"If you must die, die for something greater than yourself. Better yet, live. Live to serve others."
He longed to believe King's words again. To be a part of King's crusade. To be led by King again. It had been a while since he visited the Eagle Terrace apartments, an obtuse layout of living spaces, a large swathe of pot-holed asphalt surrounded by labyrinthine walls of rooms winding along curving streets. The first time in a long time he walked its sidewalks alone.
"Jesus help me," he cried out to the sky. In his heart he prayed that there was a peace to be had on the other side of war. Lott startled the Hispanic woman carrying two bags of groceries. Keeping a wary eye on him, she paused then walked a wider path around him. On any other evening, he'd have offered to carry her groceries for her. Now her wary eyes could see to his heart and know his sins. Everyone could. It weighed him down, pressed on him with a constant smothering.
Writhing in Lady G's embrace was what he had so longed for. Anticipated. Now the image was burned into his mind and tasted like ashes in his mouth. The cost was too high. He tried to not think about all the relationships he'd damaged, all the people he had hurt, all the damage he had caused. He no longer belonged anywhere. Rootless and wandering not by choice but by circumstance.
Redemption was a dream he tried not to put too much hope in. All he wanted was to be restored in their eyes. For them to look at him and see the Lott of old. Their boy. Not this stain that sullied their memories. The idea came to him that maybe he could nudge the process along. Perhaps if he could come to their rescue, help them in some way, maybe they'd be able to forgive him. Sure, their lips said they forgave him, but he recognized that look in their eyes. The one that said they'd never look at him the same. That look of resentment mixed with distrust. The look of his mother after too many drinks. The look of the endless parade of "uncles" who streamed through his life. The look of something that needed to be flushed out of their lives.
Loneliness gnawed at Lott's reason. Solitude was painful. Isolation the worst form of torture. Scared, longed to reach out. He hopelessly wanted someone to find him. To reach out to him. To hold him. Any attention. The madness of alienation created a desperation which drove folks to strange places, to reach out in strange ways.
So he banged on the front door of Black's grandmother's front door.
Blunt smoke thickened in the air of the house party. Drinks bobbed by freely. Cholos lined the walls, corners, and couches bragging about work they had put in. Whoever told the best story received handstacks in response. Black was offered a hit, out of respect, knowing he'd refuse. Tonight he didn't drink either.
His grandmother had stayed with one of his aunts for a week, Black sprawled along the black leather couch. With his slight build, gaunt face, and his determined eyes, he exuded power and fierceness. In a Celtics jersey and shorts, his extensive tattoos were on full display. Two young women snuggled on either side of him. Stroking his arm, the side of his face and whispering breathy seductions into his ear, their attentions annoyed him more than anything. He needed to clear his head.
Standing abruptly, all eyes turned to him. The room held its breath. They took their cues from him, and of late his mood was foul and brooding. He thought what his people needed was an excuse to let off some steam, but it wasn't what he needed. He nodded and everyone relaxed and went back to chatting. Intimate conversations as his boys chatted up the ladies. The laughter. The bumping music. Marijuana, cigarettes, sweat, and re-breathed alcohol.
La Payasa shadowed him from across the room. When he stood, she stood. When he relaxed, she relaxed. She trailed him into the kitchen. He walked across the green and white tiled floor to the refrigerator and grabbed a Corona. Elbows on the counter, he leaned back and waited for La Payasa. Eyes closed, he imagined a great sea. Born to Tomas and Angelina, he'd always had an affinity for water. Tomas often took him fishing. It wasn't the act itself he enjoyed. Truth be told, the idea of sitting around holding a rod like a limp dick waiting to be pulled never appealed to him. But spending time with his father, those times he treasured. Tomas worked two jobs: one as a butcher, he had been a butcher in Mexico before he moved here; and as an off-the-books security guard at a nightclub. It was at the latter job where three black kids, looking for an easy mark, ran across him. They took his father from him. That was the story he was told. His mother went mad with grief. He had to step up and be the man of the family. He was eleven.
"Everything all right?" La Payasa asked. Black respected La Payasa. Few wanted to actually squeeze the trigger though all would brag on it later. She had heart. Her word was bond.
There wasn't anyone who couldn't be made happy by the thought of deep, placid water. The languid waves lapped the shore, yet stretched out into the horizon. "Yeah, it's all good."
"This business with Dred and his crew…"
"What about it?"
"It's bad for business."
"Then they shouldn't have started it. What were we supposed to do? Let them come around here? Dictate to us how we should handle our business?"
Brothers. Uncles. Cousins. All were members of the nation. This was his birthright. The gang took him in, raised him, and showed him how to become a man. He had been a member of the nation for seven years. At five foot four, Black didn't back down from anyone. The gang didn't take just anyone. They had to have heart. That was what the initiation was about. He was violated. Four or five dudes set to beat his ass. Black went through it two times in a row. He wanted his brothers to know he was down for them twice as much as anyone else. The nation these days had no structure. Not like the old days, when they had a constitution which forbade things like rape, hard drug use, and snitching. Well, some things hadn't changed. But the nation fractured, with every crew going for themselves. Black was a disciple of the old ways. He understood that if you had power, you had control, and control was the endgame.
Too late, Black's mother worried about his affiliation with the gang. She thought the devil took him over. One night, she tried to perform an exorcism. She drugged him and then threw him in the bathtub. Lit candles. Cursed at him. Spat at him. Broke raw eggs to smear on him. Lonzo had little idea what was going on. But then the eggs turned black. And she cried that he was lost to her.
"All the bodies dropping brings too much attention. The police. The reporters. It's a big spotlight on us. You let it get personal."
"They killed Lyonessa. They…"
"I know. But before then."
"All my business is personal. I'm not going to let anyone disrespect me or my shorties. If you're afraid of dying, this is the wrong game for you."
His father came to him in dreams. It was he who first told Black about how his mother hired the boys to kill him. His father watched as he crept into her bedroom one night and wrapped his hands around her throat. Eyes teared up with pleading, she reached up, clawing at his face and arms. A son killing his mother, he knew he was beyond forgiveness. That he was cursed with no soul. And would burn.
He closed his eyes, too afraid of the final death rattle of his mother, when he noticed the smell and her renewed struggle. It smelled of rancid meat set to flame. When he opened his yes, his mother's hands slackened, her arms fallen to her side. But her skin where his hands met her throat blistered. Large pustules swelled then burst like over-ripe fruit, pus spilled out like lactating wounds. Her skin charred.