Maurice Broaddus - King's Justice

"A little work now prevents a huge, pain-in-thebehind worth of work down the road."

Breton Drive separated the assemblage of townhouses of Breton Court from Jonathan Jennings Public School 109. The school was designated a zerotolerance zone and once Night's drug crew had been dismantled, it was one in deed as well as word. King stared at the shoes as if they personally mocked him.

"It's a pair of shoes."

"It's a declaration," King said. "Says someone intends on dealing out of here soon. It's a set-up notice. Well, message received. Now we're sending one back."

"Yeah, throw up a pair of tennis shoes and see how many brothers it takes to take them down."

"Two. One to do the work and another to wear his ass out with complaining about it." King waved the broom handle about, a blind conductor directing an unseen orchestra. Eventually one of his haphazard swings connected with the shoes and they tumbled free. "There. Now they know. You try to set up shop in this neighborhood, there are folks around here who care enough to stop it."

"Uh huh. If you close your eyes, you can hear your applause."

"Come on." King gathered the shoes, holding them with two fingers well away from him. "We going to be late."

Fumbling for change, Percy emptied out his pockets, carefully counting out each penny with great deliberation. Percy tipped nearly three bills. Droplets of sweat swelled, coalesced, and then ran as a trickle down the darker knot above his left eyebrow. In the shape of a crescent moon, the keloid etched his burnt mochacomplected skin. He huffed with anxiousness under the weight of the eyes of the man behind the cash register of the Hoosier Pete convenience mart. The line behind him now ran three customers deep, with the bell on the door jangling as more people entered the gas station convenience store. A stack of Giant Sweet Tarts piled in front of him, his nervousness increased as he glanced at the total on the cash register and then his quickly dwindling pile of change. The pennies eventually stopped. Twelve cents short. Percy stepped back dumbfounded as if a set of equations didn't equal out.

"Come on, man. You see him all the time. You know he good for it," an older man said, dressed in an offwhite hat with matching shirt and slacks with a pair of sandals. Old-school casual. A toothpick protruded from his mouth, a cup of coffee and a newspaper filled his hands.

"Nah, it's all right. I'll put something back." Percy's downcast eyes rarely met anyone's gaze.

"No, it ain't all right. It's not the point," Old School said.

"He not have it, he put something back. It's only twelve cents." The Indian cashier had witnessed variations of this scene every day. In a few minutes, he'd be due to be cussed out. Maybe called a sand nigger, despite being born in an Indianapolis suburb. Or told that his mother should have aborted him; that was, when he wasn't being accused of having sexual congress with her. He knew it was coming and the reality of the scene playing out again frustrated him.

"That's my point. It's only twelve cents."

"Twelve cents is twelve cents," the cashier said. He pulled at his black-streaked white beard. Weary eyes drifted from Percy to the lengthening line. He knew it was pointless to reason with people once they built up a head of steam, but he went through the motions anyway. "He short twelve cents. I let that go. You short twelve cents. I let that go. By end of day, no more shop."

"Leave that boy alone. You see he simple," another voice cried from behind Old School.

Percy grabbed a pack of Giant Sweet Tarts, but was told to put it down. This was about principle now. The rising hostility in the shop rattled Percy. Each face a mirror of anger, distrust, and resentment. Everyone was just so… mad. He felt bad for the man behind the cashier and searched his pockets again hoping he missed a quarter.

"Your shop is in our neighborhood," Old School said. "No more customers means no more shop, too. You move in here, happy enough to take our money out of the neighborhood, but you can't be bothered to be a part of it."

The Indian man trembled with his own missing rage. Uncertain eyes, not wanting any trouble, also didn't want to be cheated. The constant accusations, the constant attempts of folks to get over on him; the constant vigilance exhausted him. They didn't see their machinations as attempts to take food out of his family's mouths. The ugly mood in the neighborhood had been building for weeks now. This was why he bought a gun.

"Look at you. Even now I bet you think we going to rob you. Typical." Old School sipped from the coffee he hadn't yet purchased.

"This is bullshit. We regulars, too," the agitated customer behind him amened. "Can't you be bothered to know us?"

"Fellas, fellas… it's all right. I got it." The name badge on the arm of the FedEx uniform read "Lott Carey" and featured a grill-revealing smile. A thick, navy-colored sweatshirt over matching pants, the uniform had the formality of one having donned armor in preparation to joust. Lott strolled toward the front of the line with his pimp-roll strut for all the eyes to see. Obviously pleased with his "swooping in like a superhero saving the day" entrance moment, his smile showed off the row of faux gold caps which grilled his teeth.

"Thanks, Lott." Percy shoveled his candy into his about-two-sizes-too-small jacket.

The Indian gentleman took the quarter with a sigh of relief and handed the change to Percy, who then pocketed it.

Lott watched his change go into Percy's pocket but didn't say anything. "Come on, we going to be late."

Despite the elbows pummeling her side — and the mad screeching of what sounded like a cat being slowly lowered into a wood chipper — Big Momma was slow to wake. Her eyes fluttered, spot-checking the rising sun against the accusing red glow of the night stand clock's numbers. With the care of not wanting to crush a newborn, she rolled over. The boy wailed, locked in a nightmare, and thrashed about beside her. She pulled her night gown tighter around her, conscious of the possibility of her heavy bosom spilling out.

"Had! Had, boy, wake up. It's OK, it's OK. Momma's here. Momma's here." She shushed the boy awake, reassuring him while guiding him from whatever nocturnal terror lay in wait for him each night. The boy's eyes focused with a hint of recognition, though Big Momma was rarely certain about what actually flitted through the ten year-old's addled mind. Had's mother smoked crack while pregnant, increasing her habit as it went along as if medicating herself through the pregnancy. The effects of which played out like a sad movie across his sullen face. His somber brow furrowed, fine crease lines worried into his head.

With Pokemon characters splayed all along them, the pajamas seemed wholly too young for him, yet fit him both physically and mentally. The brightness of the clothes only made his dark skin appear that much darker. He popped his thumb into his mouth and began to suck.

"Help me, Lord. Lord Jesus help me." Big Momma drew up her sheet. Holes began to wear through the threadbare material. She made do, treating them gently and kept neat, because she wouldn't be buying new ones for a while. Poverty was no excuse to not carry her head high. She threw the sheets from her and sat up, checking the curlers in her head. Thankful he was awake but quiet, she left Had in the bed. Her bones grated with her first morning steps as she eased into her day with a resigned sigh. The floorboard creaked under her uneasy waddle. She poked her head in Lady G's room only to see clothes slung along the headboard of the bed, perhaps to dry. The piles littered the floor without any discernible pattern except maybe to be able to know where all of her earthly belongings were in case she had to scoop and run. But it had been months and Lady G had neither scooped nor run.