'I just don't want to be alone anymore.' Lott buried his face into the sheets. A hand rested gently on his head.
'You're not alone. Not as long as you have people around you who love you.'
La Payasa never wanted to be her mother. Her mom was unable to survive without a man. It was that simple. Born in Mexico, her mom was married three times. Each time a husband left or died, she hooked up with another one within months. Her life was its own prison, trapped by being functionally illiterate with her third-grade education and thus captive to the whims of her men. Her third husband moved to Indianapolis to find factory work. Her whole life revolved around pleasing him. Her long hair was worn in a bun, the way he liked it. She spent her days cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the children, the way he envisioned a good wife should be. There was little of her mother in her own life.
La Payasa was not much different from her mom, moving from Black to King, her life defined by what others wanted of her and fitting in with their wants. Following their dreams and not her own. Yet she stood in the room at King's bedside as if having been granted an audience. Percy and Lott she knew. Not the girl. And not the one who, while lying down in a hospital bed, commanded the entire room.
'You're with Black and his crew,' King said.
'I know the story that's been written about me.' La Payasa ignored the weight of eyes in the room and focused on King. He had a way about him, like Black. He could draw you in. Unlike Black, there was a gentleness behind that hard exterior. A burning sense of caring. 'But what if I'm actually one of the good guys?'
'You asking or telling?'
'Both, I think.'
'What about Black? Aren't you helping him?'
'I'm hoping to help everyone.'
King recognized that air about her: damaged but resilient. She reminded him of Lady G. 'Nobody does it alone. Black and brown, we have a lot in common. And we need a place we all make together. Bring folks together in a positive way.'
'I don't know, hese.'
'You know what?' King turned to all of them. 'I believe that Dred has united enough of the gangs and controls enough of the drug flow in this city to open the flood gates. To sink the streets, our streets, to lows and depravity and desperation we've never known. I believe the police are powerless because they can't build a case against someone they barely know. They're too busy cleaning up the messes left by the front lines of this war to get near him.
'Well, the police aren't in this alone. This is our community. These are our streets. Those are our brothers and sisters and children shedding their blood and losing their lives out there. Day after day in senseless waste. We're always fighting the same fight.
'This struggle has been going on forever. The players may change, the philosophies may differ, but there would always be war. On the one side you have the warlord, simple in his own way, who was always chasing that dollar no matter what the cost, and would use and climb over anyone he could to amass power. On the other side, you had the idealistic church wanting everyone to believe the same things and follow the same rules. You'd think they were on opposite sides but they were two sides of the same coin. Neither was as all good or all evil, as all right or all wrong, as the other side would make them out to be. In fact, both would do both good and terrible things to get what they wanted.
'And I'm tired.
'Tired of sitting on the sidelines. Tired of waiting for someone else to come along to solve our problem. Tired of not caring. Running around out here, asking folks to care, to look out for one another. That ain't snitching, that's caring.
'Most days we are gray people leading gray lives. We keep our heads down and mind our own, hoping things will work out. We keep on keeping on. Shadows in a world of black and white, of light and dark, waiting out a war and hoping that we don't get caught in the crossfire.
'But we live in the crossfire.
'Every once in a while, we're faced with a decision. An opportunity. The chance to do something right, something we don't have to question or wonder about. Something we know is true.' King turned to Lady G, then faced them again. 'When we find what's true, we hold on to it. We're moved by it. And we act on it. This is one of those times. Some might say it'd be better to get out of their way and let Dred and the police scuffle it out. But this is our community, too. There comes a point, maybe when one side goes all in to wipe out the other, when you can't stand on the sidelines anymore. You have to pick a side. We will take this war to Dred and we will end it. Our brothers and sisters are out here, lost and misguided. But they're not beyond hope. They're not beyond redemption.
'Do you know how I've always thought of you? As knights. Knight means servant, and to be a leader you must serve. Sometimes we've forgotten that. Lost our way. I know I have. Faithful service is not always acknowledged. And you aren't a good knight until you've been tested. You've all been tested. Each of you in your own way. Now it's time to serve our people one more time.'
They burst into applause, they couldn't help themselves. King stirred something in them. They dared to hope. They remembered what they could be. The nurse burst in to shoo them back in the hallway. Pastor Winburn followed her, his 'clergy' identification badge pinned to his suit jacket. He waited until the nurse finished her duties, nodding politely to her as she left.
'You have your serious face on. What happened?' King asked.
'King, there's something I got to tell you. It's about Prez.'
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
King slouched over his knees. The pain in his side and neck faded into afterthoughts as he reached over toward his clothes. The ones he was brought in with had to be cut from him. Pastor Winburn had brought a change of clothes upon hearing King had awoken.
'What are you doing?' Pastor Winburn handed him his clothes.
'I need to see the body.'
'You know I can't let you do that, King. Family only.'
'I'm the closest thing to kin that boy's got.'
'Still…'
'Do me this solid.'
A black T-shirt with the word 'Resistance' across the top. Underneath were portraits of his heroes. Sojourner Truth. Marcus Garvey. Angela Davis. John Carlos and Tommie Smith. Rosa Parks. Frederick Douglass. Harriet Tubman. Malcolm X. Dr Martin Luther King Jr. The shirt stretched over his muscular frame, showing off his thick arms. Pastor Winburn took the liberty of purchasing a new pair of black Chuck Taylors to replace his blood- splattered set.
Taking tentative steps, King walked slowly down the hall, his legs still getting used to being upright. He slung his leather coat over his arms in front of him, following Pastor Winburn as if a bereaved relative.
The cold room had a blue tint to it. A single body on a metal table, a sheet drawn over it. The medical examiner, a ghost in blue scrubs, pulled back the sheet. The side of Prez's face reduced to a hole exploded out; even cleaned up, a cavern of flesh and skull ruined his former eye. Scores of bruises riddled his chest. Some strange wounds not made by blade, gun, or fist had the stink of magic about them.
Cantrell worked a double tour, exhausted but undaunted. Rubbing the fatigue from his eyes, he watched the pantomime play out from the next room. King broken up about the boy's death, his meaty hands slammed into his skull as he paced about. His mouth opened in a voiceless cry. The boy was like they all were: born into a family, into a situation, given a lifetime of choices and experiences to shape what he became, takes the path of his life, and then it was over. All that remained were the people left in his wake who mourned him. Lives he touched, for good or for ill. The same ride for everyone. Cantrell gave him a moment after the pastor left before he walked in.
'I don't know what you plan to do or how someone like you carries this. Don't know if you pray, go see your
