably sat outside for a day or two.'
'Or a month.' Esther tentatively opened the bag again and peeled back a layer of jeans. She hated the sticky sound they made as she pulled them apart.
'We need to go through her things. Look for any ID or prescriptions that can help us.'
'Help us do what?'
'Verify parts of her story. Establish who she is so that we can help her get whatever ID, papers, assistance we can. Any meds so that doctors know what she's on.'
'So we need to…'
