Maurice Broaddus - King Maker

"You hear what happened with Green's crew?" Dred asked rhetorically.

"Everyone heard. Lots of shots." Baylon shifted uncomfortably, standing without having been offered a seat and having the distinct impression he'd been called into the principal's office.

"A lot of noise. If the message was 'we like to make a lot of noise and bring down all sorts of unwarranted attention', message received. Those two fuck-ups couldn't be trusted to send a telegram."

"You gonna call the Durham Brothers?" Baylon kept his sigh to himself. Junie and Parker, Junie more so, were world-class fuck-ups. Despite congratulating themselves on a ruckus well made, they needed to be sat down. Reflecting a moment, Baylon realized they weren't too dissimilar from him. They all demanded respect, yet none of them could command it. Dred continued as if picking up on his thoughts.

"Call done been made. Remember when a nigga would say 'I'm gonna hold things down' and business got handled?"

"Lots of things change." Baylon ignored the quiet indictment.

"You got something to say?" Dred wheeled nearer. Baylon never had the sense that he looked down at him. Dred created — he didn't know how else to describe it — a vertigo effect. Despite the height differential, it was like they stared at each other eye-to-eye.

"Nah man, I'm just saying. The crew's weak. You up here. I'm up here. Back in the day, we had things on lockdown."

"Yeah, you right. Lots of things change."

Dred backed away from him. He tapped the small box which hung from his arm rest. The lid popped open and he withdrew a huge spliff. He fired it up. The smoke filled the room immediately, its aroma pungent, like earthy though rotted burnt vegetables. "Think back, remember how I found you?"

Alone. Scared. Cold. Wet. Huddled in the door frame. All his friends turned against him. He still had the knife. Pulled his jacket tighter and higher, both for warmth and to not be recognized. Never felt so isolated, aban doned, and betrayed. He had never known such sheer terror. Breathing became a labored process; he was suddenly conscious of reminding himself to inhale and exhale. His heart pounded arrhythmically, hammering an unsure cadence. The girl was little more than an acquaintance, but he liked her spirit. Her light. He hated the little boys drawn to casually snuff out lights simply because they could. Her blood still on his hands. Her innocence… he took it all away the minute he introduced himself to her. She'd have been better off if they'd never met. She'd still be innocent. Safe. Alive.

How could they think that of me? Did that even sound like the person I was? They know me. They know me. He still had the knife.

Dred pulled up, the outline of his black Escalade a blurred shadow in the haphazard rain. Its parking light on, it roamed the lot like a leering hyena in search of wounded prey. Dred rolled down the window. A thick issue of smoke poured from his mouth. Like he'd been expectantly waiting. "Get in. You're not safe here."

"I'm not safe anywhere. Not anymore." Baylon's panic ran so deep, he barely recognized Dred.

"I understand. Look, I ain't gonna bullshit you, you in deep. Left quite a mess back there. But we're handling it."

"We?" Only then did he notice Night in the passenger seat.

"You don't need to worry about that. What you need to know is that your crew, your true crew, stands tall beside you." Dred checked his rearview mirror. "I don't mean to press you, but we gots to roll. Get in."

Baylon ducked inside the Escalade as Dred peeled off. He drove a halfmile or so before turning on his headlights. The quiet thickened between them. Jittery eyed and drymouthed, he jumped at every brake, squeal, or car horn. Arguing, a shout, bursts of laughter. They drove aimlessly, taking in the sights of the city. The street's cacophony of life, abrupt, charged sounds which brought only terror. Edgy, he anticipated some thing bad about to happen. Ware and uneasy, he leaned forward in his seat, drawing Dred's attention in the rearview mirror.

"That girl back there? That was his cousin."

"Wrong time, wrong place. Tragic."

Baylon remained silent not yet knowing his play. Dred's measured words bubbled with import, calculated to appraise him at every turn. Bleak as things seemed, he knew he had options. It was an accident. It had to be. If he just went to King. Explained.

"King was your boy. Took some stones to do him like that."

"I don't believe it. No one would."

"A noheart nigga like you. I'm saying, no offense, that ain't your rep," Night said to Dred's obvious dis pleasure. "He didn't have it in him. That's all I'm saying."

"We all have it in us. We just need the right teacher to draw it out of us. Ain't that right."

"Bay?"

"It got done, didn't it?"

"He might be ready to step up. What you think?"

Baylon hated the way they discussed him as if he weren't there.

"Ain't my call. My man has to make his choice. What you think, B? You ready to step up?" Dred asked.

Still jumpy and unhinged, his nerves drained of all resolve, Baylon realized he was a man of fluid loyalties. After the misunderstanding which ended his and King's friendship, perhaps his future interest was with Night and Dred. Every story needed a villain. Maybe it was time for him to embrace his calling. As hollow as that thought ran, at his core, Baylon was practical. The best way to survive was to stick with survivors. Dred, no matter the level of chaos around him, always managed to survive.

"You cursed, you know," Dred said.

"I don't know shit about no curses," Baylon said.

"Death follows you," Night said.

"Death follows all of us." Baylon grew annoyed at their steady rhythm. He felt pressed in and doubleteamed. The Escalade became claus trophobic. He stared out the window. He had a selfdestructive impulse he wrestled against. Got in a bad way, a dark head space and wants to take a torch to his life. "We born to die."

"Not all of us. Some of us even death won't touch." Dred stared into the rearview mirror until he locked eyes with Baylon.

Baylon fidgeted with the handle of his knife then shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He ticked off the streets as they headed east on Washington.

"Why you want to help me out?" Baylon eventually found his voice.

"The enemy of my enemy…" Dred said.

"So we friends now?"

"Better than that. We're partners."

Baylon nodded. This was the life he wanted, the opportunity he'd been waiting for. It only cost him his friendship with King. They hadn't been close of late, but they were still boys. They'd depended on each other for so long, they had become comfortable. And now it was evaporated. He was dead to King. He would have to find his own way with his own people.

"And then you brought me in," Griff said.

Baylon jumped. The voice was so real in his ear, he searched Dred's face to see if he heard it. He couldn't be here. Not here, not now, not in this memory. Griff came later. Smoke filled the car, a billowing cloud so thick it now obscured the front seat. The smoke's heady aroma disoriented Baylon. Soon, all he knew was the smoke. It isolated him. The world beyond its fringes ceased to exist. All there was, his entire reality, had been reduced to bodiless voices.

"You wanted in. Remember what I asked you?" Baylon asked.

"'Now you want to get your dick wet and do some work?'" Griff quoted.

"Yeah, you were always the first in line to get paid."

The smoke began to clear. The cloudless sky beamed with such an intense blue it hurt Baylon's eyes. The landscape shifted until it coalesced into the familiar. He grew up in this playground. His house was across the street, behind the community center. His neighbors' houses lined the alley which cordoned off the park. Baylon spidered his hands up along the chains of the swing in which he sat until they reached a comfortable height.