Playing wheelman to Dred was in Garlan's job description. It meant he was trusted. Counted on. Still, there was a part of him that hated being so close to the heart of the crew. It was like orbiting the sun: too far away meant he was frozen out and had only scrub duties, too close and he was likely to be consumed by the heat of the madness.
Garlan studied him with his dull eyes, scarred by seeing too much too early. He sensed Dred's mood, recognizing the ritual of getting amped up. The fondling of the weapon as if he stroked himself to make sure he could still get it up. The wild eyes jacked up by getting his head up before he rolled out. Yet, Dred never went near drugs. Whatever hyped him up was neither grown nor cooked up in a lab. Subtlety was a lost art. Left to his own devices, he'd have his tension tools and feeler picks, ready to sneak up on a person under cloak of night. Or invisibility. In and out like a ghost. All of this driving up on someone and start blasting or bursting in doors, guns a-blazing, were all hallmarks of the impatient and unskilled.
Dred inspected his Caliburn. The 9mm Springfield Armory custom-ported stack autos gleamed with the frames, slides, and some other parts plated in 24K gold; with gold dragons rearing up along the contrasting black grips. King, too, brandished such a weapon. He wondered if there was any connection between them.
"Something on your mind?" Dred asked, conscious of Garlan's studious gaze.
"Never seen a gat like that." Garlan stared forward, hands on the steering wheel, as he tried to play things casual.
"No reason you should. Ain't but two of them around."
"King got the other one."
"Yeah."
"They valuable?"
"Priceless. Why, you planning on taking mine?"
"Just wondering. No disrespect, but what is it with you two?"
In a feral warning, Dred arched an eyebrow. "Why you asking?"
"I mean, dude had a point, but was out of line in how he asked. One minute you want him checked. Next, you all up on him. Then you all about hurting him. Word came down that no one could touch him. Now you about to take him out. I ain't seen that kind of love/hate since Thanksgiving dinner."
"That's the way of family."
"Exactly."
"Especially brothers." Dred pressed the Caliburn to his own cheek and closed his eyes, letting the metal cool his cheek. "Want to get in the middle of this with more questions?"
"I'm good."
"Good."
Not knowing his father was the missing piece. It left a scar, not being whole. Unable to believe that he was loved or capable of being loved. Garlan never understood why his mother made him go to church. It was a program he could never get with. Talking to someone he could never see, hear, or touch but who knew him so intimately as to know the number of hairs on his head and had the power to control every aspect of his life. Power was to be used. Power was at the hands of guns, drugs, and money. Anything else couldn't be trusted.
Lott and King squared off. The air between them charged. The silence between them spoke volumes. Lady G stepped from between them. An eruption of chatter came from the rear, as Wayne cracked a joke which had Prez and Percy laughing. The conversation came to an abrupt end when they took in the scene. The entire court had assembled.
"What do you have to say for yourself?" King asked.
"Lady G was innocent. It's on me." For Lott, things boiled down to honor. He'd already dishonored King and Lady G, but he wouldn't have her reputation besmirched. As far as he was concerned, it was all on him.
"She a grown-ass woman, not some little girl. She made her own decisions."
"King, I don't know what else to say. We've been through some wars, man."
"Yeah, we have."
"Seen some times." Lott spread his arms, a tentative gesture — unarmed, posing no threat — and stepped closer.
"I know."
"We fought for you. We bled for you. We've died for you."
"You took from me! You took what I was. You took Lady G."
"King, I…" There it was. Lott shoved his hands into his pockets and shut down. Silence took hold of the room.
"I can't do this right now. You need to get out of my face for a minute."
"Can you ever forgive me? I can't lose you. I don't want things to end like this."
"I can forgive you. I can forgive both of you. But the trust, the bond? That's ghost." King rubbed his temples, both exhausted and as if they threatened to burst. "Both of you, go. We need some time to think."
"King…" Lady G began.
"Just go."
King turned his back and waited for the sounds of their departure to subside. The dream was nothing but a nightmare dressed up in whore's make-up. Wayne was the first to approach him.
"That went better than I expected. You all right?" Wayne sidled up next to him and put a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"I'm good. Tired. What about the Black thing?"
"Black? Screw Black. What about us?"
"Life don't stop. There are things bigger than us going on."
"That's been the whole problem: it's only been us. You keep missing that." Wayne turned to face him. A slight quaver filled his voice as if hiding his own hurt. "We all want you to be okay. Lott, Lady G, Wayne. Even Merle."
King remained impassive.
"Man, you one of the most tortured souls I've ever come across. You ain't never met an opportunity to brood you couldn't pass up. All right, man, I'll let it go."
King dreamed of birthing something that would protect his people, of building a kingdom, a way of living for generations to model after. And he had the hubris to believe he was the man to bring this dream to his community. Perhaps he couldn't admit that his reach exceeded his grasp. In his few short years on earth, he'd long ago realized that he didn't know everything; that he wasn't as good as he thought. That he was afraid. For all of his hard work, he was just another knucklehead out to prove himself because he believed that no one loved him. Everyone had lies built into them that whispered to them during dark times.
Percy and Prez followed silently behind them. Not knowing what to say, not wanting to ruin the silence.
King paced back and forth. Everywhere he looked there was something to piss him off. On the wall were pictures which now mocked him. Each snapshot a memory that bit into his heart. One of him and the mayor. Him and Pastor Winburn. Him and some of the kids he'd worked with. Rok. The Boars. Tristan. Iz. Prez. So many faces. A few dozen kids so far. Ghosts of his past. How many of them did he let crash at the center? How many of them did he let raid his refrigerator? How many of them laughed at him now? A collage of failure. Maybe he started too old. Maybe he should have gone after the pee wees. Get them before they became loyal to the game. The sadness was tangible, a blanket fallen over their neighborhood thickest in this very room. Wayne hated the air of resignation. Of surrender. It was like death.
"You hear about that little girl?" Wayne asked in order to switch topics. If death was already in the room, they might as well deal with it.
"Lyonessa." King rubbed his face and waited for the next pounding.
"She wasn't even in the game."
"She was in it whether she choose to be or not. Her brother, Lonzo…"
"Black."
"Black. He puts her in the game. Same with me and Nakia. So I take her off the board."
"How she doing?"
"Nakia? She good."
"You being done on visitation?"
"It ain't like that. I can see my baby girl when I want."
"But?"
"But… you see the life I lead." On the defensive, King lumbered back and forth, his anger fueled by the fact that he was angry at the wrong people. Or there were so many people to be angry at. In a moment he could make a few phone calls, rally some knuckleheaded boys and rain down pain on Black or whoever else needed hurting. Whoever. Else. Many nights the thought tempted him.