A Moment of Silence: Midnight III (The Midnight Series Book 3) (21 page)

“You think so?” Santiaga asked him. But it seemed like they were both waiting for me to make some type of explanation or decision.

“Guns,” Allastair said, pulling out a .357 Magnum. “Or basketball? Are you a gangster, a hustler, or an athlete? Can’t be all three. Well actually you could, but it usually doesn’t work out in the end.”

“I’m a businessman who plays basketball. It’s a game, but it doesn’t come first,” I said.

“I like that,” Santiaga said. “What comes first?”

“A man shouldn’t say what comes first. If it’s in the first position, it’s close to his heart. I don’t know you dudes like that, to let
you in close to my heart. I thought we were here to talk about if I’m in or out of the league, or to play basketball. Either way, I understand. And I appreciate the ride and the race. That was nice,” I said, honestly. They laughed, and Allastair eased off of his aggressive path.

“You’re in, but it’s more than a game to us,” Santiaga said. “We don’t do any of our business halfway. Basketball is one of our smallest hustles. Still, it’s important. Since you say you’re a businessman, you should understand that too.”

“So what are you saying?” I asked in an even tone, ’cause I really wanted to hear the bottom line.

“Can you function in a team?” Allastair asked me, strangely, I thought.

“How we run our business is like this: every man has to carry his weight. That means, every man has to come strong and stay strong. Every man has to show up. We’re each interlocked into one another. If you don’t show, or if one of you drops the ball so to speak, it means you are shifting your weight onto the next man’s back. Now he has to carry himself and he has to carry you,” Santiaga said.

“I carry myself. No one carries me,” I said calmly.

“On a team, even if you are our starting star player, you’re only good if you don’t act like you’re the star. If you can make each member struggle to play at your same level, and if you can keep up the morale of your men. Also, come on time, show up every time, play hard, win games,” Santiaga said, then watched me. “If you can’t agree to that, I understand, but let us know
now
so we can redistribute your weight for the playoffs coming up. If you can’t guarantee that, there’s no sense in coming back to the league. The team is just now successfully adjusted to your not being there,” he concluded.

“You’re right,” I admitted. “One hundred percent. I love the game. I respect the team, and I’m grateful, Santiaga, that you have the league, word up.”

“And your decision?” Allastair asked me.

“Let’s give him some space. Some of my greatest thoughts occur when I’m driving alone on the open highway,” Santiaga said.

“Yeah, in your Maserati,” I said and smiled. He tossed me the keys. “Take it for a ride,” he said to me.

“No license, no registration, no insurance,” I said, mimicking the cop. “That’s why I’m in the junior league,” I reminded him.

“It’s all on the dash. Use mine,” he said. I looked at him. He was straight-faced and serious. I didn’t think for one minute I could get away with using his ID if I got pulled over. I was tempted to drive anyway, yet I couldn’t imagine making even a small mistake. I had only ever driven a motorcycle, and a car a few times at ages five and six seated in my father’s lap.
That doesn’t count as me
driving.
Is this a test?
I thought on it further. If it is a test, who’s testing me? Is it only Santiaga and his man, or is it a bigger test from the Most High?

“Nah, I’m good. Good looking out, though,” I said.

“Go ahead, it’s yours anyway,” Santiaga said, and his man was studying my reactions.

“You said you have a court, right? Let me get a game, me versus me. One game and I’ll let you know where I stand. On the court is where some of my greatest thoughts occur,” I told them.

“Right this way,” Allastair said, leading both of us downhill on a steep driveway. The various sports cars parked in a line were more expensive than the house, a two-story joint with aluminum siding and shutters. I hate aluminum siding. It looks weak, flimsy, and temporary. If a strong wind came along . . . Our new home in Queens was all brick. Not brick face. That’s why I bought it.

When Allastair opened his garage, a red Ferrari was unveiled. We each walked right by it like it was nothing. We each knew that it was something stunning, gorgeous, and official. They wanted me to see it. I saw it. They wanted to make an impression. They made it. We traveled through the garage and into the house, walked through a living room, dining room, and kitchen, and out a back door to a tarmac and a regulation-size court with rims and netted
hoops. A short walk down, and we would be standing on a dock anchored but floating in the river. I couldn’t front; I guess a man could have a small, modest, unimpressive house if he also had a lineup of dope cars and a basketball court and a dock and a rowboat, and a view of the New York City skyline.

I liked that they left me out there alone. I came out in my jeans. Had my sweats on beneath them even though it was spring warm. I had known that Coach Vega might make me do some drills solo. Or run a crazy amount of suicides, a hundred or so layups, and then tell me to take it back to the line and not leave until I hit fifty all net. So I was ready.

*  *  *

“So what’s the score?” Allastair came out back to the court and asked me. Now he was out of his clothes and into his sweats. “Who’s winning in the game of you versus you?” he asked. I guess he took it for a joke. I didn’t.

“It’s your court. You want to run one? Looks like you do,” I said.

“Slow down, Junior,” he said to me. I threw the ball to him and he caught it.

“Let’s go,” I said. He put his right hand up and placed his left hand horizontally over it.

“Time out,” he said.

“How can you call time out and we just getting started?” I asked him.

“Okay, look, it’s my partner who’s big on you. I’m not. Like you said, I don’t even know you like that. But how we get down is that if he wants to rock with you, I gotta put my stamp on it and vice versa. So just ease up. Like you said, you in the junior leagues. We in the major leagues, the big boys, understand?” He was giving me a stare, like he thought he was dominant. Santiaga came through the back door. Allastair softened his stance and switched topics.

“You call yourself a businessman. So what line of business are you in?” he asked.

“Vending machines,” I said.

“You mean like bubble-gum balls and plastic toys ’n rings tucked inside those little-kid plastic cases for a
penny or a nickel or a quarter
?” he asked, talking down to me.

“I’m into the buying, selling, and placement of the machines. The product is up to whatever the purchaser wants to use it for,” I told him.

“Is that right?” he said, looking like he was thinking.

“If you’re done with your game and have made your decision, let’s go grab something to eat,” Santiaga suggested. “After that, I gotta bounce back to Brooklyn.”

“A’ight, me too,” I agreed.

“The steakhouse that we’re going to requires all men to wear a suit jacket. Is that a problem for you?” Santiaga asked me.

“No, except I don’t have one with me,” I said. “Coach Vega don’t require that,” I added.

“Sharp tongue,” Allastair said. I didn’t say nothing back. I thought he was crazy, changing into his sweats and coming out here like he was gonna challenge me, and then backing down. Now he was game to jump right out of those sweats he just put on and into the suit jacket. I was thinking,
Yeah man, whatever.

“We got you covered,” Santiaga said as Allastair led us back inside.

A hideout for superheroes or some shit like that
, I was thinking. This guy had one bedroom filled with dinner jackets, suits, and new dress shirts and packaged Hanes boxers, and a lineup of top-shelf men’s shoes. I didn’t see no women in here. If there was a woman, she would have offered me a glass of water or something. More than that, I didn’t see no family photos or feminine touches.

“Another hard decision, huh?” Allastair said, as I stood looking at the suit jacket selections. I seen this cat was just gonna keep pushing.

“Nah, I just usually have my women lay out my clothes for me. I see you don’t have no women though,” I said extra calmly.

“You talk a lot of shit for a young nigga out with some real dudes. You carrying a basketball, I’m holding much more. Better wise up,” he said.

“I was thinking the same thing about you. And you don’t know what I’m carrying. You better watch out,” I warned him. That was a courtesy I gave him out of respect for his partner Santiaga. Dude approached slowly, then swiftly tried to sucker-punch me. I caught his fist and used it to twist his arm. When he bent forward, I upper-cut him in the eye, then I pushed him into the row of new dinner jackets.

“Don’t flash your weapon if you ain’t ready to fire it. Don’t threaten me with your gun if you don’t have it on you right then and there. Don’t suit up for a game if you ain’t up for a challenge. That’s ’hood 101. You ain’t no Brooklyn dude,” I told him.

Santiaga laughed. He had crept in quietly. He was dressed up and ready to go. “I told you to stop fucking with him,” Santiaga said to his partner. “We on the same team,” Santiaga reminded him.

“He got it coming,” Allastair said, straightening himself and embarrassed.

“Put it on hold. It’s time for dinner. I’m hungry. Let’s eat,” Santiaga said.

In The River Palm Terrace restaurant we each ordered steaks. The filet mignon was tender, even though mine was well done. Allastair was still steaming, stabbing his steak with his fork and pressing down hard on his knife and ramming the bloodied steak down his throat, when maybe he should’ve laid the whole thing across his black eye. He must have felt like a sucker, sitting in a dimmed VIP-only restaurant—even though he drove up alone in his Ferrari and had the valet in awe, dancing around serving him and kissing his ass while he was wearing sunglasses indoors while eating and looking like an ass. He had to wear them. His black eye was swelling.

I was eating comfortably. We all had our guns. That’s the way I like it. It evened out everything. When a man is among armed men
unarmed, that’s when shit gets deadly. That’s when armed cowards start feeling themselves and posing and posturing. The fact that there’s one unarmed man in the mix makes armed cowards feel powerful.

Besides, this guy had said he was Santiaga’s partner, which had made me think they were fifty-fifty in business. Santiaga had described him only as “his man.” But I could sense that Santiaga was also Allastair’s boss. True, Allastair was pushing the Lamborghini and now the Ferrari. But Santiaga had tossed me the keys to his Maserati and said, “It’s yours anyway.” What did that mean? And maybe he had recently tossed the keys to his man Allastair also, and the jerk was just fronting like the lineup of elites were his whips, while Santiaga was the true owner. I was thinking. When we first arrived at the spot, Santiaga had remarked that he wasn’t trying to kill Allastair because he needed him to run the business. Now I was confirmed in my mind. Allastair was just a manager, like Vega. He was running some exotic car business for Santiaga, same as Vega was running the team that Santiaga owned. So now I got it. The riverside ranch was Santiaga’s too. He had to be the actual owner. Why would any man allow himself to get punched in the face at his own house like Allastair did? And then that same man sits down to eat dinner with the one who clocked him? Nah.

*  *  *

We were in the Maserati, Santiaga and I. Out of nowhere, he started laughing like he was caught up in a comical memory. I didn’t say nothing. Let him have his moment.

“Did you really tell Allastair that he don’t have no women?” he asked me, recovering from his laughter.

“I didn’t see none,” was all I said.

“You must be a ladies’ man,” Santiaga said. “I like that. I love the ladies too.”

*  *  *

In a brownstone building that looked like a residential home, we entered a Cuban restaurant named “Azucar.” I wasn’t hungry. He couldn’t be hungry, either. We both just ate. An older Cuban woman greeted us at the entrance and interacted with Santiaga like they were real familiar. We walked through the restaurant, which was almost full, with talkative diners speaking in low tones. We were led behind a red velvet curtain, and then through a door.

An attractive young woman removed his jacket and then mine. I tightened at first, at her touch. Santiaga smiled at that. I noticed he seemed to be observing every detail about me. She guided us up a few winding stairs, our eyes following behind her bouncing butt to a second level, where we were met by another young Latina woman who flipped open a box. He reached in and chose a couple of Montecristo cigars, ran them under his nose for the scent. She guided us to a room of expensive chairs and the aroma of cigars. The scent reminded me of my father. He was not an everyday smoker, but he enjoyed a cigar every now and then in the smoke house on our Sudan estate, especially when he was receiving guests or holding important business meetings. We sat. The young woman ran and carried back a footstool. Santiaga lifted his feet and placed them onto the red-carpeted top. He clipped the cigar at the bottom and handed me one and the clipper. I clipped mine. A pair of breasts appeared before me, ’cause that’s all I could see. She leaned in and lit my cigar as another woman lit his. We puffed.

It was my first cigar. I smoked it imagining my father seated across from me smoking his. The first puff had a kick to it and I muffled back a cough, but I liked the scent of the smoke. I would do it just like my father, not take it for a habit, just on occasion or from time to time.

After a while, when his marble ashtray was filled and his cigar was shortened and hot, Santiaga pulled his feet down and leaned forward. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black envelope made from expensive paper. It was a quality stationary. The kind my first wife might select to use.

“This belongs to you,” he said. I didn’t reach for it. I placed my cigar on my tray. I still had a long way to go to finish it, unlike the expert seated across from me.