'Slabs. I need something to hold on to. The only problem with freaks is that they don't know when to turn it off.'
'Preach to this, boy,' Fathead said.
'Freaks are always freaks, have always been freaks, and that's the only way they know to be. They need to know that they got to be a lady sometimes, too. I don't want a freak raising my children.'
Prez grinned at him. 'You right, some women ain't got a freak bone in their bodies.'
'Unless you put one in them,' Fathead said. Red reached over to give him a pound.
'But see, you didn't answer the question,' Red continued. 'Why don't women want to be freaks? I'll tell you.'
'Who you supposed to be?' Prez asked with a smile on his face because he guessed what was coming.
'The doctor. And the doctor is in.'
'Doctor of what?' Prez enjoyed his role as straight man.
'Booty-ology,' Red said.
They all threw their cards into the center of the table. The alcohol hit them, their peals of laughter bounced about the room.
'You see, if more women were freaks, dudes wouldn't cheat. They wouldn't have a chance to. Cause a freak would be all into him. They'd be all into him, calling him up, talking that talk.' Naptown Red affected a female voice, leaning in like a drunk prostitute. ''What you doing?' 'How you doing?' 'How you hanging?' 'Are you strong, baby?' Then she'd lay it out for him. 'Come see me, I got a gift for you. I really mean a gift, too.' Then she'd give him the gift, show him a good time, rub on his leg, get him all hard, then tell him to get back to making his money and that he can take care of her later on. You know what I mean?
' Or she calls up and is like 'meet me at Nordstrom's on the fourth floor. We can go shopping.' She meets him, and before they go shopping, she gives him some head. Then she turns and says 'before we go shopping, let me brush my teeth.' You know what that tells me?'
'That she's a freak?' Fathead asked in a tone that sounded like he was taking notes.
'That she's a proper lady and a freak. What nigga's gonna cheat?'
'Having a freak sounds exhausting,' Prez said. 'Too much work.'
'You got to be up for it. Not every man can handle a freak,' Red said. 'That's when you come see me. I'll put you on that regimen. Myoplex and one teaspoon of noni juice.'
'What's Myoplex?' Fathead asked, again with that tone.
'It's a natural herb. Keeps you raw for as long as you want. A whole weekend. You might have wood, but Myoplex will give you a brick. Noni juice is the mojo. That's the finishing move. All-purpose health.'
'I'm ready to snatch the pebble from your hand.' Fathead raised his fist for another bump, but Red left him hanging.
'Anyway,' Red continued. 'You don't think if women were more like that, men wouldn't cheat?'
'Nope, we'd cheat,' Prez said.
'How can you say that?' Naptown Red asked.
'Cause we men. You show me the most beautiful, loving, freak-when-the-time-is-right woman in Hollywood, and I'll show you a man who's tired of sleeping with her. We chase women the same way fiends chase that high. Cause we have to. Got something in us we got to fill. And either way, chasing that feeling, costs us one way or another.' Prez laughed at his own joke, like a great fool not comfortable in his own skin.
'I got a connect. Some Jamaicans come through North Carolina.' Naptown Red put his cards down. 'Fathead and you oversee distribution.'
'Dred know?' Prez asked.
'This here's on the side. I got the package, y'all dish it out. We split what comes in. We do.'
'So how we gonna do this?' Fathead asked.
'A man must have a code. We live by rules: Never come up short. Never be burnt. Never be late. Never be slow.'
'That's a lot of nevers,' Fathead said.
'Don't get high. Don't carry. Don't use names on the phone.'
'We all nevers and don'ts.'
'This here's serious business. Life and death. So that's how we do this. That's how we stay out of jail. That's how we stay alive.'
CHAPTER NINE
Wishard Hospital was the hospital of last resort, reserved especially for the indigent, the uninsured, those too poor or too out of the system to go to one of the better hospitals. An X-ray technician clutched a half-dozen transparencies as she dashed down the hallway toward the emergency room. A drunk chatted up the nurses at the check-in desk. They dutifully ignored him. The security guard coughed into his fist. King's room was a piss-yellow color with two beds in it. The monitor bleeped mercilessly. Pastor Winburn stood over him, his heart heavy as he touched the tubes which ran into King's mouth and arm. It was all so senseless. More wanton violence, more needless bloodshed, another man cut down and all of his potential cut down with him. Without King, the land seemed darker and the mood more hopeless. Bowing his head, he continued praying for him.
'Why, son?' he thought.
Outside the room and down the hall, Lady G fussed over a piece of fabric as she struggled with a needle or thread. Big Momma had been teaching her how to sew and Lady G patched one of her shirts, the idea of mending things she'd broken before appealed to her. Grief came and went in sudden waves. Setting the shirt and threaded needle down, she hugged herself nonchalantly and rubbed her upper arms. Dark circles swelled under her eyes, and she scratched her nose. Blotches pockmarked her skin like half-healed scars. She knew her place was at King's side, tending to him as best she could. Concern gave her the strength to face up to what she'd done. Part of her owed him some sort of explanation, though whatever words gave voice to her reasons fell pathetically short. She remembered not the hurt, but the years of good times. Then the dulling shock of sorrow swept over her all over again. Part of her hated King. And Lott. Funny what the mind did to protect itself. Or the heart. How the person they once cared so much about became the enemy; how every once supportive or encouraging comment or act became twisted into something nefarious.
'What are you doing here?' Rhianna asked, the words laced with more harshness than she intended.
'King's still my friend. I wanted to be here in case he woke up.'
'What the doctors say?' Rhianna lowered herself into a chair next to her. Still sore from giving birth, or at least milking her recovery for all the attention it was worth. Rhianna's mother's theory on motherhood: have plenty of babies — it increased chances that one would survive and thrive. Rhianna had internalized her mother's lessons well. She'd done her time with the wrong man, wannabe players who smoked a little weed, packaged drugs, but mostly sold burn bags to unsuspecting fiends. And she'd spent more than her share of time on her back trying to find love or connection or some sense of worth from another. To most, she was still some fast-tail little girl playing grown-folk business, but she felt like she'd been given a second chance through Outreach Inc, one she'd come close to blowing on more than one occasion, which was why she was on probation. But with the birth of her second child things finally seemed to be falling into place for her. She had even enrolled in GED classes.
'They don't know. They sound confused.'
'What you mean?'
'They got the bullets out. The wounds were mostly superficial. Missed all of his arteries and organs. They say he stable. But they don't know why he won't wake up.'
'They let you back there?'
'Sometimes, for a bit. Told them I was his sister.'
'You love him. So. Hard.' Rhianna sucked her teeth.
'I love them both.'
'You can't love two men, boo. Then you'll have neither.'
'Then I'll have neither.'
