Maurice Broaddus - King's War

"The scene was a real mess. Prez got off the easiest. Simple bullet to the brain. One tap, real close. Naptown Red, he put up a fight. Got some shots off, then it looks like someone stabbed him in the heart. But Fathead? Someone did a job on him. Took their time, too. His head took such a beating his own momma wouldn't recognize him. They pumpkinheaded him. And I get that you don't need shit to come back on you. I know they weren't your boys or nothing, but you got any thoughts on who might've done this?"

"Why you asking me?"

"I got this theory. It says that Dred has been stirring up things. Flexing a little, getting a feel for how much juice his name carried. That got him bumping up against Black and his set. Stuff goes back and forth like this stuff do. Then things get taken to the next level. Lyonessa gets caught up. Don't know who gave the order or who carried it out. We do have a vehicle description that vaguely matches your ride. But that's neither here nor there because it's been torched beyond recognition. As you know, it doesn't matter what we think, it's about what we can prove. But… someone out there must have a suspicious mind, cause they went after Melle. Probably got Noles on a shortlist, too. What I can't quite figure out is if the same person went after Red and 'em, changing up their methods, or if that was someone else tying up loose ends. You got any thoughts on that?"

"Nah, man…" Garlan trailed off.

"Cause if you do, we'd be all ears. That's why we having this civil conversation. Out here, in front of all kinds of passers by." Cantrell tipped his hat to a sister eyeing them from the sidewalk. "Not taking you in or busting up your routine. Just giving you something to think about."

"A friendly warning," he said.

"Cause someone's hunting your crew."

"I said I don't know nothing," Garlan yelled loud enough for any curious ears to hear.

"Well, if you do," Cantrell began to hand him a card, but Garlan turned down the block and stepped off in a huff.

"What you think?"

"Evil is rare, but stupid is everyday," Cantrell said.

"That so?"

"He's a ghetto nihilist. Life don't mean anything to him. Any of them. They got no reason to value it… Now they done gone and killed somebody. Part of them dead too."

"You ought to become a philosopher."

"I got nothing out here and I'm too old to start over."

"I ain't mad at you. It's a color thing, I got that," Lee said.

"You're my forty acres and a jackass," Cantrell said.

"I'm trying to relate to you… my brother. And all you got for me is names. It ain't your fault some politicians need to feel better about their beaner nannies and gardeners and decide to force a rainbow coalition on your behalf."

Life pressed in on Garlan from all sides. Everywhere he turned, there were crossroads, each folding in on itself like a Gordian knot. In charge of a few knuckleheads, overseeing a corner or two, he enjoyed a comfortable spot with Dred. A little money coming through, set him up nice. Some wheels too, though he had to ditch them with Five-O on the hunt for them. But a car could be replaced; freedom couldn't. And he had no interest in being locked up.

All the death haunted him, however. Each body a new weight on his conscience and it wasn't as if he had nothing but time to pass in a prison yard. He knew Rok from back in the day, but he got caught up in that Colvin mess and being between a player like Colvin and Dred and King was a bad place to find oneself in.

Then Noles and Melle and that business with the little girl. That kind of drama would have po-po in his Kool-Aid forever or until they found someone to put it on. Catch a young black buck like The Boars, get him in the back seat of a sheriff's car, and he get mysteriously shot with them claiming suicide or some shit. Po-po notwithstanding, the hood was hot, jumping with pissed-off Mexicans and brothers alike. Shit, it was barely safe to walk down the street of his own hood.

Which was how he found himself in Broad Ripple. On a Thursday night, the strip hopped as college kids crawled from bar to bar in a press of bodies and a good-time vibe. The lights of the Vogue flashed with a spotlight's glare. Live bands came through on a regular basis: Madonna's Abortion, The Chosen Few, Saving Abel, The Why Store. Nothing Garlan would every listen to. Every so often some old school hip-hop he could get with would come through: Rakim, De La Soul, Method Man, Redman, Cypress Hill. Tonight was some wannabe heavy metal band, so he kept stepping, pushing past the crowd of folks milling about out front. The young college-age kids without sense enough to recognize a shark in their midst or not wanting to appear racist by profiling him. Not wanting any drama, he cruised through them without even bothering to flex his game face.

An old man danced on the corner across the street. Drunk. Homeless. People walked by as if they couldn't see him. Garlan crossed the street and put three dollars in his cup. It would go to whatever cheap booze wafted off him at that moment, but Garlan wasn't going to deny the man a taste. Whatever got him through the night.

Melle was dead. Naptown Red. Fathead. Prez. The bodies kept stacking up all under his watch. He was supposed to look out for them. Hunters were on the prowl. Too many hunters and a thinning school of prey.

And Garlan had the distinct impression that he was prey.

Nature's dark opera played unabated. The frightful melody of the rain combined with the mournful wail of the wind to tear through the trees. Lightning scampered all around, chasing some unseen prey, the radiance of the full moon shining vividly through the oppressively low clouds. The thunder roared with its terrible echo. Garlan swore that it was less than a mile that he'd walked, yet it seemed interminable. Or maybe it was the silence that lengthened the trip. Turning north up College Avenue, he walked away from the main strip of Broad Ripple Avenue, away from the lights, until he got to the bridge that crossed the canal. Way he heard it, way back in the day, folks who lived in downtown Indianapolis used to build their summer homes in Broad Ripple. Large show-off houses with lots of rooms and windows. And there used to be an amusement park, like Coney Island, along the canal. Though the rides burnt down, the city kept the park. Lots of folks hung out at the bridge.

Garlan scrabbled over the edge of the limegreen girders of the bridge out of view of the patrolling officers, and landed in the dirt. Usually the bridge thrummed with activity. Bridge kids, the kind of folks Garlan would have no trouble blending in with. Most of them were rich white kids from the suburbs, Carmel, Noblesville, Fishers, singing that "My parents don't understand me" song while driving their daddy's BMW back and forth. Others were skateboarders. A few punks. Goths. B-boys. Some were hoppers, folks who followed the train lines cross-country. And on Thursday nights it should have been bumping. But it was deserted. The lights of Broad Ripple filled the sky above him, but didn't seem to cut through the shadows under the bridge. It was just Garlan and his ghosts.

"It all catches up to you after a while," a voice said from the shadows.

"Who that is?"

"It's just me." Baylon shuffled toward him.

"What you need?" Garlan balled his hand, but kept it at his side. He didn't find Baylon's presence especially reassuring.

"You."

"What you want with me? Dred need me to come in? He could've hit me up on my cell. He didn't need to send-"

"His errand boy?"

"I wasn't going to say that," much as he believed it. "Much respect."

"You underestimate your value. You Dred's number-one dude. His new number one."

"I don't know about all that." Though the thought did please him.

"A dog always returns to his master, especially when his master needs him most. Between Black, Dred, King, and the police, it's been hard out here for Dred's lieutenants. You his last one. The rest are gone or preoccupied. Soon it will just be a cozy little gathering. But… what to do about you?"