by Tya Marie
“You flatlined, Quill,” she sobbed. “I know our situation isn't perfect, but that call was one of the scariest ones I've ever received. Then to come here and find out that Deon's gone… What happened?”
“Deon's connect fell through,” I replied, glad that we were getting to the real reason why she was down here.
Pause. “He had the money…”
“My guess is they were looking for somebody to scam, Drea. Not everyone in the game is looking to get money the right way. Some prefer to take it; sometimes it’s easier that way,” I said, and regretted it as Drea sat up, eyeing me like I was the enemy.
She sat up higher, her disposition cold. “Easy enough for you to set my brother up and steal my father’s money?”
“Steal your father's money? Drea, I carried your brother’s body to the car, pushing the bullets farther into my body. I almost died. Twice. Trust me when I say my life is worth more than what was in that bag.” Drea wilted as I tossed facts at her. “You claim we’re a team, but I see where you stand now. I’ll be sure to act accordingly.”
Drea's cheeks reddened. “I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to…this entire situation is messy as fuck. My hormones are all over the place from giving birth. That shit sounded stupid the second it came out of my mouth. I don’t even know why I would repeat something from LaKeith’s ass…”
“Your brother thinks I had something to do with Deon's death?”
“I told him you weren’t like that, but you know how he gets. He’s good at speculation. His theory is that you didn’t like Deon's connect so you had your own show up and take out the competition.” Drea played with her nails. “My dad thinks he's on to something. Quill, you need to be careful out there.”
LaKeith wasn’t wrong, but he was close. Too close. “I'm innocent; there's nothing for me to worry about.”
“Actually, there is,” Drea replied, crossing her arms. “When did you plan on telling me your ex was your emergency contact and your medical proxy? She told them to let you die, Quill!”
“Ain't no need to get into that again; I changed my proxy to your father. Kelsey doesn’t want anything to do with me,” I said, noting the triumphant look on Drea's face at the mention of my Kelsey being no more. I nudged my chin at her phone. “You gon’ show me some pictures of little man or what?”
Drea pulled up a gallery of photos on her phone, starting with the one of little man returning to her room freshly rinsed by the nursing staff. My fake son was handsome, with small, dark brown eyes, a button nose, and a head of thick, jet-black hair. He kind of looked like me when I was a baby. The rest of the pictures were of my family and hers taking turns holding him. I was caught off guard by a few pictures of Bull holding the baby, smiling down at him with affection in his eyes.
“I can't wait for you to meet him. He's the cutest butterball. Eight pounds. None of the baby clothes I bought him are going to fit,” Drea slipped in, checking me out through her peripheral to make sure I got the hint. “I was thinking when you got out of here maybe we could go shopping? Nothing wild, just the essentials for the baby? And me, because I gained like twenty pounds and none of my clothes fit.”
“How about you take my gold card out of my wallet and have fun,” I said, eliciting squeals of joy from Drea, who kissed me on the cheek, praising me for being the best baby daddy ever.
Drea skipped over to the table holding my clothes and gifts. Flowers, balloons, and teddy bears filled the table, all from my mother who still hadn’t gotten over my accident. As she rummaged through my jeans, she hit a teddy bear, knocking it to the ground. Unlike a normal teddy bear, this one with the floor with a whoosh. Drea picked it up, giving it a little shake, commenting that it felt heavy for a teddy bear. I asked her to toss it over to me, which she did on her way out the door with promises to return to check on me later on. Waiting until she was gone, I tossed the bear up and down a few times, listening as it made a shaking sound. I unsnapped the back to find a note.
No excuses, it read in slanted handwriting.
Wedged between the stuffing was a ring of keys and a burner phone. I flipped the phone open, searching through the contact list. Nothing. I went to the messages where two were waiting. One was an address that led to a street near the stash house and the other was a time and date, which were for tonight. I called Eric, who answered on the first ring. His background was filled with Chastity screaming over a baby’s cries. A few shouts for quiet later, a door slammed, giving us privacy.
“I don’t know what you're calling me for, but thank you ‘cause Chastity’s getting on my last fucking nerve. How you mad at finding some DMs in my IG but you went looking for them?”
I shook my head. “She's expecting you to be faithful? What type of shit is that?”
“Right. Anyway, what’s up?”
“I need you to bring me some clothes. Now. I'm checking myself out the hospital and all I have is my clothes from the—”
Eric let out a sound somewhere between a yelp and scoff. “Quill, you’ve been in the hospital for forty-eight hours. You're not fit to go anywhere. What is so important that you're willing to risk your life by walking out of the hospital?”
“Our first re-up.”
Half an hour later, Eric entered my room as I argued down a room full of hospital staff insisting that I stay or else I ran the risk of opening wounds and ending up back in surgery. Relief washed over their faces at the sight of Eric, thinking he would talk some sense into me. Much to their disappointment, he tossed me a bookbag full of clothes and took a seat in the far corner of the room.
“Mr. Evans,” Dr. Malcolm, an older black woman, said with furrowed brows. “We have stitched you up—twice. You're pushing your luck thinking a third time will happen. I don’t know what's so important out there that you're willing to risk your livelihood, but it better be worth it. How many times have you been shot now?”
“Doc—”
“William, answer me.”
“Eight times.”
“At the rate you're going, you will look like human swiss cheese. Does this have anything to do with the shooting? Because—”
“Doc, it ain't even like that. I just have somewhere I need to be.”
“Where?”
I ran my hands through my hair. “I can't talk to you about that. I just know I need to get out of here.”
Dr. Malcolm motioned for her peers to leave the room, which they did with a curious gaze in my direction. I expected her to continue prying into my business, threatening to call my mother or the police for not complying. She surprised me by doing the unthinkable.
“You have an hour and a half, William, to go wherever you need to and return. I will give you a ‘sedative’ that should put you out for a few hours, and give orders to my staff not to disturb you. When I return to check on you at midnight, you better be in this bed.” She pointed to the bookbag. “Hurry up and get dressed.”
I did as I was told, slipping into the bathroom where I dressed with some difficulty. The hoodie Eric brought me was tighter than expected as were the jeans, but he came through with the footwear, a pair of Balenciaga Speed Trainers. I slipped the black-on-black sock sneakers onto my feet, giving my toes a wiggle before standing. Dr. Malcolm and Eric were engrossed in a deep conversation when I stepped out, his phone between the two of them. She motioned for me to pull up my shirt so she could check my wounds.
“I gave my number to your friend in case anything happens. Try not to strain or else you run the risk of popping a stitch. Leave out in five minutes and take the exit on the far side of the hall. Use it to reenter as well,” she said on her walk to the door.
“Doc, why are you helping me?” I asked, unable to ignore the obvious question floating around the room. “You could lose your job behind this.”
Dr. Malcolm glanced at me over her shoulder. “You were my son’s first pick for the NBA draft. When you got injured, he was devastated. Hearing you got shot hurt him as well. You see, he thinks you're still a viable c
andidate for the NBA regardless of what those sportscasters think. William, I have no clue what you plan on doing tonight, but I’d like to think it has something to do with finding your way back to the right path.”
She left without another word. Eric and I stood there in an awkward silence, unable to find any words worth filling the air with. It wasn’t until we were in the comfort of his car did he speak up.
“You know you my boy, right?” he asked as we cruised down the BQE.
I cut my eyes at him. “Yeah…”
“That doctor wasn’t wrong, Quill. You're supposed to be making moves that have nothing to do with the game.”
I replied with a nervous laugh. “Since when do you take stock in what other people say, especially from the healthcare field?”
“Quill, this hustling shit is good if you don’t have a viable talent to back it up. I don’t have a mean layup or the brains to get into one of those fancy colleges with a scholarship. I'm a hood nigga from Brooklyn who has a whole family to support. This is going to be my life until they put me six feet under. You though? You can do better than all of this.”
“Even with a fucked up knee?”
“That knee is light work. If you really wanted to get back on the court, you’d put in the work. Instead, you wanna be running around fucking around with this bullshit…”
Sigh. “This ain't bullshit to me, Eric. You see it as a means to an end; I see it as another world. Yeah, I can make some serious money in the league, but at the expense of being owned by a contract. Having my business out there to the public. People scrutinizing me more than they worry about themselves.” I shook my head at the idea of living out the rest of my life in the public eye. “Fuck the NBA; imagine having NBA money without having to shoot a single shot. That’s what I want.”
“You think working for two cartels is how you're going to get it?” Eric pondered, slowing to a stop at a red light to get a good look at me. “Because from where I'm sitting, you’ve got two guns pointed at either side of your head while walking on a balance beam. You make one wrong move and a trigger gets pulled. How do you expect to sit at the head of either table if they're eating your plate?”
Eric kept his eyes trained on me, waiting for my reply. All I had for him was a simple, “I don’t know.”
“Better get some motherfucking poison,” was his last reply for the duration of the ride.
I spent my time gazing out the window, plotting my next move. As of right now, the only person I had in my corner was Eric. Bull was my brother by blood, but he was also the best friend of convenience, meaning whatever person served his purpose was who he was getting down with. If I wanted to fight Eugenio and Amos, I would need manpower I didn’t have. Those thoughts left my mind as we pulled up to the address in the burner phone. Eric double checked the address, his eyes flickering between the phone and storefront.
“Deadass?” he said to himself more than to me. “I'm not gon’ front; this never would’ve crossed my mind.”
“Mine either,” I added, drawing in a steady breath as I attempted to pull myself from the car without straining.
Eric came around the car, helping me in a discreet manner. We weren’t from the neighborhood, and the last thing niggas needed to know was that one of us was in bad shape. Taking slow, measured steps, I made my way up from the street to the sidewalk, pausing long enough to stare at the store awning.
Lovely China Nails, it read in dandelion-colored lettering against a blood-red backdrop.
Eric and I gave each other one long glance before stepping foot in the establishment. The smell of acrylic powder greeted us first, with the television playing a Korean talent show on the highest volume coming shortly after. The stations were still filled with women getting their nails done, which was strange considering that most salons would be shut down by now. Heads turned the farther we entered the salon, pivoting as if on cue. The owner of the salon, a balding man no older than fifty, stood up from behind his station, his arms crossed as he glared at us. Eric looked to me for some sort of clarification on how we played it from here.
“I'm here for a nine o’clock appointment,” I said, recalling the message from the text.
The owner motioned for Eric and me to take a seat at the two vacant stations in front of us. He summoned two nail technicians in Korean. The two women sat at either station and began working on our nails. Eric fell right into playboy mode, flirting with the woman as she began to give him a manicure. I turned my attention to the woman in front of me. She was in her early thirties with delicate features matching the soft hands she used to work on mine. A comfortable silence lapsed between the two of us, with her studiously working as I watched.
“Are you from around here?” she asked in perfect English.
I shook my head. “Nah, I'm from the other side of town.”
“What brings you to this side of Brooklyn at this time of night?”
“Business.”
She absorbed my answers with slow, deliberate nods of her head. “Would you like a gel manicure or simple polish?”
I drummed my fingers against the faux marble table. “Which one lasts longer? I prefer quality over anything.”
“Gel lasts two weeks, three if you don’t work with your hands much,” she said, working on my other hand as she focused her intense gaze on me. “Personally, I enjoy the routine nature of a good manicure. Once a week to pamper yourself.”
Those soft hands pumped lotion into its palms and began working on mine. I damn near melted at the way she massaged my hands, pulling my fingers as she rubbed circles into my palms. The motion was supposed to relax me, but I felt myself growing alert the longer she worked. I searched the salon for the boss with a crane of my neck.
“He went to verify your identity. I like to know who is coming in and out of my salon.”
Her comment gave me pause. “He’s your bait.”
“In our line of business, women are frequently overlooked, their power underestimated. Chul is willing to give his life in order to protect mine from those who mean me harm. He knows that one day someone can enter this establishment and murder him thinking they’ve taken out the leader of the Hauen Family. Twenty years later, he takes on the role without a second thought, going as far as being my microphone whenever it suits me.”
Another pause. “Are you trying to say that no one knows your identity? Why reveal yourself to me?”
“There is something about you, Quill. You remind me of my father, a man who prided himself on remaining in the shadows. His nature was not as ostentatious as his counterparts. However, it would not be wise to confuse his meek nature for being weak. The region we gained in Brooklyn was not something we politely asked for; it was granted after showing the ramifications that come with awaking a sleeping dragon.”
She picked up a bottle of nail polish from the caddy beside her, slapping the bottle against the palm of her hand. With a surgeon’s stroke, she painted my nails, placing one hand underneath a UV machine as she worked on the other. The process of drying the polish took no longer than ten minutes. By that time, her associate Chul returned, giving the woman a discreet nod.
“You and your friend have been checked out. Eugenio has instructed me to send you off with a few packages from my personal store. I've been receiving unwanted attention from law enforcement, making it hard to move things around.”
A lightbulb went off in my head. “I can get my boy to make some deliveries for you. We have a few extra people on our team who are out of a job at the moment. You keep your profit, pay them the same as your workers, and there's no need to involve Eugenio,” I rationalized, creating the plan as I went along. “Does that work for you?”
There was a twinkle in her eye I wasn’t expecting. “That works very well. Send your men over tomorrow morning to China Garden Buffet on Broadway and Park.” She reached out, giving my hand a gentle squeeze, ignoring the distrust in Chul’s eyes as he stared at me. “It was nice doing business with you, Quill.”
/>
“Same…?”
“Min-seo,” she replied with a gracious incline of her head.
Eric was more perceptive than I gave him credit for. He bid Min-seo and Chul a goodnight, making sure to tip the woman who did his manicure. I assumed the entire exchange went over his head the longer we drove to the hospital. He rapped along to the songs playing on the radio, drumming his hands on the steering wheel at red lights. My own perception of the situation changed as I noticed that my speed demon best friend was abiding by the traffic laws to the tee. He pulled over a block from the hospital, parking underneath a low hanging tree. With little help from him, I climbed out of the car, meeting him at the trunk where he stood taking in our surroundings.
“While you were having a conversation with the madam of the operation, someone was filling my trunk with grocery bags. I think we both know what's in them,” Eric said, popping the trunk open to reveal ten shopping bags. “It’s official. There's no going back now, my nigga. We’re in this playing the long game. What's the next move?”
I untied a bag, rummaging through it to find cake mix boxes and other foods. Sliding my finger through the top of one, I found baggies of pills. “We step up. Niggas want me to move weight for them, that’s what we’ll do. Consider this practice ‘cause with the opportunity I think I found us, we won't be working for anyone else much longer.”
7
Kelsey
I sat in the waiting room, nervously crossing and uncrossing my legs. Daddy was the picture of calm, flipping through a car magazine, his eyes glued to the latest Tesla models. Normani excused herself to the bathroom under the premise of needing to freshen up, but I could see the tears welling up in her eyes. She spent the entire ride here fidgeting, nervously snacking on potato chips, and snapping on my father for every little reason. Daddy took it in stride, consoling her with a kiss on the cheek or a pat on the thigh. I sat in the backseat of the car, quiet, sure that they had forgotten about me. How many times had they gone through this? Guilt consumed me on the rest of the ride, lifting a bit as a nurse came out and called out Daddy’s name. We stood at the same time, and Daddy stared down at me with sympathy in his eyes.
