'Yeah, that's me.'
'What's your angle like, homes?' Black asked. Not quite what Lott was expecting with his bald head and full beard. Five foot four, about a buck seventy, posed in an aggressive stance in order not to convey weakness.
'I come in peace, if you are.'
'Seems you ain't got a choice. You traveling awfully light.'
'Figured this could be handled man to man. You the one I need to be speaking with?' It was a mild challenge. Give him the chance to puff up.
'Yeah, I'm the one calling shots,' Black asked.
'I need to speak on this business with Dred.'
'What of it?'
'A lot of bodies are dropping. And for what? So each of you can see who can poison their community the fastest?'
'You seem to know a lot about my business.' Black stepped closer in an unveiled act of intimidation. The grip of the automatic showed the gun riding in the waist of his pants.
'It's a nasty business. How are you looking out for your people?'
'I protect my people. I provide for them, me and my crew. If it wasn't for us, fools would come trippin' through here, guns a-blazing. That's the life. I'm not afraid of dying as long as I die strong.'
'Not everyone wants to die strong. Or young. Your playing hurts kids. Little girls especially.' Lott sensed the situation was about to bubble over. He'd been here before. The precipice of machismo. The best way to handle the situation was to ease off the throttle; give the man room to be a man and space to think. Not to back him into a corner and shame him. Lott knew this. Yet some inner compulsion, the need to do things his way, the need to have others hurt the way he hurt, made him dig into Black. 'Girls like your sister.'
Black short-jabbed Lott in the kidneys, a punch so fast and with such little movement, Lott didn't have time to react. If anything, Lott was braced for a swing to his face. Lott grabbed him at the shoulders ready to wrestle him down, but Black took a half-step back to throw him off balance, swung his arm over Lott's to break the hold, then rammed his elbow into Lott's neck. Black jammed his knee three times into Lott's side before throwing him to the curb. The sounds of the tussle brought a couple members of his crew out, guns drawn. La Payasa threw a sign for them to stand down.
'How you want to play this?' she asked, a flicker of alarm in her eyes. She was her gang through and through, and yet, the pride she had in her colors had been reduced to yet another thing which had disappointed her.
'We ain't wasting a bullet on this fool and putting him out of his misery. He and his crew are broken. Let him crawl back like the betraying dog that he is.'
Black saw her thinking. 'Come on. You need a break. Let's go back to the house.'
'Not back inside?'
'No. The house.'
Finding himself without friends wasn't new to Lott. Running was the thing his mother did best, second only to getting high. Setting down roots terrified her, either that or she so quickly made a mess of her life — shorting dealers, not paying back friends, bailing on family when rent was due — that she had no choice but to move. At one point, Lott had changed schools six times in one year. Each time, Lott was the foreigner, the stranger, the outcast. Most times he was too tired to prove himself, content to live inside his head, writing lyrics and working out beats. Music was his only friend. His only refuge. His only constant. And he was too tired, too resigned to his life, to bother risking himself to invest in someone. Even just to get to know them. Not if he was only going to have to leave them. Each introduction held the promise that he had found a place to belong. Maybe he'd found family. It hurt too much when just the promise of family was torn away. Or worse, they abandoned him.
There were times of quiet lucidity when Lott would return here and cry. Thinking about how badly he had fucked up his life, the route which seemed to make the most sense was for him to kill himself and start over. That voice whispered to him in the void of no other voices in his life. It certainly beat the continual struggle against thugs charged by the thrill of petty power, constant chest-thumping, and the daily need to grind out an existence.
He still hurt, inside and out. Pain bled out of him. Not just from the recent pair of ass-whippings he'd subjected himself to. He could confess his sins to anyone, could recount the details — from loving King and Lady G, to working hard in service to them, to allowing himself to fall for Lady G, to sleeping with her, to busting up the only family he'd ever known and experienced — in a way so unaffected it was as if he was telling the story of someone else. The reality of the immensity of the pain he caused and suffered seared him to the point of him not feeling. That was his one truth today. He allowed himself one, it was all he could handle. He had lied so much to himself in so many subtle ways, he was no better than his crackhead of a mother.
Lott didn't remember how he stumbled to the house. Only when the door opened and Lott nearly tumbled in from his exhausted body leaning against the door did he become aware of where he was. 'Wayne.'
'Lott, man, you look like you got your ass wawawazupped. What happened?' Wayne ushered him in and plopped him on the couch.
'Went to go see Black.'
'By yourself?' He called out from the kitchen, where he dashed off to in order to run some water into a bowl. He returned with a wash rag to damp at some of Lott's cuts.
'Thought it was the right play.'
'You need to re-examine your definitions of right and wrong.' The words stung despite them not being intended the way Lott heard them. 'You get any clarity?'
'I'm stocked on clarity. In fact, I'm in need of a clarity clearance sale. Hope I ain't blowing up your spot. If you got something going on…'
'Nah, man, it's cool. I was meaning to get up with you. See how you were doing.'
'Yeah,' said Lott, straining to keep any trace of resentment out of his voice. He winced as Wayne daubed at his cut lip. 'Lots of folks been meaning to.'
Got a touch of pride to him. Wayne wrestled with his internal voice. Course why he got to ask for someone to be with him? Why didn't someone offer?
'I feel so dirty inside.' Lott couldn't escape his sense of shame. Everyone wanted to know how/why he let things happen the way they did. After all, he was old enough to know better. He understood the consequences. He certainly was an adult. But he also knew that no answer would help them understand. He wasn't sure he knew 'why?' anyway.
'The way I see it, it wasn't really you who did it. Not the real you.'
'What if it was?'
'You're a good person. You're still the man we know and loved. You just did something wrong. You have to have faith that people will have your back. In a few months, this will blow over, and be nothing but a memory. But that's only if you handle your business correct from here on out.'
'What do you mean?'
'You're trapped, you're scared, you're living in fear,' Wayne said. 'You push this too far, we'll lose you, too.'
Lott wanted to believe him, but Wayne was wrong. The lies, the memories, they were like scars. They might heal over, but it would take more than months. The dreams, the sweat-drenched things he woke from, only now were beginning to fade. Lott considered himself a cancer that needed to be removed for the sake of the health of the community. He'd already tried twice.
'Can I ask you something?' Lott asked.
'What's that?'
'Why don't you hate me?' The whole conversation, Lott had been waiting for Wayne to blame him. For him to yell at him, to tell him that 'if you made different choices from the beginning, none of us would be broken or torn up right now.'
'Who said I don't?' Wayne asked. Lott slumped in his seat, further resigned. 'That what you want to hear, ain't it? I've already said this, I don't know how many different ways that I can say this, you just ain't hearing me. You my boy. You messed up something fierce and it'll be a while before things are okay, if they ever will be. That's on the real. But we say we believe in certain things. Honesty. Responsibility. Courage. That includes the strength it takes to make changes and move on. And forgive. Forgiveness has to begin somewhere. It's the only way we can find our way home. I haven't given up on you. God's not through with you yet. Speaking of…'
