A Moment of Silence: Midnight III (The Midnight Series Book 3)

by Sister Souljah

  “So what’s it gonna be? You going to walk out of here a free man? Go home, get your dick sucked? Return to your crew, make money with them while making money with me, or, am I gonna throw you back in the Plymouth, take you back to my precinct, let you spend some time with some good officers who have the hots for you and want to throw you a nice farewell party? After they beat the Christ out of you, I’ll let them in on our little secret about the murder you did. I’ll get all of the credit for making that one call that charges you with the murder. Then, you’ll be transferred to the 73rd precinct and the interrogation will begin all over again.” He was standing with his arms folded now. He wasn’t facing me. All I could see was his profile, but his barrel just happens to be pointed at my head.

  Faith—not fear. I thought of Naja, eight years young, my father’s daughter, my Umma’s only girl, my sister, my reason.

  If I were not a Muslim, a true believer, the good detective might’ve had me shook. If I was the average cat from the ’hood, he might have had me broken and wearing a wire and working for him. If I were not my grandfather’s grandson and my father’s son, he might have convinced me. But I am.

  6. NAJA • A Reflection

  “I found her. She’s safe. I sent her home,” Chiasa had said in the afternoon hours before the murder. She was in my Brooklyn apartment in her underwear, on her knees scrubbing the living room floor with an old cloth that had been stuck on top of an old bottle of Dettol beneath our kitchen sink. I was frozen by her words. I’d been outside for three hours looking for Naja and had checked everywhere in a six-block radius—every alley, each street, every car, parking lot, trash area, building, rooftop, and even down and into the subway and up and onto train station platforms.

  “She’s safe.” I repeated out loud her words to me.

  “She’s fine, alhamdulillah,” Chiasa said, but she was still scrubbing. “I walked her and Sudana to the taxi and spoke to the driver and all. I was gonna pay him. He demanded the money up front. But, Sudana insisted she wanted to pay. Seemed like she felt bad, so I let her.”

  “What time?” I asked her. “How long ago did you find my sister?”

  “About three minutes after you and I both ran downstairs,” she said calmly. Still scrubbing.

  Quick as lightning, I thought to myself. My second wife had accomplished the task 180 minutes before I returned empty-handed to double-check what was happening back at my apartment.

  “But we had to walk over seven streets to catch the cab because of the growing crowd, the road blocks, and the street party.”

  Relieved, I could only release and exhale about half of my tension from my body. No doubt I believed my second wife. Still, I had a strong feeling and wanted to at least hear my little sister’s voice. But there was no phone at my Brooklyn apartment. I had shut it off a couple of weeks ago.

  “I’ll be back,” I said to Chiasa and turned to leave.

  “Wait for me,” she said, picking up her scrubbing pace and finishing her last laps from corner to corner of cleaning the living room floor.

  “A’ight,” I told her, still feeling agitated and tight but unable to just tell her no, ’cause she is my shadow and my heart and my love. Waiting, I looked around. My almost empty apartment was completely empty now, no bento box or bangles, no knives, cloths, or clothing, and even the cork had been shaved and plucked off, each speck with patience. The living room window was open now; the heat rushed in and dried up everything that had been scrubbed and cleaned. The walls were glistening.

  I eased out of my kicks and walked into my bedroom. It was all vacant and also scrubbed clean. In the bathroom, not even a drop of water remained on the sink or on the shower wall where Chiasa had showered earlier today. I’m accustomed to both of my wives’ super-clean, Japanese cleaning techniques. Both of them cleaned the floors and walls as though they were tabletops used for serving foods. Their cleaning efforts did not leave room for error.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Chiasa called out to me. The shower curtain was removed. She must have burned everything in the incinerator, I thought to myself. Even the empty trash can was gone. The tub was sparkling.

  In Umma and Naja’s rooms, all traces of their existence were gone. Even their scent had been completely removed and replaced by the strong smell of detergent.

  “Chiasa.” I was standing back in the living room, facing her. But she was in the kitchen facing the sink, washing her hands, splashing water over her face and neck and shoulders. The plastic Dettol bottle was inside the rubber glove she had been wearing moments ago. She had now placed it on the floor by the door. The second yellow glove was stuffed with the used soiled cloth she had been cleaning the floor with. She laid it by the sink where she was standing. She waved her hands to air dry them but still she did not turn around, although I was sure she could feel me watching her. I walked over to help her wrap up her untied yukata. Pressed against her back, I tied the garment from behind. It felt heavy.

  “What’s in here?” I asked her.

  “Everything,” she said coyly. “The keys to this apartment, our house keys, my slingshot and three rocks . . .” She began emptying her pockets, one by one. “My firecrackers.” She laughed a little, placing them on the counter. “My ‘stink bombs,’ as you call them.” I felt her smile slightly. “I have some twine and some matches . . .” I interrupted her. “You planning a kidnapping? I thought this was supposed to be your birthday picnic, just you and me?” I teased her.

  “It is . . . Well . . . I know . . . you never know what might happen. So . . . I brought along some random things, just in case,” she said softly. I preferred that she feel protected enough when she was with me that she didn’t have to bring any weapons. She had carried that slingshot from when I first met her, and had always been an expert with wielding her knives and swords. So I just accepted that she is a fighter whether she’s alone or we’re together, wherever she goes.

  Squatting, I felt her legs. They were soft, beautiful, and bare.

  “Where are your stockings?” I asked her. Underneath her skirt or dresses, she normally rocks the thigh-highs with the ninja garter belt that holds her slingshot. She had those on when we first arrived here at my apartment, when the sound system outside was just beginning to be set up.

  “It’s so hot out. I packed most of our things into my bag and sent them home in the taxi,” she said softly. But I could hear an unusual tremble in her voice.

  “Turn around,” I told her. She turned slowly. Our bodies pressed together, but her head was lowered.

  “Lift your eyes,” I told her. She lifted them and they were pretty as ever, silver-gray. Yet they seemed to be glazed.

  “Did you cry?” I asked her.

  “I missed you,” she said and was already pressing her lips against mine. I fell for it, always fell for this clever, pure-hearted woman, and we were tonguing. That love was moving in me like a wave out on the ocean, slowly picking up momentum as it moved to crash and spill onto the shore. Her hand laid lightly on my shoulder, the other on the back of my neck. My mind went from heavy to lightness to blank. No more thinking, just feeling.

  I was sucking her neck, palming her breast, just in love with the feel of them. Her skin was moist but not salty, as though the only liquid that oozed from her pores was natural spring water. Good for tasting or licking or sucking.

  “No passion marks,” she whispered. I pulled back and looked at her eyes. She smiled slightly. I smiled too, the first smile we’d shared since we were disturbed early today while making love.

  “I’m just reminding you,” she said. “You never put passion marks on my neck or face. They’re always here.” She placed her pretty fingers on top of the cloth of her dress and between her thighs. The gesture aroused me, and her observation was right.

  “And here.” She pointed to the back of her thighs and then her butt cheeks and laughed a little. Both of us recalling the feeling that night when I had passionately placed my lips there to her surprise and
delight.

  “I know why,” she said softly, in almost a whisper. “I know why you don’t put passion marks on my neck.” But my hands were already all over her and untying her dress that I had just tied and stroking her panties, my fingers gliding on the soft silk in between the lips of her pussy.

  “Ooh, don’t do that,” she moaned. That triggered me to pull out my nine and lay it on the counter on top of my white washcloth, away from us. I was quickly out of my jeans and T-shirt.

  “Do that thing to me that you did the first time,” she uttered. When she wanted to be sucked there, she always asked me to do “that thing.” I pushed the fabric of her yukata off of her superbly sculpted shoulders. It glided down the curve of her body and fell to the floor. I rolled her panties off, over her pretty hips, and down her delicious thighs. Then, she sweetly stepped out of them. With both my hands on either side of her waist, I lifted her onto the kitchen countertop. She balanced there on her bare ballerina toes. I pulled open the freezer, pulled out one ice cube and placed it on my tongue. I unlocked her knees. Now they were spread open like the wings of a butterfly. Wide, like only a ballerina could do. I saw how she’d cut down her bush in her anticipation of this occasion. Her pussy looked like a peach. I sucked her clitoris, shocking it with a cold tongue and a small cube of ice. She gasped. Her fingers, now interlocked on the back of my head and pulling my face closer into her sweet pussy. I sucked and then licked it lightly while it was still pressed between my lips. Then I sucked the whole thing—the outer lips too. She exhaled wildly and then leaped up and jumped down onto me, wrapping her legs around my waist and hugging me warmly. I spun her around, leaned her against the counter, turned the faucet on, and splashed her with cold water. She laughed, wiggled and squirmed and screamed, and then smiled. Breathing hard, I could tell she was enjoying the intensity of our feelings. She fought to get loose from my grip. I let her go and she struck her martial arts fighting stance. But she was naked. I was erect. I kicked the back of her ankle, caught her and flipped her down to the floor, and went in her. In our naked sliding, using the moisture of her skin and the droplets of water and gushing around in the moisture of her pussy, I let off all of the tension and turmoil of the day into her. Her womb was a place of thick warmth, and the movement of her pussy muscles was a rapid massage for me, and a comfort; and after the terror, it was peace for me.

  I was lying on my back now, and she was on her side, her face resting in her hand, balanced on her elbow. I turned to her. She turned away. Now her back was facing me. I was touching her soft skin, kissing from the back of her neck down her spine. She exhaled again seductively and softly asked, “If a woman loves her man, really, really, really a lot, a lot and very deeply . . .” She exhaled. “I mean like really loves him a little more than herself,” she said, and I was listening, “and the woman knows something that her man does not know, but that he needs to know, but she also knows that if she tells him what he doesn’t know, she’ll probably lose him . . .” She paused.

  I pulled her around to face me. There were tears in her eyes, welling up from her soul but not spilling.

  “If she doesn’t tell him, it’s betrayal,” Chiasa said, answering her own question. “I already know that’s what it is.” Her tears spilled out. “But if she tells him, she betrays herself and loses him, which is unbearable because she loves him more . . . than herself.” Her tears were streaming.

  Chiasa doesn’t cry. Not tears of pain, only occasional tears of joy. She’s always happy. That’s all I’ve ever seen of her. And if anyone who she loves has a bad situation or problem, she goes straight to organizing and acting on the solution. She sacrifices herself, her time, her gifts for others. Chiasa is a problem solver, not a victim or a problem. This beautiful trait of hers is one of the many reasons why I love her . . . so deeply.

  I was on my feet now, about to splash water on my face and clean my mouth and hands. Swiftly, she leapt up.

  “Don’t touch anything,” she cautioned me with excitement, pulling some napkins from her yukata and placing one of them over the faucet to turn it on.

  “Wash now,” she said. Of course I knew something was wrong. I splashed water on my face and cleaned my hands and thoroughly rinsed my mouth. I stepped into my basketball shorts and then my jeans and pulled into my T-shirt. She was holding her panties tightly in her closed hand, picking up her yukata and putting it on. She pushed her panties into her inside skirt pocket. Then she washed her hands and face and pulled her hijab out of another pocket. As she wrapped it, I rewrapped her into her yukata and tied it nicely. We were both silent.

  She was using her right foot to clean the area where we were just loving, right in front of the kitchen sink.

  “That cloth is finished,” I told her. I snatched it from beneath her foot and put it back inside the glove. “Tell me now,” I said solemnly. I grabbed her with both hands by her waist and sat her back onto the other countertop. I turned the water on using the napkin that still lay on top of the faucet, and washed her feet starting with the right one, which she had used to clean the floor. I looked up at her while wiping the soles of her feet. I smiled at her, naturally.

  “Oh Allah, that smile,” she said, without laughter.

  “I know Naja is safe,” I said, looking into her eyes. “Because I know you would never lie to me.”

  “True,” she said softly. “She’s completely safe.”

  “So Naja is safe. That means Umma is happy,” I said. “And Umma is happy, so I’m good. So what are we talking about?” I asked her with a true seriousness, because I could feel her true seriousness.

  “The first thing I heard was a whistle. A subtle sound that should have been drowned out by the music but it wasn’t.” She looked up. “I found Naja in the basement of the other building.” She pointed. My heart shook.

  “It was the same direction she was running in when I first saw her from your bedroom window. When I reached the lobby of that building, I heard some screaming, but it was not human. It was a cat. I followed the sound down the stairs. It was getting dark the further down I went, and it seemed that someone had busted all of the light bulbs. I could feel the glass on the stairs cracking beneath my Pumas. Then I heard a male’s voice say, ‘If you don’t do what I say, I’m gonna kill your cat.’ His creepy voice froze me. By this time, I was paused on the bottom basement step.

  “ ‘You better mind your fucking business,’ I heard him say forcefully as though he was talking to me, like he could hear that someone was approaching. It sounded like the animal was gagging. Then I heard Naja’s voice say, ‘I sure hope you won’t kill my cat. But when my brother finds out what you did, he’s surely gonna kill you.’

  “Stepping down the last step lightly, I saw him and fired my knife through the darkness over Naja’s head and into his left eye. He screamed in a way that I never heard a man scream in my life. He dropped the cat as soon as he grabbed his face. I could tell the cat was dead and Naja was stuck there from fright or grief. He looked like he didn’t know what to do; my knife was just lodged there firmly and there was blood. I dashed in and grabbed her hand. But Naja tried to reach for her cat. Then he tried to grab Naja’s hand, but I was swift. I yanked her and dashed out. I stopped on the bottom step and thought to go back and kick him, then yank my knife from his eye. I felt Naja’s little fingers pulling me.

  “ ‘Come on, he’s so stupid,’ Naja said.

  “That guy was spinning in circles like crazy. He seemed in shock. He was big and I didn’t want to get close enough for him to grab me or to touch Naja. Soon as we dashed he started chasing us, but more like he was stumbling. I snatched open the heavy stairwell door that led back into the lobby. There were people in the lobby so we stopped running, and calmly walked through the lobby and outside. But Naja’s hands were trembling. I couldn’t believe that people were in the lobby but didn’t come to help out when they heard the screaming noises. When we got halfway back to your building, I looked back through the concert crowd, but he
wasn’t coming out after us. From upstairs I saw him moving through the crowd with his hand cupped over his hurt eye. I didn’t see the knife though. Strange; it was like no one stopped him or helped him. They had to see him bleeding.” Chiasa exhaled.

  “So what are you crying for?” I asked Chiasa, picking up my nine.

  “Naja’s safe, and I did get him back good. His eye was spilling blood. But I know . . .”

  “You know what?” I asked her, putting on my belt.

  “I know you . . .” she said, her eyes cast down. “Naja is right. You are going to kill him.”

  “Don’t cry for him,” I told Chiasa. I removed my wedding ring and began emptying my pockets.

  “I’m not. Not for him,” she said. “I’m crying because you and Naja both don’t know that Ms. Marcy is dead. She had a heatstroke while she was outside, worried and searching for Naja.”

  7. HONOR

  The closeness of men, a network of brothers, some related by blood, some related by word is bond, some related by faith, each of us related by action—I believe in that. Thought it should be automatic. Yet, I had operated as an army of one. Ninja style, it had worked for the eight years that I had lived in Brooklyn. Now I saw that what I had failed to consider strongly and to do was to build an army.

  Now that I am sitting here with my hands cuffed, my feet cuffed, my hands chained to my feet and my feet chained to the next man who’s also seated here with his hands and feet cuffed, I’m thinking. This is not the “closeness of men” I believe in. This is not “brotherhood.” The one who is chained to me on one side is also chained to the man seated close to him on the other side. We are twelve men, hands and feet cuffed and legs chained one to the other.

  Reviewing the path that led me to be in this unexpected position, I realized that what I had done wrong was that I had failed to build an army. I had created a business successfully, but not an army to protect the business or continue with the business when and if for any reason I ran into any serious trouble. I had not built an army, and therefore did not have the power to confront my enemies with any real force or threat or with lethal action or positive outcome. I could take down one enemy at a time, as I had already successfully done. Yet I could not defeat a system, an organized army of enemies or a rotten culture or attitude. Furthermore, I am here, mixed in and chained down with other men who had failed to do the same.