Midnight (47 page)

“I know. You’ve won. So don’t show off,” he said resting his hand on my shoulder.

I paid for Naja’s two books. “Don’t forget my order,” I reminded Marty. “Put a rush on it,” I pressed.

“If there’s a book in the universe that I can’t find . . .” he said.

“Then I’m not Marty Bookbinder.” We recited the last part together.

As the three of us got on the train together and headed back to our building, I replayed Marty’s statement in my head, the one statement that I would have normally forgotten, “Don’t show off.”

It was crazy to me, how I make it my business to mind my business, to lay low, to keep my mouth closed, to play my cards straight, but somehow, people, all kinds of people still think I’m showing off and shining. How could I dim my light? How does a youth keep from shining when it’s a natural thing? And why isn’t it enough that I don’t mess with nobody else’s women, money, or things? Still men wanted to have their things and my things too. Wars are made like this.

Late that night, I put on my black khakis, my black boots, my black tee, my black gloves, and my black hoodie. From the rooftop I watched my block. I needed to know how this cat was moving this week and where his most recent weak spots were located.

All kinds came and went: cops, strippers coming home from Squeeze, jugglers, scramblers, dealers, regular night-shift workers.

When Conflict’s black Camry Benz pulled up and parked, I could see a male approach his car and lean in to talk with him. But I couldn’t tell who it was. So, I headed down. I knew he would sit in his car and run his mouth because he was the type who could never say something just once and never considered just shutting the fuck up anyway. On the ground level, I exited the building, shot straight across to Heavenly’s building, opened the elevator door, and pressed every button so the elevator would stop on every floor.

When Conflict came up the stairs from the ground floor, he was cursing. “Wait till I catch the little motherfuckers who busted the light.” When he came around the wall separating the second floor from the third, I plunged my
kunei
down into the top of his head. He never saw the tiny and extremely sharp long blade. The ice pick-like weapon pushed through his scalp like it was pound cake and into his brain, or the space where his brain was supposed to be at. I twisted it one good time. He dropped down onto the stairs, spilling his Chinese fried rice and rib tips, and dropping his nine millimeter. These were the things he was holding before death made his muscles relax. He must have been suspicious about the fact that someone had busted all eight light bulbs on all eight flights of stairs leading to his Heaven. That must have been why he had his gun drawn. I flicked the small key light I carried on my key chain and checked his face. If only he could see how uncool he looked, he would’ve been disappointed in himself. There was no blood unless it had soaked up into his hair. Next I saw just a tiny droplet of blood falling down onto his forehead, only the amount that could fit through the small hole in his head, which was still jammed
with the
kunei
. I pulled my
kunei
out. I stepped around his body and disappeared. The whole caper had been executed without my hands or my gloves ever touching his body. He had so many enemies anyway. I’d let the authorities kill themselves trying to figure it out, if they even wanted to bother.

Early morning, we took the Greyhound to Connecticut to see about a house. We sat in the back of the bus, Umma at the window, Naja right next to her, me right next to Naja with my legs stretched out into the open aisle. With my two ladies tucked safely on the inside, I slept till we arrived.

By now, I knew I would be able to tell which house we would choose by the expression on Umma’s face.

While in Connecticut, I never saw that expression.

I dropped her to work on time. I grabbed up Naja and went about my day. She read her first book, then read the second. She did her homework quietly at the dojo.

I did not return to our block until 12:45
A.M.
Monday night or Tuesday early morning depending on how you want to look at it. After picking Umma up from work, we all three walked together from the train station to our block and into our building.

Tuesday was tight and it was the last day of Umma’s night schedule. We dropped Naja to school, then went to see a couple of Brooklyn houses for sale.

From 12 noon until 2:00
P.M.
, I threw my full attention into Sensei’s weapon class. The theme for the day was poisons. I found it amazing how regular items like flowers and plants and everyday household chemicals could be used to end lives. I also thought about how important it is who you allow into your personal space and trust. A woman you love,
or your favorite restaurant owner, or anyone who could serve you food or drink or handle items that belong to you that you will in turn touch has the power to poison you in a way that authorities might never trace.

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.

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!”