Bo needed a comeback, but fear and embarrassment paralyzed him. The best he could come up with was 'What's your problem?'
'You my problem. You coming in here like you own the place, like you better than the rest of us simply cause you black. You ain't shit.'
'Why you explaining yourself to this puta?' one of his boys chimed in, backed by their amen corner.
Bo made up his mind then. The instigator was larger than Lonzo and for that matter, larger than Bo, but he dove across the table at him. Slamming his lunch tray at him, sent that day's portion of peas, mashed potatoes with gravy, and meat perpetrating as meatloaf into the air. Scattering the rest of the boys. Bo landed atop the larger boy and rained down punches on him before anyone could intervene. A smile crossed his face. No one would mess with him now. He had taken on the largest one and handed him his ass. Maybe he could walk the halls in peace. He just wanted to be left alone.
Then the rest of the boys stepped in.
Let by Lonzo, they let loose a beating so ragefilled, Bo didn't know where the anger came from. For the slight trespass which occurred, they swarmed on him with other students circling around as living bricks forming a wall to hide the scene. Kicks slammed into his side, Bo covered his face as best he could and tensed his muscles against the blows.
'What the hell is going on over there?' a teacher yelled.
Lonzo and his boys dispersed like dead leaves on a strong breeze, skittering down the hallways with only a stream of obscenities to mark their passing. The teacher helped Bo to his feet and walked him to the nurse's office. Limping slowly, his fellow students lined up and parted to let him through. Bo couldn't meet their eyes, but still felt the weight of shame on him. Their eyes bored into him. The stifled snickers. The inner pain of damaged pride. The helplessness of being a victim.
All turmoil and confusion, aggression and anger, pain and contempt, the need to belong and the inability to value anyone. Darkness, robbed innocence, with only fear and violence to earn power and respect. The Boars was born.
The Boars was wild, always being suspended from school. Quickly gaining a reputation for having low eyes: he never told anyone when he had money. Never chipped in on anything, but ate like he paid twice his share. He never escaped that fight. Thing was, he was doing all right in that tussle until Lonzo and the rest stepped in. He needed his own crew to have his back when the time came.
And the time would always come.
It began with a bang on the door.
Barely even a courtesy shout of 'Police' before they knocked the front door off the hinges. Naptown Red was used to police raids. Coming up, it was as natural a part of their family's rhythms of life as family reunions. The routine was as practiced as a fire drill: the police charged the house with guns drawn even as Fathead threw bags at the open window and Pres flushed others down the toilet. When over one hundred quarter bags of China White heroin were being packaged, even in the worst of economic times, their business was recession-proof.
The rest of the boys scattered. The threat of imminent jail or death had a way of focusing one's attention on their future. Sobering up from the heady mix of respect and power. Garlan simply disappeared. Prez, Fathead, and Naptown Red all ended up scooped up.
Naptown Red relaxed, quite pleased with his present circumstance. The way he imagined it, law enforcement from all over wanted to talk to him. Specific, highly detailed questions awaited him, which meant he enjoyed a new kind of rep, respect, and notoriety. No one noticed him or took him seriously in the past. Now everyone would know who he was.
'God, where are you?' Prez struggled with his own faith, wanting God back in his life, but He never answered. Knowing that no one would believe this misunderstanding. That he was working on the inside to supply King with information, not feed his own wallet or habit. The metal bench of the lock-up was harder than any at Stylez, his local barbershop. Head ducked, his palms on either side as he cradled it, he waited for his name to be called. They led him into the hallway after finger-printing, where he was forced to disrobe and toss his clothes into a pile in front of him. Like a slave facing inspection on the auction block, the guards performed their medical check, examining his hair, eyes, ears, and mouth for tracks. Thankful he wasn't a woman because he didn't think he could take the final act of being forced to crouch then cough to clear his vagina. Next, he picked up his belongings and walked single file to processing where he was given new underwear and clothes. Whatever shards of faith he had remaining he clutched to like a life preserver on an ocean of open water. As a storm approached.
Time had little meaning, but at ten o'clock at night, shadows steeped in the night. The vague stairs which dappled the house out into a smooth, neutral gray. The spotlights of patrol vehicles crisscrossed the house. Cops had set up in back and in front of the house, a pincer closing in on the stash house. They had the doors covered. The cops trapped a few pee wees trying to slip out a bedroom window. They checked the alleys, locked down the backyard and street, but no one looked up.
The Boars, rather than chance running out the back or the front, ran up the stairs. When he reached the top of the stairs, he weighed his options. He spied the trap door leading to the attic, but he knew it was only a matter of time until the cops searched there. They knew enough to hit this house, they knew enough to check the walls and the ceilings. There were three bedrooms, one overlooking the front yard, another the rear. The side bedroom had a window which opened onto a deck. He went up there sometimes to smoke at the window. He tested the rotted deck with his heavy foot. It held. Beneath him, cops scurried about tramping through the yard in a game of hide-and-seek with the pee wees. For a brief moment, The Boars thought about leaping onto the over-hanging tree branch and scampering down it over the fence into the neighbor's yard. But that played-out Tarzan shit would probably end with him busting his ass when he missed the branch — or it breaking beneath his two-hundred pound frame — else the cops simply waiting for him to climb his monkey ass out of the tree.
His cousin made the same mistake once. Robbed a liquor store then ran behind it back to his apartment where his girl chased him out of the place, not wanting him to bring any police bullshit back to their house. Around their child. His dumb ass climbed a tree, hoping to elude the police. They had his tree surrounded in a halfhour. Couldn't fool them canines. His cousin weighed his options. He couldn't do jail. Not a bit like that. So he shot himself in the chest. His body didn't topple out of the tree. They had to call in the fire trucks to get him down.
The Boars tugged at the shingles leading to the pitched room with three chimneys. Lights beamed along the stairway as police crept up into the waiting shadows. Bracing himself — he had to do this in one shot or the police would hear him for sure — he took a step back. He leapt. His fingers latched on to any purchase they could, ignoring the sandpaper scrape as he pulled himself up. The shouts of 'clear' echoed about as the officers checked each room.
'Upstairs secure,' an officer shouted.
'The Boars stretched out on the roof. Pulling his coat over him, he figured he could wait them out. Sneak off before dawn once the scene was secured by only a couple of cops.
Bo Little might have taken a beating, but The Boars handled his business.
At his desk, Cantrell turned the framed pictures of his wife and kids face-down before walking Prez past his desk to the interrogation room. Cantrell always knew he wanted to be a cop. Wanting to be where the action jumped off, he chose the most violent beat as a rookie. He wanted to make a difference. His was a simple plan. Let black kids in the neighborhoods see one of them. Have a cop treat them as a citizen, both valued and respected. Each person he met with a steady gaze, firm handshake, and served with honesty and diligence. He was the kind of detective who constantly asked questions and needed answers and didn't stop until he had them. For his effort, he was treated as the enemy: more blue than black. It broke his heart a little every time he had to haul in another brother in cuffs. Chains.
'You breaking my arm. You breaking my arm,' Fathead said as he was ushered into a seat by Lee.
'You ain't got to do all that. We barely touching you.' In contrast, Lee could give a shit about community. He couldn't tell you why he became a cop. Falling into it more than anything else, his sheer mediocrity allowing him to rise through the ranks. More diligent fuck-up than conscientious detective, most figured he'd have long been drummed out of the force. Except that he had an eye for the streets. He understood its rhythms and at the same time loathed that intimate knowledge. He was one with the musk and misery of the city's grimy underbelly. These days, the two graying strands in his mustache disconcerted him more than his clearance rate.
Lee was that kind of police. The kind who drank vodka because it had no smell even though it did. The kind who hid bottles around the house: in the basin of the toilet, in a kitchen cabinet, in the trunk of his car, in a desk
