XXII.

Amil Williams learned long ago that only one thing was sacred: control. No man should ever give up control.

This, of course, didn’t mean one was never subservient. Sometimes, it was necessary, in the presence of the police or the social crusaders, to shuck and jive, to give a phony smile, to say your “Yes, sirs,” and “Yes, ma’ams,” all polite, the way the white man liked, in order to extricate oneself from situations in which the other person had power to do you damage. This was not relinquishing control. Rather, it was exercising a different sort of control: the control of deception. After all, if, in an exchange between two parties, one can read the other, see into their depths, manipulate them via some false words and mannerisms, even if the other person has some form of power behind them, who truly has the control.

At other times, more traditional methods suffice.

For instance, a rival gang leader, he starts peddling his drugs on street corners that belong to you. You warn him once, as a professional courtesy. He doesn’t listen. So, you look into his life.  You find out, brotha has a kid sister, real cute in that TV sitcom sort-of-way, committed to school, intent on getting out of the ghetto one day. You and your boys tail her coming home from school, you ride up on her, and, in view of all her friends, you snatch her up and stuff her in your trunk. You take her home, you tie her up, you let your boys loose on her to do with her what they want, and you wait to see whether or not your second warning was a little clearer than the first.

Regardless of how, control must be maintained. It’s the only thing his mother had taught him.

Not by her words. By her words, she imparted nothing. Less than nothing. All that ever escaped her lips were meaningless streams of gibberish, justifications for her lot in life, and delusional accounts of how she’d one day escape it all.

“Baby,” she’d say, a needle still in her arm, “I never meant it to be like this for you. But we won’t be here forever. I’ll kick this thing, baby, you’ll see. I’ll kick it. And then, we’ll run off, and we’ll get taken in, and it’ll be good. Just, not yet. Not yet. Not yet…”

Not ever. Instead, die in squalor, your son, whose father could have been any one of ten thousand Johns, now the slave child of your former pimp, made to run drugs and find women to replace the ones who, like you, can’t handle the lifestyle anymore and OD.

She’d had no control. And it’d cost them both.

It took a long while, but Amil managed to pay the debt she’d left him in full. After learning the drug trade from his mom’s old pimp, he’d carved out his own little empire. It wasn’t much, just a slice of Gemstone Key. But it was his and he controlled it. And wasn’t no man going to crowd him out of what was his.

“How’s the girl?” asked Amil.

“She’s out, for now,” said Mathis, one of Amil’s guys, “She couldn’t take no more.” He said this in a calm monotone, his well-worked muscles totally relaxed. This was always his demeanor.

“Dat’s right, hahahaha, couldn’t take no more! We too much man for the slut.” This was Dante, one of Amil’s other guys. He was a thin man, a scrapper, the sort who’d fight with others for any ridiculous reason and do any sort of dirty thing to win. He also liked to find everything, especially horrible things, funny.

“Alright,” said Amil, lighting up a blunt, “then leave her be for now. Put something on the TV.”

Mathis nodded and said, “Alright, Amil.”

“Yeah, man, if you insist. Hahaha!” said Dante.

Amil kicked back at his desk. It was one of those two piece sets, the sorts that cordoned you off from the rest of the room. Amil liked that. Being separate from everyone. It made him feel official, like a General in the Army, or like the captain of some space ship. Staring up at the roof, he took a deep puff from his blunt and let the drug do its work.

From the couch, his two guys argued.

“Put on Chappelle, son,” said Dante. “Put on Chappelle.”

“Nah. The game is on. We’re watching that,” said Mathis.

“Hell no, Mathis! Basketball is weak, man, bunch of floppers crying anytime they get touched.”

“I said that’s what we’re watching and that’s what we’re watching.” Mathis tried intimidating Dante by leaning over on the couch, into Dante’s space, and looming over him. He should have known this wouldn’t work on this of all men.

Dante stood up off the couch so that it was now him looming. “You ain’t no friggin’ god, boy, that descends down from the sky and tells me how to live. Now, gimme that remote before I slap the stink out your mouth!”

Mathis, in response, shoved Dante backward about seven steps. Dante, his face twisting up like a madman’s, reared his fist back and prepared to charge back toward the couch. Only, just as he was about to:

“Will you two knock that nonsense off?” said Amil, never relinquishing the comfort of his position behind the desk. “I’m trying to relax here.”

Both Mathis and Dante instantly chilled. Nodding, each of them took turns saying, “Yeah, Amil.”

“Put on that channel that shows old movies. I heard they got on one of my favorites,” said Amil, taking a puff off his joint, “Scarface. Man, I love Tony. ‘Say hello to my little friend.’ Pure gangster.”

“Alright,” said Mathis, “for sure.”

“Yeah,” said Dante, “Hahaha. For sure. ‘Say hello to my little friend.’ That’s great, man.”

Dante sat back down on the couch next to Mathis while Mathis mashed at the remote, switching the channel to the one Amil requested. Sure enough, there was Tony Montana, arguing with cops in the interrogation room, letting them know how he got his scar.

Amil took another puff from his joint and smiled. This, having men around you who do as you wish, this was life and life abundant. He took a minute to savor it all, his eyes closed, smoke drifting slowly upward from his only just-open lips.

But, an interruption came.

A cylindrical, metal object came crashing in through the window, a flame eating away at its fuse. Within a second, it exploded. It wasn’t a large explosion. It wasn’t meant to cause harm. Rather, the explosion released a cloud of gas which, soon enough, filled the room.

The men, standing from their seats, all took to coughing. One, Mathis, asked, “What the hell is this?” To this, Dante responded, “I don’t know, man. It ain’t poison, is it?” Finally, breaking up their back and forth, Amil, in a fit of rage, shouted at the top of his lungs, “Shut the hell up you two and find out for me who did this so I can curb stomp their face!”

“No need,” said a growl coming from the shattered window. “When you speak of the devil, he will appear. And that’s just what I am to scum dribble like you. The devil, come to collect your worthless souls.”

Then, toppling in through the window frame, came a heavy-set man, greasy haired, cloaked in a black trench coat, his face covered by a black bandana. He said, as he rose up from the ground, “My name’s Melpomene, you gutter filth, and I’m about to do to you every little thing you did to this girl.”

“Yeah?” asked Amil, flinging his blunt at the ground. “Well, then, ‘Melpomene,’ show us what you got.”

“With pleasure,” answered the heavy-set man, retrieving something from his belt. 

It was a soda can. What the man meant to do with that, Amil couldn’t fathom. Until, that is, it came careening across the room and struck Mathis in the head. The larger of his guys went down, holding at where he’d been hit.

“Huh?” asked Amil aloud.

“And here’s another,” said Melpomene, launching a second soda can, this one at Dante.

He came off his feet too and stumbled backward onto the couch.

This left only Amil up. Melpomene pulled out a third can and, meaning to take him out as well, tossed the thing in Amil’s direction. Only this time, he didn’t have the advantage of surprise. Amil ducked the can and dropped down under his desk. He did this not just to avoid being hit. This is where he kept his gun.

“Hiding like a coward, huh?” asked Melpomene coming toward the desk. “Typical of men like—”

Interrupting him, Amil stood, his gun in hand, aimed at Melpomene. Melpomene halted in his steps.

“Nah, go on, dawg, what was you going to say? Men like what?” asked Amil.

His eyes narrowing above his mask, Melpomene dared say, “Men like you.”

“You’re a dumb ass bastard, ain’t you? You still got your gumption, like you don’t know I’ve won.”

“You haven’t won. Evil never does."

“This here,” said Amil, raising his gun. “This here says I do.”

“Not till I’m dead.”

“Well, that’s gonna be soon enough,” said Amil, smiling. “But first…”

From beyond Melpomene’s periphery, Mathis’ fist came swinging at full throttle. It hit Melpomene flush on the jaw. A dull, hollow WOCK accompanied the strike. A second later, Melpomene’s legs buckled. He fell first to one knee, his head lilting, then, his eyes gone glazed, he dropped to the floor.

Standing over Melpomene’s body, Mathis huffed.

“Let me at this sucka,” said Dante rushing toward the two. Using his momentum, he threw a kick at Melpomene’s prone form. It hit the man straight on in the gut. Though he was out, Melpomene grunted. Dante did not relent. He started stomping away, at Melomene’s side, at Melpomene’s back, at Melpomene’s chest, at Melpomene’s head. Like a rabid dog unleashed, he went into a bloodlust craze.

“Alright, alright,” said Amil, “That’s enough for now.”

Breathing heavy, his eyes all wild, Dante forced himself to stop.

“Why, Amil? I ain’t shown this guy his lesson yet. Not even close!” replied Dante.

“That’s right, you ain’t, but the guy’s out, and he ain’t learning no lessons like that,” said Amil coming around from behind his desk and tucking his gun into his waistband. “Get him up. Tie him to a chair and lean him up against the girl.”

Amil’s two guys did as he said.

“Wake him up,” said Amil.

Mathis went to slap Melpomene but Dante beat him to it. Not just once but three times in succession, open palm, back hand, open palm again. Shaking his head, Melpomene came awake.

Immediately, he began to struggle against his bonds.

“Let me go, slime sacks! Let me go!” Melpomene said. “You’re all going to pay for this!”

Once more, Dante slapped him across the face.

“Shut-up!” Dante said. “You ain’t in no position to talk.”

“That’s right, Dante, he ain’t,” said Mathis.

“Soon enough,” said Dante, “you ain’t even gonna be able to talk, if you catch my meaning, son.”

“That’s right, Dante, he ain’t,” said Mathis.

“But before all that,” said Amil pushing his way between the other two men, “I’ma get my turn first. Ain’t nobody bust into Amil’s place like some fat Rambo-wannabe and not suffer for it at my own hand.”

Amil looked Melpomene dead in the eye.

“You wanna beg a little first?” asked Amil.

Melpomene said nothing. All he did was stare right back.

“Alright then, but don’t think you’re gonna get away with staying quiet long. ‘Cause soon enough, you gonna be gurgling up blood.”