“When we lack expertise in something, we hire the people who have it.” Jamal shrugged. “And lucky us, you already work here. So …” He shrugged again. “I don’t see what’s to gain by giving you a controlling interest in something that arguably, it’s already your job to create.”
“One percent,” Deuce said, switching tacks.
If you can’t win the argument, change the subject, his father had counseled him.
“One percent?”
“Yeah,” Deuce said. “I’ll take a one-percent controlling interest. We go in 49 to 51 percent.”
“Or, we go in 49 percent apiece and you get your father to invest in a two percent stake. As a tie-breaker.”
“I didn’t really want my father involved in …”
“Let’s be real,” Jamal said, leaning forward and lowering his voice to an almost gentle tone. “He’s already involved. He coached you, right? On how to come in here and try to smack me around a little bit?”
He grinned at Deuce’s poker-face.
“It’s okay.” He laughed. “He was my coach, too once upon a time. But here’s the thing. His involvement as an independent investor minimizes SE’s risk.”
“He is SE,” Deuce countered. “If he has two percent, then the company basically has 51 percent. And I’ll still only have forty-nine.”
Jamal grinned widely. “Ah! You peeped that, huh?” He leaned back and folded his arms. “Okay, young ‘un. You’re sharper than I thought. You got your deal. You control with fifty-one percent.”
Jamal extended a hand across his desk and they shook on it.
“Let’s get some lawyers in here in the next couple weeks and make this thing official,” he added. “Congratulations, Young Scaife. You got your first company.”
His first company.
Deuce tried to maintain his chill and pretend he hadn’t heard Jamal Turner just accidentally give him a vote of confidence that he would be successful well beyond Gollum. He stood, eager to get out of there so he could bask in his victory in the privacy of his own office.
“Wait, wait … where you goin’, man?” Jamal said. “C’mon ‘round here, lemme show you pictures of my baby boy! Good thing he’s so damn cute, ‘cause he keeps me up all night just squalling.”
~~~
“I’m helping ASif with some stuff but I have a little time. Why?”
“We made a deal. Me and Jamal.”
Zora screamed and leapt off the couch. “You did? He went for it?"
“Yup. Didn’t even torture me too much to get to ‘yes’ either, either.”
“Because he respects you. All that consistency is paying off.”
“I think you might be right. But now the scary part. I’ll have a lot freer rein than I used to. I’ll sink or swim on my own.”
“Not really. You have your father. You have Jamal. Two of the best mentors you could ask for. There’s no excuse to fail with assets like that.”
“But no pressure, right?”
Zora laughed. “I don’t mean to heap on the pressure. All I’m saying is, don’t go crazy or anything. Rely on people who can help you. You don’t have to do this alone.”
“My father …”
“You’re not him, Deuce. He did it alone because he had to. You don’t. Keep your eye on the prize. You’re not competing with your father, you’re competing with yourself. Seeing how much you can accomplish, with all the tools at your disposal.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Zora laughed again, then leaned over to glance through the glass walls into the room where Asif was recording another interview. This one was with a young man who had discovered Islam in prison.
Just as Deuce’s call came, he had been talking about how despondent he was that when he was locked up, practicing his faith with purity had seemed so easy. But when he came out, it was much more difficult.
Even finding halal meat was a struggle where I live at, he’d said. Hell, I couldn’t even eat as the Qur’an said I should. Seemed like the only place Islam worked for me was in a cage.
“Anyway, I just wanted to celebrate with you a little,” Deuce said. “That’s all. I’ll let you go.”
Zora grimaced. She didn’t want him to let her go.
“Okay. Well … congrats again,” she said.
Taking a deep breath, she tried to ignore the hollowness in her chest.
Since that day at his mother’s house—now two weeks ago—when Regan showed up, and she showed out, Zora and Deuce hadn’t seen each other. They’d kept their word, their promise from way back, that no matter what, they would keep talking. But Deuce hadn’t been to her place, and she hadn’t been to see him either.
Since he was living in Bedford basically full-time now, she would have had to invite herself to his mother’s house, and that wasn’t something she was willing to do. Especially now that she knew Sheryl was invested in actively undermining their relationship. How could she be comfortable in the house of a woman who, even while on what could well be her death-bed, wanted to make sure her son did not wind up with Zora?
And anyway, Deuce didn’t seem that eager to see her, either. Soon, her classes at Columbia would start, and she wouldn’t have the flexible schedule she had now. He knew that, but still seemed content to “celebrate” with her by phone.
Back in the room where Seef was recording, the young man was wrapping up. Zora thought of him as a young man, but he was probably about five years older than she was. With people who had been in prison—and apparently, he had been in for seven years—it was a paradox that they appeared both younger, and older than their chronological age.
In her first year of law school, Zora had worked at a legal clinic, helping mostly men and some women who were now called “returning citizens” access civil legal services—Medicaid, SSI and other public benefits—while they got their lives in order. Some of them needed things as simple as state identification and had no idea how to go about it. Many others had no clue how to get their social security card, nor even what the number was.
And with all those challenges, some of the men still found time to take their shot with her, most of them in a strangely sophomoric way. Because the last time they had interacted at length with the opposite sex was when they were of high school age.
“Now that I’m out,” the young man was saying, “I feel cheated some days. Islam was supposed to be my shield. And I’m takin’ hits. Every day, and from all directions. And sometimes Islam is even used against me, like a sword.”
“But you’re a new man,” Asif said. “You said you felt washed clean when you converted … even changed your name.”
“Yup. I went in Keith Mason. Came out Karim Muhammad.”
“That’s my uncle’s name. Karim,” Asif said.
“Yeah … well, the way things been goin’, I feel like lettin’ Keith back out.”
Asif let that sit there for a moment then reached up to switch off the camera.
“How ‘bout we stop for today,” he said. “And let’s you and me parlay for a minute.”
The young brother got up from his seat and Asif draped an arm across his shoulders, walking him to a more private space, where Zora couldn’t hear them.
When they were done talking, Karim came back out, nodding in Zora’s direction.
“As salaam aleykum, sis.”
“Wa aleykum as salaam,” she returned, watching him leave.
Asif emerged from the back moments later and sunk into the couch next to her.
“Well … that didn’t sound promising,” she said. “You think he’ll make it?”
Asif shrugged. “Whether he makes it or not, he can’t un-know the Truth. I sent him to that mosque uptown that we went to that time. The one that has the job program.”
“Look at you!” Zora teased. “Reconciling wayward Muslims with Allah.”
“How ‘bout you, cuz? You still wayward?”
“It’s gotten better,” Zora said.
“Maybe Unc will warm up to your b
oy a little bit. Especially since he came to Jumu’ah that time.”
“I’m hopeful.”
She didn’t tell Asif where things stood with Deuce, because honestly, she didn’t even know for sure where they stood.
“If not, there’s always my boy, Nicolas. He still asks about you.”
Zora sighed and shook her head. “Nic’s a good guy. But no. I couldn’t. Because I love Deuce.” She shrugged. “That’s my truth. And I tried, but I can’t un-know it.”
But maybe knowing it wasn’t enough, and it was time she finally lived it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“Hey. You okay?”
Deuce looked up from the file he was working on and glanced at the time. He didn’t know how it had gotten this late, but if Zora hadn’t called, he might not have noticed that it was already past ten in the evening.
It was one of the rare nights that his aunt would be staying with his mother, so he didn’t have to rush for the train. The way things were looking, he might even get to sleep in his own bed, in his apartment for a change.
“I’m fine.” Zora’s voice on the other end of the line sounded uncertain.
“So, what’s up?”
“Didn’t hear from you today, and …”
“Yeah. I’m kind of slammed. It’s like now that we got all the fluffy stuff like logos and names outta the way, suddenly there’s real work to be done, y’know?”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Starting to look at artists. Even though I should be spending more time looking at numbers. But you know. Have to break up the monotony some type of way. Remind myself why I’m doin’ this in the first place.”
“Hmm.”
“Zee. You okay?”
“Yeah,” she said unconvincingly.
While he waited for Zora to respond, Deuce leaned back in his chair, looking around. The entire department was empty except for him and a cleaning lady, walking down the hall, stopping in each office as she went, emptying trash cans and running a carpet cleaner perfunctorily under the desks. When the hell had that happened? How had he not noticed when everyone else was leaving?
Funny. It was late, but he wasn’t even tired. If anything, he felt energized. He had another two hours in him at least.
The silence had stretched to almost a minute before she finally spoke.
“Actually, I’m not okay. We … we haven’t been talking as much, and …” She broke off and took a breath. “And I don’t know …”
“We talk every day.”
“But maybe only once, when we used to … And I … It doesn’t feel like we really talk. Like we used to. And I never see you.”
Deuce said nothing.
God knew, he wanted to see her.
Not seeing her stung like a bitch. Not seeing, touching, smelling, feeling and sleeping in the same bed with her … all of that was a perpetual hollow ache. But he was fighting on too many fronts—trying to make something happen at work, dealing with his mother being sick … He couldn’t fight this battle, too. Not now. Not if Zora wasn’t fighting right alongside him.
Maybe she never would. Thinking about that made the ache worse. So, he didn’t. He didn’t think about it. He thought about working his ass off and earning his father’s trust, building a business, and spending time with his mother whose light was dimming more with each passing day.
“Anyway,” Zora spoke to fill the silence. “The other reason I called is because we’re having something at my parents’ house. For Ousmane. A few people are coming over. I wondered whether you wanted to come.”
“To your parents’ house?”
“You’ve been there. So, yes. To my parents’ house.”
“For a family party?”
“Not just family. A few people are stopping by. Just for a little get-together.”
“When?”
“Saturday.”
She sounded uncertain of herself. Not a tone Deuce was accustomed to hearing from Zora, especially not when she was talking to him.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’ll have someone to help with your mom, and ...”
“I’ll work it out.”
“So, I’ll see you then?”
The idea of it seemed to buoy her mood and Deuce smiled. Something inside him yearned to tell her to come over. That he was sleeping at his apartment and wanted her to come over. He would see her smile in person. And it would make everything better.
But he didn’t do that.
“Yup,” he said instead. “Saturday. See you then.”
~~~
“What’s this one called?”
“Chicken yassa. You’ll like it. Not as spicy as the domoda. But don’t have this …”
Deuce looked down at the aluminum container filled with what looked like mushy rice.
“How ‘bout this?”
“It’s dakhine. You won’t like it.”
“Why?”
“Because I know what you like, okay?” Zora whispered under her breath. “You won’t like it, and if you leave anything on your plate, my father will ask you if the food didn’t meet your approval and then …” She rolled her eyes. “Just, trust me.”
“Okay. Good lookin’ out.”
What had looked from outside like a few friends stopping by turned out to be a party, even though Zora assured him it was anything but.
This is how Senegalese people get down, she told him. They probably pulled all this food together with two hours’ notice. Someone may have said they were stopping by to see Ousmane, and the next thing you know …
A half-dozen traditional Senegalese dishes were set out on the dining table in large aluminum containers with sterno cans beneath. Women brought bowls of different, aromatic rice from the kitchen and gently shoved Deuce toward the table, encouraging him to eat, speaking in French or Wolof before Zora told them he wouldn’t understand.
The men were in the living room, about a dozen of them, already eating and speaking in loud foreign voices. The television was on, and soccer playing, though no one seemed to be interested in the game.
When his plate was full, Zora nudged him in the side.
“You should go in,” she said.
“In there?” He glanced toward the living room.
“Yes. They’d think it was weird if you wanted to hang back here with me. And the other women.”
“Shit. A’ight. So … you gon’ introduce me, or …?”
“No. Introduce yourself. Sit with my brother. He at least will remember to speak English.”
“Text Seef. Is he comin’ over?”
“I’d be surprised if he wasn’t. Go.”
Taking a breath, Deuce headed toward the fray. As he entered, it occurred to him that as foreign as some of these men looked and sounded to him, they were looking at him as though he was the foreign one. And in this setting, he was. With his plate of food, he maneuvered his way around a few of the men and took a seat next to Ousmane who immediately offered him a fist-bump.
That drew Zora’s father’s attention to him, and he gave Deuce a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgment. They had already formally greeted each other when Zora’s mother opened the door and he had been hovering just behind her to see who the new guest was, and to welcome them into his home.
While Deuce ate, a spirited conversation continued around him, unabated.
“They’re talking about the upcoming election in our country,” Ousmane explained. “There’s a new young candidate. He’s got a lot of people excited. He’s like our Barack Obama. Young, charismatic. Smart as hell.”
Deuce nodded, noticing that Ousmane said “our country” referring to Senegal. Like Zora, he was born in the States, but still, it sounded like as far as he was concerned, America wasn’t home. Or at least not his only home.
Leaning in as he ate, Deuce tried to look engaged, though he didn’t understand more than ninety percent of what was being said. Occasionally, someone t
hrew out a word in French that he understood from his high school days but that was the extent of his comprehension.
His father, if he were here, would understand everything that was said in French, and would probably join in the conversation effortlessly. Every day, especially now that he was getting to the nitty-gritty of the music business, there were a million ways he was reminded that he was still mainly a mass of unrealized potential when compared to his father. Like, how the hell had he learned French anyway? Self-taught, probably. Just like almost everything else.
“Young man.”
The words, spoken in English, and trained in his direction caught him off guard, and Deuce almost dropped his fork.
Zora’s father was looking directly at him. He was darker in complexion than Zora, so that even the whites of his eyes weren’t quite white, but slightly pigmented. He was tall and solid and seemed as mass of tightly-coiled strength.
Unlike his son, Ousmane, who had the relaxed demeanor and patina of a comfortable life, Mr. Diallo had a look Deuce recognized in his own father. He had seen some things, done some things. And not all of them were things he might necessarily speak of, or even want to remember, now that he was an upright member of society and a family man.
“Yes sir?” Deuce responded.
“What do you think? Of Ousmane Sonko, and his plans for a new Senegal, a New Africa?”
“Sir, I don’t …”
“Ousmane Sonko is the youngest candidate in the presidential race. He believes we should be more protective of our assets, not go so easy on multinational corporations that want to enter Senegal for its natural resources.”
“I would be speaking from a place of ignorance if I …”
“But you must have an opinion. Even a general opinion. About multinationals and their role in Africa.”
This was a test. Obviously.
“I think if there’s wealth in Africa, it should first benefit Africans.”
One of the men erupted. “Of course! This is what I’ve been saying, Karim! Macky Sall, if he wins again will sell us out to the oil companies for thirty pieces of silver.”
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