Maurice Broaddus - King's War

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.

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.