Larry clapped his hands loudly. “Man, we are in there! Sheryl can handle Orange now, and get the contributions back. You know that only leaves one roadblock. Are we ready to take him on?” He searched his friends’ faces, looking to gauge their resolve to complete the mission.
Folding his arms across his chest, Brandon leaned up against the wall near the entryway. “I think the man who has to answer that is Terence.”
Still pacing the floor excitedly, Terence hesitated before answering. He wasn’t feeling indecisive; in fact, he was giddy with anticipation. They had already accomplished more than he suspected was possible when Nico first leveled his threat on Biggie’s life. These recent successes had increased his confidence. Knowing that his housemates had his back was all the assurance he needed; the days of questioning his Highland brothers, in the way he had as a freshman fleeing that angry mob near Johnson Hall, were behind him. Minutes earlier, Brandon and O. J. had led the group in a prayer for the survival of Ellis Center, including specific requests for Terence’s safety with the final step in their plan. Now Terence was ready to stand with these brothers and make a mark on the community, one that would hopefully outlive them all. He clasped his hands together and met his friends’ eyes, one by one. “You betta believe I’m down. Let’s do this!”
That evening Terence stepped from Larry’s Lexus and eyed the twenty-six-floor apartment tower across the street, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants legs. As Larry pulled away from the curb, Terence noted that the weather had taken a turn for the worse, the setting sun eclipsed by gray clouds and cold, insistent rain. Terence’s baggy Redskins jersey hung loosely from his frame, its curved edges drooping over the waist of his jeans. Shielding his near-bald head from the rain, he bolted across the sidewalk and leaped onto the carpeted, awning-covered walkway that led to the front entrance of Fairfield Towers, the luxury condominium building that Nico Lane called home. Acknowledging the elderly doorman, Terence stepped into the lobby. He was involuntarily impressed by everything he saw. At the center of the high-ceilinged room was a large stone fountain, spewing three jets of blue water that met in a central arc before returning to the pool below. The floor was pure marble, the ceilings were lit by ornate golden chandeliers, and the vanilla-colored walls were lined with contemporary paintings.
After giving Nico’s alias—“Antoine Mervin,” the birth name known only to people like Terence who grew up in his hood—to the receptionist at the front desk, he was buzzed up. Terence slumped against the velvety wall of the elevator as it sped up to the twenty-fifth floor. He was starting to feel his nerves now. His bravado from this morning was beginning to ebb. Maybe he was pushing his luck. Who was he to try to take out Nico Lane? Blotting out rational thought, he slammed his fists together and gritted his teeth, recalling the way he steeled himself when running big basketball plays in high school. He had learned the art of positive visualization, thinking only of the sensation he got when he broke through a line of defenders and slam-dunked a basket, before hitting the floor like a rock. It was time to apply the same technique in this instance. The good accomplished by removing the threat Nico posed to Ellis Center, Biggie, and the community at large outweighed his concern about the consequences if things backfired. Besides, if Nico were to catch on and send him to an early grave, at least he would finally know who was right about this whole religion and afterlife thing. Once he got out of this bind, he was determined to sample all the major faiths, starting with Christianity and Islam. It was time to at least start down the road toward a decision.
As the ten-foot door to Nico’s condo swung open, Terence’s heart beat a high-stepping rhythm in his chest. Standing in the doorway was a tall, shapely, coffee-bean-colored woman dressed only in an expensive-looking silk bathrobe. Looking him up and down, she scratched lightly at her gold-tinted braids and smiled warmly. “Are you Terence?” The Caribbean rhythm of her accent danced into Terence’s head like a saucy reggae tune.
He averted his gaze from the cleavage rising from the opening of her robe and blinked before responding. “Uh, yeah, I’m Terence Davidson. Is Nico in?”
“He’s been expecting you. Hi, I’m Tangy. Come on in.” Tangy turned and shimmied her way down the expansive foyer; he followed her to a sunken living room surrounded on two sides by massive windows that flooded the room with cloudy light from the darkening sky. “Have a seat here. Nico will be with you shortly.” Turning to smile at him again before she headed down the hall opposite the living room, Tangy made it clear she appreciated the effect she was having on Terence. He hoped Nico would be out soon, he didn’t need to get caught up in any freaky games tonight. There was business to tend to.
Fidgety, Terence sat down on the sectional sofa, picked up a copy of War and Peace from the coffee table, and began to peruse it. In the center of the table sat a foot-high brass statue in the crude shape of a man’s testicles. Surrounding it was an assortment of literature, including copies of Native Son, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Dennis Kimbro’s Think and Grow Rich, and magazines including Emerge and BusinessWeek. Nico was many things, but the brother was no fool.
“Terence, my boy, make yourself at home.” Terence dropped the book as Nico emerged from the hallway, dressed to the nines in a tailored blue plaid suit and matching power tie. He took a seat on an adjacent section of the sofa. “Now, I agreed to meet with you on such short notice, T—you don’t mind if I call you T, do you?—only because I’m in your debt. If you hadn’t provided access to those contributions, well, let’s just say recent events would have rendered my plans virtually impossible. What do you need? You’ll have to make it quick, I’ve got a social function to attend in an hour.”
Terence leaned forward in his seat, meeting Nico’s eyes head-on. He hoped he sounded as confident as he needed to. “Nico, I think you got a problem. I couldn’t decide for a while if I should hip you to it, but I’ve always believed there should be honor among thieves. And Rolly Orange is not a man of honor.”
Squinting his already narrow eyes, Nico unbuttoned his jacket and sat back against the pillowy suede cushions of the sofa. His eyes sparkled, a sign of the rumblings of his wary temper. “Why in the world would a man I blackmailed into helping me out give a damn about my business with Rolly Orange?”
“Nico, look. I ain’t no fool. There ain’t one bit of love lost between you and me. You know I was never your biggest fan, from the day you first tried to recruit me into the Rocks, over on U Street. I always figured your hard-core act was a way of makin’ up for your embarrassment over who your daddy was. I know kids can be pretty cruel about other races. Shoot, I imagine after hearing enough jokes about fortune cookies, chopsticks, and buckteeth, you did what you had to do to prove your credibility on the street, damn what it meant to anybody else.”
Annoyed by Terence’s crude psychoanalysis, Nico waved a beige hand across his face. “Terence, I could care less what you thought or think of me. Stop rambling.”
“I’m just sayin’, I’m not tryin’ to make nice with you, Nico. But I know how you operate, and if anything happens to spoil your plans for Ellis Center, I won’t have you blamin’ me, and tryin’ to take out me and Biggie both. I don’t want to let Rolly Orange’s antics put my family’s life on the line again.”
Skeptical, Nico rose from his seat slowly, like a distinguished politician approaching a foreign diplomat. “Talk to me.” He strode over to one of the windows, savoring the evening view of the nearby Georgetown University campus.
“Well, it’s like this. At that meeting Saturday, where I signed over the contributions, Orange asked Sheryl Gibson to approve the release of the Highland money into an investment account run by that Tracy Spears guy.” Terence flirted with the thought of walking over to Nico so his response would be audible for the tape. He sighed in temporary relief as Nico turned and walked back toward the couch, stroking his chin thoughtfully.
“Which is precisely what I told him to do. The Highland money, the only funds to which he didn’t ha
ve access, was to be put into Spears’s hands.”
Praying he sounded nonchalant, Terence continued. “What’s the deal with Spears anyway? He’s an odd-looking brother if I ever saw one.”
Nico chuckled. “Oh, he’s a former CPA who ran into some ethical and criminal charges a few years ago. He’s laundered some money for me in the past, so he was a natural for this assignment.”
“Does he have any investment knowledge? Was he just supposed to take the money and run?”
Nico smirked. “Uh, yes, T, basically. The idea was to get your money out of the picture, so Sheryl would freak out and resign. That alone will scare off any more potential donors. No donors, no Ellis Center. And I reclaim my hood, all for the good.”
Nico’s unconscious admission of guilt sparked a rush of adrenaline in Terence—not entirely a good thing, because it increased the amount of sweat filling his brow.
Nico crossed his arms and eyed him suspiciously. “You okay, Terence? You’re sweating like a hog.”
“I-I’m all right, Nico. Look, I don’t mean to be gettin’ in your business, so let me cut to the chase. How much money did Orange tell you was in the Highland accounts?”
“Accountssss? What are you talking about? There was only one account.” Nico reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a fat cigar, which he swiftly lit.
Terence tried to sound flippant. “Uh, no, there were two accounts, Nico. You see, Larry and Brandon had mad success raising money from their parents’ friends, so they set up a separate account for individual donations over five thousand. They said that made the record keeping cleaner, for tax records and stuff.”
Nico took a long puff on his cigar. “Exactly how much was in this second account, Terence?”
“Well, as of Saturday’s meeting, there was eightyeight thousand in the general account, and”—Terence pulled a fabricated statement from his pants pocket—“one hundred and seventy thousand dollars in the individual donor account. We signed both of ’em over to Orange and Spears’s control. Funny thing, though, Rolly had us write two separate checks, even though we could have done one combined check since the accounts were linked. He said it was easier to track them separately, which sounded okay to me. Weird thing was, Spears said he would put the eightyeight thousand to work on Monday but hold off on the hundred and seventy thousand until some tax issues had been dealt with.
He never touched that second check. Has Rolly mentioned that, or given the second check to you?”
Nico flung his suit jacket onto the couch. He looked ready to bite the smoking cigar in half. “Oh, this is rich. Rich. I’m trying to figure why you’d be here lying to me, Terence, stirring up trouble for no reason, when you know I hold your brother’s life in my hands. But dammit, you’re not the first person to make me question Rolly Orange’s loyalty.” Nico placed his hands on his hips anxiously, his mind obviously whirring with indignation. “I’m not worried about it, T. I’m convinced that fool has leaked information to someone—Buzz Eldridge didn’t flip out for no reason—but I already got Rolly back for whatever he’s done. I stormed in on him at Ellis’s offices yesterday, how ya like that! I’m sure Sheryl Gibson will have his ass hauled off in short order. But I’m intrigued about this money.”
“He never told you about the second account?” Terence tried to look surprised.
Nico slammed his fists together. “Hell no. Look, I hate to do this, T, but you have a natural in. I need you to go over to Ellis tomorrow morning and bring me some hard proof of this second account. Your little statement there raises some questions, but I need a more concrete trail. I don’t believe Orange held out on me like this! The brother obviously doesn’t value his life.” Nico focused his dancing eyes on Terence’s sweaty face. It was clear he was not going to take no for an answer.
Sensing his moment of truth had arrived, Terence stood up and rounded the couch, nearing the hallway. “Uh, Nico, look, this is gettin’ too deep for me. I’m trying to graduate college. I can’t get caught up in this business anymore! I already got fired from my company, man—that’s gonna take a toll on my résumé as it is. Look, I hooked you up by warning you about Orange. Ain’t that enough?”
With the speed of a gazelle, Nico hopped the couch between them and stood toe-to-toe with Terence, pulling a snub-nosed handgun with a silencer from the leather holster at his hip. He held the weapon to Terence’s shiny nose, his eyes exuding an edgy calm. “Now look here, kid, I own you, do you understand? I can take Biggie out whenever I want! It’s time for you to officially recognize. You don’t make a deal with the devil and then announce when it expires. That’s my job. You got me, Davidson?”
As the cold steel pressed against his flesh, Terence thought fleetingly of Granny. Pushing the panic from his mind, he gave a defiant response. “N-Nico, you don’t own me. What I did to aid your plan to close Ellis, I did under duress. I would never have done that if you hadn’t threatened to kill Aaron.”
Stepping back and training the gun toward Terence’s chest, Nico paced without taking his eyes off Terence. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, do you? I will kill you right now, and then go hunt Biggie and your precious Highland friends down like the dogs they are! Don’t ever doubt that! Do you know how many fools I’ve taken out over the years? You knew the Perry twins, remember the pretty-boy little assholes that lived up the block from you when you were in grade school? I took ’em out, just a couple years back. They thought they could muscle in on my turf, just ’cause they were a little older, and I trained in the business under some of their boys. Well, I showed they ass, now, didn’t I?” Nico was slipping back into the crude slang of his street dealers. “Pumped ’em full of lead myself! That’s been a while; these days I have Bobo or another one of my boys handle my business, but don’t think I’ve lost my nerve! I’ll take you out right now if I have to!”
Standing on the balls of his feet, ready to jump, Terence shuddered as the faint sound of sirens crept into the apartment. Sirens in D.C., even in as swanky a neighborhood as this, were almost an hourly occurrence and normally would not cause any pause. But something was different right here, right now. Scampering over to the window in front of the couch, Nico looked down quickly before returning a rabid face toward Terence. “I just realized, you’ve been using Biggie’s formal name this whole time,” he said, reaching into his suit pocket. “Where I come from, there’s only one time folk use formal names—when the pigs are listening.”
Moving before fear could overtake him, Terence dove to the floor as Nico fired a silenced shot directly at his head. Landing on his chest, Terence arched out his right arm and snatched the brass ball statue from the coffee table, taking cover again behind the couch, which Nico pummeled with bullets. As he heard Nico curse and reload the gun, Terence felt a cool breeze behind him. Tangy had decided she wanted no part of this gunfight.
“Tangy, get back in the bedroom,” he heard Nico say with chilly calm.
Tangy wasn’t having it. “You’re crazy, Nico, crazy! You told me you were going legit! You’re nutting but a two-bit hoodlum! I’m leaving!”
“Dammit, Tangy!”
Terence’s heart caved in as he heard the squeak of a shot whiz overhead. Expecting to hear Tangy’s luscious body thud to the floor, he was heartened slightly by the strong screech of her voice.
“You son of a beetch! I don’t believe you took a shot at me!”
“I told you to get back in the bedroom! Do it now or I won’t miss next time!”
As the bedroom door slammed with a deafening thud, Terence rolled over, gaining momentum he hoped would be adequate to build up a head of steam. As he tumbled to the wall, he catapulted to his feet, hurling the brass statue directly at Nico’s head, the stifled report of Nico’s handgun clipping his eardrums. His momentum propelled him to the right of the couch, causing the bullet to graze his shoulder as the statue smashed squarely into Nico’s forehead. For several heartbeats both men lay on the floor, motionless.
His adre
naline pumping violently, Terence scrambled to his feet and turned to the front door, which burst open as a team of D.C.’s finest swarmed across the threshold. The six officers, dressed in navy blue, streamed into the living room, where Terence sent two of them back to the bedroom to check on Tangy. His head bubbling, Terence stumbled along with the other four officers over to Nico, who lay in front of the window. His eyes were closed like a sleeping baby’s, save for the large blotch of red seeping from his welted forehead. The brass statue, splattered in blood, lay a few feet away.
“Is he, is he . . .” Gulping in air like an exposed fish, Terence felt ready to faint.
The senior officer, a brother in his fifties, looked up at Terence from his perch over Nico’s body. “For better or worse, this piece of trash is still alive, kid. Don’t worry, you didn’t take a life today.”
Somewhat relieved, Terence felt a firm hand on his shoulder. Officer Perkins, who had been his main contact since he and Larry first contacted the police Sunday, began to guide him toward the door. “Terence, you’ve done a great, I mean, a great service today. We’ve gotta get you back out to the surveillance van and get you unhooked, but there’s a chance the murders and conspiracy you got Lane to admit to on tape will be the beginning of some charges that will finally stick. And I gotta say, you were the easiest immunity case I’ve had in my years on the force. Now let’s get out of here before any of Lane’s goons show up.”
As he crossed the threshold of Nico’s condo, the full weight of what he had just done, and what the outcome could have been, hit Terence with the force of a gale wind. As he filled with pride at the thought of sharing the news with Granny, his boys, and Lisa, his body insisted on some rest. Allowing his knees to buckle, he collapsed into Officer Perkins’s arms. He had survived a great deal, but he was no Superman.
Between Brothers Page 35
