'A nigga just needs a break.' Garlan took another hit in commiseration.
'I'm tired of being poor,' The Boars repeated, confused, thinking he had only thought the sentiment rather than said it aloud the first time. 'I'm tired of having to claw through every day just to keep my head above water. It gets so I don't give a shit who I got to hold on to as long as I stay afloat.'
'I just need some money. Rich motherfuckers ain't got shit to worry about.'
'Taxes, where to go out to eat, and how much to pay their nanny.'
'What if we weren't here?' Garlan touched his ring. Garlan was so low-key, he was practically invisible. No one would ever guess that he had thousands stashed away. He was cut more from a business cloth than anything else.
'What you mean?'
'What if we had been given a chance? Born somewhere other than here?'
'White?'
'Nah, shit, I didn't say all that. But, you know, into a real family. With a mom and dad. No niggas trying to shoot each other as soon as breathe your way.'
'I don't do no 'what if' shit. That's enough to drive a nigga madder than he already is. I think more about how it's all gonna end.'
'How's it end?'
'For me?' The Boars turned toward the night sky, lost in dreams. 'Maybe taking out a cop, going out in a blaze.'
'Putting yourself out of your misery.'
Misery took a toll. All the death and hopelessness drove him to a place of despair. Stuck between life and death with only jail or the grave as a way out.
Garlan treated the fiends fair, like customers, and if they shorted him, he had The Boars administer swift recompense. Between them, product moved like clockwork. They weren't pleased when they were charged to bring Naptown Red's spot on a running as smoothly. Though both Garlan and Naptown Red were in the inner circle, Garlan's presence tended to carry more weight. A fact not lost on Red.
The only reason Garlan was present was because he was due to collect a money drop. Garlan made sure no one handled both money and product. Their crew paid some apartments to stash guns and drugs. The corner smelled of re-breathed beer and piss. They could only venture to guess what liquid soaked the pavement. When windows were shattered they remained broken. The procedure was simple. The crew left a taped-down grocery bag full of money under the passenger's seat in a car. All they had to do was drive up, get out, make small talk, watch for police, and switch drivers. He wisely pulled out exactly ten dollars without exposing the rest of his wad.
Naptown Red, Prez, and Fathead had their own thing going on, right under the nose of The Boars and Garlan. Which was difficult, because Garlan was always watching. Even when he wasn't around, if you were working Garlan's spot, you did the work cause his eyes were always on you and he had a way of just showing up. They'd be careful, unlike those other crews. They'd sell to only those they knew. They'd use check points to guard the stash house. On the spot, no drugs and money would be handled by the same dude. All re-ups would be taken to the cutting house and then split up and delivered to safe houses.
Naptown Red enjoyed the role of schooling these young'uns, molding them in his image. The stoop offered the best vantage point to take in the action of the neighborhood.
'Isn't that your lady's girl?' Fathead whispered.
'My girl can't stand her,' Naptown Red said.
'Why not? She seems nice.'
'You know how women get about each other,' Naptown Red said.
'Nah, brotha. That's what I come to you for. So you can school me about these things.'
'They too much alike and want the same things. Women know how cruel women are. If they know you got something, they don't care. They think they can take it.'
'So she thinks she can steal you from any woman out there?'
'Man, she was ready to give up the goods from the jump.'
'You retarded. You think every woman wants you.'
'I'm part thug and part businessman. I can be calm, but I know when to go off. And I know how to treat a lady. Women love that crazy stuff, that versatility.' Relationships, Naptown Red long ago realized, were little more than altars to yourself. Either you wanted someone to adore you, dote on you, take care of you, or you wanted someone to reflect you, be like you, so you can be with you more. 'But most, I'm telling you, most are wolves in sheep's clothing. Can I break it down philosophically?'
'Go 'head, brotha.' Fathead became his oneman amen corner.
'Women try to be of a character that they really ain't to try and get that good man. Fake him out, hook him, and they don't care about being a good friend to another woman. They mess up a good thing to try and get their thing.'
'That happen to you a lot?'
'Fuck you.' Naptown Red tipped his bottle of beer in Prez's direction as he came waddling up the street. As low man on the totem pole, Prez made the food runs. Brought back to-go boxes from Yats, a Cajun joint up in Broad Ripple. They ate like men ravenous and entertained.
'What, you no good?' Naptown Red ran his tongue along the roughness of his teeth, ground down from years of gnashing. His jaw clicked when he yawned.
'You won't find the answers to your questions in a bottle,' Prez said.
'Then I need to ask different questions.' The boy was good, but had a square streak to him which gave him pause. He wasn't built for the streets, not to survive them anyway.
'I'm just saying, we can't afford to get our heads up when on the clock.'
'You looking down your nose at me, boy?' Naptown Red cautioned. 'Trying to show me up in front of Garlan?'
'Naw, man. I just know how easy it is to get caught up and become an addict.'
'There's addicted and there's addicted. I may smoke a few blunts, but I'm in control. Them dope fiends? Shit. There's no talking to them.'
'Folks want what we be selling.' Even when your market was dope fiends, one still had to battle for market share, and that came down to building a brand. Fathead called his brand of meth 'The End'. 'Can't argue with the free market.'
'Didn't you sell to your folks?' Prez asked.
'Hell yeah I did. A customer's a customer.' Fathead didn't care if it were them trading in their ghetto credit cards he called food stamps. 'That's their choice. Their problem. They gonna buy from someone, might as well be me. Least they won't get ripped off.'
'Most times,' Naptown Red sneered.
'A fool's a fool. And I won't sell to my brother. He needs to find a better way. How player is that?'
Naptown Red was still a believer. In his heart he thought that the streets could be his savior. They gave him purpose, meaning, and a place of belonging. The accusatory glare of the car side light first caught his attention. Like any believer, there were times of testing of his faith, and Naptown Red's began as soon as the flashing lights erupted and car tires screeched to a halt as Five-O jumped out all over their spot.
• • • •
The Boar's first months of school, sixth grade, were an endurance marathon of tests. Instructive on what life was really about. He wasn't The Boars then, just Bo Little. In his class, a majority of the students were black with the rest evenly split between whites and Mexican. In the seat next to him was some Mexican boy, Lonzo. Weighed less than he did, was shorter than he was, but his group of friends carried on like he walked on water. Deferred to him, laughed at his corny-ass jokes.
Bo's very existence seemed to bother Lonzo. He refused to bow before him. Hating the humiliation of the free lunch program, Bo sat away from other kids so they couldn't hear his stomach grumble. Lonzo made a special point to seek him out to sit across from him at lunch.
'You can't sit here, homes.'
'Who says?' Bo searched for a nearby teacher, hoping to catch an eye and tacitly plead for help.
'You talk funny, hese. Like a nerd and shit.' He laughed and his pack of hyenas brayed alongside him.
