Maurice Broaddus - King Maker

King enjoyed her laughter. "I like to know what I'm dealing with when I watch a show. Can't just let folks brainwash you."

"I just try to enjoy a movie. Leave the deep stuff to folks who look for deep stuff."

"You can't just let folks slip anything they want into you."

"That's not what I'm saying. You see, there's two kinds of folks: simple and complex. I'm a simple girl. That ain't the same as dumb. I just don't make things complicated. To me, a movie's a movie. I ain't trying to find any social meaning, not trying to look for metaphors, or any of that other stuff. I'm just looking to kill a couple hours. You complex folks like to burn yourselves up looking for hidden meaning in everything."

Lost in his thoughts, King hadn't realized how angry he always was. The knot that clotted his stomach and congealed in his veins had become such a part of him, he'd grown used to it. If he had to name the source of his anger, he'd be hard pressed. He had grown up with it for so long, it was all he knew. His constant companion. He doubted he would have even noticed how much it defined him until the constant churning leveled. His rage suddenly quelled. The darkness which shadowed the fringes of his life receded. Around her. And the implication frightened him. And the fear was every bit as uncomfortable as the anger. Something new to get used to. The fear wasn't so bad.

Her forthrightness appealed to him. She wore a family reunion T-shirt, though it wasn't for her family, but a shirt she'd gotten from Outreach Inc. The tattoo on her shoulder was what he was staring at when her eyes caught his.

"What are you looking at?"

"The tattoo. BMG?"

"Big Money Ganger." A regretful tone underscored her voice. She turned her shoulder from him.

"A girl like you runs in a set?"

"You have no idea what it's like to be me." Lady G stood by the window. She pulled back the venetian blinds to take in the evening scene.

"True. You do seem to be quite the mystery."

"Forget you." An unbidden smile betrayed her.

"You make a brother work to talk to you." King sat on the cooler, inching it forward but not threateningly close.

"If I don't want to say something to you, don't say nothing to me."

"And if you do want to say something?"

"Oh, you'll know."

He nodded at the tattoo. "This what you saw yourself being when you were little?"

"It feels like my kid life is gone outta me… if I ever had one. I want to own my own salon one day. One without all the gang and drug money all up in it. Baylon must own half a dozen by now."

"You know B?" King's voice grew sharp, not that Lady G acted as if she caught it or the overly familiar recognition of Baylon as "B". They all came with the baggage of the past, not that any of it was his business, so she simply moved on.

"He was trying to go with me, but he wasn't my type. He put that 'L' word in there, hit me too quick with that. I don't play that game. I don't put out signals and I don't read them terribly well. I feel something, I tell you. Problem with the rest of the boys I deal with, is that there's not enough truth in them. They can't just say 'I got feelings for you, I'm digging you. You kind of tight.' They can't admit that they want to treat you dirty. Do better."

"I will," King said as if her "do better" was aimed at him.

"Do you believe that some people are just… connected?"

"What do you mean?" He knew what she meant.

"Like how you can think of a friend and they just show up."

"Or how you can be in need and they just know to come over or have the right thing to say."

"Exactly."

"Do you want to go out sometime?"

"You ask out all the girls you rescue from a fight?"

"Only the interesting ones." He stood up to kiss her, but she pulled away.

"I keep myself to myself. I can give you a hug, though," she said with the crooked smile of a child who'd been caught in a lie.

King saw the little girl in her then. The light and potential, the fragility and strength, that innocent part of her she still tried to cultivate as well as protect. The one who'd been fucked over too often by life along the way. And he felt as if something in his chest was broken, as if just realizing it for the first time.

Both of them stood rigid within the embrace, as if neither knew what to do with the display of affection. He was pissed that he gave up something personal about himself within a few minutes of talking, but it happened right away like that sometimes. When he peered into those damaged almond eyes of hers, however, he belonged to her and she knew it, too. Their eyes smiled, hopeful despite themselves.

They all had to play their roles.

Fall Creek ran through the east side of Indianapolis, non-discriminatory to the neighborhoods it flowed through. As it passed the Phoenix Apartments, a grove of trees lined its banks forming a natural green space that had become popular as a walkway. During early morning hours, many a citizen walked its path for exercise, each armed with a stick or bat in case of emergency. On some evenings, such as this night, cars crowded the rear of the Phoenix Apartments parking lot, sealing it off into its own little world. As people made their way down to the woods, they knew they were entering Switzerland, a "no beefs allowed" zone. Dred's crew, Night's boys, ESG, Treize, Black Gangster Disciples, any of a number of independents, all noise had to be squashed for the evening.

Stands of bootleg CDs (including homemade mixes), DVDs, T-shirts and hoodies (with portraits and quotes of Malcolm X, Marcus Garvey, and Bob Marley), and shoes lined the parking lot. Vendors sold beer from coolers. All the faces wore similar masks: jaws set, faces hardened, no gazes lingering too long. Fight night brought a tenuous peace and it couldn't afford any sparks that came with the fronting of machismo.

It wasn't but the early to mid-'90s when everyone thought it a needed accessory to have a Rott or a Pit. As with any fad, they soon fell into disfavor except among those interested in protection or fighting. Tonight, a temporary ring had been set up, an area of folding chairs nearby, though most people stood, crowding in with money clutched in raised hands.

Dog handlers, bookies, and referees crowded the ringside area. One of the undercard bouts was about to start. Their handlers released them and the two dogs ran to center, two gladiators clashing at full speed. As they were trained, ever wanting to please their masters, they lashed out in demoniac frenzy. Neither made nary a sound, their vocal cords severed, making them deadly weapons when they were at home, not alerting unsuspecting prowlers. Or police. Even though it meant senseless blood and death, the dogs showed more heart than most soldiers on the street.

So Omarosa thought.

Nearly invisible among the trees, she skulked about with a natural ease. Having already secured Lee's eventual presence, she bided her time and buffed her nails. Her eyes, with their perfect night vision, focused in the low light. Soon a couple of runners, no more than eleven years old, tore ass down the hill.

"Time out. Time out, yo." They announced the police's arrival.

About time, she thought, as she prepared to go to work. The grumbles of the dispersing men filled the night. The old hands, nonplussed by the arrival of the police, took the time to finish their drinks, grind out cigarettes under their heel, and collect their bets in nonchalant strides. Those with more to worry about, say a bench warrant out in their name, beat feet in a hail of mutters and curses, showing out to the police for their boys' benefit.

Between the crowd clearing out and the police making their way down, the press of bodies led to confusion, just as she planned. She smelled the gentle scent of the red rose clipped to her lapel which served as her calling card. She always left one at the scene of one of her robberies. Theft was so common, better to do so with a touch of panache. It was in such short supply these days. To her, this part of the game was like playing football: the offense was going to throw a certain look, the defense took its own posture, but the key to any given play was to follow the football. In this case, it meant trailing Dollar as he banked his money. He gave an uptick of his chin as he prepared to jet, a shoulder roll and a dip in stride as he received his package and threw it into the back of his ride. Omarosa, like all of her kind, had a talent for learning the players and their histories: in Dollar's case, he had a tendency to do his counts at his mom's house before making his final drop to Night.