Inside the cozy four-walled house there was a hammock. Off the room, blond levered doors opened to a small screened porch. Outside the bungalow, drums played a low drone from the beach. Bonfires sprayed with the rhythms. And on their last night together, as they curled naked in the swaying hammock, Griff finally started thinking like the lawyer he was. Against her back Sidarra could feel his heart speed up amid the drumming and mix badly. His head was active again. They were going home soon and Belize was starting to wear off of him. Sidarra pushed her bottom against his pelvis and reached an arm over her own head to stroke his scalp. She was not yet convinced by his sudden attack of caution. There were other ways to stay ahead of fear, she was learning.
“Shhh,” she purred.
“It’s gonna be all right, Sidarra. I promise you. Whatever happens. It’s gonna be all right.”
“Shhhhh,” she purred again. “There are other places. Now I know. There are other ways. We have this.” Griff only grunted. His back felt tight against her skin. “Isn’t this what you said about Saturn returns? That they’re necessary trouble?”
Griff turned around to stare into her eyes. She admired how the sun reflected off the sand beneath them and still found the side of his face. “Maybe I did, but I was misinformed, remember? Thanks anyway.” And he kissed her lips gently.
In the taxi the next morning on the way to the airport, all the talking about Griff’s bad feelings came down to a single ride. Griff spoke freely in the presence of a driver both of them knew could care less and would never see them again. Griff went over moves to make, tried out scenarios, and asked rhetorical questions about any identity thefts or investments that could be traced back to the Cicero Club. His mind fired rapidly, examining permutations of situations and what would happen if this, if that, and how to make things disappear. Breaking into a whisper, Griff finally mentioned Manny and the WeeWah connection. Yet because Tyrell was his client, Griff, even in Belize, wouldn’t say his name.
Sidarra listened carefully. She sometimes chimed in with a steady remark or a correction of fact. But mostly she let him run the exercise both had been meaning to get to in their heads. By the time they got back on the plane home, they couldn’t be too sure, but they were pretty sure they were outside of suspicion. A lot depended on Raul, of course. But a lot more depended on what Yakoob had done in the details. For that, they would have to wait till after his act early Tuesday night at the Full Count.
“Why were you and Raul arguing at my birthday party?” she finally asked Griff.
Griff squeezed her hand, but didn’t remove his gaze from the airplane window. “He’s a little maverick. He’s starting to overstep the bounds, baby. Had to be checked.” She waited for Griff to tell her the truth before she said anything else. Then he looked into her eyes and added, “I don’t share too well.”
She decided to let the issue go, but no matter what, as they sat quietly the rest of the plane ride, Griff’s words continued making rounds in Sidarra’s head. By the time the tires bounced onto the New York runway again, Sidarra was afraid she had figured out who killed the chancellor.
AS SOON AS YAKOOB PICKED UP THE MICROPHONE and began his act, it was clear to Griff and Sidarra that he had not been reading the papers.
I’m trying to figure out what’s happening with white folks using the word “man” so much with me. I don’t know about you. But me, whenever I walk into someplace and there’s some white guy working there, I know I’m ’bout to get called “man.” More than once. For all I know, it could be some private code for “nigger,” but I suppose they’re just trying to be friendly. They always say it with a smile. Guy behind the counter at the liquor store. “How you doin’ tonight, man?” “Can I help you find what you’re looking for, man?” “All right, have a good night. Man.” It’s too much. I can’t trust that. Some of you remember they tried that shit in the seventies and it didn’t work then.
You know what I think? I think white people—not white people, but white men above the age of about fourteen—white men have that word confused for some kind of password. I’m serious. I think they had one of those grand meetings and decided to go with it. You know, they had all the delegates at, like, the Republican National Convention take up the let’s-call-black-guys-“man” plank. They discussed it, had a few “nigga experts” come up and make some speeches, you know, “Call ’em all ‘man’!” they said. “We’re gonna keep taking they shit, but from now on, we gonna call ’em ‘man’!”
The smile suddenly left Koob’s face as he looked hard into the stage lights.
And there was nobody there to say, “Hey, hold up. That shit is corny. Them niggas is bound to know what’s up.” Nobody to say that. So the word went out and they keep using it like they can’t use it up. Like it makes some kinda difference. Like if you call me “man,” I won’t keep wanting to blow your fucking brains out. But guess what? I’d probably kill ’em anyway. My boss. The president. Schools chancellor. Bank officer—I don’t give a fuck. ’Cause, man, you don’t wanna mess with this nigga right here.
Yakoob flashed a peace sign at the crowd and started off the stage. Shit…a black man ain’t got a friend in the world.
Not only was all that unfunny as far as Sidarra and Griff were concerned, it was reckless, especially to say such things in the Full Count. They got up and went straight to the lounge. As soon as Yakoob made it to the back room, Sidarra let him know.
“So you’re a dangerous motherfucker now, huh? Givin’ white-boys a heads-up about you, huh? What kind of shit was that, Yakoob?”
He looked shocked to see his friends look at him that way. Griff gave him no help. “What do you mean? What’s up? What’d I do?”
“Your bit, your set tonight, man, about all that ‘man’ shit,” Griff explained. “That last part was foolish, Koob.”
Koob, squinting over his usual neon-colored velour warm-up suit, shook it off. “C’mon, dude, don’t play me. Y’all ain’t got nothing to say about my act. Y’all ain’t funny. Y’all don’t know nothin’ about funny. That’s my art. I’m not hearing that.”
“You damned sure better when you’re running with me!” Sidarra told him.
Surprised and a little betrayed, Yakoob turned and faced her. “How’s my mouth your mouth all of a sudden, sistergirl? Why you got your fists up with me?”
“You should know better,” she said more quietly, but disgusted nonetheless. He still looked perplexed.
“You haven’t followed it, Koob?” Griff asked seriously. “You have no fucking idea?”
Sidarra abruptly put up her hand so no one would speak, walked round the table, sat her ass smack down on the Amistad, and looked straight into Yakoob’s eyes. “Koob, I want you to tell me why Raul killed my boss.”
Yakoob backed up and his eyes grew wide. Then he let his tight shoulders drop, walked in a half circle toward a stool, sat, removed his Kangol from his head, and started stroking his freshly minted cornrows. “Oh, okay, it’s like that now.” He reached into his pocket for a Kool, lit it, and took a long drag. He fought the urge to look at Griff. “Look, Sid, we gotta do what we do to—”
“I do not want to hear that shit, nigga.”
“Hey, hey, I thought this was a ‘nigger’-free zone in here?”
“Not when we got nigga infestation going on,” she snapped. “Now, if you’d been reading the paper the last week or so, you’d know that Jack Eagleton’s death is now considered a homicide, that he was probably poisoned by somebody who got into his house, and that that somebody had to be connected to some dope they call WeeWah.”
Yakoob just listened as smoke passed through his nostrils.
Griff spoke up in a low, calm voice. “And I happened to learn of at least one motherfucker who cooks WeeWah on the East Side and is now sitting in police custody at Bellevue Hospital, nursing a hole he got when three or four fools tried to take his shit.” Griff still would not mention his client, Tyrell, by name. “A cop was shot and three young men died, Koob. Thi
s guy’s gonna be tried. A guy named Manny.”
“Manny?” Koob asked.
“Yeah.”
Koob looked at the floor. “Damn, I know Manny. If that’s the same Manny, Manny’s all right.”
“Not if Raul knows him, Koob,” Sidarra said. “Does Raul know him?”
“I never thought about it.” Koob scratched his scalp. “He might. Probably. Manny’s from around my way, or he used to be. That’s not my bag. I only used to know him. But, you know, Raul’s kind of a resourceful motherfucker when he needs to be.”
“He’s still a knucklehead,” said Sidarra.
Koob responded quickly. “So am I. So what? So they got Manny over whatever he’s sellin’ these days. He ain’t sellin’ that. He’s selling morphine or meth or Ecstasy. If the chancellor dude died of that kind of shit, they’d been known about it, wouldn’t they? I mean, nobody’s gonna link some killer pothead to a spy-type murder just ’cause he knows a guy who got busted cookin’ drugs. Where’s the link? That shit makes no sense. We all right.”
“That’s not right, what you’re saying,” Sidarra said with a look of deep disappointment on her face. “C’mon, Koob.” She grabbed the top of her thighs and leaned in toward him, exasperated. “What is that?” She slapped her legs in disbelief. “We never played for that kind of shit. Who told Raul to go and assassinate the goddamned schools chancellor, Koob?”
Koob sat up and crossed his arms. Then he slowly and deliberately turned toward Griff to see if he dared to add anything. He didn’t and Yakoob turned back to Sidarra. “Baby, I think you know he do shit. Raul’s like an entrepreneur now. You don’t have to tell him shit exactly.”
“That’s good,” Griff said to himself sarcastically.
“Hell yeah, it’s good,” said Yakoob.
“No, Koob. That’s not good. What’s good about taking the man’s life?” Sidarra demanded.
Yakoob’s surprised expression returned. “I can think of two reasons offhand, baby. Getting paid and persuasion. We made a king-sized grip off all that shit. I know you’re sleeping in some of yours; I’m ridin’ in some of mine. And it was y’all that teamed up for persuasion. Remember dat? I didn’t intolerate. You don’t think I coulda? No, I listened. Y’all were righteous that night.” He waved his hand. “Good fuckin’ riddance to that bastard. More of them evil fucks need to go like that.”
This was not supposed to be this. Sidarra planted her arms behind her on the table and let her head drop to keep from spinning too fast. She didn’t understand and she couldn’t make herself understood. The room started to crowd in on her, and she began to feel nauseous. Griff came over and reached out to steady her, but she couldn’t even look up at him.
“You okay, sugar?”
“I need to, uh, I need to just get to the restroom for a minute. I don’t feel so good.”
Griff helped her off the table and guided her slowly toward the dressing area where the private bathroom was. Yakoob stood helplessly, not sure if his help was wanted or needed. When Sidarra got to the little door, she leaned in and quickly closed it behind her. Once alone, she sat on the toilet seat with her head in her hands and listened to the inaudible sounds of angry whispers coming from the pool room.
“This macho shit is a fuckin’ mistake, Koob!” Griff shouted in a whisper.
“Don’t you fuckin’ step to me, man!” Koob yelled back in a whisper. “Now that the pussy’s yours, you some kind of black motherfuckin’ knight? You better recognize, my brother. You made this shit go as fast as I did. Don’t come with this how-could-I-know shit now, Griff, don’t do it!”
Griff knew enough to let Koob’s rage settle. “All right. You finished? You cool? I hear you. But she’s right now. The shit is hot. The shit is for real. Sid didn’t know.”
“I know she didn’t know, motherfucker! Sometimes you act like can’t another nigga think but you!”
Griff’s right hand shot up and his fingers opened wide in front of his chest. “Whoa, whoa, black man. Try to put that shit on ice for me, a’ight? Just chill.” Griff put his hand down and waited for Yakoob to stop twitching. “You right. You caught me watching my lady’s back. But that’s our girl in there too. She’s got a right to be upset. You need to stay cool. You really do, blood.” He walked around the pool table to the stand where his glass and a bottle of Hennessy rested. “I think you’re right about the link. It’s not there. But we’re not waiting on that, dig? Shit’s gotta get fixed.”
“I’m hip.”
“Okay then.”
Sidarra walked back in the room. She looked better, resolute, and her color had returned. She asked nothing about all the whispering she’d heard.
“Sid,” said Koob as he moved to embrace her, “I apologize, baby. I didn’t mean to come off so hard. You know how they say don’t hate the playa, hate the game? Well, I coulda played a different game. Okay? Don’t be mad at me, sistergirl.”
She let him hug her and she eventually held him back. When they separated, she looked up into Koob’s eyes. “You still my nigga,” she laughed. And they all laughed.
After that it was straight business. They filled their drinks together, sat down, and for the rest of the night figured out what they had to do.
BY THE NEXT MORNING, Yakoob officially got cold feet about doing Cavanaugh. With even fewer specifics than he had given Raul on the Eagleton job, Koob had again enlisted his muscle to make his point for him. But not only did Raul not read the papers, unfortunately he had also developed what he called a professional policy of not reporting back to Koob until he had completed his work. So Koob couldn’t call him off; there was no sure way to reach him. And each day Koob would find a moment to peer inside the Fidelity Investments branch to see if Cavanaugh was still in one piece. But each time he went, Cavanaugh wasn’t there.
26
BY THE EARLY SUMMER OF 1998, there were still two Central Parks. The first was the park of newly seeded lawns, keep-out fences, wildflowers, and mostly white families. That park had not come into being until maybe a decade before, and it was progressively taking over the huge urban sanctuary. The second Central Park, shrinking as it were, was the northern third, closest to the Harlem border, a little rockier and not as well kept. Here you still saw crowded family picnics of brown people and their soccer games, bands of boys, illegal barbecues, salsa and merengue in effect, dark lovers under trees, and unsafe cliffs you were wise to avoid. The families of freed slaves had seen their proud shacks demolished over a hundred years before to make room for the grounds on which their ancestors now breathed a little easier. The loop of road used by bicyclists, Rollerbladers, and joggers cut through both parks.
“Ready, Mom?” Raquel asked.
“Ready.”
By now, Sidarra and Raquel had their own bikes for the times they wanted to ride together around the Central Park loop. Because it was such a long walk to the park entrance at 110th Street, they didn’t do it often enough to justify the high price of their top-of-the-line mountain bikes. But that Sunday, the sun was too bright to ignore and they needed some uninterrupted time with each other. They wore matching warm-up suits, one lime green, the other pink. Sidarra had grown concerned that her daughter’s progress at St. Augustine’s was occurring at the expense of a connection to her own people, the kids on her block and the ones, until recently, in her old classroom. So she put Raquel in a subsidized day camp that met near Fort Tryon Park in upper Manhattan. Raquel spent her days as a kid again, jumping double Dutch, playing kickball, making arts-and-crafts picture frames out of dried noodles and cardboard and learning the words to songs played on radio stations she didn’t listen to much anymore.
A long walk down Lenox Avenue used to be filled with Raquel’s questions, mainly about her grandparents and what they used to do there, sometimes about what the people there were doing now. But today Raquel had other things on her mind, things far beyond the street. Like cumulus clouds overhead. Like weather patterns she had been studying before school let out.<
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“I think I want to be an astronomer, Mom,” she declared at about 116th Street.
“That’s a great idea, honey. A scientist. Astrology is some fascinating stuff.”
Raquel looked up at her as if Sidarra had horns and a tail. “Astrology, Mom? Astrology might be neat to some people, but it’s not science. Astronomy is the science of the universe. I like celestial bodies. Stuff you can’t see in New York City, like stars. I love stars.”
Forty years old and she still got those damn two words mixed up. Sidarra let the backslap go on account of her daughter being a Cancer. That’s how they talk.
“Why stars, Rock?” Sidarra asked.
“Because,” Raquel answered firmly, “whoever lives there probably thinks this is heaven.”
They rode slowly through the park. They passed the point in the loop where Raquel had taken a fall for which she was hospitalized a few years back. Raquel’s memory was sharper than Sidarra thought. She asked if they could pull over just past the spot. When they were safely beside the curb, Raquel got off her bike, held her mother’s hand, and closed her eyes. Sidarra watched her lips moving slightly in a prayer she could not hear. Then Raquel crossed herself, smiled sweetly at her mother, and hopped back on the bike.
They rode on through the park’s fresh meadows. They stopped to hear a live band or two and hit the swings at a playground near the children’s zoo. Sidarra couldn’t believe how much her daughter seemed to know at times. Raquel had a response to everything. She had opinions for days and always a keen eye for what the weather was doing. Days like this helped Sidarra to remember who she herself was and what she really wanted. Such a day helped her forget what the Cicero Club had done and what might happen to her. Nothing could happen to her, she decided.
The Importance of Being Dangerous Page 25