roughnecks could be.
'Chilling.' Though terrified and alone, Tristan wasn't going to admit any vulnerability, silvery and polished or not. Mulysa sized her up with a glance.
'Where you stay at?'
'Around.'
'Girl, why you playing? I know these here streets like the back of my hand.'
There it was. She was penniless. Hungry. Hurting. And Mulysa was there with his big wad of cash. Taking her to expensive restaurants, well, shit, Olive Garden anyway. Treating her like she was worth something.
'You got potential.'
'Potential to do what?'
'Be in this here game. Come work for me.'
'Doing what?' Tristan knew the moment would arrive. Nothing was free, especially from a man. He'd fed her, clothed her, and put her up. Rent was due.
'I got something for you.' He slid a wooden box over to her. 'Didn't I say I'd take care of you?'
She opened the box up. Inside were two thin blades. She'd never seen anything like them. She could grip them like brass knuckles, but the edges jutted out at angles. She loved the way they caught the light and their perfect balance in her hands.
'You right, you right.' Though his tone said, 'you most certainly do.'
'What do you want me to do with these?'
'You got all that hate and anger in you. I just want to put it to good use. Get you paid.'
Tristan went out early in the morning and would stray into rivals' territories at seven in the morning. Catch them when they'd been out all night, catch them drowsy or otherwise slipping. And get them. She staked out places from behind bushes for hours. Rain, sleep, snow, heat, she would do whatever it took, suffer whatever conditions to get to her enemy.
The things she did in Mulysa's name were bad enough. When she found Iz only a year later, she was a different woman. Hard. Skilled. Feared. No one knew her name, she had no name as far as she was concerned. She was simply an extension of Mulysa's will. His name rang out because he could always call her down. His shadow. His weapon of choice. Iz changed all of that.
Iz she found in an alley. She reminded her of a kitten which had been abandoned to fend for itself. Dirty. Bleeding from a hundred little scratches. Infested with who knows what. Living under abandoned cars. Lost. Frightened. Could practically fit into the palm of her hand. The kind of kitten that immediately got into her heart and made her want to protect it. Not only safeguard it, but be the kind of person worthy, privileged enough, to be with it. With her. Iz always thought that Tristan saved her life, but Tristan knew it was the other way around.
Mulysa took Iz away from her. She would have done anything for Iz and proved so on many an occasion.
He got her back on drugs after Iz fought so hard to get clean. And he touched her. Touched her the way Tristan's father wanted to touch her.
And he had to pay.
The blades curved naturally around her palms like an extension of her arm. He would pay. And pay again.
Dreadlocks started in the middle of his head, the front half faded, Prez shifted in his seat, adjusting it further into a lean position as if the person who sat in the seat before him wasn't gangster enough. None of which fooled Naptown Red. He sensed Prez's lingering discomfort, his church-boy heart beating through his thug-lite exterior. Didn't matter, though, since it wasn't as if the church bus was going to pick him up out here.
Both sides of the street were lined with parked cars for blocks in either direction. Naptown Red parked around back then led them around to the front of the house. The wall thrummed with the pulse of the music inside. A couple of the neighbors hung out on their porches, drink and cigarettes in hand, shooting the shit. It wasn't as if they were going to call the police at the first sound of drunk and/or loud niggas on the lawn. Enjoying his role as concierge and consummate host, Naptown Red smiled, hearing the music bump as soon as they opened the doors.
This wasn't some basement party, all dim lights, slow jams, and grinding on the dancefloor. No, the party was all the way live: bright, loud, and a little crazy. Li'l Jon skeet-skeet-skeeted from the DJ's turntable, the bass turned so loud that it threatened an assault charge. Naptown Red took in a deep whiff. Sure, there were the usual chips and shit in bowls scattered strategically through the house so that no guest had to stray too far to snack, but that wasn't the kicker. Marble's Soul Kitchen catered the party: collard greens, macaroni and cheese, sweet potatoes, and fried chicken. Red needed them to know that he would take better care of them than their mommas. And the best part, ladies walked around with silver trays, serving beer, wine, or (inexpensive) champagne.
Topless.
'They cool?' the brother at the door asked, stopping Fathead and Prez. Samoan had to run in his family, because he topped four bills easy. Dressed in all black, he gave a wary stare at Fathead. His Tshirt was a dirty shade of beige over a pair of blue sweatpants. He wore dress shoes though he had no socks. No watch either; his minutes stretched into hours and melted into days. Lost.
'Yeah, they with me.'
'What was that about?' Prez asked.
'Cover. Shit, I ain't trying to feed a house full of hungry-ass niggas out of pocket. Brothers don't go anywhere else for a dinner and a show for free. Twenty dollars a head, plus they got to tip the ladies. And they were happy to pay the twenty dollars.' Now that they knew what they were getting, Naptown Red already had it figured out that next time he would charge $50. Word was out as soon as he had a full house. Sell it as an exclusive ticket and let word of mouth take care of the rest.
'Didn't you used to go out with her?' Fathead pointed to a high yellow-complexioned honey, a little on the thin side, but tall and proud. Her small breasts popped pertly with each step. A tight Jheri curl, that looked like a baby Afro from a distance, crowned her. She grinned defiantly, taking a higher step for an additional bounce.
'Yeah, I hit that.' She wore the navy-blue shorts of a flight attendant's uniform and blue hose and matching pumps. He loved the way she rolled and pitched, too bad he couldn't remember her name. Sometimes he just opened his mouth and whatever line of shit trickled out he worked with, counting on his charm and wit to see him through. Mostly, he stalled for time to think of a way to turn the situation to his advantage. 'I get down like Sprite, except that I don't obey my thirst, I obey my look. That's my motto.'
Naptown Red left Prez to find his own footing at the party. Church boy or not, he still had eyes that worked and there was no harm in perusing the smorgasbord of flesh that he — as consummate host considerate enough to turn up the air conditioning to make sure the nipples stayed popped — had laid out. Red toured the party, giving his guests the opportunity to thank him and tell him how much the bomb his party was. Playing it cool, he gave a slight head nod, letting his eyes tell the rest. The party had splintered into discrete clusters of conversations and activities. Leering thugs pretended to watch the large-screen TV set to pre-season football, ogling any nipple in sight. He thought about getting another TV and setting up a PlayStation console on it, but he didn't know how that would go over. Maybe next time. Thick rolls of smoke billowed from the dining room.
But the women were the center attraction, exactly how he wanted it (thus he nixed his plans to add video games: if it came down between titties and John Madden, it was a toss-up. And they could get John Madden at home, but only Red could provide the titties). The white women looked straight out of a 'Blondes On Blacks' porn site, just this side of white trash — that upscale Jerry Springer demographic that brothas couldn't resist. The sistas stepped right out of a rap video. The more modest ones wore lingerie which revealed more than if they had simply come topless, so Red didn't complain. The party threatened to overwhelm him. Red made his way to him, pointedly rubbing against one of the ladies 'mmm-hmm'-ing his approval in her ear. She craned her neck to flash him a smile.
'I'm all about the squilla. He'll be here,' Naptown Red said, but Prez had lost interest in anything that he had to say. Following the strength of Prez's gaze only to land on the figure of a young lady dancing on a nearby table. She wore a white cowboy hat and matching leather skirt and boots. Her ensemble practically glowed against her mocha skin. Auburn hair flowed out the back of her hat. Long slender legs uncrossed and crossed quickly when she sat in mid-routine. A tattoo, like the top half of two red balls, peeked from above her skirt.
Her eyes searched Naptown Red for the tell. He nodded, letting her know that a large tip was heading her
