way. She turned, without saying a word, and pushed Prez onto the couch. Whatever mild protests he offered ceased when the DJ picked up on the cue and interrupted an Usher cut with another Li'l Jon cut. She turned her backside to Prez, her body catching the rhythm of the song. She slinked backward, her body contorting into a languid curving 'S' that made its way toward him. Swishing side to side, she made a tentative dip into his lap. Turning to face him, she ran her hands down his chest, crouching between his legs as she continued to let her hands trail lower.
Prez jumped.
The gathering crowd laughed. Red feared that his plan might backfire, causing Prez to be the center of humiliation, but the guys soon started cheering Prez and the girl on. She stood up, shaking about a few more times before settling into Prez's lap for real. She let out an approving 'ooo' much to the delight of Prez, whose back was clapped for the honor.
'Come on, I got more to show you,' Red said.
'Aren't your guests going to miss you?' Prez asked.
'With all them titties to stare at? They probably don't even know that I'm out.' Naptown Red beamed with a cobra's smile. 'We got business in back.'
'That where the hidden sex rooms are?' Fathead asked, not able to keep the eagerness out of his voice. Naptown Red explained that the rumors circulating about his parties — rumors he, himself, started — was all about marketing. He made it sound as if there was an extra level of party available to the truly connected. Much like the exclusive — rumored to be high-stakes-only — poker game. It all added to the mystique, coming to life behind the closed doors, away from the noise and temptation.
'What we playing?' Fathead asked. 'Texas Hold 'Em?'
'You been watching them white boys on TV too long.' Naptown Red pictured himself as a prince who ruled with style. He didn't need all the chestthumping and territory-marking pissing contests that came with having to prove their bona fides. No, he'd simply get a feel for them over cards. Some James Bond villain shit, except none of that punk-ass baccarat mess. They'd play Spades.
'Hup. He got the king of spades,' Fathead said. He had a habit of thinning his eyebrows whenever he was on meth. These days, two scabby rectangles above his eyes scarred his face and made him appear constantly startled. He knew one girl who removed her eyelashes, convinced they were antennae broadcasting her business to the FBI. With lips like cracked rubber, the flesh of his cheeks eaten away, and a ring of fat swelling his neck, Fathead soldiered on.
'It ain't what you got, it's how you play 'em,' Naptown Red said.
'There are still three cards that can take that king.' Prez ordered his cards. He'd come a long way from when King found him scrounging around for bits of rock behind where Dred's soldiers had been slinging, hoping for anything that might have spilled out. A life that revolved around doing enough work to scrape together enough for another blast. Those days weren't too far in his rearview mirror, but King's words echoed in his head. He was full of potential and could do anything he wanted. It was time to start living into that potential. But he didn't know where to begin. Or how. Only that he had to do something, somehow begin his journey. King believed in him and he wanted to justify that belief.
Trapped in a cycle of need and placating need, he constantly sought attention to soothe some deep ache inside. Wayne helped him focus on his future and had him reading all sorts of books to stimulate his mind and his curiosity. A New Kind of Christian. The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Black Boy. Blue Like Jazz. And the Bible, of course.
'Don't confuse being a character with having it,' Wayne told him.
He knew he was being shaped into something new. Something wondrous. And he prayed for Wayne. And King.
'I hope someone does for you what you've done for me.'
The residents of Breton Court, the Phoenix Apartments, and so many places in between, had long given up on themselves. But King — a street legend — thought he was ready. And Prez wanted to prove to him that he was. No matter what it cost him.
'West side niggas had to go east side cause King had that place locked down. That's a whole lot of unexploited real estate.'
'So what you looking for?' Prez asked.
'Drilling rights, motherfucker. What you think?' Naptown Red asked. 'You think you ready to put in some work?'
'If there's work to be done,' Prez said. 'I'm here to do it.'
So he decided to get on with Naptown Red. Maybe learn some of the inside news and feed it to King. He doubted King and them would approve, but he figured he could handle the risk considering the potential payoff.
'Time to raise up, gentlemen.'
'Your time is done.'
Naptown Red thought about setting up a dogfighting ring in a daycare. Something to carve out his own niche in the game. Low risk, low overhead. Low pay-off. If he wanted a steady stream of ends, he'd have to get his own connect and set up his own operation.
'Uh oh, she coming,' Prez said. 'When he sat back, I knew he had that one.'
'Come on wit it,' Fathead said.
'All right, Cleetus,' Red said, throwing the queen of spades on the table. Prez had good eyes and good instincts. Way better than Fathead. He could handle himself under pressure. Cards revealed a lot about a man. While Prez kept quiet and watched people, Fathead was all bluster and bluff.
Naptown Red stacked the deck.
'Uh oh, the sleepy giant wants some,' Fathead said.
Fathead's life was divided between BC and AC: Before Crack and After Crack. BC he remembered that Christmas time was the best time of the year, poor or not. His folks got together, got a little tree, strung up some lights. They had a few presents. Nothing big or fancy, that wasn't the point. They spent time together, had their little traditions and showed each other they were family. Folks came over and cooked; family came together and they laughed.
AC, no one came over.
His first year of high school, BC, he had nice clothes and used to always wear designer merchandise. When he dressed, he came correct, knew who to hang with and how to hang with them. He was down with his music, down with his sports, shit, by his world's standards, he was a man of high culture. But he still felt like a piece of shit. A wound, a black hole of pain sucked all of the contentment and hope for happiness out of his life.
The first time he got high, AC, he got paranoid, convinced people were out to get him. He ended up hiding under the bed, bawling his eyes out like a little bitch. The drug was that overwhelming. He snorted deeply, letting it drip down the back of his throat, leaving a dull medicinal taste. His eyes pitched and rolled behind their lids, tracing intricate patterns of light and color. The high never fixed him, never felt comfortable.
'That your book?' Fathead asked.
'Nuh uh. You got to follow suit,' Prez said.
'I better not see you play a diamond.'
Look at 'em thinking hard. It was so easy for Red to identify bullshit. Fathead's pupils dilated to the outer rims of the corneas. His eyes appeared to flatten. His black fingernails scratched at his Styrofoam cup then itched along his arm. He had carved the word 'guilty' onto his left shoulder. He'd spent too much time in his uncle's meth lab. Some trailer over by Mars Hill. Places easily destroyed and abandoned. As disposable as the people. With the windows shut and the blinds drawn, the smell of ammonia seeped into everything. All the places had the same tangles of tubing between glass jars and bowls, stacks of jam jars and measuring cups unless they went upscale, using Vision Ware bowls or something.
'Cut by my own partner,' Naptown Red said.
'Yeah, he straight-up novice,' Prez echoed.
'This lady came into the shop today,' Fathead began, trying to shift topics from his inept play. 'Showing pictures of herself buck naked or with just a thong on. She big, but she don't care if she looks big or not. Cause she's a freak.'
'You can keep those chicks that look like boys. I need me something firm,' Red said.
'Tell 'em what you call them.'
