Midnight

  I thought of Umma, who was a woman of herbs, oils, potions, and elixirs. Most of them contained ingredients that could be considered secret, in the sense that she was the only one who knew about them, their portions and combinations and effects. I knew she probably already understood and knew the power of natural poisons, which were some of the lessons Sensei was giving today.

  I thought of Naja. She wanted me to train her in self-defense. Poisons seemed like something a female could get into. I guess it’s the same as spraying pepper spray or mace into an attacker’s eyes. It’s one of the few ways a sixty- or seventy-pound girl could slow down a two-hundred-pound attacker.

  I believed that if I gave Naja a knife, even if I taught her how to use it, an attacker could too easily take a weapon from a small girl and use that same weapon to hurt her real bad. I cringed at the thought.

  I decided I would prepare a poison, which could be thrown by a little girl to blind or temporarily disable an attacker, and give it to Naja as a first lesson.

  Later when I thought about all of the beautiful flowers like the African Lily and the White Oleander, and the wedding flowers I ordered myself, I thought about Heavenly Paradise. How she talk so nice, dress so nice, could look so nice, like a blossoming flower, and be so poisonous on the inside?

  I dropped Umma to work, picked Naja up, then went to basketball practice, then the dojo, then to dinner, then to pick Umma back up and back on the block late night over again.

  Wednesday, the next day, was a relief. After I dropped Naja and Umma in the early morning, I returned home and slept. Six hours later, I walked down to DeQuan’s apartment, something that I had not done in months. I needed to put my ear to the ground. Besides, I thought I had the perfect pretext.

  “Must mean jihad,” DeQuan said when he opened his door for me. “First time you come by my place it was jihad. The second time you came to my place it was jihad,” he said, referring to the time when I bought a four-five and a silencer off of him. “Now this is the third time. What can I get for you?” he asked. “They say omens come in threes,” he added.

  “No jihad, no beef. I stopped by to put you up on something. You know I’m playing ball over at . . .” I told him the whole rundown on the teen league minus the money involved and about the upcoming scrimmage on Friday night.

  “I thought you might want to check it out. There might be some business opportunities, some heavy players out, you know what I mean?” I said.

  “Yeah, I knew about the Hustler’s League but not about the junior division. You should’ve told me sooner. I would’ve put my brothers on it.”

  “A’ight.” I turned like I was leaving.

  “So what you think about this shit with our man Conflict?” he asked me. I turned back.

  “What’s new with that cat?” I asked.

  “He returned to the essence Sunday night, dead,” DeQuan said, looking me in the face for my reaction. But I knew better than to seem sad, happy, or even concerned. DeQuan knew I didn’t like that sucker. I knew DeQuan didn’t really like his ass either. Matter of fact, there was a bunch of cats that hated that dumb-ass tyrant and only affiliated with him because he was Superior’s brother.

  “That must’ve freed up some of your money then, right?” I said. DeQuan smiled.

  “You a cold motherfucker, man,” he said.

  “Not as cold as you,” I answered. He gave me a pound.

  “You coming to the game?” I asked, like it really mattered. I, of course, knew that DeQuan loved games, any type of game where men competed and somebody got conquered fair and square.

  “Shit, I want to, but the wake is Friday night. Everybody from around here gon’ be there double-checking to make sure that nigga is really in the box.” DeQuan laughed. I didn’t. “Plus, Superior will be checking to see who pays their respects.”

  “A’ight man. Do what you gotta do. Check the box, then roll through at half-time. The game should be crazy,” I said, and bounced.

  As I reached for the door to leave, DeQuan said, “You came a long way from sandals. I see you every day chilling. I’m proud to see you shining. I’d like to think I had something to do with that.”

  “You left me no other choice,” I said solemnly. “I guess I owe you some appreciation,” I said. “Thanks, man.” I gave him a pound. He wanted a hug. We embraced. I left.

  Outside I saw Conflict’s parked Camry Benz. It was dirty, bird shit everywhere, with three parking tickets placed under the wiper.

  40

  THE CONNECTION

  Wednesday night at the dojo me, Ameer, and Chris got to talk. It was the first time this week I had showed up without Naja, and didn’t have to pick up Umma late at night. Her work schedule was back to normal.

  “Now don’t go catching feelings when me and the red team come rock y’all blacks on Friday night,” Ameer joked. But I knew he meant it.

  “Whatever happens happens,” I said. “I either get half of yours, or you get half of mine,” I reminded him.

  “Not half, thirds,” Chris reminded us two. “We got a game too, on Friday night. It’s the green team vs. the whites, over in Brownsville.” He was serious but we all laughed anyway at the sound of it.

  Umma was already studying the one hundred questions when I arrived home. Naja was her tutor. I showered and joined in. I didn’t need to do too much studying. I already knew the majority of the answers.

  I went to bed early, resting up for the game and whatever else was coming my way. If I could get two good nights’ sleep, I could be at the top of my skill set.

  I wondered what Akemi was doing, how she was feeling, how she was looking, and what her family was saying or telling her to do. I drifted off wishing she would call, but not even considering calling her before I knew what verdict was coming from the men in her family.

  On Thursday, I went on my own to see a property I found in the newspaper Marty Bookbinder had given to me. It was located on Beach Nine in Far Rockaway, Queens. It was a “For Sale By Owner” and the cost was $80,000.

  The seller was an elderly, short Jew with thick glasses and a slow walk that added twenty extra minutes onto every undertaking. At first he didn’t want to open his front door. I’m sure I looked frightening in my everyday fresh gear.

  He peered through the body length rectangular window beside the door. His hand was shaking as he held back his white lace curtain. I pressed the newspaper, ironically called The Connection, up against the glass. He was encouraged to open the door, at least enough for him to talk through the three-inch space that was open but still chained.

  “Good morning, I saw your advertisement for a house for sale in this newspaper. I’m the one who called and made the 11:00 A.M. appointment. Well it’s 11:00 A.M. now and I’m here,” I said politely.

  “Who gave you this paper?” he asked.

  “What paper?” I asked.

  “The newspaper!” He responded like he was quick and I was slow.

  “Oh, Marty Bookbinder, he’s a friend of mine. But the paper is on sale to the general public at Marty’s bookstore,” I said. He slid the chain off.

  “Come in, come in,” he said as though I had suddenly given the correct password.

  Automatically, I hated the furniture and the stale smell of the place. It was a house that had, more than anything, been lived in. There were things packed up and piled up everywhere in uneven stacks, in every room.

  I loved the house. There were three bedrooms, a small study, a living room with a fireplace, a small dining room, two and a half bathrooms, and a basement. The paneling in the basement was old and out of style, but the basement was finished and even had a small kitchenette. I couldn’t really see the kitchen, which was so small you could miss it if you didn’t look hard, because they had boxes and papers stacked even on the counters and floors in there.

  There was a backyard, about fifty feet by fifty feet. More importantly, there was a fence. There was an unused clothing line I knew Umma would like, and a deck where a
family could chill and grill or just read a book. It had electric heat and no central air-conditioning, but the owner had a big, antique air conditioner in his bedroom window, which he claimed worked well, but he would be leaving it behind.

  The house sat right next door to the house on the left of it, but it was at the end of the block. There was no house to the right of it, only woods. But the beach was around the corner. And the street had trees and privacy.

  “Who lives next door?” I asked.

  “Good people, the Arnoffs, but they’ll be selling soon too. Everybody’s going south to Florida,” he said.

  “When are you prepared to sell?” I asked him.

  “If the money is right, we can vacate by the first of June,” he said. “No more New York winters for me,” he complained.

  When my tour of his house was over, he asked, “Who’s got the money?” He revealed his teeth, which looked like they had fifty thousand dollars worth of dental work done on ’em.

  “My family,” I said.

  “How long will it take for you to get clearance on the loan?” he asked. “I can’t wait forever.” Then he added with a laugh, “I guess you can tell!”

  “How long will it take for you to get the inspections?” I asked.

  “Fuck inspections, lawyers and all those other God damned thieves!” The man had an outburst. “Why should we give them a piece of our money? My son’s an attorney, the lying bastard! I’m an old-timer. If you want to buy this house, then buy it. If something is broke when you move in, fix it. I’m a straight shooter. I’m asking for $80,000, not a penny less, not a penny more.”

  Wondering if this guy was legit or some kind of senile lunatic, I asked some follow-up questions. “You have the deed, right?”

  “Of course!” he said. “No deed, no sale. When I bought this house, they gave me a deed. You buy this house, I give you the deed, plain and simple.”

  I stood thinking. “How fast can you get the money?” he asked again.

  “I’ll have to let my family see the place first,” I told him.

  “Your mother, right? It’s always the mother!” he said.

  I smiled. “Yes, it is always the mother. No doubt,” I agreed. “We can come by on Saturday around 5:00 P.M.,” I said. “Is that good for you?”

  “Listen, whoever gets here with the money first, gets the house first. I don’t care if you carry it in here in a plastic bag. Money is money. Coins are good too. My wife loves the casino,” he said. “As long as it adds up to $80,000.”

  “Okay, I hear you,” I said.

  Despite the old guy being a bit unstable, I left the house with a good feeling. If I could get a comfortable expression on Umma’s face, we could buy it. Although, in the back of my mind, I was thinking how once we paid out the eighty grand plus whatever side expenses it involved, we would not have one penny savings left in our Umma Designs account. I would only have my small savings and Umma’s jewelry as collateral or emergency fund. I also thought about the “rent to buy option.” Yet I knew this wasn’t available with this guy who obviously had a little bit of time left and big plans for the money from the sale of his little outdated home.

  The MVP prize money at the Youth League was looking more and more appealing and important to me.

  “It needs work,” I told Umma. “But, it’s close enough to Naja’s school. We wouldn’t lose any of our customers, and I walked around the neighborhood. It’s mostly older Jewish people, mostly quiet. The backyard is all weeds, but once you put your touch to it, everything will blossom. I know it.”

  “And what about Akemi? Will she like it?” Umma asked.

  “Akemi likes me. I guess that’s good enough,” I said, smiling.

  “Ooh,” Umma said. “You must be right.” She was smiling.

  “You are both artists. Eventually the house will become too small to be home to two tremendous talents. But for now, we can make it work,” I told Umma.

  We agreed on Saturday at 4:30 P.M. for a visit. I imagined that no one else would rush there with eighty grand stuffed inside a Hefty for the old man.

  41

  GAME

  Friday I felt powerful, well rested, and optimistic. I raised up early, showered, and then placed my head to the floor in prayer.

  When I walked past Akemi’s family store, the metal gate was only halfway up.

  All day long working at Cho’s, I looked out for Akemi. By noon Cho’s store was crowded with customers. From noon to two, I watched for her to do her sneaky walk by. By 3:00 P.M., quitting time, I felt bad that she didn’t show.

  Of course I wanted to rush into her uncle’s store, charge into the back room and grab my girl and dash out their door and never return. But, I knew better. My one big fuckup, the beatdown and bruises, had placed her family ahead of me in some way. I wouldn’t worry. She said she loved me and I knew she did. “Tomorrow,” I told myself. “She’ll show tomorrow. We’ll go see the house together, Umma, Akemi, Naja, and me, inshallah.”

  Locking my apartment door, leaving Umma and Naja and my longing for Akemi on the inside, I made my way to the game. Now it was about total concentration.

  A sold-out concert, that’s what the park was like. All the spaces and seats on the outdoor bleachers were taken. On both sides and down front as far as they could reach without interfering with our game, the fans stood shoulder to shoulder. Real hustlers, in new rides, parked all around the perimeter. Little boys, pre-teens waiting for their chance to rock and shine, hung from the fences like monkeys so they could see past all the adults who wouldn’t let them squeeze in.

  Everybody was cleaned up nice like a fashion show, the models and the onlookers. There was music, all kinds of music, none of it official by a hired out DJ. Instead it was one man’s musical tastes battling the next man’s musical tastes.

  No one was selling franks or peanuts and popcorn like The Garden, but people were brown-bagging beers. The smell of herb made ghetto clouds, and the females was swinging hard ’cause they smelled money.

  Coach Vega was amped all the way up like a coke fiend. But he was drug free and hell-bent on his squad making him look good. It was the first time we ever seen him not wearing anything with the color red in it. He was dressed up more so for the after party, or in his mind the victory celebration. He had enough cologne on for all the dudes seated in the first row of both bleachers. I swear I doubted this cat had ever played basketball himself. But he was three parts—passion, personality, and style. And for whatever it was worth, he made every member of our team feel like he gave a fuck for real.

  We warmed up. The red team showed up looking like a bunch of niggas in a lineup. They had eleven players, not twelve, and about seventy-five people trailing behind them going nowhere, ’cause there wasn’t more seats available. Their rowdiness caused a melee. It took about five to seven minutes to clear it up. Ameer was in the middle of everything. All I could think was, That’s all he needed. These people are like gasoline to his match, and he was loving it.

  I slapped myself in the head to jar me out of friendship mode. I came to play. I came to win, and somebody had to leave defeated, no doubt.

  After the first quarter, I had the whole schematic figured out. Based on Ameer’s funny stories about his teammates, I pegged who didn’t like who, who was hogging, who was hating, and so on. In our huddle I put Panama up on the setup. I would take care of their captain, Ameer, he would check their number-two man, Specialist, and we would leave their man Noodles wide open ’cause he was no good.

  Panama accepted the plan then told me he was gonna break their center’s eyeglasses ’cause he couldn’t see without ’em. Then we would have two men on the court that posed no problem at all.

  Vega paced but didn’t interfere. The crowd hung on our every move. A lot of showboating went down, but by the end of the game it was 87 to 69, our favor. Panama “accidentally” broke the glasses and pulled down twenty-eight points. I pulled down thirty-four, the rest of our team stepped up and did their th
ing as well.

  We got some instant cheerleaders stomping on the court. Female teens made up a team song on the spot. With their T-shirts flipped over and pulled down to make halter tops, tight jeans, cutoffs, and miniskirts, they cheered and bounced for us, the hook ringing throughout the park, “ ’Cause we’re Black, Hey! And we Dominate, Wooa!”

  Vega had us in a tight pack. He was tryna set up the after celebration. But cats were telling him they wanted to scoop up the girls and go their separate ways. Panama leaned on cats that we could scoop up the girlies tomorrow at the jam. “It should just be the fellas tonight.”

  I was looking over towards the red team. They were in the process of blaming one another and fucking each other up before they even got all the way off the court. Ameer wasn’t running no risks. He was off to the side, had his arms around two girls and his back towards me.

  I told my team, “We did good but this wasn’t even officially game one. We gotta keep the pressure on them.”

  “On who?” Mateo, one of our team members, asked me.

  “On every team we play!” I answered, feeling the rush of adrenaline.

  Vega threw his arm around me. Vega, me, and the whole team walked. I told the coach I had to go to work early in the morning so I had to break out.

  It didn’t help my story that Bangs was standing beneath the lamppost in a sparkling white tee that said MIDNIGHT in big bold blue letters plastered over 34 Ds.

  Panama looked, smiled, and said, “I see where you headed and I understand.” He laughed, his gold frames around his white teeth standing out.

  I walked over to Bangs. I would have been crazy not to.

  “I can’t believe you’re standing still,” I said.

  “I got three minutes before I start running.” She smiled now, shifting her pretty legs back and forth, and her deep-dish dimples spread.