Dante Fulsome was woken from his slumber by the sound of banging from his front door and sat up with a heavy sigh. He could still smell the Jack Daniels and Coke on his breath, amongst other things, and his head was throbbing. He’d taken Chew to Club 65 to celebrate his being a free man and they’d stayed out until the early hours of the morning. It was the first time Dante had seen Chew smiling properly since he’d got out. Whatever happened in there, whatever it is he saw, or whoever got to him, Chew had changed and Dante wasn’t entirely sure if it was a good thing. He’d never been the talkative sort, not even before things went south on that deal with those Georgia boys, but he was even more reserved than Dante remembered. Hell, Chew had even turned him down when he’d offered to pay to get him some company for the night. What kind of man turned down free tail? He shrugged and climbed out of his bed, steadying himself on his bedroom wall as he stood up, and threw on a pair of discarded boxers. He wasn’t sure if they were clean and he didn’t quite care. All he wanted to do was get whoever the hell it was banging on his front door to fuck off so he could get some more sleep. Though Dante kept himself in good shape there was no denying he was technically no longer a young man. How bad he felt the morning after a night out had only confirmed that to him. He staggered out of his bedroom and past Chew, who laid asleep on the couch with drool rolling down his cheek, before stopping to peer through the peephole of his apartment door to see who was outside. It was Antwan Dixon, Chew’s nephew, and some other kid Dante didn’t recognise, but damn was that boy big. He looked like a black Michelin Man. Dante opened the door slowly and squinted as the light from the hallway shone in his face, “What’s good, ‘Twan? You couldn’t have called ahead or something? I’ve got the worst fucking hangover of all time.” “Sorry,” Antwan said as he gave Dante some dap. “I’m here to see my Uncle.” Antwan looked more and more like Marcus every time Dante saw him. There was still something of Michelle there though, his features weren’t as hard as his father’s had been, and his eyes were far too fair to have come from Marcus. But there was enough of Marcus there to make Dante feel uncomfortable, he could only begin to imagine how uncomfortable it would make Chew feel. “Yeah, I figured as much,” Dante said as he gestured Antwan inside. “Come on inside, motherfucker.” Dante stepped aside to let Antwan in but put out an outstretched hand as the fat boy tried to follow him in. Antwan he knew, but this kid? He didn’t know a thing about him and Dante didn’t trust people he didn’t know anything about. Especially not in a town like Norman. “Where the fuck do you think you’re doing? You can wait outside, Fatrick Ewing.” He could see the thinly veiled pain on the boy’s face. From behind him Dante heard the voice of Antwan call out to him, “Chill, Dante, that’s my boy Jayson.” “Jayson Aaron? Alicia’s boy? Shit,” Dante said with a bemused shake of the head. “You know I was only playing, right? I mean, I ain’t about to pretend you’re not a big boy but I wouldn’t have clowned you like that if I knew who you were. You know that, right?” Of course, he neglected to mention that Alicia had let him and a few of the other neighbourhood guys hit it a few times back in the day. She wasn’t exactly a skinny girl back then and from what Dante had seen of her since she’d kept packing on the pounds long after she’d had Jayson. The little homie didn’t have a chance. For once, Dante actually felt bad. “No hard feelings?” Jayson reached out and shook his hand, though the look in his eye told Dante he was still smarting from what he’d said. “No hard feelings.” Life was hard enough in Norman without having thin skin. People got clowned on every single day for the way they looked, the way they dressed, the way they spoke, and you had to learn quickly how to laugh at yourself or learn how to throw hands. Somehow Dante suspected that Jayson had avoided that choice, soaking up Antwan’s reflected glory all of these years had fooled him into thinking life would go easy on him. Dante had some stories that might teach both of them that life in Norman was anything but. It would always be anything but. Dante kicked the base of the couch with his bare feet, shaking the sleeping Chew Lewis until his eyes began to open. “Wake the fuck up, Chew, we got visitors.” [center][b]*****[/b][/center] Chew’s eyes crept open slowly and he noticed Dante Fulsome stood over him. Behind the coffee table in the centre of the room was the biggest teenager Chew had ever seen in his life and… a ghost. It was Marcus Dixon. But how? It couldn’t be Marcus, Chew thought with a shake of his head. It was only when the boy opened his mouth he realised it was his nephew Antwan. He looked so much like his father that even after hearing his voice it was hard to believe it wasn’t him. “What’s up, Chew? It’s been a while.” It was an understatement if Chew had ever heard one. As much as Dante had tried to convince him that not much had changed in Norman, Chew felt more out of place there than he’d ever done before. He felt like the world had moved on without him. The only thing he had left tying him to this place was his sister and her son and Michelle didn’t want anything to do with him. Not that he blamed her for that. If Antwan knew what had happened, what he’d done, he wouldn’t want anything to do with him either. Chew sat up in his couch and looked at his nephew blankly, “What are you doing here?” “What do you mean what am I doing here? You’re my uncle, man, I came to see how you were. That not allowed or something?” Chew could hear the hurt in his voice. Before he’d gone away he’d been everything to Antwan. The closest thing to a father he’d have since his wasn’t around anymore, a coach, and a mentor to boot. Whilst the other kids were playing with their imaginary friends Chew had Antwan out on the court working on his fundamentals. He’d have to hone those if he wanted to make it out of Norman. Plenty of kids better than Antwan was at that age flamed out, amounted to nothing, and were never heard of again. He wanted more than that for Antwan. He knew what Norman could do to a young man, he’d seen it with his own eyes, he’d lived it. Antwan wasn’t going to relive his father’s life and he definitely wasn’t going to relive Chew’s life, not if Chew could help it. And the best way to do that was to stay as far away from him as possible. It’s what his sister had told him to do the last time they’d spoken and he intended to listen to his sister for once. After what he’d done to her he could never refuse another thing she asked of him. That much Chew knew for certain. His nephew’s face was awash with disappointment but Chew steeled himself and shook his head, “You can’t be here, Antwan.” “What? What are you talking about?” The memories Chew had of training with Antwan back when he was barely old enough to loft the ball above his head had got him through prison. Knowing his nephew had become a sensation, hearing from the other prisoners about the player Antwan had become, it had kept him alive in there. But he’d made his sister a promise. “Look, your moms wouldn’t want you here, Antwan. You know that.” “Fuck my moms, man.” Chew leapt up from the couch and grabbed his nephew by his collar, “You don’t ever talk about her like that. You hear me? That woman sacrificed more for you than you’ll ever know, boy.” “Whatever man,” Antwan muttered. “Get off me.” Chew released him and the boy took a few steps backwards. He was mean-mugging, doing his best to make out that his uncle hadn’t scared him, but it wasn’t working. Chew looked at Jayson and Dante, who had been stood silently throughout, and suddenly felt a pang of embarrassment. He stepped back and slouched back into the couch with a sigh. He was a disappointment. How long had Antwan dreamt of being reunited with him, the man that had taught him everything he knew about basketball? And this was all Chew had to offer him by way of reunion, excuses about why he couldn’t speak to him? He’d have been disappointed in him too if he were in Antwan’s shoes. “You know what? I don’t know why I even bothered coming,” Antwan said, his hands still shaking with shock. “Jayson, let’s get out of here and leave these has beens alone.” Antwan reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked to be a poorly wrapped present. He threw it down on the coffee table in front of Chew and followed Jayson out of Dante’s apartment, slamming the door shut as he went. It made Chew wince, everything about the encounter had made him wince, but his ailing head could have done without Antwan slamming the door shut. Chew looked at Dante, who was shaking his head in disbelief at the exchange, and then stared at the ground emptily. “Shit,” Dante said with a sigh. “That shit was heavy, man.” [center][b]*****[/b][/center] Opposite Roland Spencer sat Billy Brown. To the untrained eye Billy had the look of an unassuming man. The thick-lensed glasses that sat atop his large nose, his propensity to have his head buried in a book, and the fact he was, to put it kindly, not in the best shape all reinforced that impression. To those that knew though, Billy Brown was the most powerful man in Pickett County and as a result one was expected to pay him due diligence. Today Roland was paying his. It had been close to a decade and a half since Roland had first sought out Billy Brown. Roland was a broken man then, with barely a penny to his name, but his wits were sharp and Billy seemed to value intellect in a person. Intelligence often, though not always, manifested itself in competence and in the line of work Billy was in that trait was especially important. He’d seen something in Roland that day, agreed to bankroll Roland’s little venture, and Roland had become a rich man as a result. Spencer’s Tires and Rims had gone from strength to strength over the years, opening new branches across the county, and Billy had seen a huge return on his investment. That wasn’t enough for Roland though. Oh no, he’d wanted to expand out across into Georgia, told Billy he dreamed of reaching out as far as Atlanta, and he needed Billy’s help to do that. It wasn’t so much a question of money anymore as influence. There were certain hands that needed greasing, regulations that had to be met, that for all of Roland’s wealth could only be achieved with the type of pull that Billy Brown had. So they had struck a new deal, one with Antwan Dixon at the center of it. Gus showing up at the shop had spooked Roland a little. As he sat opposite Billy in a booth at Club 65 and anxiously recounted the discussion he’d had with Deacon Harris to him, he couldn’t help but feel like Billy felt he was wasting his time. As Roland’s tale came to a stop Billy removed his glasses, rubbing them clean, before smiling softly at Roland in a way that unsettled him. Billy’s smile had always made him feel uncomfortable. A man that vicious shouldn’t be capable of smiling. “It’s nothing to worry about.” Roland raised an eyebrow, “Are you sure? I mean, people respect Gus around these parts. If he starts making noise on this one it could mean trouble for us.” Perhaps Billy didn’t quite understand how things worked in Norman, Roland thought to himself, aware he’d never have the courage to speak that sentence aloud. As long as Billy had ruled the roost in Pickett County, he couldn’t understand how things worked there, no one could unless they were from there. Even the crackers that were born and raised in Norman had trouble understanding the politics of the place. Gus Harris might not have been Gene Parker but folks in Norman trusted him more than they ever would the Sheriff’s Department. “Trust me,” Billy smiled. “Deacon Harris won’t be making any noise on this one.” “You have something on him?” Again Billy smiled and again Roland found himself incapable of maintaining eye contact when he did, “Let’s just say that Deacon Harris had some rather addictive habits before he found God.” That was it? That couldn’t be it. Gus had admittedly that freely to Roland when he’d stopped by the shop the over day to talk about Antwan. They had to have pictures? Something? That wasn’t enough, Roland thought, but peculiarly found himself not saying a word. Why? Billy and he had common purpose, stopping Gus in his tracks helped both of them, but here he was holding out on the most powerful man in town. It could cost him, it could cost them both, but try as he might Roland couldn’t bring himself to tell Billy that alone wouldn’t bring Gus down. And then it snapped into place as he glanced up at Brown’s smile. There was a part of Roland that resented Brown, resented the part he’d played in Roland’s success, and every time they met it was a constant reminder that he wasn’t strong enough to make it on his own. He’d always be on the hook to Billy Brown and knowing this, knowing something he didn’t know, made Roland feel like he had a little power in the dynamic for once. Suddenly Brown’s voice cut Roland’s mental tangent short and dragged him back to reality, “You just be worried about keeping up your end of the deal.” “Worried? What would I have to be worried about? The tire company is bringing in even more than we thought it would.” “You think I don’t know what goes on in my own business, Roland? I’m talking about the kid.” His business? The words grated against Roland’s very being. He prided himself on being a self-made man, built his whole reputation around it, and if he didn’t know better he’d think Billy was deliberately trying to cut him down to size. The fact it was deliberate made it even worse. Billy didn’t see him as a threat, nor as an equal, Roland was his employee. That more than anything hurt Spencer’s pride. Roland sighed, “As long as Gus is kept in line, I don’t anticipate any more trouble. I mean, the decision is still a year away but I think I’ll have his ear when it comes to it. Antwan will make the right choice.” “Good, because a lot of people have a lot of money riding on this thing.” “They won’t be disappointed.” “I trust not,” Billy said, his voice becoming thick with menace all of a sudden. ”Because if that boy so much as thinks out loud about going anywhere other than South Carolina, they’re going to need a whole fucking crew of CSI guys to prove you even existed, Roland, let alone find your body.” Roland had been threatened before. In his youth he had something of a penchant for finding himself in sticky situations, usually induced by some rye that brought out the worst in him. In all his years no man had made him feel the way Billy Brown had in that moment. The soft smile that had adorned Brown’s face had disappeared and only a steely looked was left in its wake that told Roland that he was being deadly serious. For a moment Roland reflected on his folly in ever wishing himself free of Billy’s command, considered that somehow he’d sensed his insubordination, that he knew he was holding out on him. Should he have told him about Gus? Fuck, he should have told him. It was too late for that now though. Suddenly Billy’s smile appeared again. “Have a nice night, Roland.” Silently Roland walked away from the booth and out of Club 65 without so much as a glance in Wendell or Lisa’s direction. His legs felt weak but somehow he made it out to his car and inside without them giving out. For a few moments Roland sat, his brow now damp with sweat, as his imagination ran wild about what Billy would do if Roland couldn’t keep his end of the deal. Suddenly he felt a burning sensation in his throat and managed to burst the car door open in time for vomit to come squirting from his mouth into the gravel. He stared down at the deposited contents of his stomach for a few moments, his body shaking with tension, before wiping his mouth with his sleeve. God help him.