'You,' Black aimed at The Boars. 'Vamonos.'
'I ain't afraid to get shot. That's the game. I just don't want you to go after all of my people is all.'
'This here ain't about business, hese, otherwise I'd have Swiss-cheesed all of you motherfuckers. This shit here, this is personal. Between me and him. Tell them. More will burn before I'm done. You let Dred know. More will burn. Vamonos.'
The Boars trotted off backwards, not wanting to turn his back to them before putting more distance between he and them. Then he turned and booked out at full speed.
'You need to think on this hard, Black. We this close to war already,' Melle said, his hopes fading with each quick step of The Boars.
'You already at war.' Black tucked his gun into his waistband. The Boars would bring back others soon, but he had a message to send. 'I know who you are, Melle.' Black spat after he said the name. 'I knew who you and Noles are.' He spat again. 'You think word don't travel back to me? Descriptions.' Black tugged his gloves off. 'Took two of you to rip apart a little girl. Y ahora?'
Emboldened by the gun being tucked away, Melle adopted what he thought was a fighting stance. The two circled each other warily in the alcove. Though lanky, Melle towered over Black. Melle swung wide, hoping to use his height advantage or wrap him up until The Boars came back. Black ducked under the blow, waded in, and rabbit- punched him twice in the face: the first exploded his nose in a spray of blood, the second cuffed him in the ear as his head lolled back. Blood splatter landed on Black's tattoo, then seeped into his skin. The blows themselves didn't rock Melle — he'd been hit harder by his baby momma, but a sickness rose in him. His insides didn't feel right. Nauseous and dizzy, he cried like a scared little boy before the wrath of a thunderstorm, only wanting to be tucked in and comforted.
'Mira este, pendejo. Y ahora, hah, y ahora?'
The sick feeling crept into Melle's belly, as if he were witness to something sacred. Or blasphemously profane. His heart thumped in desperate staccato. Teeth clenched in anger, Black pressed his tattooed hand to the man's face. Melle screamed, but all Black heard was the last cries of Lyonessa, equally helpless on same concrete mattress. Melle's bruised face swelled. Fissures erupted along his skin, as if his blood boiled and his veins burst open. Dark pustules sprang up, eroding his face. His eyes clouded, lifeless long before his body stopped writhing in agony. 'More will burn.' The war was on.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Goodness was a fragile thing; rule, its own burden. Drenched in sweat, King threw off the covers as he woke. 'Ripped from his sleep' better described his racing heart and the uneasy feeling that he escaped another nightmare. He napped more than slept most nights. Checking his clock, he'd managed to sleep for nearly three consecutive hours. Sick from anger and love, the waking world took a few moments to get used to. Sometimes he wished he could just turn his mind off, stop the jumbled images and memories of the good times shared, the promises made, and the dream of them. And the nagging voice that twisted all of those things into something unrecognizable. There were a few days when King didn't hear that voice at all, but on those days he was completely alone.
Allowing the blanket to drop into his lap, he sat up. Darkness filled the room despite the mid-day hour. Thick blankets covered the venetian blinds so that no light crept in, either from the front windows nor the rear window in the kitchen. He didn't know what to feel. He wished he could hate them, then he could get on with things. A thin reed of hate and resentment would protect him from the casual vulnerabilities of his heart.
Picking up and sniffing a pair of jeans, he decided they were good for another wear. A black T-shirt with the portrait of Sojourner Truth on the front and his pair of black Chuck Taylors completed his outfit. He then stuffed the rest of his clothes into his duffel bag. A backpack, a duffel bag, and three boxes. All of his worldly belongings fit into them. The three boxes were in his car already. He hadn't made up his mind what he wanted to do, but he wanted to be ready for when he did. It became increasingly difficult for him to remain at Breton Court. He couldn't take the weight of the stares, the pity in them, the sense of shame they drew like needles raked across the skin. Tongues wagged, but he told himself that as long as he knew the truth, he didn't care. Where was his strong right hand? Where was his heart? Where was anyone who gave him the chance to believe in himself? A knock came from his front door and he knew he had to postpone his anger.
The wisps of an attempted goatee sprouted along the sides of Prez's mouth. A slight hunch to his gait, though his swagger slowly returned, a slight bump of their shoulders served as their greeting. They quickly backed away from the gesture. King couldn't bring himself to hug Prez. The boy reminded him of yet more failures in his life. Failure to protect him, failure to keep him out of a gang, failure to keep him off drugs.
Big Momma was a neighborhood fixture, a force in her own right. In a matching sky-blue sweat suit and with a fan in her left hand, she trundled past him with a slight grunt. King let the door close on Prez, who waited patiently. Big Momma fell into the couch without saying a word. She fanned herself and let the minutes tick away.
King fell against the opposing wall, waiting for the inquisition to begin. His hands interlocked across his knees. Both of them shadowy figures in the gloom, which was the way King preferred it. Better than having to meet people's eyes or, worse, have them see him at his weakest. He broke first. 'You awful quiet.'
'Just thinking. Isn't it better to know her for who and what she truly was and be cured of loving her?'
'It's like that, is it?'
'Come on now. When you were that age, you're telling me if you got in trouble and had the chance to blame someone else and get off scotfree, you didn't do it?'
'I was never that age. Or that dumb.'
'That's your problem. You expect everyone to be like you. You hold them up to your standard and castigate them when they don't live up to it.'
'I do the same to myself.'
'Like that's any better? You one of them stiffnecked types. Sometimes God has to break you to use you. Sometimes He sends the storm. But you know what? Storms pass.'
King had long lost track of how long he'd been gone. Not so much gone as withdrawn. Part of him wanted to stay in his cave and stew in his pain. He was broken and there was no rush to him becoming fixed, no matter how many folks wanted him to pick up and keep going. On the one hand, he wanted everyone to just leave him alone. On the other, he didn't want to be alone. If they could spare him the platitudes and speeches and let him be, he could probably see himself clear.
'He took the people I loved most away from me. He took my mission, my purpose from him. What was the point of bringing me up only to turn me out like this? That doesn't sound like a God I want to follow.'
'Come on now. Don't be like that. My parents had their problems. Abandoned me. But the adults in the neighborhood decided to raise me and hid me from CPS whenever a social worker came around, because they would just have sent me to foster care. I know about rough times.'
'You don't understand. I had people. I used to be able to look in their eyes. They looked up to me. With respect, though they'd never admit to it. I was their big brother. They took it all away from me. They did.'
'It still sounds to me like you were looking for the wrong things. Like all of this was about you. Maybe you need to be stripped of all that to see who it is you are really working for and how you go about doing the work.'
'I liked you better when you didn't say anything.'
'Life is long. We don't have to be defined by our pasts. Or our mistakes. Who you were then doesn't have to be who you are now. You had your mission. It made you feel right. Have you stopped to consider that she's hurting, too?'
The thought of that softened him a little. He turned the idea around in his mind for a moment, inspecting it before digesting it. Being around one so young was selfish on his part. He didn't allow her to be her age. Being young and dumb was the point of youth. He above all others knew the toll on her, acting up to his expectations. How he saw her. But he did the same: he wanted to be the man, the hero she saw in him. Listen to him. Old-man thoughts. He always had an urge to protect others, to ride in on a white horse.
'She wanted you to think… she could hang,' Big Momma pressed. 'You be impressed with her. Not be
