"Don't know."
"A monster?"
"Yeah."
"You know any monsters, Mr Pellam?"
"No."
"You know Lonzo Perez? Lyonessa's older brother. Some people know him as Black."
"Don't know a Black."
"What about Dred?"
"Who?"
"Dred. Runs product through your hood.
Your boss."
"Don't know the name."
"So you don't know about any beefs between them?"
"I don't know nothing about nothing."
"I'm just saying, I need people to come forward and identify some folks. If you had anything to do with it, any knowledge at all, it's best to get in front of it right now. It'll play better for you later."
"I swear, officer. Right hand to the Jesus I pray to, I didn't have nothing to do with no murder. I just needed to tell you that to your face so that you'd leave my people alone."
This fool couldn't pick Jesus, whatever Jesus he prays to, out of a line-up.
"I appreciate you coming in, Mr Pellam."
"I'm free to go?"
"Yeah. You don't know nothing about nothing. So I'll have to go back to the peoples of that little girl and let them know that no one is willing to step up and help put down the monsters that did this." Cantrell put the autopsy picture back in front of Garlan of their baby. He then handed him a card with his cell phone number on the back.
"I'm out."
"He came in because I was pressing hard for him, sure. Maybe also to see what evidence we had. But, I don't know. He don't read like a bad kid. He still has a heart. You can see how bothered he was by what happened to Lyonessa. He's haunted for sure. He definitely knows something about nothing. Since I don't have much else to go on, I may just dig into the known associates of Mr Garlan Pellam."
The Phoenix Apartments used to be known as The Meadows. An east side neighborhood once booming. A forty-acre development with fifty-six buildings, shops, and offices, and the Meadows Shopping Center. But by the 1980s, no one wanted any part of the Meadows, not when there were newer suburbs being developed north and west of the city for folks to run to. Leaving the corners free for Melle and The Boars.
Sitting on the front stoop, Melle — sometimes called Melle Mel, sometimes called "that crazy motherfucker that runs with Noles" — took a razor to his head. Most days he might run down to Hot Stylez barber shop, but today he was on the clock putting in work and had one of the young'uns to look out for. Melle used to sport a wild Afro, sometimes pulled back, most times not. Eight inches of mess, a neon sign easily spotted and picked out by the police, no matter how thick a crowd he ran with. He finally said "fuck it" and cut the shit off. The razor scraped his head. He didn't trust too many niggas with a razor to his skin, so he did it himself.
The Boars — sometimes called Bo Little, though only by his momma these days, sometimes called "that nigga who likes to hit people", though mostly by his football team mates at Northwest High School — perched like a gargoyle on the stoop steps. He, too, kept a bald head, though with a full beard shaved low. He spat idly while petting his dog. Its tail wagged wildly and its muscular hindquarters flexed as she licked his hand.
"What you feeding that bitch?" Melle asked.
"Steak, Gravy Train, and Hennessy. My dog's straight-up gangsta."
At the sound of Melle's voice, the dog hopped up on him, half-humping on his leg.
"Get that bitch off of me. Your dog's gay."
"It's not about sex. It's about dominance."
"Whatever. All I know is that if I want you as my bitch, you'd best roll the fuck over."
Leaning against the dented, paint-chipped entrance doors, the brick alcove sheltered them from the wind and rain. Empty grocery bags blew by in the wind like fall leaves.
"How's the count?" Melle asked with an expression of grudging interest.
"Down for the third straight week."
"Don't try to play me."
"I'm serious. With the stuff between Dred and Black jumping off, them casual customers been staying away. Afraid to catch a bullet. Or worse. Listen to some of them old heads, they talk about no one's got any respect for the game. About how children used to be off limits, but now you got fools out here wildin' like…"
"The shelf life of the stuff we got? Like we done stepped on it a dozen times. Weak as shit. When's the re-up coming through?"
"Due in next week ain't it?" The Boar's tone registered genuine confusion.
"Yeah."
"Seen Omarosa?"
"Nah. You jump like a motherfucker. What you been into got you so nervous?"
"Mind your own. We got enough on our plates."
"Way I hears," Black began, gun trained on the two of them, "some folks pile up their plate like a fat man at a buffet. Eyes bigger than their stomachs."
To listen to the counselors at school, Black was pretty easy to nail down. Directionless, fatherless, loveless. In search of a place to belong. Filling the holes that home couldn't fill, yet which still left a gnawing emptiness inside. Nothing he couldn't learn on the street, except how to have a dad. But he didn't want to give up the control. Before them, he was a misfit, out of place, one of society's embarrassments. No identity, no culture, no history, no sense of who he was. Except profoundly lost. He hated himself and took it out on other people. That was how the counselors saw him, but they were wrong. He was Black. He was fury. He simply… was. Revenge was mandatory. All slights met with angry, swift, retaliation, but an attack to his family? That was a matter of death.
"You," Black aimed at The Boars. "Vamonos."
"I ain't afraid to get shot. That's the game. I just don't want you to go after all of my people is all."
"This here ain't about business, hese, otherwise I'd have Swiss-cheesed all of you motherfuckers. This shit here, this is personal. Between me and him. Tell them. More will burn before I'm done. You let Dred know. More will burn. Vamonos."
The Boars trotted off backwards, not wanting to turn his back to them before putting more distance between he and them. Then he turned and booked out at full speed.
"You need to think on this hard, Black. We this close to war already," Melle said, his hopes fading with each quick step of The Boars.
"You already at war." Black tucked his gun into his waistband. The Boars would bring back others soon, but he had a message to send. "I know who you are, Melle." Black spat after he said the name. "I knew who you and Noles are." He spat again. "You think word don't travel back to me? Descriptions." Black tugged his gloves off. "Took two of you to rip apart a little girl. Y ahora?"
Emboldened by the gun being tucked away, Melle adopted what he thought was a fighting stance. The two circled each other warily in the alcove. Though lanky, Melle towered over Black. Melle swung wide, hoping to use his height advantage or wrap him up until The Boars came back. Black ducked under the blow, waded in, and rabbit-punched him twice in the face: the first exploded his nose in a spray of blood, the second cuffed him in the ear as his head lolled back. Blood splatter landed on Black's tattoo, then seeped into his skin. The blows themselves didn't rock Melle — he'd been hit harder by his baby momma, but a sickness rose in him. His insides didn't feel right. Nauseous and dizzy, he cried like a scared little boy before the wrath of a thunderstorm, only wanting to be tucked in and comforted.
"Mira este, pendejo. Y ahora, hah, y ahora?"
The sick feeling crept into Melle's belly, as if he were witness to something sacred. Or blasphemously profane. His heart thumped in desperate staccato. Teeth clenched in anger, Black pressed his tattooed hand to the man's face. Melle screamed, but all Black heard was the last cries of Lyonessa, equally helpless on same concrete mattress. Melle's bruised face swelled. Fissures erupted along his skin, as if his blood boiled and his veins burst open. Dark pustules sprang up, eroding his face. His eyes clouded, lifeless long before his body stopped writhing in agony. "More will burn." The war was on.