A Moment of Silence: Midnight III (The Midnight Series Book 3) (62 page)

“Play ball!” Ameer shouted. The referee threw in another basketball and gave it to the red team to check. He blew the whistle and it was back on. When the crowd cleared, Santiaga was still standing, chilling in his white leisure suit, no blood on his crocs or cloth. Not even looking over his shoulders one way or another. Dolo was gone like he had never been there in the first place.

End of the fourth quarter, the score was 98 to 95, in our favor. There were eleven seconds remaining on the clock. Ameer pulled up for the shot. Big Mike gummed it and forced Ameer down. Ameer landed on Big Mike’s ankle. Big Mike was injured. He howled like a baby but drew the foul. He couldn’t be subbed. Braz doesn’t play center. Tower was gone. He shot from the line and missed, twice. Ameer sneered and grabbed the rebound. He passed the ball. His man hit the shot from the corner. It was 98 to 97, in our favor. Seven seconds left on the clock. We checked the ball. I had three reds guarding me and no opening. I bounced down the time clock. Jaguar was open. I passed the ball to him. The three reds flew towards him like flies smelling shit. He saw the tackle coming, jumped, and hit the three pointer, game over. The black team won.

In the heat of the victory, the crowd flooded the court. The ball players were mixed in the middle. The referees and coaches were all blowing their whistles. The red team lifted Ameer onto their shoulders and started a Brooklyn chant.

When the crowd was finally pushed back, the red team gave the black team no dap. They wouldn’t line up to offer the black team that sportsmanship-like handshake. Instead, their center lit a blunt and started smoking it center court.

The red and black team owners came out half court, along with
both coaches. Santiaga and the red team owner, both dressed to the nines and monied men, who I had never seen before, shook hands with no animosity. Then, both coaches shook hands. The emergence of the older men with the clout and the money and control over the purse brought both the crowd and the players to a hush. Ameer broke ranks and approached Santiaga for a handshake. Santiaga raised Ameer’s hand and said, “MVP.” The crowd cheered. The red team mobbed Ameer. Without a megaphone, Santiaga began speaking. The weight of his reputation caused a sudden silence. “Without a doubt, this youth right here got that Brooklyn struggle, hustle, and fight in his blood. Even though my squad, the black team, earned the victory,” the crowd cheered at the mention of our team, “I feel good awarding this man the MVP title,” Santiaga announced.

Ameer and I didn’t acknowledge one another, like we had agreed for the whole playoffs and championship game. We kept our communication off court. We both played our best game. We both got what we wanted. Ameer had said to me when I first returned from Asia, “I’ll be mad as a motherfucker if you come back after being gone for a month and win MVP.” Now he had won and he was beaming about the bragging rights he had secured. He didn’t even know that although he won the purse fair and square, I was never in the running for it. I had disqualified myself. I saw no reason to tell him. Both him and me were up. He was up $25,000 for MVP. I was up $10,000 for being champion top five. Together we pulled down $35,000. Divided three ways between Ameer, Chris, and me, we were all three up $11,667. That’s friendship

Back in my sweats, after our on-the-court celebration, I ducked out. Everybody had to clear out anyway. The adult league was playing on that court in a few hours. And, other than Panama’s house party, jumping off later that same night, nothing was up. The money-getting ceremony was top secret. Each starter trusted that we would get that call from Coach Vega right after the holiday weekend. As Vega put it, “You should be glad you don’t know where
the real celebration takes place and that the money gets handed over after all the hype dies down. Otherwise you would be a target. This is Brooklyn. Don’t sleep.”

Soon as I took one step towards leaving, Bangs, who was standing in the back of where the crowd wrapped around the black team, began moving in my same direction. I couldn’t miss her. She was wearing the bright white tee with navy-blue letters that said
MILK SHAKE
. She tried to lock eyes with me. I wouldn’t let her. Instead I moved swiftly, without looking back. I had to catch the LIRR to Penn Station and the 2:15 p.m. Amtrak train to Massachusetts, then hop on the ferry boat to link back with Umma, my wives, and sister.

Of course she followed me. She’s a runner, more comfortable running than walking. She stepped onto the LIRR and said, “You wasn’t running from me, right? I just wanted to see you and talk for a minute.”

“What did I tell you about your clothes,” I said.

“I was doing good for a long while, but you didn’t come back,” she said.

“So what happened?” I asked.

“If I was going to do it that way, I was only doing it for you. What’s the sense in me dressing the way you like to see me, if I can’t see you?” she said. I just looked at her. Her body was right but her mind was never ready.

“You look beautiful to me, Superstar,” she said. I took off my black sweat jacket and put it on her. She had to cover up.

“Why ‘Milk Shake’?” I asked her.

“ ’Cause it’s thick and sweet like me and it jiggles a little,” she said. I smiled, but not on purpose, naturally. I didn’t want to encourage her. Yet she was so honest in her misunderstandings about herself. She hugged me. I didn’t embrace her.

“And what do you want the men who see that you’re thick and sweet and that you jiggle a little to do?” I asked her.

“Oh, they would know even if I didn’t have ‘Milk Shake’ on my
tee. You the only one who don’t know,” she said. “At least you don’t act like it.”

I zipped up my sweat jacket to cover her breasts. “How’s your daughter?” I asked.

“I’m trying to get her off of my titties but she won’t let me,” she said, and my joint swelled.

“I missed you so much, Superstar. I see that you missed me too.” She giggled. Then she got suddenly serious. “I was lonely no matter who else came around.” She paused. “My grandmother died. It was so sad. And I didn’t want to stay in that house anymore—it was too scary. And even though I got money from her insurance, I’m still feeling kind of, I don’t know . . .” She was staring up at me.

“Where are you living now?” I asked her.

“At my girlfriend’s mother’s apartment in Fort Greene until my grandmother’s house gets sold,” she said sadly.

“How many males are living in the apartment with you?” I asked. She laughed.

“She doesn’t have any brothers, just her moms and two sisters, her and me and my daughter,” she said, not even mentioning a father because it was automatic that he wasn’t there.

“Oh, and there’s another serious thing I have to tell you, and one serious question that I have to ask you. But, not here,” she said. Then her energy built right back up and she promised, “But I’mma hurry up now ’cause if I have my own place you’ll come and see me, right?” she asked.

I didn’t say nothing, wouldn’t even look at her. In my head all I was thinking was,
Oh Allah.

29. VINES 
•
 
A Reflection

Unexpected, I was not a passenger on a passenger ferry with other passengers whose destination was the same as mine, Martha’s Vineyard. Instead, I was on a pretty private yacht named
American Dream
, owned by its captain, Clementine Moody. The aerodynamics of the body were nice and sleek. However, it was the interior that was fully fine and fresh. Cherrywood floors, and the cockpit wooded out as well. White leather high-backed couches, a beautiful leather recliner with burgundy piping and stitching, and cherrywood cabinets and tabletops. Part of the Grand Banks Heritage Yacht Collection, the East Bay 55sx was a definite luxury item. Uncle Clem had the sound system on low volume, a nice Miles Davis jazz cut I did not recognize the title of but I liked the feeling of the groove.

So many beautiful things; try not to lust them
, I reminded myself. Then I also reflected that I had been on yachts ten times the value of this expensive one, with my father on business with the caked-up Arabs, cruising in the deep Red Sea. Also, I reminded myself that no matter how beautiful a material thing is, nothing is more beautiful than the sunset sky that Allah created.

So I steadied myself for whatever it was that Clementine Moody wanted. Because of the fight I had with his son Marcus, I knew there could be anything on his mind. At the same time, I was hopeful that Marcus was not a coward who ran and called his
father to finish the fight that he started and lost. If he did, I would lose any remaining respect I might have had for him as a man.

He returned to the plush sitting area where he had invited me to take a seat, still wearing his captain cap, but with a Winchester shotgun in one hand and a Kodamatic 980L Instant camera in the other. Donned in his pink Ralph Lauren shirt, white khaki shorts, and Sperry Top-Sider shoes, he didn’t look threatening to me. However, my mind was swiftly calculating the possibilities of which way this scenario might move. Was he planning on getting Marcus’s revenge by murdering me and taking photos of my corpse to show and then tell his son, “This is how it should be done”? Was he planning to hold me hostage and shoot photos of me to attach to his ransom note? Nah, who would he get ransom from? Was he planning to blow my head off and dump my body in waters that were unknown to me in a place where I had never been before and make it appear to my mother, sister, and wives that I had broken my promise to come join them and had abandoned them instead? Was Marcus sitting in another room in the boat, hoping his father would negotiate a truce?

“I’m going to have the bourbon,” he said after setting down the camera, and prepared himself a drink. “Since you are underage, I’ll offer you the drink my sons have had since they each turned twelve, a glass of Chicama wine made right here on the Vineyard.”

“What’s the shotgun for?” I got right to it.

“Ignore this thing. I use it when I go duck hunting,” he said.

“Duck hunting on a boat?”

“With the Winchester, a man might have had one purpose for having it at first, but then a man and his gun get attached and somehow grow together. Next thing you know, you’re carrying it everywhere ’cause you’ll miss it if it’s gone.” He laughed two quick, insincere chuckles.

“If you have water, I’ll have that,” I said, overlooking his bullshitting.

“There’s only me today because of the July Fourth holiday. My
first mate and my secretary are both off celebrating with their own families. I’ll be right back,” he said, placing his glass on the built-in coaster on the wooden table. He took his shotgun with him, though.

“Take a look at these,” he said, spreading some photos on the tabletop as soon as he returned. I looked down. The six photos were of Bangs and me in Penn Station just four hours ago. We had walked together. I stopped at a shop and bought her a jacket so I could take my Starter championship jacket back and she could cover herself. In one of the photos I was unzipping my jacket from her body. In the other she was smiling and trying on the jacket I purchased, which was nothing great, but it had long sleeves and was long enough for her to pull over her hips and to cover her ass. All of the photos seemed like they were snapped, not for the art of photography, but to confirm something the way a private investigator would confirm that two people had met.

“So?” I said, my face blank. Inside I was thinking of who could have snapped the shots and how could I have possibly overlooked a person following me. But Penn Station on 34th in Manhattan is a major thoroughfare and there are thousands of people passing through at all times of the day and night, every day.

“So,” Clementine Moody repeated. “When it comes to men, ‘too good to be true’ is always an illusion. Isn’t it?” he asked me.

“
Good
and
true
are the same thing, in my estimation. If a man is good and true, why would that be an illusion?” I asked, trying to follow his reasoning.

He smiled. “Slick talker, but there’s only you and me here on the open waters. You can drop the whole religious routine. Save that for your wife,” he said.

“Routine? How about you just get to your point. I didn’t expect to see you on the Amtrak platform. You asked me to follow you here. Out of respect I did. I don’t think we came here to discuss these photos. At least I hope not.”

“You’re right. These photos are just a precursor to let you know that I see you clearly, and that I have documentation of one of
your secrets. All men have secrets. Isn’t that right?” he asked. “And if any woman were to look at these photos of this pretty young thang wearing your jacket, the same one you have on right now, what would she think?” he asked, and gave a devious smile.

“If you were in these photos with a woman other than your wife, I guess based on your presentation today, it would be a problem for you. It would not be a problem for me. I answer to Allah, as each man and woman should. No woman controls my actions. I control my actions and my choices and only I am responsible for the consequences of each of my decisions,” I said calmly.

“This is the first July Fourth in more than a decade where my whole family has not been together in the same place at the same time. In fact, my wife and your mother and family, all of the women, are up here at the Vineyard together. My sons, I had to hold them back, break a huge tradition, a family gathering that we have always looked forward to. I don’t know what you are accustomed to because you and me are really strangers thus far. But I won’t allow you to cause me any losses without collecting the debt,” he said, sipping.

“Debt?” I repeated. “I understand numbers. Speak to me in numbers. That way, I can follow the conversation,” I told him.

“You might be a good businessman like you say that you are. You might even be swift with numbers. But remember, son, you are too young to be wise. Wisdom comes very slowly through years of effort, of making mistakes, of feeling the pain, sometimes even the torture, of the reality of life. In business, wisdom comes after making some great decisions and then some foolish decisions and paying the price of your losses. Men who have gone bankrupt one time oftentimes become the wisest businessmen.” He was holding his shotgun, leaning on it like it was a walking stick, while sitting not in the chair or on the couch or recliner, but on the countertop. I took it as him wanting to stay posed in a higher position than me, and reinforcing his pose with his weapon. I didn’t have my nine. But I was confident that my skilled hands and feet were more than
sufficient to handle this older man, to disarm him. It would only be self-defense. I had no plan to attack or injure him in any way. My second wife is in his family, loves him and his wife and sons a great deal, and I respect and adore her deeply.