Between Brothers

by C. Kelly Robinson

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Also by C. Kelly Robinson

  Copyright

  For Kyra

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  . . . . . . . . . . . .

  There are so many people to thank at a time like this, and I’ve only got so much space. First I give honor to God for bringing me through a tough self-publishing experience and allowing me to meet so many supportive readers and fellow writers along the way.

  Thanks to my wife, Kyra, for hitting the pavement with me to sell our books and for agreeing to go into a little debt along the way. To my parents, Chester and Sherry Robinson, thanks for setting a great example and providing ongoing friendship and guidance. To my brothers and sister—Russell, Barrett, and Shelli—thanks for egging your crazy big brother on. I’m also grateful for the support of my extended families, the Alfords and Robinsons.

  Thanks to my agent, Elaine Koster, for your professionalism and for sharing your knowledge. Thanks to Melody Guy and the entire Villard/Strivers Row staff for the vote of confidence. Let’s get more books into the hands of college students and “twenty-somethings.”

  Thanks to the fellow authors and writers who have provided unselfish advice and encouragement, via e-mail or in person: Timm McCann, William July, Kimberla Lawson Roby, Victor McGlothin, Lolita Files, Tracy Price-Thompson, Tonya Marie Evans, Brandon Massey (the next Stephen King), Phil Cargile, Dr. Frank Dobson, Troy Martin, Karen Miller, Daryl Green, Greg and Devivia Morris, Parry Brown, and Jamie Walker (HU in the house!). I also owe thanks to the African-American Online Writers Guild and to my heroes at the National Stuttering Association.

  Finally, big thanks to the bookstores and book clubs who gave me a chance as a self-published author in 1999 and 2000. Special thanks to Toni Birdsong and Wilberforce University, the Omega Missionary Baptist Church family, Peggy Hicks and TriCom Publicity, the Howard University Bookstore, Janet Mosley and Tenaj Bookstore (Ft. Pierce, Florida), Emma Rodgers and Black Images Book Store (Dallas), Dr. Jawanza Kunjufu and African-American Images (Chicago), Robin Green-Cary and Sibanye Books (Baltimore), Jack & Jill of America (Dayton, Ohio), and the Phenomenal Women Book Club (Houston). To everyone who has shown support or interest, you are not forgotten.

  Between

  Brothers

  PROLOGUE

  . . . . . . . . . . . .

  Sheryl Gibson’s heart simmered as she met Nico Lane’s cold, narrow stare. She would never forget the hopeful, engaging eighth-grader he had once been, but the sight of him this morning nearly drove those days from her mind. She breezed past him into her office on the second floor of Ellis Community Center, trying to hold on to the fading memory of that promising child. Gritting her teeth, she opened the rickety blinds of the window over her desk and turned to face him. “Nico, I have a busy day ahead of me. What do you want?”

  Picking carefully at a piece of lint on the right sleeve of his navy blue blazer, Nico strode toward Sheryl and helped himself to the sunken wooden chair opposite her desk. “Sheryl, you didn’t even give me a chance to say how fine you’re looking this morning.” His eyes burned with restrained glee as they danced up and down her wrinkled red pantsuit. “You know, I just realized I haven’t been here in a while. It’s impressive, the way the place has grown. I just stopped down in the basement. You can fit hundreds of kids in that dance studio, and how big is that pool? You’ve done quite a bit here, my sister.”

  As Nico stroked his smooth, oval chin, Sheryl shook her head. With his baby face and multiracial heritage, Nico, now twenty-six, drew constant comparisons to Tiger Woods, a sinister, bulkier version. The boy was a living, breathing contradiction; his articulate phrasing and proper English made him sound like Bryant Gumbel, but he wasn’t fooling anybody. Word on the street was Nico was the most feared dealer in D.C.’s Shaw community. Sheryl had heard last week that he was now officially off the street. As an investment banker of the drug world, he oversaw trades of street dealers and remitted the receipts to the men near the top of the food chain, those who likely worked hand in hand with the DEA and CIA.

  As she eyed her unwelcome visitor, Sheryl’s mind whirred in anger and confusion. This man had spent years of his youth at Ellis, winning Knowledge Bowl competitions, science fairs, and math contests. And what had he done with it? Used it for exactly what she and the Ellis volunteers had hoped he would avoid.

  She fixed him with a glare. “You remember Tommy Benson, one of the boys you tutored in algebra, before you stopped coming around?”

  Folding his hands in his lap, Nico smirked. “Sheryl, save the guilt trip. I know Tommy was found with a hole in his head last night.” He sighed innocently. “Word has it he had fallen in with the wrong crowd. Shameful.” Apparently sensing that Sheryl’s patience was shot, Nico matched her weary stare. “Let me get to the business at hand. You know I was born in the projects that border this land. I appreciate what Ellis has done for this community. The academic programs, the free swimming classes, the basketball, all this stuff kept me and my boys off the street when we were coming up.”

  “Not that it did much good in your case.” Sheryl crossed her legs and impatiently tapped her desk. She refused to let Nico have all the fun.

  “Come now, Sheryl, stop and think about what you’re saying. I’m one alumnus of Ellis who pays all of his bills on time. I don’t get nasty calls from my creditors. Can you say the same thing about Ellis?”

  Annoyed, Sheryl waved a hand in front of her lightly perspiring brow. D.C.’s spring weather, unpredictable as always, was unseasonably warm for March. She would have to go buy herself a fan this evening; there was no room for one in Ellis’s budget.

  She knew she must look a mess. The stress of the last few weeks, since the center had lost the majority of its funding from the D.C. government, was taking its toll. Although she had turned more than a few heads in her day, she knew her maple complexion, broadly sloped nose, and jutting cheekbones were losing their luster. She had enough on her without being taunted by Nico Lane. “Nico, the center’s financial status is none of your business. What is your point?”

  Chuckling, Nico stood and extended his arms toward her in a gesture of invitation. “Sheryl, I want to make life easier for you. You’ve put your blood, sweat, and tears into this place for more than fifteen years, and for what? So brothers like me can still wind up selling crack and brothers like Tommy Benson wind up using it. And now, to add insult to injury, the mayor had to discontinue your funding. I read, you know. I know the District was responsible for about seventy-five percent of your budget. Exactly how do you plan to make up the shortfall, sister?” The final word was a violent stab to Sheryl’s heart.

  She put on a brave face. “For your information, we’re getting a lot of interest from private donors. In addition, we’ve
hired former councilman Rolly Orange as our business manager, and we’ve got four Highland University students raising money from the private sector. I expect we’ll have a solid base of private capital in the next six months.”

  Nico twisted his mouth into a frown. “Sister, please. Don’t try to snow me. I know damn well that in this day and age smaller government is in vogue. That means free-market enterprises like the Annenberg Center are supposed to pick up where dinosaurs like Ellis will leave off. If the Post is to be believed, Ellis’s doors should be shut right now.”

  Sheryl’s heart pounded. Nico had to go and mention that damn Annenberg Center, the recreation club funded by a group of Fortune 500 corporations and their nonprofit foundations. She had fumed over the infamous editorial in The Washington Post last week, the one that lauded Annenberg for its innovative design and suggested that Ellis and other urban centers be closed and folded into Annenberg. Wishing she could leap across the desk and strangle Nico into submission, Sheryl pressed her right thumb and forefinger together and recalled her Acts of Faith reading for the day. She had to stay in control. “Nico, a corporate behemoth like Annenberg could never serve the children of Shaw the way Ellis can. Everyone knows that.”

  “Sheryl, you and I both know that’s neither here nor there.” Without looking at her, Nico abruptly reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a gold-trimmed leather checkbook. The room filled with the obnoxious smell of cowhide. He pulled a Cross pen from the other pocket. “I believe in being real, Sheryl, so I’ll be blunt. Ellis Center is cutting into my business. Every few weeks I get calls from my street dealers, asking me to help pull back recruits who drop out after they get involved in activities at Ellis. I admit, I’m impressed. Before you took over, back when I was little, kids who came here usually still ended up slangin’ rocks or using ’em—it just took a little longer. But, you, you . . . there’s something different about what you’ve taught these kids. Some of my dealers have actually had kids tell them that they’re stupid for dealing, that they should come here and find out about all the positive things they can do in life! Can you imagine that?”

  “Nico, get out. I’m calling security.” Sheryl reached for her phone. She didn’t like where this was going.

  Startling her, Nico reached across the desk and slammed the phone down before she could dial. His eyes were filled with the uncontrolled hatred she’d seen on young Nico’s last day at the center—the day after his long-lost father sent him away and told him never to come around again. As Nico squared his jaw, the vernacular of the street began to seep into his voice. “You didn’t let me finish. Ellis’s days are numbered, one way or the other. I suggest we both save ourselves a world of trouble. It works like this. You take this check I’m about to write you. Fifty thou should hold you while you resign from Ellis and search for a new job, right? I know you need the money. Your daughter got herself knocked up, your husband pulled a disappearing act a few months ago, I know things are tight. Just take the check and help yourself to some happiness, Sheryl. You’ve earned it.”

  As Nico clamped his hand over hers, Sheryl stared back in disbelief. Her nostrils stinging at the sharp smell of his Polo cologne, she stared through Nico and fixed her gaze on the wall opposite her desk. She was not going to dignify this with a response. She let her eyes and the twist of her neck—along with a barely audible “Humph!”—do the talking.

  Meeting the hate in her eyes with his own, Nico released his grip from her hand. Before Sheryl could utter the epithets that had built up inside, he staggered back from the desk and swiped his derby hat from her wooden chair. “It was worth a try, wasn’t it? Guess I’ll have to take other measures.” Huffing and puffing like a humiliated child, he swaggered to the doorway of her office before flicking a white business card toward her desk. “If you change your mind, use the cell-phone number on there. That’s the one for my Mercedes, the S350.

  Bye, Sheryl. And I do mean good-bye.”

  As Nico slammed the door shut behind him, Sheryl stood to her aching feet, folded her arms across her chest, and closed her eyes in desperate reverence. Lord, she prayed, if I ever needed you, I need you now. Trying to collect herself, she turned and faced the sunlight streaming through her window. She stared out at the white steeple of Highland University’s Founders Library and sighed. Maybe, she thought, the young men on that campus—Brandon, Larry, O. J., and Terence—could be the difference in the uphill battle Ellis Center faced. The community would be counting on them.

  CHAPTER 1

  . . . . . . . . . . . .

  CHOIRBOY

  “Brandon, you twenty-one . . . and you ain’t got no kids?” Little Pooh Riley’s wide eyes bugged out as he searched his mentor’s face for an answer.

  Seated a few feet away from his favorite student, in the front of the basement classroom off the center’s busiest hallway, Brandon Bailey shrugged. “Pooh, how many times I gotta tell ya,” he said, smiling, “you don’t have to start making babies when you turn sixteen.”

  “Mmm-mmm, I don’t know ’bout that,” the saggyfaced cherub said, shaking his head feverishly. “My momma say all most men do is make babies and leave. She done already told me I’ll do the same thing, by the time I’m fifteen.”

  “Fifteen!” Brandon slapped a hand over his mouth as the class rocked with laughter. Slow your roll, don’t rub the boy’s face in it, he reminded himself. “Uh, Pooh,” he said, choosing his words carefully as he held up a hand to quiet the other twelve boys in the class, “next time you talk to your momma, tell her about me.”

  Pooh ran a fidgety hand over his classic Washington Bullets jersey. “Aww, I don’t know about that, Brandon, you a little young for my momma!” The other nine-year-olds erupted in another fit of amusement, some of them cupping their mouths and hooting toward the front of the classroom. “Brandon gon’ get some booty! Brandon gon’ get some booty!”

  “All right, that’s enough.” Brandon kicked his miniature plastic chair aside and stood, stretching his sinewy legs and smoothing his beige Dockers slacks. “Pooh—all of you, for that matter—my point is you don’t have to make babies at any age. Most of my classmates at Highland? We’re waiting until we graduate college and get good jobs before we bring children into the world. You can, too.”

  Anthony, a lean, gawky hood-in-training, sat up in his seat and twisted his neck skeptically. “My granny say all men is dogs and any who ain’t are punks. Gay, in jail, or married.”

  Brandon felt his heart surge self-defensively. “Your granny? How . . .” It occurred to him he probably didn’t want to go down this road, matching wits with a grandmother who was probably younger than his own mother. He reminded himself: he was here, as he was every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon, to teach these boys basic math and pray that his “positive example” rubbed off in some way. It was just so hard to see any progress in them some days.

  He had nothing to prove to them. By now, Brandon’s applications to Duke, Northwestern, Ohio State, and Johns Hopkins were all signed, sealed, and delivered. Each application had been packed with the envy of every Highland premed student: stellar recommendations from two arts and sciences deans, spanking GPA and MCAT scores, and mentions of his strong medical lineage (Pops, Brent Bailey, as well as Grandpa, Willie Bailey, continued thriving private practices). His admission to med school was money in the bank.

  Yes, he thought as he closed the class with one last word problem and dismissed the boys to the courtyard for afternoon break, Brandon Bailey had done quite well for himself these past four years at Highland. So why had the ill-conceived ideas his students had about manhood bothered him so much just now? Could it be, the thought asserted itself as he wiped the blackboard clean with a moist paper towel, his growing unease about the legacy he was leaving on Highland’s social scene? “Legacy,” he said to the empty room as he tossed the limp towel into a round metal can near the doorway, “what legacy?”

  Even now he couldn’t believe it; in two months he’d be leavin
g Highland University behind. The nation’s top-ranked HBCU (historically black college/university), Highland was the one place where amazingly beautiful sisters of every hue were a moment-by-moment fact of life. How lovely the sight, day after day: nothing but allegedly ripe-for-the-picking, deliciously desirable, fiercely intelligent black queens. Whether he wound up at OSU, Northwestern, Duke, or Johns Hopkins, he’d never again see such a selection. All that opportunity, he thought, and what did he have to show for it? He had let four years at this oasis pass him by without finding Ms. Right. Everyone knew the first reason you attended an HBCU was to grab yourself a mate.

  How had he, Brandon Bailey—high school star defensive back, future physician, a guy told more than once he looked like Theo Huxtable with body—how had he managed to emerge romance-free from a campus with a three-to-one female/male ratio? His mother, Barbara, and every other woman in his family constantly reminded him how great a catch he was. That had to be more than familial bias, didn’t it?

  He swept the silly questions from his head, shut the heavy wooden door of the classroom, and strode down the hallway to the nearest exit. Thrusting the door open, Brandon searched the courtyard for his boys. The circular space, covered in craggy concrete and hemmed in by Ellis’s aging brick walls, was a rowdy place today. The boys and girls, ranging in age from three to twelve, were scattered across the courtyard, running, tossing, pinching, screaming, and taunting like mad. Four other counselors and a security guard crisscrossed the area, damping the groups playing too hard and bringing order to the few kids dangling at the fringes. Brandon walked over to where Pooh and several of the boys were running around. He took Pooh aside so they could talk.

  He looked to his left and right, trying to respect the boy’s privacy. “Hey, your mother doing any better?”

  “Not really,” Pooh said, his eyes suddenly aimed at his shoes. “Some strange dude been comin’ over a lot, man. A Japanese-looking guy, Nico.”

  “Well,” Brandon said, “are you afraid this Nico’s going to hurt your mother?”