by Love Belvin
I was let into the large meeting room in the basement of one of my father’s laundromats in Haledon. Sporadic sounds of radio interference zipped across the room. To the untrained ear and unknowing party, the swishes and zaps could be perceived as disturbing noise. Clouds of smoke filled the room, and the tension was so thick, it was difficult to move. My entire frame coated with resentment at the sight of the crowd present.
Seeing these men gathered here, absorbing information from my father at the head of the room only meant one thing: there was a problem. Hearing the bug interceptors was a major telling of the nature of the meeting. That and voice scramblers were technology I purchased for my father’s empire to ensure the FBI or any other law enforcement agency’s surveillance equipment couldn’t get a clear recording of the room if listening in. Anger bolted from my belly. He knew I didn’t like being in meetings like this. Didn’t want to be in the same room as these cats, making me complicit in any business they had. Couldn’t be. Quietly, I gaited toward the back of the room, out of the congregation.
“So, this federal grant money. I know you said Paterson got awarded and shit, and Bridgeton,” Crew, a long standing soldier on my father’s team, spoke up at the table, waving his index finger in the air as he spoke. “But what about our other major cities, like Newark, Jersey City, Passaic, Trenton and them?”
“You know Newark been had a special drug unit. They been doing strategic investigations for a minute now,” my father began his answer.
“You right.” Crew nodded.
“Yeah,” my father continued at the head of the table, standing over the chair. “But so far, no federal money’s been given to them. I don’t even know if them fuckas even applied—or qualify—for this type of bread.”
“But we gotta be smart, is all this mean,” Iban interjected. “What I mean is hit up ya connects in ya city, and telling them to be smarter…keep they eyes open. The state got investigations and you know they work up, ‘cause they can’t start at the top. It only take one weak ass muthafucka getting popped, bitchin’ up, and giving away crumbs that’ll lead them pigs to this table.” His index finger stabbed into the table on a hard thud.
His yellowish eyes circled around, hard-balling the eight men who made up the core of my father’s network of distributors.
After a few seconds of silence, my father moved to close the meeting. “Anything else? My son’s here, and I need to meet with him.”
Most of the men around the table mumbled their noes.
“Other than that fuckin’ dough boy ass Rizzo, sending subliminal threats about a damn robbery at the port.” Millie, the Newark distributor, complained. He pointed my father’s way. “I know about your alliance and shit, but I’ll put a bullet in the head of that wop and any one of ‘em that come in his name. My crew don’t fuck with them, but we got all the fuckin’ smoke if he want it!” Millie’s eyes rolled toward me in the back, I was sure with Lia in mind.
“Easy.” My father pumped his hand in the air. “Easy, Million. I spoke to Rizzo about the robbery. He don’t know who hit him, so he’s reaching right now. Nah, he can’t be threatening our street soldiers, but we can’t be going to war without permission from me. So chill. Fuck ‘im. Let him figure out where the fuck his security was when they fucked him in the ass.”
Anger flared my father’s nostrils. The Rizzos were a sore topic for him in more than one way, the first being he was expecting a grandchild by them. My father would never express his disdain for that family publicly. He was too wise and prideful to. It would make him appear feeble, and we Ellises didn’t do feeble.
“Now, if that’s all,” were his final words before the men—some of the wealthiest in the state of New Jersey—began moving, understanding their meeting was adjourned.
As my father promenaded my way, his eyes were locked on me. My brother, Iban, gave a few words of murmur to D-Rock of Camden before he was on our father’s heels. His embrace was ceremonial, fully encapsulating me into his fold, then holding me at arm’s length for seconds long before releasing me. I was sure he could perceive the annoyance in my aura, one I would never speak out of respect. But Double E Bags’ ego would never let him cave to negative energy shooting his way. Even if it was from his beloved son.
“Let’s meet over in here,” he murmured.
I pivoted to follow him out of the room and into a smaller one stacked with boxes of individual use packets of laundry detergent. The doors were closed behind us by armed security.
“I’m glad you were able to come right away, Sadik.” He turned to me, stroking his goatee while his eyes were to the floor ruminatively. “I need you to look into something.” When I didn’t respond, he continued. “Paterson and Bridgeton just got federal funds to bring on top detectives to form special drug investigation units. You know that puts us in dangerous waters. I’m hearing more cities are applying for this grant—my cities. I can’t afford to get caught with my pants down. I need to let my distributors know what’s coming down the pike so we can prepare. Your boy, Edwin, down at the FEDy’s field office; I need to know which of my territories they’re targeting next. Can you get him to find out?”
Holding his gaze, I took a deep breath. “Dad, Iban has a high school friend working for Paterson PD. Why can’t you ask him? Your godson is a tenured detective for Trenton PD. Why not ask him?”
“Because they’re known connects, Sadik. I need someone they wouldn’t expect.”
Edwin and I have been friends since college. Who doesn’t know that?
And here we were. The battling of the two ultra-alpha wills. The better part of me was what my father created. I was all the good that made him, and some would say even better. One trait carried from Earl Ellis’ DNA was the ability to rule and generate fear without raising a voice. It was the quieted danger brewing from the belly, and warning from the eyes. Only his tactic didn’t work on me.
“Sadik,” was his warning shot, though it sounded like a plea.
My fear of my father was not of his wrath. No, it was far deeper. It was of disappointing him. It had been my honor being the underling of one Earl Ellis. A privilege only a certain caliber of leader—a boss—would understand and appreciate. I honed my skills of power and leadership under his tutelage. It was still my desire to be worthy of carrying his hat. Yet still, I was my own man. I’d created and was building a legacy in my own lane. A lane he believed I’d abandoned his inheritance for.
“I’ll look into it,” I assured without blinking.
With a firm nod and grip to my shoulder, my father accepted what he knew was a lie. He accepted it because he knew, though I wouldn’t approach the task the way he asked, he’d have the information he needed, and in a timely manner. It was a drill of ours he’d grown accustomed to and had come to accept. The work—though not in my preferred line of business—would get done. Because that’s who I was.
“Thank you, Sadik.” He offered a head bow before proceeding to the door.
My jaw tightened in mounting irritation. “The Lopez meeting, sir…” I called after him.
The one he’d called me out of a woman’s bed for. It was an inappropriate ask, nonetheless, I took on the task.
My father turned back to me with an expression of satisfaction. He asked with lifted brows.
“The purpose of calling me in on that?”
I knew the answer, but had to present resistance to his strong will every now and then.
“Because it involved your mother and I knew you’d handle it with…the delicate blow needed.”
Manipulation at its finest. Even Iban sensed it, seeing how he scoffed, bringing his back to us. That was an act of defiance I’d never dared to make when it came to Earl Ellis. Ever. It was one of the many dissimilarities between my older brother and me.
“Lopez assured his men will never be on a corner of Ellis Academy again. A three-corner radius, in fact.”
“You never disappoint, Sadik. One of the many reasons why I value your service, son.”
That shit nipped at me, sending bolts of fury through my heated veins.
He waited, peering at me speculatively, waiting for an ill-reaction. It had been building between us for some time now, bubbling since Lia’s pregnancy announcement. Reeling in my anger, I silently breathed through it. Controlling my emotions, I allowed my pupils to dilate, a means of mental retreat. Earl taught me to never express emotion in front of a known opponent. I taught myself, years ago, how to implement it.
When he was satisfied I wouldn’t challenge him, my father turned toward the door and tapped. It opened for his departure and closed right behind him.
“You a better nigga than me, G.” Iban cackled.
My eyes were still to the door, breathing still purposed and controlled.
Iban continued, “You told him you didn’t want no parts of this, and he still calling you in on shit he can get me to do. When you gone just say no?”
That’s when my neck flicked over to him. “When you finally tell him about Lia.”
The haughty, provocative smirk drained from his face. “What that shit got to do with this?”
“It’s his punishment. You don’t get it? Until he gets over Lia, he’ll continue to press me. He’s going to keep fuckin’ with my business.”
Iban hung his head. “Okay.” He held his palms to me. “A’ight. I told you I just needed some time to break this shit to Monica. Then I’ll tell Pops.”
“The girl is fuckin’ six months, Iban,” I reminded him, measuring my tone or I’d explode on his ass.
“I know, man! Don’t you know I fuckin’ get that?” He yanked his body away from me by the shoulder, turning into a corner.
So fucking childish…
The small storage room went silent. I focused in on my temper and gave him time to think about his next move.
“You just don’t know how hard this shit is. You ain’t married, bruh,” Iban tried with his weak ass argument.
“And I’ll never be if you don’t man the fuck up and handle this shit like a G.”
“I am—I will!” he shouted. Then his eyes squeezed closed, reigning in his tantrum. When they opened again, he took a deep breath. “I ain’t never have to deal with no shit like this. I just need for you to hold me down on this.”
I began my gait toward the door. “I always do. Always will. Just don’t forget about the cross it’s causing me to bear.”
I tapped on the door and waited either for his rebuttal or for it to open.
The door came first. His voice never did.
∞6∞
“Okay, you two.” Professor Langston closed his portfolio over his desk. “The fall class schedule looks good. And Dr. Jefferson has the results of the survey calls. Great work on that, Bilan.” He stood from his desk and ambled over to Jason and me seated in front. “I have to say, you two have been a wonderful asset to the department. Bilan, you’ve held the coveted position of student administrator two years in a row—an anomaly here.”
I nodded, agreeing. Being a student administrator was hashtag goals in the College of Arts and Science. The role stretched across over fifty programs. It was an unpaid role you had to apply for amongst, at least, one hundred other classmates. I was given three student assistants of my choosing to carry out my workload; the role was that significant. Grades, reputation, experience, and competency were all factors. My role at the department increased my confidence and gave me a taste of professionalism before becoming a graduate.
“And Jason, your contributions to our IT matters have held strong against other departments, thanks to your fresh ideas and dedication,” Professor Langston complimented. “I understand it’s only April, but there are only a few weeks left in the semester. What are you guys’ post-graduation plans?”
Anxiety. It struck the way it always did when thinking about the next step. My eyes averted to the corner of the room. I honestly had no idea what my plans were after graduation, other than preparing for grad school this fall. The big question was, which program I’d choose among my acceptance letters. What I’d do between now and the fall was still unknown for me.
“I’ve applied to a few places. No one’s really biting but one, who say they have an opening more suitable for my area of study. I’m actually going south a week after graduation. My uncle called me with two small companies needing help with website work…design and program installation for clients and personnel,” Jason shared proudly. “A new, private nursing home and a veterinarian office looking to upgrade its system.”
“That’s great, Jason!” Professor Langston’s veiny hand patted him on the shoulder. “You’d do great at that level.” Then he peered over to me. “Bilan, let me know if I can be more than a reference letter for grad school for you.”
“I will,” I returned, less spiritedly than Jason. “Thank you.”
“Well, I need to get on to this disciplinary meeting over in the science wing.” Professor Langston grabbed a stack of folders and writing pads from his desk, then headed for the door.
“Have a good one, sir,” Jason bode as we stood.
I checked my phone for the hour. The meeting ended at the perfect time; otherwise, I would have had to excuse myself.
“Hey!” Jason called out as I traveled toward the door myself. “Where’re you going?” His eyes lit with inspired interest. The freckles on his almond-cased face dotted intermittently. His teeth were a little yellowish, but all present and healthy. And his hair was short with tight coils. “You look like a woman on a mission today.” He smiled.
Jason was a twenty-two-year-old computer science major from Maplewood. Although I was six years older, we’d met our freshman year here in college. We shared many of the same general education courses. He had been the College of Arts and Science school’s information and technology student assistant, causing us to work together often over the past two years. It wasn’t until recently that he’d began taking interest in me. I honestly didn’t mind the subtle flirting, even used it to pass the time. God knew I had no real prospects. But there was a disconnect in our chemistry, something I couldn’t put my finger on.
I took in a long breath, forging a smile at the door. “I have a call I need to take in the study room.”
“Okay. I’ll wait up for you.”
When I thought to decline the proposal, I recalled how short these calls could be.
“Cool. My treat for lunch?”
“I would say yes if you ate anything. My treat.” He winked.
With a nod of “touché,” I scurried out of Professor Langston’s office.
The moment I hit the hall, on my way to the private study room, my phone rang with a call from a New Jersey State Prison inmate. Once inside the small room, I waited out the automated message.
I closed the door behind myself and took a seat at the small table when, “Yo. Whaddup,” pierced through the wire.
“He—” I sat up in my seat. “Hey, Ab! How are you?”
“Goodie. I need you to do something.”
“Okay.”
It wasn’t that I heard from him regularly. When he wanted to call me, he’d have one of his girlfriends stop at the diner with the date and time of the call. Since his arrest and long stay at the county jail before his trial and sentencing, I had calls forwarded from the house phone to my cell just for him. Inmates couldn’t call mobile numbers, and I was hardly home for that to be a possibility. Abshir didn’t reach out often, and made it clear he didn’t want me visiting him. Hearing him shoot off orders didn’t help me forget our estranged rapport. Abshir and I hadn’t had anything resembling a healthy sibling relationship since he was in seventh grade and hadn’t yet been seduced by the streets. Fighting or completely ignoring each other were common dynamics between us before his incarceration.
“I need you to get a word to Damien. Tell him I said Lenny been missing for like three weeks.”
“Lenny who?” My face folded.
“None of ya fuckin’ business,” he croaked, already annoyed when asking
me for a favor. “Just tell him that next time you see him, he’ll know what I mean.”
Spirit now deflated, I went silent, not knowing what to say. Abshir and I fought all the time as teens. He’d been physically rough with me and even betrayed me deeply just after our father passed. It was a pain still palpable whenever I allowed my mind to travel back to our childhood. When he was pulled over and found without a driver’s license, which prompted a search of his vehicle—where he was in possession of heroin, cocaine, and a handgun—he was arrested and jailed.
I had to comfort our agonized mother through the entire process alone—while she battled pancreatic cancer. He was charged with possession and intent to distribute, because it wasn’t his first charge of that nature. After a grueling two and a half year-wait for trial, my brother was sentenced to seventy-one months with thirty-one of that time served. That meant he had three and half years to serve out in prison.
Instead of continuing down the typical galling road of fighting, I tried to change the tempo of our conversation.
“You’re nearing the end.” I bit the inside of my cheek, anxiously awaiting what he’d throw back over the wall to me.
“What you mean?” His tone hadn’t improved much.
“Your time.” I cleared my throat. “You’re almost done. This summer. Right?”
My eyes bounced around blindly in the room so hard they hurt.
He grumbled, “Something like that.”
“When?” My pitch hiked. “Have they given you a specific date?”
“Why?”
I shrugged, though he couldn’t see me. “The house is crazy quiet. I could use your presence around there.”
“It’s what you wanted. Right?”
I rolled my eyes shut. “I’ve never wanted to lose my entire family in the span of six years. That’s messed up for you to say!”
“Look, man.” He groaned like an angry bear. While battling him face-to-face, I showed no fear of him. After being separated from him for six years, I knew not to dismiss his new playground of temperament. Abshir likely had new defense mechanisms, and less of a filter when using them. My brother seemed to have hated me for years; I was sure prison intensified the sentiment. “All you need to know is this summer. I’ll hit you when the time come. Don’t be going around telling people I’m coming home, either—”