by Omar Tyree
Jurrell looked and nodded to Spoonie.
“What’s up, man?” Spoonie addressed him.
“Just takin’ it light,” Jurrell told him.
Then he turned back to Shareef. He said, “I’m still waiting on that phone call, man. And you still here. Call me up, let’s get some coffee or something.”
Shareef happened to look across the basketball courts and spotted Baby G eyeing him. But as soon as he noticed it, the young general looked away.
Are these motherfuckers all watching me on the low out here, or is it just me? Shareef was forced to ask himself.
He decided, Fuck it, go for the jugular.
He tapped Jurrell on the arm and said, “Yo, you know this kid across the court in the orange T-shirt? They call him Baby G.”
Jurrell looked over, spotted him, and nodded. He chuckled and said, “Yeah, I know him. But that Baby G shit is for them young guys. I just know him as Greggory.”
He said, “I did time with his older brother Samuel. He ended up getting killed in there. Somebody got to his throat with a flat head.”
“A flat head?”
“Yeah, that’s like a flat razor, a piece of metal, or a sharp glass that you use like a blade.”
Shareef wondered if he should leave the information alone. But on the other hand, his old nemesis probably knew the most about everything. Jurrell was still his best connection to the streets, especially since Trap wasn’t willing to help him.
Shareef looked back and noticed that Spoonie had disappeared, so it was just him and Jurrell in the crowd now.
“Yo, ah…what you know about Michael Springfield?” Shareef asked him apprehensively.
Was he getting himself deeper into trouble or what?
However, Jurrell answered the question with no hesitation.
“He’s part of the old guard. He been off the streets since the late eighties but he still know what’s goin’ on out here.”
“Is he safe to talk to?”
Shareef was actually warming up to Jurrell. What the hell, they practically grew up together. They ran on opposite sides of the streets, but they were still familiar with each other, very familiar.
Jurrell said, “What, to ask him questions for your book?”
Shareef became cautious again. “Is that a bad idea?”
It was a good question to the right person.
Jurrell said, “It depends on what kind of information he give you. If he just give you a straight hustler story, then you just determine if it’s gangsta enough to package and sell like a rap album.”
He said, “But if he start naming names in the game like that Super-head shit…I mean, you ain’t dealing with people who can afford to ignore it, you dealin’ with street niggas. And they just struggling to stay alive out here. So, they not gon’ take no rat lightly. They can’t afford to. That’s what all these rappers already know. So they don’t snitch.”
Shareef took all the information in and nodded.
Jurrell smiled at him and squeezed him on the shoulder. He said, “I got some more folks to talk to out here, Shareef. But give me a call, man. If you really want to write a gangsta book about Harlem, then I know everybody. All we need to do is sit down and talk about it.”
Shareef told him, “Aw’ight.”
Jurrell stopped before he walked off. He pointed his finger, smiled and said, “Stop bullshittin’, man. Call me up.”
Shareef chuckled and repeated himself. “Aw’ight, I got you.”
Jurrell told him, “I hope you do.”
As soon as he walked away, Shareef felt incredibly alone, which was weird. He had walked there by himself and planned to be alone, outside of the crowd, of course. But there was a community relevance and energy that Jurrell brought to the table that seemed to disappear when he left. The brother was like the missing link.
Shareef nodded his head and realized that he had to call him. Then he finally found a lone seat on the bleachers and watched the rest of the game, while everyone else seemed to be watching him.
Action!
SHAREEF, what is your problem, man?” Polo asked his friend. “You need to be out of here.” He said, “All this hardheaded shit with you, man…look, we not kids no more, B. This should be your last night here. Go back home and kiss your wife and kids.”
It was close to ten o’clock at night, and they were standing out in front of Starbucks on 125th and Lenox, while Shareef waited for Cynthia to arrive.
He smiled at his friend’s warning and said, “Y’all exaggerating a little bit, man. Ain’t nobody sweating me over no book I haven’t even written yet.”
Polo looked at him incredulously. He knew exactly how his friend thought.
He said, “Shareef, I understand that you think you a genius and all that, but I’ma tell you something, man. These streets don’t care about that. Now, you out here asking people you don’t really know all these questions about the wrong shit, and it ain’t sexy. I know you may think that shit is, but it’s not.”
Then he whispered, “This ain’t no fuckin’ game, man. This is real life, Shareef. Close the chapter on this book and move on to another one.”
It was Polo’s final warning to his childhood friend, and after that, he planned to stay away from him like Spoonie and Trap had decided. Spoonie was convinced after hearing Shareef ask Jurrell too many questions at the basketball tournament earlier. The man was asking to be murdered. He was begging for it. But Shareef refused to budge.
He said, “I understand your concerns, man. I do. And if something happens to me, it’s nobody’s fault but my own. But I feel like this shit right here is a calling, man. And if it’s a calling for my death…then that’s what it is.”
Polo stood there and thought, This nigga’s crazy! What the fuck is wrong with him? I mean, am I dreaming this shit or what?
Polo didn’t get it, but Shareef refused to believe that street soldiers, who rarely read any books, would be willing to kill him over one. It just didn’t add up to him. So the streets would have to prove that a book was that important to them, not just by threatening him with stares and intimidating questions, but with real actions.
Cynthia popped up from the subway station before Polo could get another word out. He didn’t have anything left to say anyway.
“Right on time,” Shareef greeted her with a hug. He stepped back so he could take a good look at her. She was all dolled up for the evening, with flowing hair, in a bright floral, wraparound dress, and gold heels, all sure to make a man stare with a hard one. And she carried a large bamboo bag over her shoulder.
Shareef said, “Damn, you make me look like a bum tonight.” He was still wearing his gray sweats and basketball shoes from the morning walk with his grandparents.
He turned to Polo and said, “This is Cynthia. Cynthia, this is my man, Polo.”
She smiled and extended her hand to him. “Nice to meet you.”
Polo left her hand hanging. He grilled at her and said, “If something happens to my boy out here, now I know what you look like,” and he walked away.
Cynthia looked back to Shareef in confusion. “What was that all about?”
Shareef stared at Polo’s back and shook it off. He said, “I’ll tell you about it in a minute. Let’s walk down here and get something to eat in the Lenox Cafe.”
They walked across 125th Street on Lenox and stepped into the historic cafe on the other side, while Shareef watched everything that moved around him. Just because he didn’t believe the hype of danger didn’t mean he shouldn’t be prepared for it.
The Lenox Cafe was one of the last establishments still standing from the Harlem days and nights of decades ago. Much of the interior was unchanged, with old, cafe stools at the bar, a serving line rail, record machines, and autographed celebrity photos on the walls of Billie Holiday, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Louis Armstrong, Joe Louis, Muhammad Ali, Sugar Ray Robinson, Redd Foxx, Dick Gregory, Harry Belafonte, Diana Ross, Chaka Khan, Minnie Riperton, Aretha Frankl
in, Michael Jackson—and the list went on. Smooth R&B music played in the background.
Shareef sat at a small table near the wall to the right and immediately ordered buffalo wings and drinks.
“You want some shrimp, too?” he asked Cynthia who joined him at the table.
She grinned and turned him down. “I already ate, but thank you.”
He nodded and looked her over again. She was a dangerous plate of curves and sex appeal. No wonder Michael Springfield was so eager to know what he thought of her.
Cynthia got right down to business. “So, what was up with your friend?”
Shareef took a breath and asked her, “What’s up with your friend? I seem to be getting a whole lot of flack for this book idea.”
“From who?”
“From people who got the word off the wire. Them guys in there been talking already…unless you did it.”
Cynthia shook her head and told him, “You need to get used to that. They always talk. They talk and they write letters. I mean, they’re in prison. What else can they do?”
“Well, how many enemies does he have out here?”
“What?”
“You heard me. How many enemies does he have who are still out in the streets?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Why would I be concerned about that? He hasn’t been out on the streets in years.”
Shareef said, “Well, I’m concerned, because people on the street are starting to ask me about it.”
“Asking you about what?”
“About this book I’m supposed to be writing.”
“So. That just means they’re interested. That’s a good thing, right?”
Cynthia was blowing the danger off faster than Shareef had.
He smiled and then chuckled at it.
“It’s just that simple, hunh?”
“What’s so hard about it? People talk.”
She took a sip of her drink as soon the waiter put it down in front of her.
“So, people never threaten you about your relationship with him?”
“I mean, they may ask me about it, but they don’t threaten me. For what?”
“Yeah, well, you weren’t writing any book about him, either. That changes everything. He can become published now. And that’s different from your everyday gossip. A book is the gospel. It’s permanent.”
Cynthia summed things up and said, “I thought you told me you didn’t have cold feet?”
“I’m still here, right? And you heard what my boy Polo said. They’re all against this shit.”
“And you told them all about me?”
“I didn’t know it was a secret,” he commented. “I didn’t tell them anything outside of this book idea, but they can assume everything else. They know how I get down with fine women.”
Cynthia smiled and sat silently for a minute.
She said, “You’re stronger than that, Shareef. You’re the one. That’s why I like you, and that’s why Michael chose you.”
I just don’t know if I chose him, Shareef thought to himself. Or you.
And he held his tongue as he continued to think it all over. He figured maybe he would go in his own direction with his own Harlem story. So he ordered drinks and ate to think on it.
WHEN THEY HAD FINISHED THEIR MEAL, Shareef paid the bill as they stood up to walk out. Chicken wing bones were left on the plate, along with celery sticks and ranch dressing in a small plastic cup. Shareef had downed three drinks to Cynthia’s two. He had a lot on his mind to think about.
“Hey, come back anytime, Mr. Crawford,” one of the bartenders yelled out as he and Cynthia headed for the door.
“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Shareef responded, loaded up on the alcohol.
“What’s the next book you working on? Any movies?”
They always asked Shareef about the movies. Movies seemed to be the next logical step for successful authors.
Shareef answered through the frankness of the alcohol, “This is still America, brother. And white folks are surprised that we’re even reading books. So they’re not quite ready to do the full Hollywood thing with us. And we still ain’t got enough brave money to do the shit ourselves. So it’ll take me a while to work on that.”
When Shareef walked out of the cafe behind Cynthia, he was glassy-eyed and walking gingerly.
Cynthia noticed it and giggled. “You can’t even hold your alcohol. I know you’re a square now,” she teased him.
Shareef grilled at her. “Yo, you gon’ stop talking that square shit.” Then he stuttered, “That’s, that’s for real.”
She was caught off guard by it and stumbled in her laughter.
“Shit. You got me tripping over myself now.”
Right as she regained her balance, a young man dressed in all black reached out and snatched her handbag clean off her shoulder and dashed down the block.
“Shit! Somebody grab him!” Cynthia yelled.
The young man had too much momentum for the slow-reacting folks who were still out that night. He made a swift left turn on 124th Street and was out of sight in a flash.
Shareef and Cynthia ran to the corner of 124th and Lenox and saw the boy halfway down the block already.
“Damn, that ma-fucka movin’, ain’t he?” Shareef commented. “How much was that bag worth?”
Cynthia said, “I had all my shit in there. My keys, every damn thing. God!”
Shareef thought about taking off after him and mumbled, “Shit, I can’t catch that motherfucker. He look like Carl Lewis from here, wit’ a big-ass head start on me.”
Cynthia looked at him and said, “You couldn’t run now even if you wanted to. You’d run right into the back of a car or something. Shit.”
Shareef looked at her and asked, “You want us to call the cops? All I gotta do is push you out in the middle of the street. They’ll show up.”
“Yeah, very funny,” she told him. “But I can’t even call the cops.”
He looked at her confused. “Why not?”
Cynthia ignored his question and walked away from people who could help them. Some of them had cars parked at the curb who could chase the boy down.
“Come on, let’s get back to your hotel before something else happens,” she suggested.
“Why you don’t wanna call the cops?” Shareef repeated to her as he followed her across Lenox and 124th. His hotel was in the opposite direction from the purse-snatcher.
Cynthia grumbled, “I’ll tell you in a minute.”
Shareef still wasn’t getting it. The alcohol had messed up his sharpness.
He said, “You’ll tell me in a minute?”
When they made it across the street where there was much less pedestrian traffic, Cynthia revealed quietly, “Don’t get all loud about it, but I had a gun in my bag.”
Shareef studied her face as he continued to follow her up the street.
He said, “For what?”
“What do you mean, for what? For protection.”
“From who?”
She stopped and faced him. “From assholes like that one.”
It all made sense to her.
Shareef said, “So you had that on you the whole time?” He was perplexed by it.
“I always have it on me unless I’m going to the prison,” she told him. She started walking along 124th Street toward his hotel again.
Shareef asked her, “You had it on you when you met me?”
“Yeah, I didn’t know you like that.”
“But you fucked me,” he told her. It didn’t add up for him.
“After I got to know you a little bit,” she responded.
“You mean, after you got to talk to me a little bit.”
“Whatever, same thing. How do you get to know people?”
She sounded like a guy to Shareef. Getting to know someone through conversation alone, and no time spent, was a sure way of collecting the most panties while out on the road. That only got him thinking again about how much he really didn’t know a
bout the girl.
“So what other surprises you got for me?”
She blew him off and answered, “None. I just have to figure out how to get my shit back.”
He said, “Well, what else you want me to do? You know I ain’t in no shape to be chasing nobody. And then you didn’t want me to call the police because you had something in there.
“So how are you gonna get back in your apartment tomorrow?” He asked her. “And how will you prove that it’s you? Did you have any money in there?”
Cynthia shook her head and said, “Those drinks got you talking a mile a minute. But I’m gonna have to deal with all of that tomorrow.”
She stopped walking and snapped her fingers. “Shit! What about going back to the prison tomorrow? Now I don’t have any ID.”
“They already know who you are at that prison anyway, don’t they? It’s not like you gotta be put on no list,” he told her.
Cynthia calmed back down. “Yeah, you’re right. So are you going with me tomorrow or what?”
Shareef continued to ignore that question.
He told her, “A smart man has to think on it more; weigh the pros and cons.” Truth was, he didn’t want to go. She would have to convince him again.
She grimaced and said, “Whatever. It sounds like you’re just bitching now to me.”
Shareef grunted and smiled at her. He said, “I’ve figured out your M.O. now. You like to challenge me to do what you want. But I’m not falling for that shit no more. So if I write anything about your boy Michael Springfield, then it’s gonna be for me and not because somebody dared me to do the shit. This ain’t grade school.”
Cynthia smirked at him. She thought about how far she had gotten him to go along with her program already and kept quiet. But there he was, a bestselling author, back home in Harlem, hanging out with her instead of his friends and family. So she grabbed his hand and continued to walk with him.
He looked at her and said, “Yeah, now you wanna try and get close to me, hunh?”
He may have had more drinks than he could handle that night, but he still had his wits about him. He knew what a girl’s intentions were. He had been writing about them for years. And he planned on dropping this one like he had done with several others. The curious charade was over.