Between Brothers

by C. Kelly Robinson

  Michael J.—who is whack now—Guy, New Edition, Anita Baker, Whitney Houston, Lionel Richie, Jeffrey Osborne, even James Ingram. All those choices, and the best in your book is a family of men who looked and sang like women? Nigga, please!”

  The raucous laughter of his table mates would have normally embarrassed Brandon, but he was surprised to feel himself press on with a total lack of self-consciousness. “Hey, hey, I liked some of those artists, too, they were all good,” he said as he slid a serving knife under a slice of deep-dish veggie for Monica, “but I’m telling you who stood out from the crowd. See, y’all laugh at a brother now, but if El had come to his senses and cut his hair and worked with Babyface in the mid-eighties, instead of recording that silly ‘Who’s Johnny’ song, the boy would be large today, mark my words. He’d be Prince, without the pumps and the buttless pants. Instead he’s the most underappreciated artist out there, after Howard Hewett. All it takes is one bad marketing move to tank a perfectly good career.”

  Enjoying Brandon’s thread, Tara threw some kindling on his fire. “You know what it was, I’ll bet that nutty Jackson family shut all the DeBarges out of the business, after Janet canceled James’s crazy ass!”

  Appreciating her knowledge of the Jackson-DeBarge connection, Brandon howled along with the rest of the table before turning to Monica. “All right, Monica, you’re last. Who shows up on your CD player most often?” Brandon wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer. He whispered a silent prayer that there would be no mention of 2 Live Crew, H-Town, or Adina Howard.

  “On the whole, I like my stuff mellow. Unless I’m out at a club hittin’ the floor, give me jazz, like Jonathan Butler or Alex Bugnon, classic R&B like Luther, or some gospel like BeBe and CeCe Winans.”

  “G-g-gospel.” Bobby chuckled the words out, a mischievous grin on his mug. “You consider BeBe and CeCe Winans gospel, huh?”

  Involuntarily flaring her nostrils, Monica met Bobby’s gaze. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”

  “Ohhh, nothin’.” Bobby flashed another devilish grin and lifted another slice of the supreme pizza onto his plate, his eyes sending Brandon an unspoken message.

  Feeling the effects of the Seagram’s starting to lessen, Brandon attempted to volley a distraction. “Uh, what other gospel artists does everybody like?”

  Her eyes flashing at Bobby’s implied criticism, Monica ignored Brandon’s attempted diversion. “I wanna know why I shouldn’t consider BeBe and CeCe gospel artists.”

  Bobby, please, Brandon thought to himself, his heart beating just a tad faster. Don’t make an ass out of you and me both tonight.

  “Well, Monica,” Bobby replied, putting down his pizza, “let’s just say that when I can turn on a soap opera and hear an artist’s songs being played while a couple makes love, that ain’t gospel, baby.”

  Tara and Monica appeared to synchronize the crinkling of their foreheads as they considered Bobby’s remark. Tara was first to speak. “How do they have any control over what show their music gets played on? Isn’t the point that they’re making gospel more accessible to the masses?”

  Bobby leaned forward and shook his head wearily. “If gospel were any more acceptable to the masses, it would be singin’ about freakin’ and doin’ it all night. Look, we all know that the line between gospel and secular music is in danger of being eroded. Don’t get me wrong, I love me some Luther. But I love Luther because he knows what he is. Unlike a lot of jokers who want to sing ‘Bump ’n’ Grind’ one minute and then turn around and sing with BeBe and CeCe of the Winans about ‘God Is Love,’ give me somebody who’s consistent in their message. Either you’re gospel, singing for God, or you just plain secular.”

  “Bobby, who appointed you the judge and jury over what gospel or secular artists should be singing about?” The smile in Monica’s eyes told Brandon she wasn’t about to bolt from the restaurant, but it was clear she was bothered by the turn the conversation had taken.

  They were in too deep now. Brandon decided he may as well jump in before he became a permanent bump on the log of this conversation. “I-I think my cousin is making the point that as serious Christians, we’re a little tired of the black community’s liberal mixing of secular and gospel issues. Let me give you ladies an example: when’s the last time you heard of a white Christian singer like Sandy Patti performing with somebody from Bon Jovi or Van Halen? It doesn’t happen. White Christian artists seem to recognize the hypocrisy inherent in performing with secular singers whose songs directly contradict a Christian message. But you can’t listen to a black radio station these days without coming across a song with R. Kelly and the Winans, BeBe and CeCe and Whitney Houston, or Kirk Franklin and Salt-N-Pepa. This collaboration between those who sing about fulfilling empty desires and those who are supposed to be singin’ about God infects our community, in my humble opinion.” Brandon could see he was losing the ladies. Both of them had some church exposure, he knew, but they spent more time in the clubs than in God’s house.

  Monica confirmed his impression. “So you have a problem, for instance, with Kirk Franklin working with Salt-N-Pepa because they sing about sex?” Brandon wondered if he was imagining the amused tone that seemed to be creeping into her voice.

  Bobby nearly leaped out of his seat, intercepting the question. “Monica, it comes down to a question of deciding what Christian values are. If I base those values on the Bible, I gotta be true to what it says about sex outside of marriage. If I’m a gospel singer, taking the Word to my audience, maybe I should be witnessing to an artist who does nothing but sing about sex outside of marriage, but it don’t seem to me I should be working with them, holding them up as a good example.”

  Finishing her second slice of pizza, Tara seemed fascinated. “Wait, Bobby, are you making the assumption that most single Christians aren’t havin’ sex? That’s news to me. From what I know, those secular singers are probably no different from the man on the street who whoops it up in church on Sunday after gettin’ himself some on Saturday.”

  It was clear Monica couldn’t resist any longer. “You guys talk like any Christian who’s gettin’ any is the scourge of the earth. How do you justify your own sex lives?”

  Clearing his throat with indignation, Bobby leveled his gaze at Monica. “I have no justification to make, at least on that point. Neither does Brandon.”

  “Bobby!” Brandon’s desperate plea escaped before he could stop it. Damn him. Why did Bobby have to run his mouth so much? Tonight was no time to broach the subject of his virginity with the woman of his dreams. Brandon wasn’t ashamed of his purity, but he knew no “active” woman would be able to deal with such a touchy issue on a first date. Now was not the time.

  Seemingly oblivious to Brandon’s throaty protest, Bobby continued, undeterred. “Now, I’ll admit, I’ve tasted the fruits of passion before, back in high school.

  But to be honest, it caused me nothin’ but heartbreak. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but for a while, I’d be lyin’ not to admit it felt good. Only problem was, I was messin’ with a girl who thought it felt even better with several other guys at school, some of them my own football teammates. By the time I’d figured out how many other guys she was seein’, let’s just say I was glad I used my jimmy hat!” Bobby’s down-to-earth account broke the ice that had begun to form over the conversation. Brandon gladly joined in, enjoying the good laugh.

  “How do you, either of you, keep from goin’ back to it? I don’t think I could imagine stopping, even if I tried.” Tara was eager for a response from one of the rare specimens before her.

  Brandon opted to sit back and let Bobby continue doing damage. He was weary from the combined effect of the coolers, his chemistry with Monica, and the careful planning he was now undertaking to end Bobby’s life at the conclusion of this date. He watched Monica pay rapt attention as Bobby described his detailed methods of lust avoidance, even though she would break eye contact at times to send tempting glances Brandon’s way. And while Tara was freely sp
illing over with examples of her own sexual history, in an effort to pick Bobby’s brain for a method to his madness, Monica wasn’t giving anything up about her own sex life. Brandon hoped her discretion was for his benefit. Bobby had put both of them in an uncomfortable situation.

  Yes, Brandon decided, his boy had done it tonight. It was time for Bobby to meet a quick, painless end. At least the boy had already tasted the pleasures of the flesh, and Brandon imagined that a benefit of heaven would be unlimited quantities of the good stuff anyway. In the meantime, he was planning to stay around long enough to sample the delicacies on earth beforehand, preferably within the bonds of matrimony.

  As Bobby and Tara continued with their verbal volleyball, Brandon brought Monica into a new conversation about some mutual friends. There would be time to cover the details of their likely opposite romantic backgrounds later.

  After he murdered his cousin.

  CHAPTER 18

  . . . . . . . . . . . .

  TELL ME HOW YOU REALLY FEEL

  The morning sun painted the sky above with bright hues of orange, bringing out the richness of the blue background on this April Saturday. From his Mercedes, Nico Lane spied the large white Gothic house at the opposite end of the block. Compared with the congested row houses on most of the surrounding streets, the large detached homes on Moore Street were some of the final reminders of the glory days of this besieged neighborhood. Nico realized his admiration of the house was distracting him from his purpose. He had planned to give one of his water boys the responsibility of staking out the living patterns of the Highland brats, but his curiosity had gotten the best of him.

  He would be applying the pressure to Biggie’s brother in the very near future—he just had to decide where. The wisest move would be to attack out of the eyesight of the other students. The fewer people who had any idea that Nico even knew Terence, the better.

  In the faint light of the dawn, he saw a light come on in the large bay window of the front living room. Revving up his German machine and hurtling past the tall sycamore trees that framed the front yard of 122 Moore, Nico decided to resume his surveillance later. No need to draw unnecessary attention.

  * * *

  Still wiping sleep out of his eyes, Larry ambled over to the black leather couch in the corner of the room. He stretched out his long legs and rested his Gucci house sandals on the Oriental rug.

  “Mr. President, what’s up.” Brandon bounded into the room fully dressed in a Bugle Boy ensemble, his new earring sparkling in his left ear.

  “Getting ready to fight the good fight, my man,” Larry replied as Brandon plopped into a beanbag chair to the right of the bay window. “We finally have the first speakout Monday night, so Mark and Janis are taking me through the paces of a practice run this afternoon. Not to mention I’ve got to finish up my banking and insurance papers for class.”

  “Ashley’s not helping you practice for the speakout?”

  Larry turned a weary gaze toward his friend. “Brother, please, don’t ask. I’m hoping that situation will take care of itself.”

  Raising his eyebrows at Larry’s cryptic statement, Brandon greeted Terence as he entered the room sporting a Technotronics rugby shirt and a pair of cotton khakis. “Somebody’s lookin’ clean this morning. What’s up, Holmes?”

  Terence slapped his housemates two high fives. “Ready for us to take care of business with this Ellis update. I’ve got to meet Jerry Wallace at work to finish up this project, and then he’s taking some of us interns out to an Orioles game at Camden Yards.”

  “Well, brother, we’ll try to dispense with business efficiently so as not to keep you from your Caucasian friends,” Larry taunted. “You know they gon’ expect you to be late anyway.”

  As the men enjoyed their first laughs of the morning, O. J. slid across the hallway from his ground-level bedroom. “Okay, my brothers, the reverend is here. You may now begin.”

  Once the men completed their morning salutes, Brandon took the conversation to more somber territory. “Well, brothers, I spoke with Sheryl Gibson yesterday and got an update on Ellis Center. The next board meeting is in two weeks, April 17. By then she and Rolly Orange should be ready to discuss the investment vehicles to use for all contributions raised in the past several months. She also mentioned that she’d like us to release the funds in the separate accounts so she and Orange can place them into the appropriate investment following the meeting. They’ll be signing off on next year’s budget at that time as well.”

  “That budget’s gonna be mighty lean, won’t it?” Terence hunched forward in the loveseat adjacent to the window.

  “You got that right. They’ll be reducing the number of course offerings in the after-school programs for this year, and they’ll have to accept fewer students into the manhood and entrepreneurship courses. But, as Sheryl says, it’s a case of sacrificing in the short term for the sake of the long term. If we can keep this campaign active through fiscal year ’97, they’ll eventually be able to put most of the subsequent contributions into actual programs and course offerings.”

  Slowly approaching a fully awakened state, Larry frowned. “Has anyone heard anything else regarding our suspicions of our friend Mr. Orange?”

  “I did have a talk with Pastor Grier about some of our concerns,” O. J. confided. “I was as generic as I could be, you know, fishing to see if Orange has ever been accused of financial mismanagement or extortion before. I guess I shouldn’t disclose what Grier did hint at, but let’s just say it had nothing to do with money matters.”

  “Oh, Lord, you can stop right now.” Larry let out a frustrated laugh. “We need some cold, hard facts. I could care less who the brother’s sleepin’ with.”

  “I am a little concerned about Sheryl,” Brandon said, rubbing his chin. “When we met yesterday, she didn’t really seem like she was all there. I know she’s got her hands full with her daughter’s pregnancy and the ton of responsibilities she’s carrying, but it seemed like there was more to it. I noticed she had a packet on her desk from some financial adviser, guy named Tracy Spears. The letter was saying something about his expertise in investments, including derivatives like futures and forward contracts. What’s that sound like to you, Larry?”

  “What the hell? Futures? Why would anybody at that center be looking at speculative instruments like that? Those are for rich folk! Did you ask her what was up with that, Brandon?”

  Brandon slumped into the beanbag, a defensive look on his face. “Excuse me, brother, but she wasn’t exactly offering details. I didn’t see how it was my place to ask her about something among the personal items on her desk.”

  O. J. sided with Larry. “Well, I’m no finance expert like my boy here, but I’m concerned, too. Grier is into some futures contracts, but he keeps his investments very small because o’ the risk. I don’t know why Sheryl would be looking at that stuff. If they’re even thinking of placing the donations into something like that, they’re outta they minds.”

  Brandon sighed in frustration. “Well, I don’t know what we can do when we have no proof they’re looking at the futures investments. At least the separately recorded contributions, which now total sixty-two thousand, are safe.”

  Terence clicked his teeth together several times. “We need to make sure to get a detailed accounting of the funds administered by the center at that next board meeting. I think we should demand assurances about the investments they’re considering.”

  “These issues are all duly noted, brothers,” Brandon said. “I’ll follow up with Sheryl informally this week to see what types of investments they’re considering. By the way, we should commend Terence for completing the negotiations with the Nation regarding the manhood course, and O. J. has secured the commitment of four new clergy to teach Bible classes next year. These same ministers, including Pastor Grier himself, are also going to help underwrite the cost of the rededication ceremony in May. And of course, the center is staying afloat right now thanks to the generosit
y of the deep-pocketed family and friends of old Larry junior here.”

  “Not to mention the Highland alums you and your folks have been rounding up,” Larry said, completing the round of backpatting. “Brandon, should we all agree to reconvene at the same time next week, to check up on the status of things? Once I get this first debate out of the way, I think I’ll be better able to devote some attention to Orange’s shenanigans.”

  The group adjourned the meeting with one united grunt. As Brandon lunged forward from the beanbag, O. J. smiled wickedly. “So I hear the Choirboy had a big date last night?”

  His eyes burning at the use of the nickname reserved for Larry and Terence’s use, Brandon straightened himself up and crossed his arms. “What’s this about?”

  O. J. smiled. “I hit Club Ritz with my boy Preston last night. He said he saw you and Bobby with Monica Simone and Tara Lee at Gino’s in Georgetown. You steppin’ up in the world now, huh, boy?”

  Brandon tried to hide his irritation. “I don’t know what that’s suppposed to mean, Ho-J. Bobby and I were just out with a couple female friends.” Brandon felt his emotional force field go up. He was not going to let a hypocrite like O. J. get to him.

  “You brothers don’t really think you could hook up with those sisters, do you? Don’t get me wrong, they’re classy ladies and all, but everybody knows they believe in getting busy with the right guy. What would they want with you boys?” O. J.’s catty grin showed off all his yellowing teeth.

  “O. J.!” Larry was wide awake now. He sensed that his friends were going to a bad place.

  Brandon made direct eye contact with O. J. “O. J., we’ve just had a positive, productive business meeting. I got no intention of trampling on that by discussing my personal business with you, of all people.”

  “Me? Of all people? Boy, who died and made you Jesus? I’ve about had it with your self-righteous ass, Brandon. You think you slick, never really comin’ out and sayin’ anything to me about it, but I got your number, brother. I know some of your old cronies from that corny Disciples group, and I see how they all look at me like I’m Satan himself. Who else would they be gettin’ that impression from?”