by Brick
For a moment, I swore there was a flash of jealousy in his eyes. I stepped forward and laid a hand against the front of his shoulder. “And I respect that with all of me. Thank ya for being here. For a second, you were Kingston fa me. I needed someone to talk to. I’m sorry about that. You can go ahead to your room now. I know ya have ta report to King.”
Snap looked down at me, then at my hand. He reached up and smoothed back some of the flyaway strands of hair around my face. “Yes, ma’am, I do.” He paused, then said, “I know Boss King would want me to tell ya not to eva worry ’bout talking to me. I’ll always listen to ya, Mama, always.”
Snap then stepped back and went to the door. “You rest well, Mama.”
“You too, Snap. Thank you again,” I said, then watched him quietly close the door as I sat on the edge of the bed, tired of fighting my sister and missing my Kingston.
Chapter 7
Kingston
Something strange was going on. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but the hairs standing on the back of my neck told me this meeting would be different. I, by any other words, was a made man. Born on March 20, 1945, in Mississippi, ten years after my father could no longer make a profit in sharecropping, I had learned early on that the world was no place for a person with black skin.
However, just like my father hadn’t let Prohibition stop him from bootlegging, I rarely let anything stop me. When white folk hadn’t wanted to give my father legal work, King Sr. had found a way around it. Daddy had been the only colored man whom the real Godfather had done business with during Prohibition.
My parents had been well connected to the Harlem underworld. I’d heard all the stories about how they had dined with the likes of St. Clair and Holstein, Harlem’s top numbers racket bosses. It was as if I had been destined to be who I was. It was in my blood.
My father had been respected by the Italians, Jews, and Irish alike, something that was rare for a colored man back then. He had also passed all that knowledge down to me. While my father had been as black as the night was long, I was fair-skinned and my hair was wavy, and depending on the day, I could probably pass for Italian if my skin was pale enough. However, when I opened my mouth, everyone around knew I was a black man. The thick lips, height, build, and broad nose might have given that away, too.
My father had taught me always to carry myself like my namesake and always to take pride in my appearance.
“These white men don’t respect no nigga as is, but when you do business with they kind, make sure you step into that room in ya best. Let ’em know that ya all bleed the same red blood, son. And ain’t no man got no right to make another feel less than based on the color of the skin he wearing. This family done worked hard for where we are,” I remembered my father saying. “And the only way we give up our claim is in a body bag. And they knows it. They won’t touch us, though. We too connected. Got our hands tied to too many uppity folk.”
It was that night that my father had taken me to meet James Haynes. While Daddy dealt in moonshine, rum, and hooch for mobsters like the real Godfather and Lucky Luciano, Haynes was known for his dealings with drugs. He had been moving marijuana since the thirties, supplying all the tea pads from New York to Mississippi.
That was neither here nor there. I had other things on my mind. The Commission had called a meeting with me, which was odd, considering I’d just met them during the earlier part of the month. It was rare they met so soon after another meeting. It was too risky, and I knew that. But when the Commission called, I answered. It was a part of our working relationship.
The Syndicate was my brainchild. I hadn’t thought it would work at first. It had taken years of well-thought-out plans and power moves to make it work. It had started out as just an idea of mine. I had pull behind my name because of who my father had been and who we knew. It wasn’t until after I met my wife and took a trip to Vegas that it all came to be.
I looked outside my office window at the kids lining up at the door. Summertime meant the end of school, and all the kids who had passed, whether it was with honors or not, knew I paid good money to see their report cards. That was the way we rolled in our community, Claudette and I. We were a staple. We made sure to put out ten times as much good as we did the bad.
We kept our heads low and our pockets fat. We did our dirt, and we made sure it never followed us home. I smiled as I watched as many as fifty kids line up outside my door. Elementary, middle school, and high school kids alike were out there. Kids of all ethnicities. Made me think about the miscarriage my wife had had a few weeks back.
It seemed that the universe didn’t want me to leave a legacy behind. Sometimes it bothered me. I wanted a child, a son or a daughter. I’d give anything to have one. However, I guessed God was punishing us, me specifically. He wouldn’t let my wife carry my child full term. He’d give us six to eight weeks, and then he’d rip my child right from her womb. Motherfucker.
God and I had always had a tricky relationship. If the sun was shining and I was enjoying it, the minute God knew I was enjoying it, He’d send in rain and clouds. I guess that was my penance for the dirt I’d done in my lifetime. And at forty, I’d done some shit that would offend Lucifer Morningstar himself.
I stood, then peeped out my blinds. The neighborhood was rife with life. Atlanta was a black city. We black people had made this city what it was. The sun was shining. Music blasted from someone’s car. I heard an ice cream truck in the distance and knew the kids would be anxious to get their money to get to it.
The grass was green and lush. Beautiful pink, white, red, and yellow flowers had bloomed on some of the trees. Old man Charlie was mowing the lawn of a house across the tracks. I pulled the timepiece from my pocket. It was one Claudette had bought for me. I caught a glimpse of myself in the window’s reflection. My dress slacks had been tailored to fit my tall, athletic frame. Black suspenders lay against my white dress shirt, the sleeves of which had been rolled up to my elbows. Italian leather wing-tipped shoes that Claudette had hand-stitched in Italy were on my feet. That woman loved to dress me, and I loved to undress her. I chuckled. Opposites attract, right?
Nevertheless, she hadn’t called me yet, which meant Deedee had stressed her out. I’d sent Snap with her in hopes she wouldn’t have to get her hands too dirty, but knowing my woman the way I did, she would more than likely get hands on. You didn’t fuck with her family.
“Shut cho black ass up,” whipped me from my thoughts.
I looked out the window and frowned. The kids all stood in their uniforms: white collared shirts, blue skirts for the girls, slacks for the boys, and blazers with the school crest on them.
“Manuel, if you call me out my name again, I’m going take my foot and slide it in the crack of your dusty yellow ass. You don’t get to call me black like it’s an insult because you’re light, bright, and damn near white.”
“Why she always talkin’ like she a white girl or summin’?” I heard one of the other kids whisper.
Ella was a ninth-grade girl whom most young boys didn’t know what to make of. She was dark skinned and slim, and she had long hair and light eyes, which they had never seen on a dark-skinned girl before. She was an anomaly to them. Manuel, a Seminole kid whose folks lived on a nearby rez, was shooting daggers at her like she had said something to offend him.
“I ain’t white, and you know it,” he snapped at her.
“And stop calling me Manuel. My father said my name is Nighthawk.”
Some kids laughed, those who weren’t scared to laugh. At fourteen, Manuel was as big as an ox, and he had hands the size of baseball mittens.
Ella laughed. “Ha. I’ll call you Manuel until you can stop calling me black,” she snapped, stepping out of line, rolling her neck.
“You black, ain’t you?” he shot back.
“Yes, I am black, but you’re not going to be calling me black because of my skin tone is what I mean, like it’s an insult.”
“Then stop telling lies.”
“What lie did I tell?”
“Yo’ ass ain’t got no Indian in you. You black as hell.”
Ella’s eyes narrowed as she stepped farther out of line. She plopped her hands on her slim hips. “I’ve got Indian in me, and you’re just going to have to accept that, Manuel,” she said, slowly enunciating his name just to piss him off, I assumed.
Manuel’s upper lip twitched. “You don’t look like no Indian I done ever saw. The only Indian you probably done had in you has a dick attached to the end.”
The kids in the line fell out laughing. Ella was embarrassed. It didn’t take long for that embarrassment to turn to anger, as her eyes narrowed and her fists dropped down by her side, and rightfully so. I tilted my head to the side, my frown deepening. I was disappointed in Manuel. I expected the kind of behavior he was exhibiting from other young males, but not from one on my payroll.
“Why, you ole half-breed nigger. You think you a better Indian than me because you got damn near white skin and a mixed-ass-mutt white mama? I hate to hurt ya feelings, brown boy, but ya pappy is a black Seminole,” she spat. “And they probably came from Florida, where most of the black Seminoles from the South came from. Ya ancestors was probably slaves just like mine. I can prove my native blood because I got descendants on the Dawes Rolls, and my granny got her Certificate of Degree of Indian Blood. Bet ya mutt-ass mama ain’t got that. So, if ya daddy didn’t come around claiming ya, you’d be just another mixed nigger.”
It was so venomous that it made my flesh crawl. She had spat each word through clenched teeth, and that proper way she always spoke went right out the window. It was kind of funny. She reminded me of my woman when I’d first met her back in the day.
“Furthermore,” Ella continued, “my Indian blood is Cherokee and Taino. So, we royalty round these parts. If anybody betwixt us is more Indian than the next, it would be my black ass, freedman.”
“Betwixt,” another kid repeated, looking around, confused.
Another kid asked, “Does she mean Twix?”
“Like the candy?” someone else shouted.
“Shut up,” Manuel warned as he stepped closer to her.
“Who gon’ make me?” Ella said, taking a step closer to him.
I noticed her sleight of hand, too. She had gone into her carrying bag and had come back out with a switchblade. She whipped that motherfucker so beautifully that it swooshed and clinged in the air, making music as she readied for war. I laughed to myself. I knew my woman’s soldiers when I saw them. That was all Claudette’s training right there.
By now, the whole neighborhood was looking on. Some of my men were leaning against cars, laughing, while others in the town were either shaking their heads or outright trying to egg them on.
Manuel growled out, “You shut cho’ lying ass up before I cave ya mouth in.”
He made the mistake of getting too close to the girl, and for his mistake, she whipped the knife back and forth like she was Zorro, causing the other kids to scatter.
Manuel stopped, faked left, and tried to move right, but Ella stayed right with him.
“I ain’t scared of you, Manuel. I’ll slice your throat, so the only way you can breathe is out ya asshole, nigga,” Ella threatened. “I ain’t one of these little boys you can beat down. Run up.”
A chorus of “Oh shit” rang out.
My back door opened, and one of my men came running in. “Ah, boss, you see this?” Cleophus asked.
“I see it,” I said without turning to look at him.
“You want us to stop it?”
I didn’t answer him. Was too busy watching Manuel fake left again. Only this time, when Ella thought he was coming from the right, he stayed left and smacked the girl so hard, the crowd gasped.
“I said shut up, bitch,” Manuel yelled.
He’d been hanging around his father too much. That drunk-ass Indian was teaching his son all the wrong shit. I’d have to reprogram one of my best fighters once again. Ella went down to the ground, but she hopped right back up. She removed the strap of her carrying bag from around her neck and shoulders, then dropped the bag to the ground. Her schoolbooks came sliding out.
She kicked off her shoes, then touched her mouth. She was bleeding. Manuel had made the mistake of thinking Ella was one of the regular neighborhood girls. Just like Ella didn’t know Manuel worked for me, Manuel didn’t know Ella worked for Claudette.
Tears flowed down her dark cheeks. Her hair blew in the wind as she balled one fist. It was her turn to fake left, only when she did it, she took a running leap to the left and ended up to the right, with her fist in the air. Manuel was watching the knife in her right hand, totally missing the blade in the left. She sliced him across his face good.
“Holy shit,” Cleophus said behind me.
I’d seen enough. I raised the blinds so all the kids could finally see me. I nodded for my men to move in just as Ella was about to try to make good on her threat of slicing the boy’s throat. I didn’t think Manuel had taken the girl serious. She’d come from a bad home. I remembered her telling Claudette that before she allowed another man to lay hands on her in such a way, she’d kill him. At such a young age, no young girl should have had to think that way.
Once the kids saw me, all their cheering and boisterous laughter stopped. They each stood up to their full height and got back to their best behavior.
About five of my men were trying to hold back fourteen-year-old Manuel—who was just as big as they were—while three more were trying to get ahold of Ella and her knives.
“I will kill you, nigga!” she yelled, spittle and blood flying from her lips.
Her eyes were wild, and sweat made strings of her hair stick to her face. She looked like a madwoman. I slapped the window once, and they both turned to look at me. Instantly, their madness stopped. Manuel took a deep breath and yanked away from my men, getting himself together. Ella’s eyes widened, and she stopped struggling. She let Denton, another one of my men, take her knives as she righted herself and stood still.
I moved from the window to open the door. I stepped out onto the porch, and my eyes landed on Manuel first. The noise and the ruckus that had been going on before were no more. It was as quiet as it was hot, and it was hotter than fish grease in hell.
“What in hell is wrong with you?” I asked, my question directed at Manuel.
He frowned, then dropped his head before looking back at me. Blood was leaking down the side of his face. I turned to Ella.
“And I’m sure Claudette would be real proud,” I said to her.
Her shoulders slumped, and she turned into the little girl she was as she twiddled her thumbs.
“You two, in my office, now,” I ordered.
Ella hurriedly snatched up her bag and shoes, then rushed by me into my office. Manuel followed. Once they were inside, I gave all the other children stern glares, which they knew showed my disappointment at the way they’d decided to act as well. Still, I took the time to look at each and every report card and to reward them accordingly. I’d never seen a bunch of happier children. That made my heart smile.
Once back in my office, I handed Manuel a bucket of cleaning supplies. He looked peeved.
“I’m tempted to cancel your fight next week,” I said to him. “Behaving like a common thug isn’t how I like the young men on my payroll to represent me.”
Manuel’s face went slack; then his jaw became set in stone. Disappointment was etched all across his features. The boy liked to fight. It was all in his DNA. I’d seen Manuel, at fourteen, put a full-grown man on his ass. So, in order to keep him out of trouble, I put him in the ring. He hadn’t lost me a fight since I’d been sponsoring him.
“I’m sorry, King, but she—”
“A man should never do what?”
“Pick on a defenseless woman, but she wasn’t defen—”
“The merit of a man is his ability to do what, Nighthawk?”
“The merit of a man is his ability to ta
ke ownership of his own bullshit, sir,” he said in a low voice.
“So, that means what?”
“Not making excuses for my deplorable actions, sir.”
“After you clean yourself up, I expect the basement to be spick and span by the end of the night.”
Manuel looked at me with pleading eyes. I knew that plea was for me not to cancel his fight. He’d been training hard for it for the past four months. A boy out of New York wanted to fight him. The purse was already set at seventy grand. He turned to head to the bathroom.
“Manuel,” I called out.
He stopped, then turned. “Yessir?”
“You forgetting something?”
He turned to Ella, then said, “I’m sorry for putting my hands on you. A man should never hit a woman unless he has no choice but to defend himself as such.”
“And you make sure to bring something out of that bathroom to help her clean her lip up too,” I said to him as he walked away.
I turned to Ella and found her smirking at Manuel.
“And Claudette taught you to behave as a wild banshee?” I asked.
“N-no, sir,” she said.
“She teach you to be slanging that damn blade like you a samurai?”
“Well, sir, if the time calls for it, yes, she did,” Ella answered honestly.
“And the time called for it?”
“That big nigga was after me. I’d say so, sir.”
“The merit of a woman is her ability to do what, Ella?”
Her shoulders slumped. She wasn’t so confident now. “The merit of a woman is her ability to walk away from conflict, sir.”
“So, you mean to tell me you couldn’t have walked away from that conflict long before it became an all-out war?”
“I could have, but he—”
“A woman,” I said, gazing at Ella, knowing she knew what I was about to say.
She finished my sentence for me. “Never makes excuses for her bad behavior. She accepts the consequences of her actions all the while mentally pledging to do better next time, if there is to be a next time.”