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fiction: comic books
bigger: issue three narrative
Ray sat on the rail in front of Angela's apartment puffing on the remnants of a beadie. He looked down 52nd and saw Casey's one working brake light brighten slightly at the stop sign, the exhausted Regal following the orange-red sun towards the west side. Ray tossed the beadie down and scrunched it with his heel, sucking his teeth and standing up for something to do.
It'd been three days since that drama downtown, and the TV was still buzzing about it as Ray walked back inside. Angela's apartment was in the last unit of a fourplex, the alley visible from her bedroom, and after shifting from the Snooty Fox to the Summit Inn and finally to a place they couldn't even remember the name off on Exposition, both of them decided it'd be easier if Ray just laid low at her place.
Back when Ray worked at Consolidated, he always joked that Angela was paying rent on a big closet, since she spent most nights at their mother's home on 42nd. "Why move all your stuff ten blocks down the road, when you still got your room at home?" Ray had asked her, laughter in his eyes, but he understood the desire to escape Mama's well meaning influence. An escaped convict and fugitive from the law, he was grateful for it, since nobody had sniffed around here, and he was thankful for the privacy.
Ray dropped himself on the natty couch in front of the 19" TV and jammed at the buttons on the remote. "I told her ass not to buy no universal remote from a 99-cent store," Ray grumbled, stabbing the buttons with his thumb until they finally worked. He stopped when he saw footage from the "Downtown Destruction" as they were calling it on Fox. Susan Hirasuna's flawlessly empty eyes stared out at him as she read the exaggerated copy.
"... and confirms that the second suspect was not an LAPD officer, after finding Sergeant Dennis Fisher unconscious nearby. Both the mystery man and escaped convict David Dillon are still at large, and considered to be extremely dangerous."
A photo of Dillon, clearly from his skinhead organizing days, held the screen still for a moment -- Dillon grinning mischievously at another man whose back was turned to the camera, white wifebeater barely covering the swastika tattoo on the right side of his chest.
"Police have released this composite of the second suspect," the reporter continued, "reported to be an African American, aged 27-32, approximately six foot seven and very muscular. Please call ..."
Ray switched the TV off, tired of hearing the world calling for him to come out and die. He overheard something go crash in the apartment two units over, and the animated sounds of kids causing trouble, but otherwise the afternoon was as still and boring as before Casey swung through. Ray suspected that reaching out to his chronically unemployed rapper friend was a mistake, but boredom and frustration were making him stir crazy. Casey had a similar observation as Angela -- "man, you sure got bigger in the joint!"
"I gotta come up with somethin' ..." Ray said aloud to no one. Problem is, Ray was never much of a thinker, and he knew it. Casey came up with most of their ill-begotten schemes, but Ray was too scared to tell the man what had happened.
Glancing around the room, Ray took note of Angela's bookshelf -- every word ever written by Terry McMillan, both of Kenji Jasper's books, tons of Toni Morrison, some Eric Jerome Dickey and E. Lynn Harris. A flush of imagination ran across Ray's mind and he said, "I could go look up info on this!"
Set on his new course of action, he grabbed a jacket and a baseball cap from the box of clothes that Angela never got around to driving back to Kenny's house and figured he'd head over to the View Park branch library, since that was just down the street and a big guy walking down 54th in the middle of the day wouldn't attract too much attention. He set off and left the sunlit apartment quiet and still.
• • •
David Dillon crept up to the door, furtively tossing glances over his shoulders, and took a deep breath. After one last long look around, he knocked four times hard, paused, and then tapped once lightly. He fidgeted a little, hands deep in the pockets of the hooded jacket he'd torn from somebody's back, and waited.
After a moment, he heard the peephole cover behind the door slide open and gazed at it with his trademark snarl. The door flew open, and an older white man with thinning gray and black hair and a beer in one hand, a relaxed polo shirt slumped over his solid torso.
"David!" the man exclaimed. "Good god, get your ass in here, boy!"
Dillon dutifully shuffled in, and the man closed the door, peering through its spyglass for anyone who may have seen.
"Hello, Mister Lancaster," Dillon said tiredly.
The old man looked favorably at Dillon and held Dillon's shoulders with both hands. "David, after all you've done for the cause, surely you can call me Jim. You're not the young man who led that rally at Venice Beach, all fire and vinegar. Now you're a warrior. Come, sit down, I'll get you a drink."
Dillon made his way over to one of the plush couches as Lancaster ambled over to the wetbar. "To be honest, sir, I don't know what I am. I'm some kind of freak. Everybody's after me. I didn't know what else to do."
Lancaster walked over and put a glass of whisky in Dillon's hand, sitting next to him. "From what I've seen, you're even more of a gift from Jesus than I used to think. You've been given a real power to strike back for the white man."
"I'm not the only one, though, Mister ... Jim," Dillon said sheepishly. He'd known Jim Lancaster since he was fourteen, and still held the man in a kind of awe.
"The monster you fought?" Lancaster asked, quietly. "I saw the whole thing, I had one of my friends on the force get me a copy of all the footage they have. You know as well as I do that the devil has power too. That thing was sent to stop you, and he didn't. Here you are."
Dillon sipped his whisky, the welcome and numbing warmth making its way into his body. "Maybe you're right ..."
"Of course I'm right," Lancaster nodded solemnly. "But we've got to take care of you first. Tonight you're gonna stay here. I'm gonna make some calls, and tomorrow we'll get you in a van and drive you out to Ontario. Do you remember Frank Thomas? Frank's got a plane, and we'll get you on that, to Idaho or Washington, somewhere we can keep you safe. Then we'll figure a way you can use this amazing gift to help your people."
Dillon smiled. That did sound good. After years in prison, he couldn't believe he'd almost forgotten the network of people he'd worked with, the safehouses and compounds. Still thinking back to the great farm in Idaho where he learned survival tactics, he simply said, "Good."
"Tell you what," Lancaster said, standing up. "You just rest here, I'll go set up the cot downstairs so you can sleep some. I'll go get us some burgers, and make some calls. Maybe I can even do something about that wife of yours."
Dillon's eyes sparked with hatred, and he grinned, a dark, wide crescent on his face, and nodded, downing the whiskey. "Go on and get the food, I remember the basement well enough. Thanks ... Jim."
Dillon shook Lancaster's hand firmly as they locked eyes, and then Lancaster walked back to the wetbar to get his car keys. Dillon watched him go, a wash of gratitude and admiration running through him, then made his way down the dark steps at the back of the kitchen to the secured basement.
• • •
Ray walked out of the library, his head down, poring over a set of printouts. His brow furrowed, he read silently, his lips moving along with the text, until he bumped into someone walking in.
"My bad, I ..." he started, then got a look at the petite woman standing in front of him. "Rochelle?"
The hazel eyes searched his brown ones for recognition, and suddenly her smile lit up like Hollywood Boulevard. "Ray?" she asked. "Ray Riley?"
Returning her grin he nodded, and accepted her hug. "Boy, I haven't seen you since high school? Damn, you sure got bigger ... how are you?"
"Uh, fine," he said nervously, scanning the street quickly. "What's up with you?"
"I'm actually living in Atlanta," she said, flipping a hand through her amber colored braids, "working for Def Jam South. I'm just in town to promote this Ludacris show at the Century Club."
"You always wanted to be in the music business," Ray said, unable to keep from watching her curves.
"Yeah, turns out going to Spelman was better than staying home," she agreed. "Hey, are you busy tonight? Come to the show!" She started rooting around in her purse.
"Uh, I dunno ..." Ray hesitated. "I mean, I ..."
"Here's a couple of tickets," Rochelle smiled, holding out her hand. "VIP, the whole nine. I'd really love to see you there, catch up and everything ..."
Ray understood her smile, felt the body language trained at him. He couldn't remember trading two words with her the whole time they were at Dorsey together, but he remembered watching her at cheerleader practice, at pep rallies. She won "Best Body" two years in a row with barely even any competition, and she'd become nothing but more attractive since.
"I'll be there," he said, caught in her gaze.
Rochelle gifted him with another flawless smile as Ray took the tickets, and said, "I gotta get some recipe book my sister keeps borrowing from the library -- she won't let me just buy her a copy. I'll see you tonight, okay?"
Ray nodded slowly and was completely taken by surprise when she pulled at his shirt to kiss him on the cheek. Smiling and waving, she walked into the library, his eyes following the perfect peach shape of her behind.
• • •
"This is an insanely bad idea, Ray," Angela said, checking her hair in a handheld mirror. "You know how many cameras there are here?"
"Yeah, whatever dawg," Ray said, unable to stop staring at the stream of silky and scantily clad women walking by. Many stopped to appreciate him, looking sharp in Kenny's silk suit, even though Angela had considered it "too small, after it used to be so much bigger than you."
"Oooh, on the other hand," Angela purred as a tall butterscotch brother with a shaved head and a creme colored turtleneck headed her way. He asked her to dance, sparing a glance at Ray, and Angela commented, "That's just my baby brother, back from school up north. C'mon ..."
Ray sipped at his beer, some domestic brand that the VIP wristbands gave him unlimited access to, and watched the crowd. He'd never been much of a dancer, so he just kept an eye on all the beautiful people going by. Sheer satin dresses rubbed up against wool suits and denim pants as the throbbing basslines kept the thickly carpeted walls vibrating in sync with the festive groove.
"Here he is," Ray heard a familiar voice say from his left, and he turned to see Rochelle walking up with a burly man in a leather jacket who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. "Ooh, Ray, you cleaned up good! Ray, remember Damond Kelly, from school? He's the Def Jam rep out here, and he didn't believe how much you sprouted up."
The man shook Ray's hand disinterestedly. "You played football?" Damond asked, eyebrow raised.
"Uh, naw, I'm ... I'm bigger than I used to be," Ray answered.
"I guess that's why you're not ringing a bell," Damond said. "Well, I've gotta get backstage and see what's the hold up ... take it easy, bruh."
Damond walked off into the crush of people and Ray looked down to see Rochelle pressed up against his left side. "C'mon, let's find a booth and catch up," she smiled. Taking his hand, she led him upstairs towards the velvet rope-ringed VIP stairway, the hulking guards glancing up at Ray but saying nothing, as her laminate gave them access to this forbidden playground.
Upstairs, Ray was amazed -- the women looked even better, and seemed to have even less on. Barely fazed by the waves and "hey girl!" hollers, Rochelle deftly navigated to a dimly lit booth near the balcony and pulled Ray in behind her.
"Lemme know if you need anything else to drink," Rochelle smiled, setting a square plastic cube on the table. "They gave us these to 'summon' a waiter if we got dry. Cool, huh?"
"Yeah," Ray said, her scent like jasmine and raspberries, invading his senses mercilessly.
"So what have you been doing with yourself?" Rochelle asked, drawing close. "Was that your big sister Angie I saw you come in with?"
"It was, yeah," Ray said, summoning up all the smoothness he could muster. "I've been ... I went up north, you know, spent some time finding myself." Ray realized that she wouldn't have seen the scant mentions in the local papers of his "criminal" past.
"That's deep," she answered in a voice that implied she was completely not paying attention. "You sure have changed a lot from the guy who sat in front of me in home room."
Ray smiled, feeling confident. "Well, you're every bit as fine as you were, if not more."
"Why didn't you ask me out back then, Ray?" she asked, brushing a hand across his cheek, clearly not listening for an answer.
Ray's mind boggled -- he'd asked her to the Homecoming dance in their junior year and, when he finally got permission to borrow the car, asked her to a movie senior year, getting blown off both times. "I guess I was shy," Ray offered, leaning in towards her. "Maybe there's time for me to make up for it ..."
Rochelle's lips brushed his and he felt a rush of electric anticipation. All too soon this reverie was broken -- Damond stormed up to the table, his forehead wet with anxiety.
"'Chelle, you gotta come on," he said, breathing hard. "Three of the security guards got food poisoning from those shrimp skewers we had, and we're short staffed. They can't get more guys over here, and we gotta get the talent in from the limos."
A snarl on her lips, she started to say something then stopped. She stole a look at Ray and smiled. "Was it the armed guards or the 'stand around' guys?"
"Stand arounds," Damond replied. "We gotta get 'em on crowd control or they'll rush the talent coming in, people are like a mob out there."
"Well, we've got a big guy right here," Rochelle said, smiling at Ray. "Can we put a security jacket on him and have him do the human fence routine?"
Damond looked at Ray, really for the first time. "Hm," Damond thought. "It's not exactly rocket science. Okay. Sure. C'mon, we'll get him set up, maybe hook him up with some Phat Farm gear or something."
Ray looked puzzledly at Damond and then at Rochelle, her smile slicing through his apprehension. "What the hell, okay," Ray agreed, and they slid out of the booth.
Moments later, Ray stood in a line of men wearing bright yellow windbreakers, his arms spread wide, holding back waves of excited fans as the limo pulled up to the red carpet. Rochelle argued that they could just drive the artists in back, but Damond insisted that would ruin the drama of it. The limo opened up and out leapt Ludacris, Def Jam South's star, a bouncing set of lines in a fur Kangol and matching sweatsuit. He rushed through, waving a peace sign and grinning, making it into the club in no time at all. The crowd pushed against the lines of security guards, but Ray barely felt it at all. "This is mad easy," Ray pondered to himself. "Maybe I could get work doing this ..."
Just then a second limo pulled up. Ray remembered that the opening act, a new group based in the south but with members from all over, called The Pantheon. Ray could barely hear the sound of radio DJ Adimu's voice, announcing the members.
"... and yes, ladies and gentlemen, you know him, you love him, it's Dinerooooo Gran-de!"
A smallish Puerto Rican guy, bandannaed and pulling his Enyce jacket tight around him, stepped out. He walked slowly along, slapping fives through the wall of security men, and appreciatively patted Ray on the shoulder as he passed.
"Here he is ladies," Adimu's voice continued, and Ray wondered where the man was sitting that he could see past the people, "the man, the legend ... it's The Myth, y'all!"
A tall lean man got out, his blue Spreewell Knicks jersey looking shiny and laminated, a huge stogie hanging from his lip. He smiled, a photogenic, amiable grin, and walked along, kissing the hands of every lady he saw. Ray smirked -- this guy was smooth. Ray noticed the platinum "P" on the end of the chain, same as there probably was beneath Dinero Grande's jacket, swinging as The Myth swaggered along.
"... and from the dirty dirty," Adimu's deep voice continued, "the mastermind behind the Pantheon, it's Battlecry!"
Another short man, very dark skinned but featured kind of like a teddy bear, climbed out, his platinum necklace sparkling with diamonds, a powder white derby atop his cornrowed hair, perfectly matching a crisply pressed powder white suit with a red tie. He set off, swinging his walking stick (another "P" at its end, possibly platinum again), nodding at the screaming fans.
The DJ's announcement continued -- Ray could see him up high atop a broadcast van. "... last but definitely not least, Compton's latest superstar, Breathtaker!"
The last brother climbed out of the limo, his blue Chuck Taylors first, then his saggy Phat Farm jeans, and finally the crowd saw his custom Lakers jersey as he waved his skinny, bare arms in the brisk night time air. Ray felt a twinge of something, like the air drew tight, and glanced across the red carpet. A sneering young Latino in a dress shirt that looked new glared at Breathtaker, and reached into his pocket, ducking under the border of arms the security guards on that side held up. A single word flashed through Ray's mind -- "gun" and he saw the young man take up a position, feet spread, dead center of the red carpet, aiming a shiny, nickel-plated .32 automatic at the rapper.
Ray forgot all about holding back the crowd and dove for the gunman, bowling the man over, his shot heading skywards. Several screams rang out simultaneously as the crowd began to flee in every direction. Breathtaker, realizing the danger, leapt back into the limo and slammed the door, the car taking off almost as soon as the "THUNK" sounded. Ray pulled the gun from the young man's hand when two more words flashed through his head -- "behind you."
Ray didn't even look, he just kicked out with his left leg and connected with another similarly dressed man, a Black man this time, aiming a Desert Eagle at the car as it sped away. The man dropped the gun as all the air left his lungs in a whoosh. The kick threw the man several feet back, and he landed flat on his back hard. Ray stood up and glared at his hand, realizing his prints were now on the gun. Cursing, he shoved the gun in his pocket and barely heard his name being called.
He looked back towards the club and saw Angela, frantically gesturing for him to come with her, as the first sounds of sirens in the distance reached his ears. Ray ran for his sister, and they dove through the club. Pulling Angela along as he made his way through the crowd, they burst out the back door and saw her car nearby.
"Look for a valet booth!" Angela screamed.
Ray noted a metal box on a pole nearby, locked, and ripped the door off of it. Angela reached in, grabbed her keys, and started towards the car. Ray picked the door up and tried to fold it back on, when Angela screamed, "Come on, fool!"
Ray left it and jumped in the car, taking off the windbreaker as Angela peeled out. Several other cars joined her, and a flock of cars made for Santa Monica Boulevard, rushing east, away from everything.
• • •
Ray was up the next morning before Angela, tiptoeing around her small living room. Now wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, he found a ziplock bag in the kitchen and sat it on the table, settling in with his shirt, trying to wipe all signs of his touch from the gun. Once he was confident he'd wiped it well enough, he slipped it into the bag carefully and closed it. He leaned back on the couch and covered his eyes with his hands.
"I told you it was a stupid idea to go last night," Angela's voice called from the hallway. Ray dropped his arms and looked, seeing only shadows. Angela stepped out into the light and joined him on the couch.
"Wanna know what's really messed up about last night, baby brother?" Angela sighed after a moment.
"I have a weapon from an attempted murder here, and I'm an escapee from jail?" Ray offered.
"No," Angela said glumly. "That brother who asked me to dance, his name was Boris. He was a Ph.D candidate at USC. I didn't get his number."
Ray looked incredulously at her, and she returned his look with a smile that started them both laughing. They were doubled over when a knock at the door shook them both back to grimness.
"Stay quiet," Angela whispered. She stood and peered out the looking glass. "It's that girl, the one who gave you the tickets!"
"Rochelle?" Ray asked, hopefully. The taste of her lips on his flooded back into his mind.
"There's only one Angela Riley listed in LA," Rochelle's voice said calmly from outside, "and I just wanna talk."
Angela and Ray traded looks and shrugged simultaneously. Angela opened the door, and Rochelle stood in the muted daylight, still dressed from last night, somehow radiant in the morning light despite the clear fatigue on her face.
"Can I come in?" she asked tiredly.
Angela stood aside and Rochelle walked in. She dropped her sequined purse on the table next to the gun and flopped down onto the couch beside Ray.
"First of all, nobody is looking for you or the gun," Rochelle started. "Lucky for all of us, there was another chrome plated gun in the sewer drain. Nobody seemed to notice one way or another. Second, we have another guard named Abdul, he's a few inches shorter than you, Ray, but he's close enough. We fed him the story and he's everybody's hero now. Almost."
Rochelle paused and leaned forward and stared at the floor. Ray felt like he should put an arm around her, but as he lifted his arm, Angela shot him a look that could freeze mercury, and he left it in place.
"The shooters were members of the Hat Gang from Watts," Rochelle continued, her voice flat. "Their set and the Grape Street set where Breathtaker grew up are beefing. They figgered they'd make a name for themselves. They both copped to a plea and are already on their way to jail for a long time."
Rochelle sat up and looked at Ray. "I started wondering why somebody who'd done something so wonderful would walk away from it so fast. I started wondering why somebody'd walk away from _me_ so fast. So I got on the phone and made some calls. I know about you being in prison, and I know about you escaping, or being 'missing,' the reports say. This is where I have good news for you."
"Good news?" Angela asked.
"Breathtaker doesn't take loyalty lightly," Rochelle started. "You saved his life, and in the process, you saved Def Jam a ton of money, considering we were ready to announce his solo album next month. Now that he's big news, we're doing it next week. Anyway, we all sat down and figured you needed some help, so we're gonna help you out of this."
Ray raised an eyebrow. "Go on ..."
"Our lawyer made some calls," Rochelle said, leaning back again, "and found out how crappy the case against you was. He thinks it could be overturned. It'll take time, though. You being in LA is a recipe for disaster. So today, we're gonna drive you to the airport and load you on a charter jet and fly you back to Atlanta with us. You're gonna be ... oh, I dunno, we'll dream up some rap name for you or something. You're gonna be a part of the Pantheon 'retinue.' Almost a member of the group, except we're gonna keep your face hidden. A glorified security guard, but we'll pay you and help you with your legal troubles."
"This sounds too good to be true," Angela frowned. "Why do this for him?"
"Because if we don't, Breathtaker is moving home and not recording another note, not doing a moment of publicity. The Pantheon is scheduled to be on Letterman this week. That would be bad. Breathtaker takes this sort of thing very seriously, and you saved his life. He owes you, and we need him to be happy. So we're willing to commit a few felonies to make everything smooth."
Angela pondered the situation. "Lemme get him a bag ..."
"No need, we'll get him all new stuff in Atlanta. I have a rented Expedition outside with tints, we just need to go."
Ray stood up, confused. Angela walked over and hugged him. "We didn't have any plan before," Angela said into his chest, "so a crazy plan is better than that. Just go, and call me when you can."
Rochelle stood up and handed a cell phone to Angela. "Prepaid," Rochelle said flatly. "Seems that Breathtaker has done this kinda stuff before. Ray can call you. Throw it away when you're done with it. You can get a charger at any phone store."
Ray shrugged and nodded. He kissed Angela on the cheek and hugged her, then followed Rochelle out the door.
(last panels show him looking back at Angela on the porch, and him glancing down at the city from the plane)
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