Between Brothers

by C. Kelly Robinson

  Eldridge raised a bushy eyebrow. “Does the board have any idea that most of the loans and credit facilities will be called within the next couple of months?”

  “No clue. The official word from U.S. Bank, which holds the majority of our notes and loans payable, is that we have until September 1. That gives the board a false sense of security that they can raise considerably more money in the intervening months. In order for that angle to work, we’re depending on you, Buzz.”

  Eldridge sighed. He had called in a big favor to his old college classmate Marvin Burns, a lending vice president at U.S. Bank. The coincidence of their friendship had been a priceless advantage when he and Nico had first discussed their interest in the center’s demise. The loans were officially due on May 1, and the bank would be free to call them at their discretion as of that date. “I’ve got it handled. Marvin has already informed the responsible loan officer to call the loan on May 15, with only two weeks’ notice. By May 1, there’ll be no way they could raise the cash in time.”

  “And even if they did, what they thought they had will be gone, right, Orange?” Nico’s ominous tone added weight to what sounded like a flippant observation.

  Orange pursed his lips and reclined slightly in his chair. “I’m going to have an emergency meeting with Sheryl tomorrow and urge her to authorize the placement of the thirty-three thousand into a futures contract I’ve set up with our friend Tracy Spears. You know Tracy is a master of creative accounting. He’ll make the money disappear in no time. Then all we do is have him explain the technicalities of futures and their high risk to Sheryl, which should thoroughly embarrass and demoralize her, ensuring her resignation. After mine, of course. Tracy will route the money back to us exactly one month later.”

  “I don’t hear you mentioning the other thirty thousand, nor the subsequent monies that are bound to flood in,” Nico said, eyeing Orange the way a teacher scrutinizes the class clown just before his biggest trick. “Finish your story, please, before I have to lose my couth.”

  Orange’s eyes pleaded for patience. “Our fears have come true,” he said, holding out open palms. “The kids have cut me off, Nico. They came to Sheryl a couple weeks back and gave some song and dance about a joint money market account into which all their contributions go now. Now those funds can’t be accessed without three signatures—mine, Sheryl’s, and one of the little punks’. I’m pretty sure I can talk Sheryl into placing those in the futures fund, too, but I don’t know how to get the students on board.”

  “I have an idea. Why not kill them? I think that would remove the issue of their approving the withdrawals.” Despite the wicked smirk on Lane’s face, Eldridge shuddered, certain that the suggestion wasn’t just a pipe dream in Nico’s mind. He was having no part of murder, he told himself. He had found the line he would not cross to shore up his business.

  Seeing the increasingly pallid tone of Eldridge’s skin, Nico reached out to his right, slapping the man on the back so hard that he almost jumped out of his seat. “I’m just foolin’ around, Buzz. Even Rolly knows that’s not how I operate. What we do is neutralize them, militarystyle. They are the enemy, and thanks to my friend Mr. Hollings, we do know our enemy well, don’t we, Orange?”

  Without answering, Orange reached into his briefcase, pulled out two thin manila folders, and slid one to each of his partners. “Everything you ever wanted to know about Brandon Bailey, Larry Whitaker, Terence Davidson, and Oscar ‘O. J.’ Peters. I’m not sure what else to do about them. Hollings’s efforts so far have failed to scare them off. We’ve escalated the tone of the notes, you know, gotten real ominous about what could happen if they keep this up.”

  Scouring through the folders, which included a photograph and bio on each student, Nico froze as he came to Terence’s. “Orange, are you trying to make my day?” Nico raised his head and met Orange’s confused stare. “Terence Davidson, Biggie’s older brother. I’ll take care of this one. I dangle his little brother’s life in front of him, he’ll dance to my music. Who’s next?”

  Eldridge fixed his gaze on O. J.’s bio. “This Peters kid sounds like a real piece of work. I’m not exactly religious myself, but it sounds like he thinks he’s some freak combination of Billy Graham and Billy Dee Williams. I don’t suppose that all the women in his life are acquainted?”

  “I wonder if his mentor, the great Pastor Grier at that Light of Tabernacle Church, is aware that O. J.’s messing with his own daughter?” Nico was fascinated by the details of O. J.’s life. “I can’t imagine he’d be too happy to see that get out.”

  Apparently feeling he should contribute something, Orange continued to peruse Brandon and Larry’s records. “Maybe we can throw some roadblocks in the way of the Whitaker brat by leaking damaging information about his affiliation with the center. Fear regarding his run for Highland president or his job search might make him back away. This Bailey kid, I don’t know what we can dig—”

  “We have enough,” Nico said with a wave of the hand. “We have all we need to get to Whitaker, the sinister minister, and Terence. They fold, this Bailey dude will too.”

  Seeing the glee in Nico’s narrow eyes, Buzz relaxed for the first time since the meeting had begun. This should be child’s play, he told himself; these boys weren’t ready to take on three savvy men heavy in experience with the ways of the real world. A few weeks more, and the Ellis Center would be history.

  CHAPTER 15

  . . . . . . . . . . . .

  SPONTANEOUS SPARKS

  “Did we tear that joint up or not!” It was Tuesday afternoon, and Mark was ecstatic, half an hour after his and Larry’s financial-policy class had ended. Their group had completed its capstone presentation for the year. Both their classmates as well as Professor Kinsey had been knocked off their feet by the quality of their analysis.

  “How’d you like Margaret Ray’s attempt to trip us up with that question about debentures?” Mark was as pumped up as he had been in high school after a football or wrestling victory. “We wrecked shop up in there!”

  As they walked down the sidewalk toward the headquarters of the Highland Sentinel, Larry sucked air through his teeth, adjusting his Ray-Bans even though he knew he didn’t really need them today. The sun was fighting a losing battle with the clouds and would probably be completely submerged in minutes. “I’m as relieved as you are, boy. If we get the A Kinsey seems to be leaning toward, we are in there! We can take that as our final grade and do nothin’ but show up these last five weeks. Thank God for one more load off my back.”

  Mark slapped his partner on the back. “And now you get another one off. You’ve been fretting over this interview with Sheila for nothin’, man. That girl recognizes now, she’s been pretty even-handed lately with her editorials. Don’t get me wrong, we both got to watch our backs in there, but I’m not expectin’ any foul play, know what I mean?”

  Stretching his arms heavenward to relieve the lingering tension he had built up before class, Larry slapped Mark back as they climbed the short wooden steps to the crumbling two-story brick structure. “We’ll see, G. We’ll see.” He hoped this could be a peaceful interview. All the campaigning and glad-handing he’d done the past few days had bought him only one additional point in the poll released this morning. He needed every break he could get. This was no time to have a knock-down-drag-out with the editor of the Sentinel.

  As they entered the cramped lobby, dimly lit by a dust-caked overhead lightbulb, Mark and Larry found themselves face-to-face with Ms. Sheila Evans herself. She was dressed in her trademark getup—a thin blue hooded sweatshirt over a white T-shirt, a pair of loose-fitting Levi’s, and solid white Nike tennis shoes. Her chocolate-colored hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore a flowery headband. Roughly Ashley’s height, which meant she towered over Mark but still looked up to Larry, she had the long-and-lean look of a track athlete. Larry wondered again if an attractive woman might be hiding under the plain guise Sheila presented to the world. He knew a lot o
f sisters who had been wronged by bad brothers reacted by trying to make themselves less desirable; maybe that was her story.

  “Gentlemen, you’re right on time. Please follow me and we’ll get this interview conducted in a timely manner.” As she turned and headed toward a cubbyhole of an office in the far right corner, Mark turned to Larry and began to mock Sheila’s professional tone, mouthing “follow me” and imitating her long-legged gait. Stifling a laugh, Larry gave his friend a poke in the ribs.

  As Sheila climbed through the piles of books and stacks of paper that blocked her way to the rickety seat behind her desk, the men helped themselves to the two wooden chairs that faced her. “Well, let me thank you, Larry, for taking the time to do this interview. The Sentinel is committed to giving each candidate an opportunity to express his views in an unfiltered format.”

  “So why not just publish a prepared statement?” Mark insisted on playing devil’s advocate.

  Sheila slipped him a mild frown. “Mark, for the record, the other candidates agreed to interview on their own, without their manager present. I don’t object to your presence, but if there are problems with the format, they should have been discussed before now.”

  Placing a hand on his partner’s shoulder, Larry leaned forward, crossing his legs in front of him. It was time to be the perfect picture of restraint and manners. “Mark, I’m satisfied with the interview format. And Sheila, I do appreciate your allowing his presence. You might understand there are a few ruffled feathers in my camp after some of your recent editorials.”

  Sheila folded her hands together and leaned forward in her seat. “Those editorials were based on solid facts, Larry. But I’d have no problem doing the interview in front of your whole campaign team, if you wanted. Shall we proceed?”

  Larry flashed a photogenic smile. “Please.”

  The opening questions were standard ones Larry and Mark had expected. In responding, Larry articulately laid out his platform provisions, his personal qualifications, and his vision of how Highland could progress under his administration. When Sheila raised some of the typical questions that claimed to point out holes in his dormitory revitalization plan and his alumni donation drive, he quickly refuted her points, increasing his confidence in his ability to handle those issues in the speakouts. He and Mark were feeling their oats when Sheila asked her next question.

  “What can you tell me about Ellis Community Center?”

  His eyes meeting Mark’s momentarily, Larry searched his mind for a guess as to her motive. He had yet to make the center much of an issue in the campaign, with the exception of his pledge to make community service mandatory when he took office. What did she want to know about that for? “Uh, well, you probably know as much about it as I do, Sheila. If you’re referring to my involvement there, I am an honorary board member, along with three other Highland students—”

  “All of whom are your housemates, is that correct?”

  “Well, yes, a couple of us have worked at the center over the years, and when the crisis regarding Ellis’s funding became public, we agreed to pool our resources and work to bring in some private funding to hold off their creditors. The Ellis administration was so grateful to have some Highland support they invited us to serve on the board.”

  “And does your board-member status confer any special privileges?”

  Now Mark was squirming in his seat, a small bead of sweat worming its way down his forehead. Larry could tell he was itching to jump in, but was grateful for his restraint. “Sheila, the center is broke. The only privilege we receive from our status is the satisfaction of contributing to a community treasure.”

  Sheila continued scribbling on her notepad, an engaged look on her cinnamon-brown face. “You mentioned that some of your housemates had actually volunteered at the center. Is that to say that you personally have a history of community service through Ellis?”

  Larry pursed his lips, his annoyance bubbling just underneath his copper complexion. “If you’re asking if I have ever volunteered directly at Ellis, the answer is no. I have faithfully contributed to their fund-raising drives every year, but their volunteer activities did not fit my schedule.”

  Sheila aimed a comforting smile his way, leaning back in her chair. “I understand perfectly, we all have to work around classes, extracurricular activities, et cetera. So what volunteer activities have you fit into your schedule over the years?”

  Larry clamped his right hand on Mark’s left shoulder before responding. “Sheila, I don’t know that that’s any of your business, and if I see this answer in print, you may have a lawsuit on your hands. Since my first year on this campus, I have been a very busy man. But I always give to the less fortunate, be it time, money, or financial expertise. Maybe, unlike certain friends of yours, I don’t get involved in the easily pubbed activities like Big Brothers/Big Sisters, but, sister, I do my share.” His tone was a dagger.

  Springing forward from her semireclined position, Sheila met Larry’s cold stare eye to eye. “Larry, I am going to take off my journalist hat right now and tell you why I’m asking these questions. You like to disparage your opponents David and Winston, and don’t tell me you don’t, because everybody’s heard the crude jokes Mark and his cronies have made about them. But you know what they have going for them over you? They’re viewed as being real, being in touch. Let’s face it. You and David have a lot of friends in common, and probably a few enemies as well. But when I talk to some of these people about who they think will make the best HSA president, the name that continually comes up is not yours. The fact is, there’s a view out there that you’re too much of a silver spoon, with your luxury sedan, trust fund, and supermodel girlfriend, to relate to the average Highland student.”

  “Oh no, you didn’t. Why you gotta bring his woman into this?” Mark was rising out of his chair, a look of genuine betrayal on his face. “You makin’ this personal now.”

  “You don’t really want to make me go there, do you?” Sheila’s eyes were cold steel. “Everyone knows the only way a dark-skinned girl on this campus would ever catch you or Larry’s eye would be to get a boob job, a weave, and a visit from Michael Jackson’s plastic surgeon. People do notice things like that, Larry.”

  Mark was officially through. “You unprofessional, unprincipled, bi—”

  “Sit down, Mark.” Larry was tiring of serving as his friend’s baby-sitter. He tried to tell himself Sheila was off base. “Sheila, you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. I do not apologize for coming from a privileged background. My personal balance sheet, as long as it is clean, is irrelevant to this campaign. And for you to bring the biases of others into this unbiased interview is complete bullshit. I’d like to see you print that!”

  Wheeling forward in her seat, Sheila jumped to her feet, knocking her knees against the crowded desk. Attempting to play it off, she launched into her response. “I have enough information to prepare the interview for publication,” she whispered in a taut voice, obviously struggling to maintain her composure. “I apologize for any perceived impropriety regarding my comments. They were just intended to help you understand what you’re up against. As an impartial journalist, I wish you the best in your campaign.”

  Deciding to close things on a classy note, Larry took her extended hand, his adrenaline pumping wildly. As the two held their grip, their eyes locked defiantly. Before Larry realized it, he was staring into Sheila’s dark brown pupils. What motivated this clearly intelligent woman to attack him so personally? And more disturbingly, why was he starting to wonder now more than ever what made her tick? He’d never admit it to her, but her earlier crack had been right. Sheila Evans was not his type.

  Suddenly conscious again of where he was, thanks in part to a sudden shove from Mark, Larry averted his gaze and released Sheila’s silken hand. “Good-bye, Sheila.”

  As he followed Mark’s blazing path through the cramped quarters, Larry rubbed his neck in exhaustion.

  What was that
about?

  In the undergraduate library a few steps west of the Highland Sentinel building, Terence slung his backpack off and slumped into the first plastic chair at the table before him. He saw Matthew X’s black briefcase in the chair across from him, so at least he knew Matthew was here in the library somewhere. They had agreed to meet tonight, to finalize some of the details of the Nation’s manhood course for the upcoming year, which was based out of Ellis Center. Based on the tenets of the Fruit of Islam training utilized for the Nation’s own children, the course, entering its fourth year, taught boys aged ten through eighteen the principles of manhood, using an intense physical and mental conditioning regimen. Although Sheryl Gibson was quick to concede that the course often attracted its students to membership in the Nation, she always noted that the majority of students in the class did not join the Nation or any similar organization. More important, none of the recent graduates of the program had fallen into dealing or gangbanging.

  Turning toward the window of the study room, Terence saw Sam Baker sitting out on one of the red brick benches that lined the covered walkway. His pants hanging low on his sturdy, six-foot frame, Baker was shaking his closely shaved head in animated fashion, reducing his cronies to hysterical laughter with some crack or another. Surprised to feel himself glued to the window, Terence balled his fists as the familiar memories came to him.

  Sam had been the first brother at Highland that Lisa had “sampled” when she first decided she and Terence should give each other space.