The Other Brother

by Brandon Massey

"That'll be all for now, Angela. Go back to your desk and resume working. Close the door as you leave."

  Angela obediently left and closed the door behind her. No one could see him clearly through the frosted glass. Good.

  He went to Gabriel's desk. It was a massive slab. An entire tree probably had been sacrificed so Gabriel could place his crap on top of it. A fragrant bouquet of flowers stood on the edge of the desk; a Mylar balloon attached to the vase proclaimed HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

  Isaiah read the card that lay beside the vase.

  Happy Birthday, Babyface. Love, Dana.

  "How sweet," he said.

  The desk featured the requisite photos of Gabriel's hottie girlfriend-now he knew her name was Dana-and other pictures of Gabriel and his family.

  Isaiah began to open the desk drawers. One of them stored a collection of CDs-old school jazz albums by artists such as John Coltrane, Miles Davis, Duke Ellington. Damn. Was Gabriel thirty years old or seventy?

  In another drawer he found an expensive silver Mont Blanc pen in a leather case. There was an elegant monogram on the pen: G.J.R. Gabriel's initials.

  The pen occupied a prominent position in a top drawer, evidence that Gabriel used it often to ink those big-money deals. Isaiah held the pen in his hands and closed his eyes. He drew several deep breaths. Concentrated.

  Yes. This would do just fine.

  He slid the pen into his pocket.

  Gabriel's computer was missing; a couple of cords lay on the desk like severed appendages. Mister hard working vice president must have taken it home with him.

  He sat in the roomy leather chair. It was like sitting on a throne. All he needed was a crown.

  Looking around the desktop, he picked up a photograph of Gabriel and his girlfriend. Gabriel wore a tuxedo, and Dana was ravishing in a black cocktail gown. Probably attending a thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner or some pompous affair buppies wasted their money on in order to feel important.

  He dropped the photograph and selected another. This one featured the old man and Babyface on a fishing trip. Wearing clothes straight out of an L.L. Bean catalog, they proudly displayed their fresh catches in front of them.

  Heat warmed Isaiah's face.

  He had never been fishing.

  He'd never been to a black-tie dinner with a woman, or even alone, for that matter. Red Lobster was the swankiest restaurant in which he'd ever dined.

  He picked up another photo. This one showed Gabriel, the old man, a woman that had to be Gabriel's mother, and a younger lady that had to be his sister at a graduation ceremony. Gabriel wore a black gown and that silly flat cap with the tassel. All of them wore shit-eating grins. Had to be Gabriel's college graduation.

  Isaiah had never been to college. He'd dropped out of high school in the tenth grade; had never gotten his GED, either.

  Blood pounded in his temples.

  One person was responsible for him missing out on so many opportunities.

  Isaiah picked up the photograph of Gabriel and the old man on their fishing trip. He clutched the frame in his hands. He squeezed it so tightly his knuckles turned bone white. Rage contorted his face.

  The frame cracked.

  Chapter 12

  abriel was eager to return to the office. He was looking L forward to immersing himself in the safe, predictable world of conference calls, staff meetings, contract proposals, and deals. He left the house at seven-thirty, earlier than usual.

  Self-conscious about his head bandage, he wore a felt hat to cover it up. Although it was much too formal to wear around the office, he preferred being overdressed to resembling an accident victim on the mend.

  It was another sweltering, hazy morning. Although Pops could be overbearing sometimes, Gabriel was thankful that he'd loaned him the convertible Corvette. He drove with the top down to bask in the balmy breezes. He pulled into Reid Construction's parking lot a few minutes after eight o'clock, humming the final notes of "A Love Supreme" by John Coltrane.

  A gray Chevy Chevelle with tinted windows and big chrome wheels occupied Gabriel's parking space, as though one of ATL's many hip-hop artists had mistaken the Reid corporate office for a recording studio.

  "What the hell?" Gabriel muttered.

  Had he seen this car before? It had Illinois plates ... no, he was wrong. He hadn't seen this car and didn't know to whom it belonged. Whoever owned it, they would have to move it out of his spot.

  Gabriel parked in his father's slot beside the Chevelle. Pops had an off-site meeting and wasn't due in until after lunch.

  Gabriel gathered his briefcase and got out of the car. He gave the Chevelle a closer look. Although it was a model from the seventies, it was in mint condition, with not a scratch on the bodywork. A big, mean muscle of a ride.

  Cupping his hand against the glass, he tried to peer through the driver's-side window. But the tint was so darkwasn't it illegal for the tint to be that dark?-that he couldn't see any of the interior.

  What business would someone driving a car like this have at Reid Construction?

  And parking in his reserved spot, most of all?

  There had to be a reasonable answer. Maybe it was someone making a delivery of some kind. Or maybe it belonged to a temp worker. In other words, the owner of the vehicle could be there on entirely legitimate business.

  But that idea failed to eradicate the tumor of anxiety that festered in Gabriel's stomach.

  He would have to get to the bottom of this as soon as he got inside. He was the owner's son, next in line to run the business, and his father was away. If someone was there who didn't need to be, it was his responsibility, ultimately, to take care of it.

  Clasping his briefcase, Gabriel walked to the front entrance.

  "Morning, Gabe," Rhonda, the receptionist, said. "Welcome back. How're you feeling?"

  "Better, thanks," he said. He examined the visitors' log on the front desk. "Do we have any visitors this morning, Rhonda?"

  "No, sir." But she smiled, conspiratorially.

  "None?" He frowned. "But someone parked in my spot. Gray Chevy Chevelle, Illinois plates."

  She shook her head, but she was grinning. "Sorry, I've got no idea."

  "Why are you smiling?"

  "Umm, I just think your hat is cute," she said, but he knew she was lying. She was hiding something.

  He was about to ask her another question, but then her phone beeped. Rhonda answered the line, turning away from him with a slight smile.

  He didn't get it. Was there a joke he'd missed?

  Outside his office, Miss Angie greeted him. "Good morning, honey. I'm so glad to see you're okay after that awful accident."

  "Yeah, I'm okay," he said. Looking past her and through the frosted glass, he saw the vague shape of someone sitting at his desk. "Is someone in my office?"

  "Of course not. I wouldn't let anyone in your office without your permission."

  "But I see someone in there"

  "You do?" She looked behind her and then turned back to Gabriel. Her lips had parted into a startled expression. "I'm sorry, someone must have come in when I stepped away from my desk... ."

  "Never mind, I'll take care of it." Gabriel opened the door.

  A black man sat at his desk. He was tilted back in the chair, feet resting on the desktop, sipping coffee. He smiled at Gabriel.

  Gabriel had never seen this man in his life, but a shiver coursed through him as he regarded the visitor.

  The man looked so much like him, they could have been brothers.

  Gabriel closed the door.

  Smiling softly, the man placed the coffee mug on the desk. A closer look at him reinforced Gabriel's initial impression of their physical similarities.

  Most notably, they both had gray eyes.

  But this guy looked ... maybe the right word was harder. His face, though strongly resembling Gabriel's, was leaner, tougher. His eyes resembled slivers of dirty ice. His suit jacket concealed the skin of his arms, but Gabriel was willing to wager that his flesh
was inked with tattoos.

  Ex-con, Gabriel thought. Or someone who's otherwise come up the hard way. Someone not to be trifled with.

  But he suddenly knew this was the man who had stolen his parking spot. To see him in here, sitting at his desk as if he owned the place, only fueled Gabriel's indignation.

  "Who are you?" Gabriel asked. "And why are you sitting at my desk?"

  "Good morning, Gabe," the man said. He swept his arm around. "Nice office you have here. Quite befitting a successful executive such as yourself."

  "Thanks. Now would you mind taking your feet off my damn desk?"

  "My bad. I got too comfortable waiting for you to show up" The man removed his feet from the desktop and bounded out of the chair. "I apologize."

  But he didn't appear to be sorry. He wore a gloating grin, as if he knew some secret. That grin, and his use of Gabriel's nickname, only pissed off Gabriel further.

  Gabriel clutched his briefcase like a shield.

  "You like fish, I see," the man said. He hooked his thumb at Gabriel's aquarium. "Myself, I'm partial to snakes. Lovely creatures"

  "I hate snakes" Gabriel could not suppress a grimace. "Anyway, why don't we get to the point: who the hell are you?"

  "My name is Isaiah Battle." He strolled around the desk. He and Gabriel were the same height and build, but Isaiah moved with silky grace, like a panther.

  Isaiah offered his hand. Gabriel glanced at the man's hand but didn't shake it.

  Shrugging at Gabriel's rebuff, Isaiah turned around one of the wing chairs that flanked the desk and settled into it. He crossed his legs.

  "What's your business here, Isaiah?" Gabriel asked.

  "Have a seat, Gabe. We're going to have a serious discussion."

  "I'll stand."

  "Suit yourself. To answer your question, I'm here on family business. Things have been kept under wraps for a long time. It's about time some buried secrets come to light."

  "What secrets?"

  "What if I told you that your father isn't the man you think he is? What if I told you he's got some skeletons in the closet that he's been hiding from you and everyone else?"

  "I'd tell you you're full of shit." Gabriel tossed his briefcase onto the floor and clenched his hands into fists. "Who the hell do you think you are, man? Coming in here talking about my Pops? I'll-"

  "Hear me out," Isaiah said. He raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Chill, okay?"

  "I've heard enough of this, I'm getting Security." Gabriel marched to the desk and grabbed the telephone.

  "Put the phone down," Isaiah said in a soft voice. "You are going to listen to me, for your own good. I'm only offering the truth."

  Gripping the phone, Gabriel met Isaiah's gaze. He stared into those gray eyes.

  Eyes that were so much like his.

  A tremor spread through Gabriel. He didn't want to hear any more. He wanted to hit the number to call Security and demand that they haul this man out of the building. He wanted to stuff his ears with cotton and deafen himself to the words Isaiah wanted to say. He wanted to flee his office, to get away from this man who looked far too much like him.

  But Gabriel did none of those things. He replaced the phone on the cradle and dropped into the chair.

  He'd taken a painkiller only an hour ago, but his headache had returned with savage intensity.

  "I'm only here to tell the truth," Isaiah said.

  Gabriel looked away from him. He noticed that the frame containing the photo of him and Pops on last summer's Father's Day fishing trip was cracked. He wondered how that had happened, but at the moment, it seemed unimportant.

  He looked at Isaiah.

  "The truth," Gabriel said, and the words tasted foul in his mouth, like bitter medicine.

  "The truth," Isaiah said. "Straight up, no chaser."

  Gabriel was beginning to feel dizzy. But he said, "All right. I'm listening."

  Isaiah leaned forward. He spoke in a whisper.

  And he said the words that changed everything.

  "You and me, we have the same father, Gabriel. T.L. Reid is my dad, too. I'm your brother"

  Chapter 13

  s a child, Gabriel had loved to play football with some of l the boys in his neighborhood. They would play in the grassy field that bordered the community, and what would start as a clean touch-only game would inevitably, as the competition intensified, evolve into a rough-and-tumble tackle match. During one game, Gabriel had caught a Hail Mary pass and made a sprint for the end zone near the line of maples at the boundary of the field when Big Benny Jones had blindsided him.

  He hadn't blacked out, but he'd come close. He'd lain on the ground, unable to move, staring dreamily at the cloudy summer sky as the boys huddled fearfully around him and wondered if he was paralyzed. He hadn't been paralyzed, but the breath had been knocked out of him and several minutes passed before he got to his feet.

  Isaiah's revelation was like being blindsided by Big Benny Jones.

  Even though, deep in his heart where he locked away his worst fears, he'd known Isaiah would say something like this he and Isaiah looked so much alike, they could only be blood relatives-it nonetheless snatched the breath out of his lungs. He sat in his leather chair in his lavishly appointed office, a place where he probably felt more in charge than anywhere on earth-and he felt, for the first time ever, that the ground had broken beneath him. The foundation of his life had crumbled. Below, there was an abyss, a great unknown, and it was sucking him inexorably into it.

  But, falling, he still tried to claw his way to the surface and hold on to what he held dear.

  "That's impossible," Gabriel said. "You're lying."

  "Am I?" Isaiah casually sipped his coffee. His manner was that of a card shark who held a royal flush and knew your bluff was worthless.

  "It's a lie," Gabriel said. "I won't believe it."

  "You know it's true. It's written all over your face"

  "No." Gabriel shook his head.

  "Look, we obviously have different mothers," Isaiah said. "I grew up in Chicago. That's where my mama and our father met"

  "Pops never lived in Chicago."

  "He met her while he was there on a business trip. He spent two weeks in Chi-Town, back in the summer of 74

  "1974?" Gabriel was so shaken he couldn't think straight, but Mom and Pops had married in '72-he remembered that much. "No. Mom and Pops were married in '72."

  Isaiah made a tsk-tsk sound. "Come on, are you really that naive? Do you think our father never messed around?"

  "Pops would never cheat on Mom," Gabriel said, but his defense sounded feeble, even to him.

  "You think he's a saint or something? Our dad's a man. Every man, given the opportunity, is gonna cheat"

  "Not every man," Gabriel said absently. In spite of himself, he was remembering things. He'd never seen Pops cheat on his mother, never heard of such a thing happening but he'd been lying if he said he thought it wasn't possible. He'd noticed, many times over the years, how Pops liked to flirt with women when he and Gabriel were in public together. In particular, Pops had always loved the strip clubs: Magic City, Club Nikki, Jazzy T's; when one club would close, Pops would find another spot. He'd take Gabriel with him to those places to discuss business. "Boys' Night Out," he'd call them, and while they discussed company matters, Pops would spend hundreds of dollars-sometimes thousands-on lap dances and special attention. And the dancers and club owners knew Pops well. He was a regular, a great customer whom they made sure went home happy.

  Gabriel had never told his mother about their gentlemen's club business outings. He figured Mom probably knew. He'd assure himself that it wasn't as though Pops was really cheating on his mother frequenting a strip club didn't mean he was fooling around-but Gabriel, watching how much Pops enjoyed the attention of the ladies, could not help but wonder if Pops had ever taken his fascination with other women to the next level....

  "You're starting to admit it to yourself, aren't you?" Isaiah asked wi
th a knowing smile. "I see the gears turning in your head. You know our father is a player."

  "I haven't admitted anything to you"

  "Chew on this, Gabe. My birthday is June sixth. I turned thirty yesterday. Just like you."

  Another blow rocked Gabriel. He reared back in his chair.

  "How'd you know that?" Gabriel asked.

  "A little research" Isaiah waved his hand to indicate the framed magazine and newspaper articles about Gabriel and his father. "You've been written up quite a bit over the years, Mr. Black Enterprise."

  "You and I having the same birthday doesn't mean anything."

  "What time were you born?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know, a few minutes after midnight--"

  "I was born one minute after midnight," Isaiah said. He grinned. "That makes me older than you; that makes you my baby brother, and it makes me our father's firstborn"

  "It makes you a goddamn liar!" Gabriel shot to his feet and reached for the phone again. "I've heard enough of this shit. If you're trying to extort money, we'll-"

  "T.L. already paid me"

  "What?" Gabriel stopped short of grabbing the phone.

  "Three months ago, I contacted our father for the first time. I'd always wanted to talk to him, but Mama would say he didn't want anything to do with me, that I'd only get my feelings hurt. But I couldn't hold back any more-I'd gone through some rough shit and had to find out the truth on my own. So I called him. Want to know what happened?"

  Gabriel didn't say a word. He was feeling ill.

  "T.L. paid me fifty grand to stay away from him and his family," Isaiah said. "He didn't want to meet me. Nothing. He just wanted to pay me off to stay the hell out of his life. I gave all the money to Mama. She deserved it for all the shit she put up with over the years" Anger flared in Isaiah's eyes.

  Gabriel sagged into the chair.

  The ground was crumbling away, piece by agonizing piece.

  Isaiah rose. He dug his hands deep in his pockets and paced across the floor. "You have no idea how bad Mama and I had it. Growing up in the projects" His gaze found Gabriel, but Isaiah seemed to be looking through him, seeing other places and people. "Mama worked two jobs, sometimes three, to make ends meet. Shitty jobs, man. Cleaning white folks' houses and waiting tables and changing pissy bedpans at nursing homes for smelly-ass old people. But it was never enough. We were always on the edge. And be cause Mama worked so much, she wasn't around much for me, so, of course, I got into my share of trouble."