The Knights Of Breton Court - King's War Part 12

"Come on wit it," Fathead said.

"All right, Cleetus," Red said, throwing the queen of spades on the table. Prez had good eyes and good instincts. Way better than Fathead. He could handle himself under pressure. Cards revealed a lot about a man. While Prez kept quiet and watched people, Fathead was all bl.u.s.ter and bluff.

Naptown Red stacked the deck.

"Uh oh, the sleepy giant wants some," Fathead said.

Fathead's life was divided between BC and AC: Before Crack and After Crack. BC he remembered that Christmas time was the best time of the year, poor or not. His folks got together, got a little tree, strung up some lights. They had a few presents. Nothing big or fancy, that wasn't the point. They spent time together, had their little traditions and showed each other they were family. Folks came over and cooked; family came together and they laughed.

AC, no one came over.

His first year of high school, BC, he had nice clothes and used to always wear designer merchandise. When he dressed, he came correct, knew who to hang with and how to hang with them. He was down with his music, down with his sports, s.h.i.+t, by his world's standards, he was a man of high culture. But he still felt like a piece of s.h.i.+t. A wound, a black hole of pain sucked all of the contentment and hope for happiness out of his life.

The first time he got high, AC, he got paranoid, convinced people were out to get him. He ended up hiding under the bed, bawling his eyes out like a little b.i.t.c.h. The drug was that overwhelming. He snorted deeply, letting it drip down the back of his throat, leaving a dull medicinal taste. His eyes pitched and rolled behind their lids, tracing intricate patterns of light and color. The high never fixed him, never felt comfortable.

"That your book?" Fathead asked.

"Nuh uh. You got to follow suit," Prez said.

"I better not see you play a diamond."

Look at 'em thinking hard. It was so easy for Red to identify bulls.h.i.+t. Fathead's pupils dilated to the outer rims of the corneas. His eyes appeared to flatten. His black fingernails scratched at his Styrofoam cup then itched along his arm. He had carved the word "guilty" onto his left shoulder. He'd spent too much time in his uncle's meth lab. Some trailer over by Mars Hill. Places easily destroyed and abandoned. As disposable as the people. With the windows shut and the blinds drawn, the smell of ammonia seeped into everything. All the places had the same tangles of tubing between gla.s.s jars and bowls, stacks of jam jars and measuring cups unless they went upscale, using Vision Ware bowls or something.

"Cut by my own partner," Naptown Red said.

"Yeah, he straight-up novice," Prez echoed.

"This lady came into the shop today," Fathead began, trying to s.h.i.+ft topics from his inept play. "Showing pictures of herself buck naked or with just a thong on. She big, but she don't care if she looks big or not. Cause she's a freak."

"You can keep those chicks that look like boys. I need me something firm," Red said.

"Tell 'em what you call them."

"Slabs. I need something to hold on to. The only problem with freaks is that they don't know when to turn it off."

"Preach to this, boy," Fathead said.

"Freaks are always freaks, have always been freaks, and that's the only way they know to be. They need to know that they got to be a lady sometimes, too. I don't want a freak raising my children."

Prez grinned at him. "You right, some women ain't got a freak bone in their bodies."

"Unless you put one in them," Fathead said. Red reached over to give him a pound.

"But see, you didn't answer the question," Red continued. "Why don't women want to be freaks? I'll tell you."

"Who you supposed to be?" Prez asked with a smile on his face because he guessed what was coming.

"The doctor. And the doctor is in."

"Doctor of what?" Prez enjoyed his role as straight man.

"Booty-ology," Red said.

They all threw their cards into the center of the table. The alcohol hit them, their peals of laughter bounced about the room.

"You see, if more women were freaks, dudes wouldn't cheat. They wouldn't have a chance to. Cause a freak would be all into him. They'd be all into him, calling him up, talking that talk." Naptown Red affected a female voice, leaning in like a drunk prost.i.tute. "'What you doing?' 'How you doing?' 'How you hanging?' 'Are you strong, baby?' Then she'd lay it out for him. 'Come see me, I got a gift for you. I really mean a gift, too.' Then she'd give him the gift, show him a good time, rub on his leg, get him all hard, then tell him to get back to making his money and that he can take care of her later on. You know what I mean?

"Or she calls up and is like 'meet me at Nordstrom's on the fourth floor. We can go shopping.' She meets him, and before they go shopping, she gives him some head. Then she turns and says 'before we go shopping, let me brush my teeth.' You know what that tells me?"

"That she's a freak?" Fathead asked in a tone that sounded like he was taking notes.

"That she's a proper lady and a freak. What n.i.g.g.a's gonna cheat?"

"Having a freak sounds exhausting," Prez said. "Too much work."

"You got to be up for it. Not every man can handle a freak," Red said. "That's when you come see me. I'll put you on that regimen. Myoplex and one teaspoon of noni juice."

"What's Myoplex?" Fathead asked, again with that tone.

"It's a natural herb. Keeps you raw for as long as you want. A whole weekend. You might have wood, but Myoplex will give you a brick. Noni juice is the mojo. That's the finis.h.i.+ng move. All-purpose health."

"I'm ready to s.n.a.t.c.h the pebble from your hand." Fathead raised his fist for another b.u.mp, but Red left him hanging.

"Anyway," Red continued. "You don't think if women were more like that, men wouldn't cheat?"

"Nope, we'd cheat," Prez said.

"How can you say that?" Naptown Red asked.

"Cause we men. You show me the most beautiful, loving, freak-when-the-time-is-right woman in Hollywood, and I'll show you a man who's tired of sleeping with her. We chase women the same way fiends chase that high. Cause we have to. Got something in us we got to fill. And either way, chasing that feeling, costs us one way or another." Prez laughed at his own joke, like a great fool not comfortable in his own skin.

"I got a connect. Some Jamaicans come through North Carolina." Naptown Red put his cards down. "Fathead and you oversee distribution."

"Dred know?" Prez asked.

"This here's on the side. I got the package, y'all dish it out. We split what comes in. We do."

"So how we gonna do this?" Fathead asked.

"A man must have a code. We live by rules: Never come up short. Never be burnt. Never be late. Never be slow."

"That's a lot of nevers," Fathead said.

"Don't get high. Don't carry. Don't use names on the phone."

"We all nevers and don'ts."

"This here's serious business. Life and death. So that's how we do this. That's how we stay out of jail. That's how we stay alive."

CHAPTER NINE.

Wishard Hospital was the hospital of last resort, reserved especially for the indigent, the uninsured, those too poor or too out of the system to go to one of the better hospitals. An X-ray technician clutched a half-dozen transparencies as she dashed down the hallway toward the emergency room. A drunk chatted up the nurses at the check-in desk. They dutifully ignored him. The security guard coughed into his fist. King's room was a p.i.s.s-yellow color with two beds in it. The monitor bleeped mercilessly. Pastor Winburn stood over him, his heart heavy as he touched the tubes which ran into King's mouth and arm. It was all so senseless. More wanton violence, more needless bloodshed, another man cut down and all of his potential cut down with him. Without King, the land seemed darker and the mood more hopeless. Bowing his head, he continued praying for him.

"Why, son?" he thought.

Outside the room and down the hall, Lady G fussed over a piece of fabric as she struggled with a needle or thread. Big Momma had been teaching her how to sew and Lady G patched one of her s.h.i.+rts, the idea of mending things she'd broken before appealed to her. Grief came and went in sudden waves. Setting the s.h.i.+rt and threaded needle down, she hugged herself nonchalantly and rubbed her upper arms. Dark circles swelled under her eyes, and she scratched her nose. Blotches pockmarked her skin like half-healed scars. She knew her place was at King's side, tending to him as best she could. Concern gave her the strength to face up to what she'd done. Part of her owed him some sort of explanation, though whatever words gave voice to her reasons fell pathetically short. She remembered not the hurt, but the years of good times. Then the dulling shock of sorrow swept over her all over again. Part of her hated King. And Lott. Funny what the mind did to protect itself. Or the heart. How the person they once cared so much about became the enemy; how every once supportive or encouraging comment or act became twisted into something nefarious.

"What are you doing here?" Rhianna asked, the words laced with more harshness than she intended.

"King's still my friend. I wanted to be here in case he woke up."

"What the doctors say?" Rhianna lowered herself into a chair next to her. Still sore from giving birth, or at least milking her recovery for all the attention it was worth. Rhianna's mother's theory on motherhood: have plenty of babies it increased chances that one would survive and thrive. Rhianna had internalized her mother's lessons well. She'd done her time with the wrong man, wannabe players who smoked a little weed, packaged drugs, but mostly sold burn bags to unsuspecting fiends. And she'd spent more than her share of time on her back trying to find love or connection or some sense of worth from another. To most, she was still some fast-tail little girl playing grown-folk business, but she felt like she'd been given a second chance through Outreach Inc, one she'd come close to blowing on more than one occasion, which was why she was on probation. But with the birth of her second child things finally seemed to be falling into place for her. She had even enrolled in GED cla.s.ses.

"They don't know. They sound confused."

"What you mean?"

"They got the bullets out. The wounds were mostly superficial. Missed all of his arteries and organs. They say he stable. But they don't know why he won't wake up."

"They let you back there?"

"Sometimes, for a bit. Told them I was his sister."

"You love him. So. Hard." Rhianna sucked her teeth.

"I love them both."

"You can't love two men, boo. Then you'll have neither."

"Then I'll have neither."

"You are so full of not trying today."

"That was dirty."

"I'm just saying.

"What we were doing wasn't love. It was pain and anger. Trying to get a feeling back. I don't know. Like we both, we all were chasing something that may not have been real."

"I thought something was going on, just hoped I was wrong. I wanted to go on record as being concerned with the potential smell of that situation."

Everyone was full of that kind of brilliant hindsight, as if saying they thought something was up was the same as doing something. Most times she wanted to say "why didn't you say anything?" or "didn't you care enough about any of us to speak up?" Instead, she just nodded and let it go. "Uh oh, girl, what's up? You still with Fathead?"

"Lady G. Look here, I'm going to need you to come get your people today. It's your turn to deal with this foolishness, okay? Okay." She made a phone out of her fingers.

"I'm on a break from him and his foolishness. I'm too through."

"Do better."

"I'm done. n.i.g.g.a came home smelling like p.u.s.s.y. Don't need no taco stink on his breath."

"Nuh uh. For real?"

"Next day, some Mexican hootchie had the nerve to try and call me out. I'm asking what's up with that. Then she accuses me of being on crack." Rhianna pushed back in her chair like she was pus.h.i.+ng away from a table.

"Bet she got on the phone right away bragging to her girls. So I cut that fool loose. Better off on my own anyway."

"You a down-a.s.s girl. You know that, right?"

Rhianna found it difficult to accept praise for her own abilities or herself as a person. Especially as a friend. She never was around enough or got involved enough. Spent so much time close to things but not really engaging in it.

The automatic doors which sealed off the Intensive Care Unit swung open as Percy and Mad Had came in, escorted by Wayne and Esther. Big Momma trundled in behind them. Lady G kept her eye on Wayne and Esther. She knew both from Outreach Inc. But something about their behavior struck her as familiar. Esther leaned a little too into him; he occupied her personal s.p.a.ce. Without touching hands or even so much as a lingering glance, they seemed so... intimate. Lady G dismissed her thought as maybe her projecting her own ways onto others.

"How are things?" Wayne asked.

"Same old." Lady G couldn't meet his eyes. She picked up her s.h.i.+rt and fumbled with the needle and thread again.

"Nothing changed?"

"No."

"How he look?"

"He doesn't even look like him. Not even like him sleeping. Like part of him is missing."

"It just don't make sense. Things keep falling apart," Wayne said.

"It's like there's a cancer in the group." Lady G guessed what others thought of her because she certainly knew what she thought of herself.

"G... come on. I didn't mean..."

"Yeah, you did. I sure did."

His round, expressionless face and his indifferent eyes fixed on nothing in particular. His red jacket, with yellow sleeves and dirty cuffs, stopped two inches shy of his wrist. Mad Had screamed then writhed about on the floor, pounding it with his fists and feet as he bawled. A couple of nurses raised their heads above the cubicle wall, like prairie dogs catching a scent. Big Momma waved off their concern to let them know she had the situation under control.

Tears welled up in Percy's eyes then trickled down his face. Everyone was hurting. There wasn't anything he could do for them besides cry. He ached from powerlessness as much as anything else. As he rocked back and forth, he hummed to himself, but found little comfort in it.

The tinny strains of "It's All Right (To Have a Good Time)" erupted as Wayne's cell phone went off. It wasn't one of his pre-programmed ringtones, but apparently a message had gone straight to voicemail. He put the phone to his ear and the first words he heard was "Don't be daft. Put me on speaker."

"Dag, Merle don't ever stop," Wayne said. At the mention of his name, everyone stopped and turned to Wayne. Half-throwing his hands in the air, he put his phone on speaker.

"Sir Wayne, it is the prerogative of the truly wise to play the buffoon. I must go away for a time, but no matter because the story keeps telling itself. There are keepers of grails, guardians of blessings, and miracles through whom wonders come. Sacrifices of blood through which healings come. And when those treasures go missing, they need to be sought without further delay."