And then he awaited his punishment.
Prez, Fathead, and Naptown Red relaxed at Red's crib. Dred had posted bail for them and assured them that he had lawyers at the ready to defend them. But they were instructed to wait at Red's until he could meet with them. He needed to switch up houses to deflect eyes and they needed to stay low until he had them set up. Prez's stomach bottomed out at the summons.
Naptown Red took his endo in deep, allowing it to work its magic inside him. It mellowed him out in a way that released him from having to play a role. Long as he was free, paid, and high, he was good. The game hadn't changed: get locked up, keep your mouth shut, stand tall, and you'd be taken care of. Naptown Red had all of the angles worked out. Just like how Dred sprang Mulysa, even if he didn't want anything to do with him once he got out, he didn't have much choice but to take care of Red and his crew if he wanted to keep his street cred. It wasn't as if they'd been busted doing their own thing; technically they were on the clock for Dred. Doing their do hadn't made them any more sloppy, just the opposite in fact, as they had to be more careful fearing Dred's retaliation far more than the police. Worst-case scenario, Red would break Dred off a piece of the action and they'd be square, because business was business.
"You think we in trouble?" Fathead asked.
"Where you think we is? Kindergarten?" Naptown Red had the belief that he was a shot-caller. It reeked in the tone of his voice. Play the part, be the part. First these two reacted to him like planets pulled into orbit by this sheer gravity then others, seeing them, would fall into line. That was how kingdoms were built.
"Just saying, won't he be mad? We lost his money and his package, then on top of that, he has to come out of pocket to bail us out." Fathead skittered nervously about. His exhaled smoke didn't seem to stave off his anxiousness. He didn't tell the police much. Certainly they had Dred's name already. No harm in giving them what they already had. And if they had Dred, they had to know who his main lieutenants were. And where some of the stash houses were.
"You give the ghetto a bad name." Red snatched the joint back from him as if he were a child wasting good food. "That's the cost of doing business."
"But Dred…"
"I ain't afraid of Dred. Green hisself couldn't work those corners any better than us. Shit, we out there on the front lines." Naptown Red had a way of sounding like he supported those in charge while undermining them at the same time to rally folks around him. "I got your back. So you better learn to squad up."
"Squad up?" Fathead grabbed a bag of halfeaten Doritos from the coffee table and absently began stuffing them into his mouth.
"Look here." Red reached into a nearby drawer and retrieved a gun. "This here might suit you."
"What is it?"
"A Beretta. Light on recoil. A bitch's gun." Red let the insult fly and sink in before cleaning it up a little. "A starter gun for you. Let you get used to the idea before moving you up to something serious."
"Yeah, I don't think so. It's not my thing." It wouldn't matter if he had fifty guns on him, Fathead didn't have it in him to kill a man. He survived by rolling over, allying himself with whoever could protect him.
"Suit yourself." Red tucked it into his dip. "Probably blow off your joint with it anyways."
Heavy thuds hammered on the front door. Fathead nearly fell out of his seat. Naptown Red eyed him with mild disgust, beginning to re-think their partnership. He didn't need any weak links at the table. Peeking through the eyehole, he sucked his teeth in Fathead's direction.
"Dred, my nigga." Red opened the door and gave him a pound. "You alone?"
"I need to be here with anyone?" Dred stepped inside. His facial hair grew in odd patches, none of which took away any of the boyish nature of his face. But his eyes glared about, ancient and rheumy, caught up in his machinations. "Nah, shit. When you here, you with family." Naptown Red knew better. Dred's king was never alone. Not with as many enemies as he had not to mention Black on the hunt. Probably a soldier at the car as lookout. And Garlan's ass had to be around somewhere. Red glad-handed as best he could, but there was no play with Dred. Only a brooding intensity, like a volcano deciding when, not if, it were going to erupt.
"What is this here?" Dred gave a cursory onceover to the two in the living room.
"Nothing, just chillin' like you said. Staying low."
Dred projected a mien of barely suppressed anger approaching the group, with the tone of personal disgust and irritation. Their first reaction was to give him plenty of space to vent. They knew they were in for getting their asses chewed. Naptown Red lit some incense he had on an end table next to a burnt spoon. The scented smoke proved too cloying.
"You ain't saying one motherfucking think I want to hear." Dred marched to the couch where Fathead rested. He simply stared until Fathead got up to join Prez on the other one.
"We got rules for a reason. Protocols. We do things a certain way to not get caught. We do business with folks we know. Who this motherfucker?"
"This is Prez. He hung out with Green and his crew. I brought him on to do work."
"How you know him?"
"My man Fathead here made the intro." As Naptown Red beamed with confidence and reassurance, Prez sank into himself, dismissed and dejected. "See? We all about protocol."
"Then how did we end up in jail?
"Shit happens."
"Shit happens? Shit happens and I get calls at three in the morning. Shit happens and I got to pay lawyers and bail bondsmen. Shit happens and I gotta make fools ghost so the state ain't gotta case. Shit happens and someone starts talking to po-po like a kid trying to make nice with Santa. What they ask?"
"Didn't ask me shit. I lawyered up soon as they slapped cuffs on my black ass." For the first time Naptown Red sounded nervous, edging into unfamiliar territory.
"They got names." Prez hugged himself.
"Who?"
"Red. Mulysa. Garlan. Baylon." Prez straightened up but stared straight ahead. "That's who they came at me with. Wanted me to confirm who they were."
"They didn't mention Nine. Where she at?" Fathead chimed in.
"She on… special assignment."
"She ain't around, that's for damn sure." Fathead puffed up and shifted on the couch, confident that at least they were on the clock putting in work.
"What about me?" Dred turned to Prez.
"They talk about you like a ghost. A whisper."
"Yeah, I like that. Poof." Dred blew into his fist and exploded it into wiggling fingers. "Still, I don't like folks talking."
Prez wore a cologne of panic. His heart stammered, a foreboding filling his heart. Expectant eyes took in Dred's every move like he couldn't get enough of him. Fathead, in a jackknife crouch more nervous than before, shoveled more Doritos into his mouth to comfort himself.
"You need anything?" Prez asked. "We straight," Naptown Red said.
"Good, cause I'd like to think that I treated you all fair." Dred walked the perimeter of the room. With a casualness, he peeked in corners and checked out the layout.
"Nah, we good."
"We alone?" Dred patted himself down as if he misplaced something.
"Just four fellas kicking it."
"That what you do when you working for me? Kick it?"
"Dred, man, I think you operating out of some kind of misperception," Red started.
"Spare me, Red. I know your kind. You align yourself to those with power and manipulate those without it. You think you the smartest man in the room. Like you the only one that knows something."
"I…" Dred's tone chastened him as well as rubbed Red hard the wrong way.