Angel's Revenge

RAHMAN
CHAPTER SIX

Daddy!” the three tiny voices cried in unison.

Rahman kneeled to receive his three children, Ali, six, Aminah, five, and Anisa, three, as they ran to embrace their father. They smothered him with a collective hug, then he scooped them up in his big arms.

He was free.

He stood with the ominous structure of the federal courthouse in downtown Newark behind him. Rahman had won his appeal and was walking away a free man. He didn’t want his family in the courthouse and opted instead for them to await the decision outside.

“Mr. Rahman Muhammad, you are free to go,” the judge stated. It was a dream come true. Night after night he had dreamed those very words. Yet to hear the judge actually speak them brought tears to his eyes.

Free.

Rahman stepped down the courthouse steps like a slave unsure of his emancipation. For three years he had been told when to eat, sleep, get up, wash his ass, and move. To have his rights restored was truly a divine blessing. He vowed never to forget his ordeal and all he had endured.

Rahman smothered his babies with tears and kisses, “As-Salaamu Alaikum!”

“Alaikum As-Salaamu!” his children cried.

“Welcome home, Abu!” Ali told him, happy to have his daddy back.

Rahman looked up at his beautiful wife standing by their forest-green Escalade. Ayesha was dressed in a flowing powder-blue dress that covered her to the ankles. Her kemar was the same blue, and she wore a veil that covered her face but showed her eyes. The veil wasn’t necessary in Islam, but she had worn the veil for three years because her husband was imprisoned and away from her and their family. It was her own vigil and her way of representing him. Now that he was home, she stripped it away to embrace him with her smile.

He put the children down and pulled Ayesha to him.

“You know we’re not suppose to be out here in public like this,” she said, wanting to hold him in her arms on the spot but knowing they should wait to be in private before hugging and kissing.

“Ayesha, after these past three years, you can’t ask me to wait,” he said, holding her close and hugging her.

“You are my peace,” she whispered in his ear while rubbing her face on his.

Ayesha had maintained a perfect Muslim household. For Rahman’s entire incarceration, she religiously made the journey, first to Lewisburg then to Atlanta, twice a month, flying with her brother and her children. She endured the nasty attitude of racist COs, the violation of her privacy by female COs, and the harassment of the federal prison system to bring her man all her love each time. Not just for him, but for herself as well. Rahman was truly her peace, and after dealing with the trials and tribulations of day-to-day life, she needed her man’s strength and warmth. To have him again in her arms was almost too much to bear. So great was the miracle, so much all at once, all she could do was cry tears of happiness, relief, and most of all love.

“Don’t cry, ma. It’s over. We never gon’ be apart. I’m here, and I’ll never leave you again,” he said, kissing her face all over.

“What’s wrong with Ummi, Abu?” Aminah, the curious one, questioned. Rahman smiled, kissed Ayesha on the forehead, and said, “Ummi’s fine, Minah. She’s just happy daddy’s home.”

Rahman went to the masjid first, as most Muslims do, or should do, when returning home from a journey. He prayed his return prayer and when he finished, he got up to a rousing chorus of Takbir and Allah Akbar. The other Muslims who attended his masjid knew he was on his way home, but to actually see him made them excited. He had been in touch with many of them while locked away. He had helped a lot of families and the masjid by building a children’s school and paying for roofing and plumbing repairs.

“All praise is due to Allah! My man’s home!” Salahudeen shouted as he hugged Rahman. Salahudeen was an ex-kickboxer. He used to travel in the same circles with Akbar’s people and would serve as Rahman’s right hand.

Salahudeen was followed by Hanif and Mustafa, both reformed gangsters now in the independent oil fragrance business. They all greeted Rahman.

“See how Ock do us? Don’t even tell nobody he out so a brother could be prepared,” Hanif commented.

“A Muslim is always prepared,” noted Rahman.

“No doubt, no doubt! This is true,” Hanif agreed. “But are you prepared to put this thing of ours in motion?”

“Insha Allah,” Rahman said to Mustafa.

“Aiight, dig. Let’s go up to my spot. I already talked to…” Salahudeen began to explain, because he was always about business.

Rahman laughed.

“Whoa, Ock. Slow your roll. I ain’t been home yet! My family’s in the car waiting for me.”

“My bad, my bad. Your wife does have rights over you,” Salahudeen said.

“Three years’ worth of rights,” Hanif joked.

“Exactly! You might not see me for another three years, either, messin’ with Ayesha.”

The brothers laughed together knowing what it was like to finally be home from a prison stay.

“Just gimme a week,” Rahman told them. They all agreed and dispersed.

On his way out the door, Rahman spotted Hakim coming in. Hakim was an older brother with salt-and-pepper hair. He was also Young World’s father. Rahman felt apprehensive as the man approached him, but he had no intention of avoiding him.

“It’s good to see you home,” Hakim said politely as he firmly shook Rahman’s hand.

“It’s good to be home,” Rahman replied. “You look good.” The brief silence between them was awkward.

Hakim smiled knowingly. “Ahkee, believe me. I don’t blame you for Shahid. By Allah, I don’t. It was the life he chose to lead,” Hakim explained softly. He knew Rahman’s part.

“I know, but…”

Hakim placed a warm hand on Rahman’s shoulder, and although he was five inches shorter, the respect Rahman had for him made them look at each other as if they were eye to eye.

“Allah knows best. All I ask is that you stand firm, okay? These streets are man-eaters, black man-eaters. Stand firm and that’ll convince me that you are sincere.”

Rahman took the lesson with him out the door.

For the next seven days, Rahman’s family was in heaven. The children had their daddy back and Ayesha had her husband home. He spent his days playing with the children and his nights with Ayesha. He was finally able to lead his family in prayer, something he had neglected to do during his life in the game and something he had longed to do when he was in prison.

The return was bittersweet. Sweet because he was where he had prayed to be night after night. Bitter because he had missed so much.

Anisa, his baby girl, was born the night he was arrested by the Feds. He had missed the first three years of her life, footsteps to words. Ali and Aminah were only two and three years old when he left, and although they were still young, he had missed seeing them develop.

Rahman knew he couldn’t make up for lost time, but he planned on making the most of every moment.

“Is it over?” Ayesha asked him one morning after prayer.

They stood together watching the sunrise from their bedroom balcony. Rahman stood behind her with his arms wrapped around her and hers wrapped around him.

“You ain’t gonna pass out again, are you?” Rahman joked. She elbowed him in the stomach. “Ow!”

“Then stop playin’ and answer my question.”

Rahman understood what she was asking. She wanted to know if he was through with the game. She knew of his plans, but she also knew the man her husband was and the man he was struggling to become.

“Yeah, boo. It’s over.”

She turned to look him in the eye. “No… I mean over. Over. All of it. Is this plan of yours gonna become another game? Another thing to take you away from me?” Ayesha questioned, searching his eyes for the answers.

Rahman caressed his wife’s cheek.

“Nothing can take me from you.”

“You once told me you couldn’t be a gangsta and a Muslim at the same time.”

“I remember.”

“Well, which do you choose now?”

Rahman looked away toward the rising sun.

“Muslim.”

“But this thing you got going on, these big plans. They will take you right back to the same streets and the same world,” Ayesha warned, hoping he had carefully considered what he was doing before making a final decision. She turned his face to hers.

“Rahman, I know you want to do right and I know you want to help as many as you can. But, baby, please don’t do anything that’s going to jeopardize our family. I don’t know what I would do if they took you away from me again.”

Tears trekked down her cheek and onto Rahman’s chest as he held her tight.

“I can’t survive another bid. Please. I can’t do this thing called life by myself because you want those streets. You can’t keep asking me to,” she said, angry at the past three years without him.

“I won’t,” his mouth said, but it was a statement he knew his heart couldn’t follow.

“To get rich or die tryin’ is the motto of fools and clowns,” Rahman bellowed to the crowd around him.

He was in Salahudeen’s martial arts studio on South Orange Avenue. He was surrounded by more than fifty street vendors. Hanif and Mustafa were there. Rahman paced the floor slowly, looking from face to face like a general addressing his army.

“Why? It’s simple… you can’t take it with you.”

A few heads laughed.

“No! You get power or die tryin’ because either way, you make a change. Power brings riches but riches don’t always bring power.”

He let his jewel sink in before continuing.

“The oil fragrance business has always been a good hustle. On every corner in every major city there’s a Muslim pushin’ ’em. But up until now, it’s only been nickels and dimes. You know why? No organization. If we organized it efficiently, we would be talking millions of dollars nationwide. Who ain’t tryin’ to touch that?”

“Holla back!”

“The man’s a genius!”

Rahman grinned.

“Okay then. This is why you’re here. We about to lock down the oil fragrance trade across the East Coast, starting today in Newark. And whoever rolls wit’ us, I can guarantee to double your profit margin, Insha Allah.”

“Then let’s double up!”

“I’m prepared to give each of you five thousand dollars to purchase oils for your businesses. The conditions, however, are that you will order from one supplier, once a month, and at the same time, regardless of inventory. You will also order a minimum amount and spend a minimum amount of money every month regardless of inventory. Once we increase volume, our prices will be reduced and our profit margins will increase.”

“Takbir!”

“Allah Akbar!”

“Didn’t I say the man’s a genius?!”

The voices rose into a cacophony of enthusiasm. Rahman signaled for them to quiet down.

“Hold up a minute. Let me finish. Now, each of you will remain independent but central control remains with Salahudeen. What he says is law. Period. Any objections?”

He looked around, but no one spoke.

“Same thing with clothes. One supplier, same stipulations. Any objections?”

Silence once again filled the air.

Rahman signaled to Hanif and Mustafa to begin passing out envelopes filled with five-thousand dollars to each man.

“I hope y’all accept cash because my money don’t agree with the Kufar’s banks,” he announced, but no one minded.

Once they were passed out, Rahman continued.

“You all are proud shareholders in our vendor franchise. But one last thing. If anyone buys from another supplier or in any way violates our agreement, we’ll expect our five grand back on the spot. If you don’t have it, forfeit your corner. We move as one, so there’s only two sides and you’re either with us or against us.” Rahman’s imposing stature gave his last words their needed emphasis.

The meeting ended and the men filed out, all except for Rahman’s team.

“Phew! I never gave away two hundred grand so quickly, yo,” Hanif commented, tossing the empty bag aside.

“In six months, our investment will easily triple based on the volume Newark does daily,” Rahman informed them. He had done the calculations and configurations and had it all figured out.

“Mustafa, I hope your peoples can handle this kind of weight.”

“Can they? They got barrels and barrels of oils, shipped straight from Arabia,” Mustafa said.

Rahman turned to Salahudeen.

“What’s next?”

“I talked to them guys on Eighteenth Avenue. They willin’ to sell the block for a buck-fifty.”

“A hundred and fifty grand?” Rahman asked, rubbing his beard as he thought for second. “All right, cool. Make it happen, and Sal?”

Salahudeen looked at him.

“Please tell them dudes business is business. Once the block is ours, not one rock touches Eighteenth Avenue, all right?” Rahman warned.

Salahudeen winked.

“Come on, Ock. Who gonna try and cross One-eyed Roc?” Salahudeen joked. Rahman chuckled.

“Okay, now it’s party time. Salahudeen, call the brothers. We goin’ to a strip club.”

Hanif’s eyes grew as wide as dinner plates.

“Yo, Ock. I know you been gone awhile, but a strip club?”

“It’s a Muslim party, yo,” Rahman told the huge muscle-bound bouncer at the door. They were outside the Diamond Club. The parking lot was packed with niggas coming to get their freak on along with the thirty-five Muslims, give or take a few, who stood shoulder to shoulder, keeping order. The bouncer looked at the solemn-faced brothers then back at Salahudeen and Rahman as another bouncer hurried to the door. Both of the men looked like black Arnold Schwarzeneggers.

“What the fuck? Y’all on some bullshit! Get the fuck outta here before I lose my patience,” the first bouncer barked, standing toe-to-toe with Rahman. Rahman took a step closer to the bouncer, tensing his muscles, ready for action.

“Eighteenth Avenue is under new management, brother. Now, let me in to see Freddie. Tell him One-eyed Roc is here.”

The second bouncer recognized the name instantly.

“Ay, yo, Roc. We don’t want no problems. We just tryin’ to do our jobs.”

“Well do ’em and go talk to Freddie before I lose my patience,” Rahman retorted calmly.

The second bouncer disappeared inside the doorway while the other bouncer continued to glare at Roc. He could feel the bulge of his nine in its holster and he was itching for a reason to pull it out.

The second bouncer came back and tapped the first on the shoulder. “It’s cool, Joe. Freddie said let ’em in.”

Rahman and Salahudeen moved to enter, but the man put his hand on Salahudeen’s chest. His intention was to stop him and scan him for weapons, but he didn’t get a chance to speak. He heard so many guns lock and load, the metallic clicks echoed through the parking lot like the breaking of a thousand twigs. Upset, but not stupid, the bouncer slowly removed his hand from Sal’s chest, and Salahudeen and Rahman entered the club.

As they walked through the double doors, Rahman looked around at all the women. They were dancing on stages, on tables, on laps, upside down, on their knees. He shook his head as the bodyguard escorted them to Freddie’s office. Rahman didn’t stop and knock. He turned the knob and let himself in.

“Roc, baby! How you doin’, son?” Freddie chimed nervously.

Freddie was a tall, lanky, light-skinned brother. He stood up and rounded his desk, adjusting his Cartier frames. He held out his hand to Rahman, but Rahman didn’t take it. Instead, Rahman said, “You’re closed.”

The bodyguard had already informed Freddie of what was going on. Freddie knew Roc and he knew what Roc was capable of. He didn’t want any part of the gangsta.

“Closed?” Freddie echoed. “What’s the problem, Roc? What I do? How you gonna come up in my…”

That was all he was able to get out before Roc open-handed him so hard his glasses flew off his face and smashed against the wall. Freddie fell back against the desk. The bodyguard tried to make a move on Roc, but Salahudeen delivered a vicious blow to his kidneys. The bodyguard doubled over but quickly recovered and charged Salahudeen like a bull. Sal was only six feet tall and 175 pounds at best. But what the bodyguard didn’t know was that Sal was a lethal weapon. Salahudeen sidestepped the oncoming assault and followed with a leg sweep that sent the bodyguard crashing headfirst into the door. He then grabbed the man’s dazed head and rammed his knee up into his face, twice. Blood covered Salahudeen’s pant leg as he released the unconscious body to slump to the floor. Meanwhile, Rahman had snatched Freddie off the desk by the throat and pinned him to the wall, trembling with rage.

“You heard me, nigga! I said closed! Out of business! Ain’t gonna be no strip club on Eighteenth Avenue. Either pack up or die!”

Freddie was terrified. He couldn’t understand what was going on. All he could think was that Roc wanted the business for himself, or maybe he was on some extortion quest. Freddie was willing to pay.

“Come on, Roc, man. Is it money, man? You wanna piece of my hustle?” Freddie asked with his mouth bloody.

“Hustle! Hustle? Nigga, you ain’t no hustler, you a pimp! A hustler, I respect. But a pimp, I’ll kill in front of his mama! Get out and if you even breathe something to the police, I’ll murder you and your family. Understood?” Rahman asked, throwing Freddie against a file cabinet. It crashed to the floor. Freddie quickly got up and staggered out the door.

“Clear the club and bring the girls in the back,” Rahman told Salahudeen. The Muslims moved into the club in an orderly fashion. Salahudeen grabbed the mic from the deejay.

“The Diamond Club is officially closed for good. All y’all trick-ass niggas get out and all y’all females, if you want a thousand dollars, get dressed and meet us in the dressing room.”

Niggas yelled obscenities and threats, but a room filled with gun-toting Muslims helped move things along at a rapid pace.

While the brothers cleared the club, Salahudeen and Rahman entered the dressing room where all fifteen strippers waited patiently to learn what it was they had to do for a thousand dollars. As soon as money was mentioned, they hurried and covered themselves, dressing either in their clothes or in a robe. Only two girls remained as they were, bare-breasted and wearing thongs.

Any man would’ve been sexually aroused by a room full of exotic dancers. But the Muslims weren’t. They were enraged. Enraged by what the ghetto had done to the sisters sitting there with their falsely arched eyebrows, falsely tinted eyes, and dangling hair weaves. They looked like mannequins, mere shells of their beautiful black selves. Salahudeen gave them all a thousand dollars, and Rahman handed a robe to the two girls with exposed breasts.

“Cover yourself, ma. Ain’t no tricks back here,” he said, turning to another female in a weblike dress that barely covered her ass. “And you, put some clothes on.”

“I got some clothes on,” she retorted with an attitude. To her, there was nothing wrong with the way she was dressed.

“Sal, show her the door, please,” he said extending another hundred dollars, which she took from his hand. She looked at the eleven hundred dollars she was holding and realized her mouth had gotten her into trouble.

“Ay, yo. I’m sor-”

“Sal, the door,” Rahman repeated, and turned his back to her.

She sucked her teeth and stormed out. The other girls without robes or coats quickly covered themselves. They certainly weren’t tryin’ to piss the nigga off, especially since he was so free with his money. They definitely wouldn’t make the same mistake. Besides, if they could take their clothes off for tens and twenties, they could damn sure put them on for gees and cees.

“Is this what you want?” Rahman’s voice boomed, waving more money in the air. “Is this what your dignity is worth? They pay you to take it off so you can sell your soul to the highest bidder? You call that independence?” he asked, looking around the room, shaking his head in disgust. He looked at one of the girls, who couldn’t have been more that eighteen or twenty.

“Why you a stripper?”

“ ’Cause I’m grown,” she snapped with attitude.

Turning to a Puerto Rican girl sitting in the corner, he asked, “What’s your name?”

“Mona.”

“Why you strip?”

“Bills. A checkout girl at Pathmark don’t pay ’em,” she replied.

“I can dig it,” Rahman agreed. He turned his attention to a tall red bone.

“How much you make a week?”

“Two gees,” she said, lying through her teeth.

“Tops, fifteen hundred,” he surmised, recognizing game. “Now back to Miss Grownie Pants,” he said to the young girl. “You like bein’ a stripper? You like niggas treatin’ you like a piece of meat? A slut?”

“I ain’t no slut,” she spat. “I’m an exotic dancer, and no, I don’t like it. But I got two babies that tell me I ain’t got no choice.”

“What if I offered you a job?”

“What kind of job?” Miss Grownie Pants asked skeptically.

“One that doesn’t involve sex, drugs, or disrespect. Jobs for beautiful black queens and bonita latinas,” he said, smiling at Mona. “Making double what you make at the club.”

“Hol’ up,” the tall red bone spoke up. “What’s wrong with being a dancer? My body is my asset, just like an athlete’s. I like to dance. I like-”

“Then go dance, mami,” he said, throwing a hundred dollars in her lap.

Red bone rolled her eyes and tucked the money in her ample bosom on the way out the door.

“Anybody want to go with her?”

Nobody made a sound.

“You work for me, you work by my rules. Rule number one, don’t question me and play your position. I promise you, I’ll never ask you to do anything illegal or immoral. I’m a Muslim concerned with my nation. It’s my duty to provide. I’m not here to judge you. You wanna be a boy toy, there’s the door. But if you want to hold your head high because of who you are, then trust me.”

He looked from face to face. He could tell the women were used to being abused and tricked by so-called players and bitch-ass niggas. They had never met a sincere man who truly wanted to help them. His honesty, even more than the thousand dollars he had given them, made the women listen to him further.

In the next month and a half, Rahman expanded his circle of control to three more blocks, buying them to be drug free. His oil enterprise flourished and cash began to flow. The strippers had all been employed. Some had been hired to cook and care for the elderly in the neighborhood while others were hired as childcare for working mothers. The word spread about the jobs the Muslim brothers were offering, and Rahman ended up hiring fifteen more girls all out of his own pocket.

Even Miss Grownie Pants was won over by his strength and commitment to the community. He didn’t deal with the women directly, but Miss Grownie Pants always watched him, admiring the big man she had nicknamed Sugar Bear. She liked the way the Muslims carried themselves with high regard and respect for one another and their wives. She was curious about the lifestyle she had heard so much about, so she started asking questions.

One day, Rahman was walking down the street and heard a soft voice.

“As-Salaamu Alaikum.”

He turned around to find Miss Grownie Pants dressed in a loose-fitting jogging suit and kemar.

“Miss Grownie Pants?” he asked with surprise.

“My name is not Miss Grownie Pants. It’s Sonia. But you can call me Jamillah,” she said, smiling from ear to ear. It almost brought tears to his eyes. Every dime he had spent was worth that one moment.

“Al-hum-dil-li-lah,” he said to her before parting ways.

Everything was going smoothly. The money was slow but steady, and the community was thriving. It had become safe for small children to play outside. The streets were calm. Even the elderly were out on their stoops. People seemed happier. The small-time hustlers who once occupied the neighborhood’s corners weren’t making any noise. They knew who they were dealing with. The community knew him as Rahman, but the streets remembered him as Dutch’s vicious lieutenant.

But the real test lay ahead.

For now, Rahman was satisfied. He felt humble but powerful, quiet but strong. He felt like Dutch.

In an ironic way, Rahman owed his plan to Dutch. He’d never forget the day they all met to discuss the murder of Kazami. Rahman remembered his reluctance and apprehension to take such a bold step. Dutch’s words made him realize his own power.

It ain’t what can we do, it’s what can’t we do.

That was the attitude of men who made things happen instead of waiting for things to happen to them. Those words had given birth to Rahman’s plans to rid the black community of the poison that plagued it.

Poverty.

It wasn’t drugs or crime that were to blame. It was poverty and desperation. Rahman figured if Dutch could infest the city with his strategy, then he could clean it up with his own.

“There go my baby!”

He heard a female’s voice shouting as he stood on the corner talking to a few young hustlers. He turned around to find Angel.

“What’s up, boooooo?” she sang as she climbed out of the drop-top Jag. She was dressed in cuffed D &G jeans and a crisp white vee-neck T-shirt. Her hair was pinned back by Dior sunglasses, and she walked with a confident strut.

“I know, I know Muslims can’t hug she devilz,” she joked, slurring the words. “But you know I wanna wrap myself around yo’ big ass!”

Rahman chuckled, uncertain what to say.

“Look at you! You got all fat,” she said, poking his stomach.

“How you, ma? What’s good?” he asked, hoping she couldn’t tell he had been caught off-guard by her presence.

Rahman had heard about Angel teaming up with Roll, and his old dark side wondered why she was dealing with a sucka like him, especially after he found out Roll had Young World killed. Roll’s blocks were definitely on his hit list.

“I’m good. But word up, papi. I am so mad wit’ you. I can’t believe you been out all this time and you ain’t even holla!” Angel said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I just can’t believe that!”

“I’m sayin’, I been kinda caught…”

“Caught nothin’. Don’t front, nigga. You been gone three years, and Ayesha had that ass on lock!”

They both laughed.

The truth was he had been avoiding her and avoiding what a meeting with her meant. He didn’t know, but Angel had been doing the same thing. She had heard about Roc’s community actions. She remembered all his letters from prison. But she thought it was just the bars talking. She didn’t think he would actually come home and put it down.

The time had come for two old friends to have a meeting of the minds.

“On the real, though. It’s good to see you. What you up to now? Let’s go get something to eat. And don’t worry, I don’t eat pork either,” she said with a smile.

Rahman glanced at his watch.

“Yeah, we can do that. Gimme about twenty minutes.”

“Aiight, cool. Meet me at Applebees.”

“Insha Allah.”

Rahman arrived at the restaurant first. The sun was setting and his eyes stayed glued to the window. The Applebees happened to be across the street from University Hospital, the hospital where he had been shot by the Feds.

Freeze!

The bullet didn’t freeze him. It jolted his inebriated mind into a painful sizzle. The bullet wound burned his flesh. He lay on the hard asphalt, blood gushing from his wound, looking up at the night stars wondering, Is this the end?

“Kinda ironic, huh?”

He heard Angel’s voice, and it brought him out of his thoughts.

“Ironic?” he repeated.

“We’re both back where it all ended,” Angel said, sliding into the booth across from him. “And where it all begins,” she added, getting comfortable.

“For who?”

“For us. Me and you, Roc. We grand champions in this game, and it’s time to put it down like true thoroughbreds.”

“And Roll? He a true thoroughbred, too?” Rahman smirked.

Angel sucked her teeth then sipped her water. “He’s a pawn. A fuckin’ fat, black, fake-ass Biggie-lookin’ pawn. He thinks I’m givin’ when I’m really takin’. I got him so twisted, he don’t know if he comin’ or goin’,” she boasted nonchalantly, then added sincerely, “but this thing ain’t right without you, bro.”

“Would you like to order?” the waitress asked politely.

“Just coffee,” Rahman replied.

“And you?”

“Same thing,” Angel told the waitress, watching as she walked away.

“Come on, Angel. You know where I’m at. You been hearin’ about me just like I been hearin’ about you. You know what I’m doin’ and it ain’t a game, it ain’t a joke, and it ain’t a front for somethin’ else,” he explained.

Angel lit up a cigarette, trying to conceal it from view.

“It may not be a joke, Roc, but you can’t be serious. Muthafuckas been gettin’ high since the beginning of time and ain’t shit gonna change that, no matter how many blocks you buy, or strip clubs you… strip,” she said, hitting her cigarette and blowing the smoke under the table. “You tellin’ me that ain’t gangsta? You fuckin’ gorilla’d him!” Angel laughed.

The waitress returned with their coffee.

“Thank you, sister,” Rahman said.

“You’re very welcome.” The waitress smiled, then walked away. Angel watched her again. Rahman stirred his coffee.

“I can’t stand a pimp, Angel. They ain’t nothin’ but leeches preying on our women. He had it comin’, and it wasn’t about bein’ gangsta.”

“Okay. You want certain blocks drug-free, cool. I feel you. I respect what you’re doin’, for real. But somebody, somewhere is gonna see it and somebody gonna buy it. Why not use that money and put it to good use?” she suggested.

“Blood money.”

“This is America, Roc. It’s all blood money. But look at what you can do with that blood money. I’m talkin’ controllin’ it all-boy, girl, E, and smoke, brick to bottle,” Angel said.

But Rahman shot right back. “I’m talkin’ ’bout the same thing except it’s legal. We control every dollar, not just drug money, but a piece of every dollar in the community. Off all alone, we bring in over three hundred grand every six months.”

“Three hundred?” she said, her voice rising, but she caught herself. “Three hundred grand! Roc, we used to piss that. I still piss that,” Angel said as she realized he was definitely thinking on a smaller level than he once used to. She smashed her cigarette under her boot.

“My little three to you is a start for me.”

“Then we right back where we were when we came in, a start. Me and you. I help you lock down the legal shit and you ride wit’ me on this thing of mine and together we got every angle covered.”

He sighed deeply. They were at a stalemate. They both had the same plan for different reasons and neither could convince the other to abandon theirs.

“Angel, it’s time to take the game to another level.”

“Exactly.”

“Not that game, the real game. That game you playin’ only keeps us trapped at the bottom of the barrel,” he said, trying to reason with her.

“Listen, it was good seeing you, but…”

He stood up and Angel smiled at him.

“I love you, nigga. And I don’t care what you say. One-eyed Roc is somewhere in that belly of yours. I’ma make him come out if it’s the last thing I do.”

“As-Salaamu Alaikum.”

“Siempre.”

Rahman backed out in his Cadillac Deville, watching Angel through the plate-glass window of the restaurant. Their eyes spoke a language of their own and the words of Nas echoed in his mind. Love changes, a thug changes, and best friends become strangers.

Angel meant what she said and was determined to bring out the One-eyed Roc she once knew. She just hoped he came out for her and not against her, because if that happened, things could get very ugly.

He took the longer way back home, driving slowly in deep contemplation. The visit with Angel had been planned. She wanted to feel him out, see what he was doing, hear what he had to say, and see if he was serious. Now that she knew, what would be her next move?

He had purposely avoided the hottest drug blocks run by the bigger dealers. Sooner or later, however, he’d have to deal with them, whoever they were, even Angel. He knew what she was capable of, because he had taught her. In Dutch’s organization, he had been the problem-solver. Now that he had become a problem for her, he wondered if she would try to use his own tactics against him.

One-eyed Roc is somewhere in that belly…

Her words struck a chord within him, because she was right. He had felt it that night at the strip club, the way his temper took control, the assault on Freddie. He was on a mission and was prepared to use any means necessary to accomplish it. He prayed he wouldn’t have to be Roc to do so.

Rahman checked his rearview mirror several times and made the unnecessary wrong turns until he was certain he wasn’t being followed. He took the same precautions every night and he wasn’t being followed.

Or so he thought.

He pulled up to his spacious but modest home. It wasn’t far from Newark and offered a peacefulness that Newark couldn’t provide. The house was a two-story, five-bedroom brick structure with a large basement that he used for study and prayer.

Rahman entered his home and smiled at the sounds of Ayesha being Mommy.

“Ali! Where is your other shoe and why is this one on the wrong foot?”

“Aminah got it!” Ali squealed.

“Aminah!”

Rahman went into the living room and greeted his family, but Ayesha detected a problem.

“Ali, go get your shoes, boy, and put them on,” Ayesha ordered.

“Okay, Mommy,” he replied, hobbling off in search of his sister with his other shoe.

Ayesha laced her fingers around Rahman’s neck.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” Rahman responded, not realizing his face had betrayed his mental state.

Ayesha smirked knowingly. “That knot in your brow.”

“What knot? I’m smilin’,” he said, putting on a happy face.

“Every smilin’ face ain’t a happy face.”

“Being home makes me happy.”

She saw that he was being evasive, so she changed the subject.

“Are you hungry? I made hamburgers for the kids, but I could whip you up something.”

“A burger would be fine. In fact, let me serve you tonight, my queen,” he said, and scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the kitchen.

“And to what do I owe this honor?” she asked, although she wasn’t surprised. Rahman was a wonderful husband who never forgot the little things.

He sat her at the kitchen table.

“It’s the way of the Prophet, peace be upon him. He helped his wives with household chores, right?”

“True… which reminds me, the dishes need washing, too.” She giggled.

Rahman took four burgers out of the skillet and put them on buns. He sat down with Ayesha, breaking off a piece of burger and placing it gently in her mouth.

“Oh, I know what this is.” Ayesha chewed.

“What is it?”

“You must know I saw your little girlfriend today.”

Rahman chuckled because he knew who she was referring to, Miss Grownie Pants. He also knew Miss Grownie Pants had a crush on him. He guessed his wife knew it, too.

“My little girlfriend? I have no girlfriends, only a wife. But I’m sure you think you know something, so please tell me,” he answered as Ayesha placed a piece of burger in his mouth.

“ ‘Oh, tell Rahman thank you so much. The kids loved the toys and they thank him so much. He’s a beautiful brother,’ ” Ayesha mocked in a high-pitched voice. “Then she had the nerve to ask, ‘Can’t a Muslim man have more than one wife?’ ” Ayesha snapped.

“Can’t they though? You let her know, right?” he asked jokingly, laughing at his wife’s stunned expression.

“Don’t play with me, Rah. Please! I don’t want to have to hurt you,” Ayesha warned, narrowing her almond-shaped eyes into evil slits.

“Yo, the presents weren’t given to that girl by me. They were donated. You know that. Brother Shamzadeen passed out presents to all the single Muslim mothers. Besides, I ain’t even seen that girl. But guess who I did see?” he asked, changing the subject to something relevant.

“Who?” Ayesha asked curiously.

“Angel.”

Ayesha glared at him. She knew what Angel was about, and she knew exactly what his seeing her meant.

“And?”

“And what? You know the rest ’cause you know Angel and you know me,” he said, shaking his head. “She down wit’ some kid named Roll. Roll’s the same dude who murdered Shahid, or so the streets say. I don’t know.” He sighed.

“So, what are you going to do about it?” Ayesha inquired with concern because she, too, could see the storm brewing.

“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

“You already there, honey. You already there.”

Rahman checked his watch.

“It’s time for prayer. Go on and get the babies ready.”

Ayesha let it go, trusting her husband to do the right thing and trusting in Allah to show him the way.

“Look at this muthafucka here! They can’t fuck wit’ Marbury. That’s right, give it to ’em!” Roll exclaimed as Marbury dunked the basketball and scored two points for the Knicks.

He, along with his wife, Renée, and Goldilocks sat in the luxurious skybox overlooking the arena at Madison Square Garden. It was outfitted with the amenities of wealth, courtesy of Gutter Records, a label his man owned, thanks to Roll. Roll had invested a lot of money in Gutter Records so his man gave him the skybox as a gift of appreciation.

Roll picked up a Cuban and lit it.

“I should buy a basketball team,” he said to no one.

Angel walked in and slammed the door. She went straight to the bar and poured herself a glass of Hennessey.

Roll glanced over his shoulder. “How’d it go?”

Angel eyed him over the rim of her tinted glasses. “That nigga really on that Muslim shit hard!”

Roll was amused. He thought prison had really broken Roc and mistook his change of allegiance for weakness.

“He’ll come around, though,” Angel assured him.

“I think it’s good what he’s doing. It’s about time somebody tried to do something to help the community and the poor,” Renée declared.

Roll looked at her as if she was crazy. “The fuckin’ community, the fuckin’ poor?” He snorted. “Bitch, since you so concerned, why don’t you donate some of those rocks you wearin’ on your fingers or that Benz you drivin’? Better yet, give the hood your shoppin’ money. Why don’t you do something since you think this nigga is so great?” Roll suggested.

“Look, you don’t have to get smart. I was just sayin’ that it’s a good thing the man tryin’ to do something to help the black community.”

“Renée, shut up,” Roll said, getting up. He walked over to the bar and sat next to Angel.

“So what’s the deal? He really tryin’ to clean up Newark? ’Cause if he come to my spots wit’ that bullshit, he can forget it.”

“I said he’ll come around.”

“And what if he don’t? Then what? I’ll tell you what. He’s gonna be a problem. Shit, he already is.” Roll spat, dropping his ashes into an ashtray on the countertop.

“I’ll take care of it,” Angel answered halfheartedly.

“Yeah, you gonna have to, ’cause if you don’t, I will,” Roll declared, then walked back to his seat to watch the game.

Angel couldn’t stand taking orders from Roll. He was obnoxious, fat, lazy, and arrogant for no reason. He had too many weaknesses, but it wasn’t time to reveal her hand, so she swallowed her tongue.

The blaring air horn sounded the end of the quarter. It was halftime.

“Roll, you worry too much. Look at you. You on top of the world, papi! And all the little people is scrambling for your crumbs.”

“I don’t worry. I prepare. That’s why I am who I am.”

“Well, tonight, I want to enjoy who you are,” Angel replied in a seductive tone that annoyed Renée.

Angel flipped on the stereo and popped in a reggae mix CD. The banging percussion instruments filled the skybox.

“Goldi, let’s give Roll a real halftime show.”

Goldilocks didn’t hesitate. She smirked at Roll, stood up, and joined Angel on the floor. She began kissing her mouth deeply, gyrating her hips inside her lambskin skirt, ass facing Roll. Renée and Roll looked on in amazement as Angel pulled up Goldilocks’s skirt to reveal a pink thong and pretty ass. She palmed Goldilocks and spread her cheeks for Roll to see Goldi’s pink and wet lower lips.

“Oh, hell no, bitch!” Renée shouted. “What the fuck do you think you doin’?”

Roll grabbed her hand and sat her back down. “Damn, Renée. Chill! She only dancin’.” Roll smirked as Renée boiled.

Goldilocks dropped into a squat and spread her legs in front of Roll. Her arms were back up around Angel’s neck. Angel fingered Goldilocks’s pussy, making her tremble and bite her tongue.

“It’s all about you, Roll,” Angel crooned as she slowly removed Goldilocks’s clothing until Goldilocks was completely naked.

“Ain’t she sexy, Roll? Ain’t my bitch sexy?” Angel asked.

Renée shot Roll an evil look. “Roland, I don’t appreciate this shit. I really don’t.”

“Shhh!” Roll snapped.

Goldilocks continued to dance and seductively wiggled her finger to beckon Roll.

“Dance, hell! You freaky bitches wanna fuck my man!” Renée protested.

“Aww, honey. You got it all wrong,” Angel assured her. “We don’t wanna fuck Roll. We wanna fuck you,” Angel said as she pulled off her shirt and Goldilocks pulled down her pants.

Roll was totally fucked up. He had wanted to fuck Angel for years, ever since he had first seen her. But he knew she was a dyke. But now, here she was, naked, in a skybox, conjuring up an orgy with his wife and her girlfriend. He was confused trying to figure out where he would fit in.

Does she mean she only wants Renée or does she want the both of us? he wondered.

“Me?!” Renée squealed, taken totally by surprise.

“What up, Nee?” Roll grinned lustfully. “You wit’ it?”

“Hell, no, I ain’t wit’ it! And I can’t believe you’d ask me some shit like that! I’m your wife, Roland, not them nickel bitches you be fuckin’!” she screamed at him.

Angel and Goldilocks, both completely naked, slowly approached Renée.

“Even more so why we should be able to do anything together. You my wife!” he screamed back, using reverse psychology. He was determined not to miss his chance. He couldn’t wait to stick his dick up in Angel and her girlfriend, and if the only way he could do it was through his wife, then she needed to get her ass in motion. “I do everything you ask me to, when you ask me to. Why you can’t do this for me? I want you to,” he said, convincing himself as he attempted to convince her.

Renée loved Roland and his money. It was true that he did everything under the sun for her and her children, even the ones that weren’t his.

Maybe if we do it together, he won’t cheat on me. He’ll cheat with me, she rationalized as she imagined Angel and Goldilocks up in her house with her man when she wasn’t home. He’s gonna fuck ’em regardless. He wants to fuck them. I could do it for him, she thought.

“Don’t worry, baby. We won’t hurt you,” Angel purred as she parted Renée’s thick caramel thighs. Renée’s skirt crept up her thighs as Angel bent over between her legs.

“Please, Roland,” Renée begged.

“Go ’head, yo,” he drooled, completely aroused.

Angel and Goldilocks each placed one of Renée’s legs over a shoulder and began to double-tongue her apprehensions away, two caressing tongues worked together for one common purpose.

Roll was too stupid to realize what the freak show would cost him.

Renée’s eyes rolled back into her head, and she mumbled incoherently. Angel sat up, straddled her lap, kissed her mouth deeply, and pinched her hard nipples teasingly while Goldilocks licked and sucked her pussy. Renée had never come so hard, or so quickly, in her life.

“Ohh, God!” she gasped as Angel pulled her to the floor on top of her. Roll couldn’t take seeing the three gorgeous bodies wrapped around each other.

“She’s all yours now,” Angel said, offering him his wife. Roll responded quickly, his dick rock hard. He dropped his pants and boxers to the floor and entered his wife doggie-style, keeping his eyes on Angel as he fucked his wife. For Roll, it was as if he was finally living out his fantasy with Angel, and he plowed into Renée even harder.

“Yes, Roland! Yes!” Renée screamed, gripping the carpet so hard she ripped off a nail.

“It’s all about you, Roll,” Angel repeated, feeling Goldilocks’s tongue across her nipple. “It’s all about you,” she repeated, licking her tongue at him before twirling it into Renée’s mouth. Roll exploded inside his wife, all the while fantasizing it was Angel taking his dick.

Angel had used his mind and another woman’s body to rock Roll to sleep. It was only a matter of time before she’d be in complete control.

“You love him don’t you.”

“Yeah.”

Goldilocks and Angel lay in bed during the wee hours of the morning. Angel had thought Goldilocks was asleep, but she wasn’t. She was well aware of Angel’s movements at all the times. She knew Angel was looking at the picture of her and Dutch at her twenty-first birthday party. It was something Angel did every night, almost like a prayer, and Goldilocks had gotten used to it.

Goldilocks rolled over onto her back.

“Let me see.”

Angel handed her the photo. Goldilocks had seen it a thousand times before, but she liked to admire Dutch’s features. He was definitely fine. His charisma seemed to ooze from the photo. She understood why Angel smiled every time she looked at him.

“You look so happy here,” Goldilocks remarked. “How can I make you happy like that?”

Angel looked at her lover with appreciation. Goldi was definitely riding with her to the end. She took the picture back, glanced at it, then replied. “When I was eight years old, my father raped me,” Angel stated flatly. “He called me his little angel, bounced me on his knee, kissed me, kissed me again, then slide his hand between my legs,” she said, her voice cracking with rage and resentment. “It wasn’t just once, either. It was a lot, and my mother, nada. She did nothing. She let him. She knew. She had to know. I know she knew what was happening to me, but she never helped me. She turned a deaf ear, a blind eye, and every week from when I was eight until I ran away from home at thirteen, he raped me. Sometimes it was two and three times a week. He would tell Mama he was putting me to bed and going to read me a bedtime story and not to disturb us during reading time. She would be in the next room. I thought that if I didn’t look like a cute little girl, he’d leave me alone. So, I started dressing like a boy. I figured he’d leave me alone if I looked like a boy. But it didn’t work. He still looked at me with that sinister lust in his eyes.”

Goldilocks laid her head on Angel’s chest and let Angel play with her locks.

“Every man I met, they always had that same lustful look in their eyes. I saw it in every one of them, and it always made me feel disgusting. My father made me feel disgusting. Dirty, ashamed, and I’m eight years old again, ya know?” Angel explained, trying to hold back all the emotions from the memories flooding back to her.

“Except for Dutch. He never looked at me like that. You know what I saw when I looked into his eyes?”

“What?”

“Aristocracy, beauty, and arrogance. They’re the only words that perfectly describe what I saw in him. He was the type of nigga you either fucked or feared, wanted to die for or despised and wished dead. He was the only man who ever saw me.”

Goldilocks understood perfectly. She, too, knew how it felt to be judged solely on looks and nothing else. She clearly understood how beauty could sometimes be a curse.

“Do you think he’s still alive?” Goldilocks asked, finally finding the opportune moment.

Angel paused and bit her bottom lip pensively. “I don’t know. But I just can’t believe he’s dead.”

“If he came back, would you be with him?”

“I’ll always ride with Dutch. But be with him like that? Naw, never. With you, always.”

Goldilocks smiled and kissed her softly.

“Besides, me and Dutch aren’t meant to be like that. I would never tell him my true feelings anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Because I, too, am an aristocrat. Besides, his heart belongs to someone else already.”

“Who?”

Close your eyes…

She did.

Imagine yourself in the place you most want to be and when you get there, imagine you see me.

She could feel the warmth of the pristine white sand beneath her bare feet, smell the fresh blue water, feel the mist hitting her face, and touch the warm frothy water running between her legs.

Now… open your mouth… just… a little… a little more.

She parted her succulent lips ever so slightly, just enough to let her tongue out or his in. He traced her lips gently with his thumb, causing her to quiver with anticipation.

I thought you… you were gone.

Did you really think I’d leave you?

The feathery touch of his fingertips across her cheek, down the nape of her neck, between her breasts, and to her belly button made her squirm. His kisses sent fire to every nerve ending in her body, from head to toe, releasing all of her pent-up emotions.

Pleasure.

Pain.

Joy.

Pain.

Ecstasy.

Pain.

Pain…

Where did you go?

She rode the rhythm of his tongue like a wave that engulfed her, threatening to carry her away. Then just like that…

He was gone.

“No!” she gasped and sat straight up in her bed, sweating and breathing hard. “But I lov…” Nina caught herself before she cried out.

Dwight rolled over.

“You okay, baby?” he asked groggily, still half sleep as he reached for her shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” she answered as he rolled over, too tired and sleepy to realize the distress she was in or what she had murmured before she woke him up.

In a cold sweat, thighs and panties soaked, she hugged herself and tried to shake off the feeling as she climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom. It was the third night in a row she had dreamed about Dutch, and she had had enough. Nina had to know the truth. Was he really dead? Was he somewhere out there, waiting for her, wanting her, dreaming of her, like she was of him?

She ran her fingers under the cold water and through her hair. Her life, after being so peaceful and tranquil for three years, had suddenly become one big question mark. It had all started with the flowers.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Nina’s assistant had said, sticking her head through the cracked doorway.

It was ten in the morning and Nina was already swamped.

“If it’s a call, take a message. If it’s a meeting, reschedule it. And if it’s a question, the answer is no,” Nina rattled, feeling grouchy.

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll say no to this. In here, gentlemen,” her assistant ordered.

Nina’s jaw dropped. Three deliverymen carried in dozens of beautiful bouquets of flowers, from roses to gardenias, lilies to orchids. Money had obviously not been a factor when the order had been placed with the florist.

“What is this? Am I opening up a floral boutique?” she asked in amazement. When all was done, over thirty floral arrangements in different crystal vases filled her office. The aroma of the freshly cut loveliness scented her office like an exotic potpourri. Her secretary wondered how she would be able to come and go with the flowers occupying every inch of space.

“Someone really loves you,” she said wistfully, wishing she had someone special to send her flowers.

One of the deliverymen returned with the last multicolored bouquet of what she thought were roses. When he handed them to her, Nina noticed they weren’t roses at all, but silk panties in various soft colors, balled up and cupped like roses and placed on artificial stems.

She took the bouquet of panties and thanked the deliverymen with a twenty-dollar tip. Then she picked up the attached card, opened it, and read: Who else?

That was what she wanted to know! Who would send so many flowers? The question galloped through her mind like a stampede of horses. Dwight? He couldn’t afford all of them. He didn’t make that much money in a month!

Dwight loved to surprise her, but he did so in simple, thoughtful ways. And always in person. He was hooked on how she thanked him. In fact, he surprised her all the time just for his “thank you.”

Nina had dated casually before Dwight, and some of the men had been extremely wealthy. But none of them would ever do this. None had been that serious about her. Besides, they were months in her past.

No. Whoever sent the flowers was a man sure of his place in her heart. Therefore, there would be no need for a signature.

There was only one man in her life who fit that description.

Who else?

It had been over a month since the CD incident, and Nina had all but forgotten it. She had explained it away even though it didn’t make sense. She refused to acknowledge what her heart yearned to accept. Now, standing in her own Garden of Eden, the thoughts she had suppressed sprang from her subconscious and filled her mind with endless possibilities.

We’ve just found the body of Bernard James. She silently recalled the moment when his death was announced. She had been on her way to the courthouse when she heard the news. Her body went limp as she heard the words. Bernard James, Jr., has been pronounced dead. His body has been recovered.

Nina thought of him and of what they shared and of what they would never share. It all died with him that day.

So who else?

“No,” she told herself, refusing to let her emotions take her back to that dismal place in time. Nina had learned to live without hope. She had learned to fulfill her own expectations. She was a woman who wanted to believe, but life had proven that believing was too painful. She had accepted her fate and no amount of flowers would ever change it.

I have to get rid of these. What if Dwight comes in here and sees them and they aren’t from him? But what if they are? she thought.

Instinct took over. She resolved to get rid of the evidence. Hope, in the form of bouquets, was like a dead body lying cold in the middle of her office. She had once killed it. Now she had to dump the body.

She called her secretary and told her that every desk, every teller station and every office was to have a bouquet. She kept only three for herself. Her office was back to its normal drab in less than an hour and hope’s body was safely buried around the bank. The bouquet of silk panties she stuffed in a drawer, mainly because she couldn’t find an appropriate place to put them.

Nina had always been honest with Dwight, because he deserved it. And she had never had anything to hide. Now she wasn’t so sure. Why did I give all my flowers away? Who else, yeah, who else would send me a thousand flowers? She couldn’t help but ponder.

Dwight loved her. He loved her body, every inch of her. He loved having sex with her. It was so much better with Nina than it had been with anyone before her. She was beginning to open up with him, beginning to be more sexually expressive and eager and willing to please him any way he asked her to. But he mistook her eagerness in bed, thinking it was about him, when in fact, Nina was pretending that it was Dutch she was fucking. Thinking of Dutch made her climax with ease. All she had to do was let him into her mind. If she was really there with Dwight, she’d be there all night trying. She told herself she wasn’t cheating. Dwight had her body. A dead man had her mind. How was that cheating?

“Girl, you are cheating if you are fuckin’ a nigga and thinking about somebody else’s dick runnin’ up in you. Say what you want, you know it’s true,” Tamika stated matter-of-factly before licking the rim of a walnut caramel ice cream cone.

“Whatever. You’re not cheating unless you’re fuckin’ someone else, period. It shouldn’t have anything to do with who you think about.”

“Well, do you be thinkin’ about the other person when you cum or are you connected to the person you actually fucking?” Tamika asked, trying to get Nina to be precise.

Nina sat back and just smiled. An honest answer to Tamika’s question would only make Tamika right, and Nina didn’t want her to be.

“Ohh, you are a nasty slut!” Tamika exclaimed excitedly, “I fuckin’ knew it. I knew it! You freaky heifer! I knew it! Who is it? Somebody at the bank? Somebody you just met? Girl, who is you really sleepin’ wit’? Tell me!” Tamika rattled.

“It’s nobody,” Nina lied. “It was just a question, gee willikers!” She shrugged and spooned out another bite of Häagen-Dazs into her mouth.

“Bitch, don’t give me the gee willikers routine. Just answer the question. Who do you be mind fuckin’ while Dwight bangin’ you out!”

“Shut up!” Nina giggled, kicking Tamika playfully.

“No for real, for real! It’s cheatin’!”

“How?” Nina challenged.

“Because how would you feel if Dwight told you the same shit like that?”

Nina didn’t respond.

“Well, as they say, if you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you wit’, right?” Tamika replied with ghettoified philosophy that led Nina right back to where she started.

And then it happened.

It was her twenty-sixth birthday. She and Dwight had planned a quiet evening at home instead of suffering the hustle and bustle of the city. A nice quiet evening of dining, courtesy of Mo Beys in Harlem. A bottle of Merlot and two tall white candles were neatly centered on the tablecloth.

The doorbell rang.

“I got it,” Nina chirped as she slid off the kitchen stool.

She padded to the door in her bare feet and T-shirt of Dwight’s that swallowed her like a dress.

“Who is it?” she asked, peering through the frosted glass of her front door.

Standing on her porch was an older white man in a chauffeur’s uniform. Behind him was the creamiest stretch white Rolls Royce she had ever laid her eyes on. She was expecting a delivery boy from Mo Beys.

“Celeste Martin?” the man asked, using her middle name instead of her first.

“Y… yes,” she replied nervously.

“Your limousine is ready,” he said, looking at her doubtfully.

Limousine? Who sent a limousine? Dwight? He’s over there ready to eat Mo Beys. Then she thought of the flowers and the card.

“Who sent you?” she questioned, looking at the driver strangely.

“Are you sure you’re Celeste Martin?” he probed, stepping back to check her house number. “According to the reservation, you requested our services.”

Dwight had come to the door when he heard a man’s voice. He looked out at the limousine and whistled.

“Damn, boo! You just full of surprises, huh?” Dwight smiled from ear to ear.

“Yeah, full of surprises,” Nina said, not having a clue and not wanting Dwight to ask too many questions.

“Well, Miss Martin. Are you ready?”

It was the same question she had asked herself.

“I’ll be ready shortly,” she said politely before closing the door.

After she quickly showered and dressed in a backless black dress and Gucci slingback heels, they drove to Dwight’s to get his best suit. Then they slipped into the luxurious Rolls Royce and glided off into the night.

The surprise had been meticulously planned. The driver had an itinerary. First, they were driven across the water to Manhattan where they were taken to Cipriani’s for dinner. Their next stop was Broadway for the play A Raisin in the Sun, where they had balcony seats.

After the play, they were escorted to Hue, a cozy little spot in the Village. The entire downstairs had been reserved for Nina. All the tables and chairs had been removed except for one in the middle of the room with a bottle of Louis XIII cognac waiting. They were shown their seats, then left alone. A man played the piano softly as a woman in a blue-sequined dress sang Nina Simone.

Someday, I know he’s comin’ back

To call me…

“May I have this dance, birthday girl?” Dwight proposed, reaching out his hand to her.

Why can’t he be Dutch?

The evening was so charming and so elegant, she wished terribly that the man dancing with her was the man she longed to be with. When she took Dwight’s hand, she pretended it was Dutch’s. When she reached around his neck, taking step after step with him, she continued to dream. If only it was him. The entire evening was a dream. For Nina, it really was Dutch who had placed his hand on her knee as they drove through the city streets in the glistening limousine. It was Dutch who tickled the inside of her palm during the play. And it was Dutch who scooped delicious spoonfuls of tiramisu into her mouth at Cipriani’s.

“Tonight has been the greatest night of my life, Nina. I can’t remember the last time I’ve enjoyed myself as much as I have tonight. Never have I known a woman who could compare to you, Nina. And if I had one wish, it would be that you would be my wife.”

Dwight.

His words were the words she had waited to hear her entire adult life. Tears welled in her eyes, tears Dwight mistook for happiness. But Nina cried because the words weren’t spoken by the man she loved but by Dwight.

Dwight unexpectedly dropped down on one knee and slid a two-carat round diamond ring on her finger. Again he mistook her tears for tears of joy and assumed that she had accepted his proposal.

Nina didn’t know what to say. How could she say no? How could she say yes? She glanced at the engagement ring.

“I love you, Nina. Happy birthday.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, unable to sleep. She looked at the alarm clock. The digital display read 3:06 a.m. She looked at the engagement ring in the dark. She had had enough.

Nina slid on her slippers and shuffled down the stairs to the den. She flipped on the light switch and took a seat at her desk. She placed her Rolodex in front of her and began flipping through the cards. Please don’t let me have thrown her number away. She flipped through the Rolodex until she reached the M’s.

Mitchell. Moore. Morgan. Murphy.

Delores Murphy, Dutch’s mother.

Nina grabbed the cordless phone from its base and took a deep breath. She looked at the phone. Should I call her? She’s going to think I’m crazy. She dialed the number anyway, hoping that the number had been changed or even disconnected. She glanced at the clock, noticing the time. It’s 3:22 in the morning. Maybe I should wait to call at a decent hour. It was inconsiderate and rude to ring anybody’s phone at that hour and she knew it, but the thumping in her chest wouldn’t allow her heart to wait. She dialed the number and listened as the phone rang.

“Hello?” a woman answered.

She didn’t sound at all irritated or groggy, especially considering it was the middle of the night. Her voice was casual, like she was wide awake and waiting for Nina’s call.

“Hello?” Delores Murphy repeated.

What should I say? Maybe this was all wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have called her. This is crazy! I’m calling a stranger in the middle of the night about a dead man. She’ll probably get upset. I don’t want to upset her,Nina thought.

“Miss Murphy?”

“Yes, who is this?” Delores asked, somewhat confused.

“My name is Nina, Nina Martin. You don’t know me but, um, I really need to talk to you.” Nina sighed.

“About?” Delores replied, already knowing exactly who Nina was and what her phone call was about.

“Well, you see, I’m a… well, I was a friend of Bernard’s.”

“I see.”

There was a long pause as Delores tried to figure out exactly what the girl wanted. Nina simply wanted to hang up, run back upstairs, jump in her bed, and hide under the covers, but she had to know.

“Miss Murphy?”

“I’m still here.”

“I don’t know how to say this, but a lot of things have been happening around me and…” Nina’s voice trailed off.

“When would you like to meet?” Delores asked invitingly, figuring Nina needed someone to talk to.

“Now,” Nina blurted.

Poor girl, she can’t even sleep. What did Bernard do to her? Delores wondered.

Delores laughed softly. “It’s going on four in the morning. You want some breakfast?”

“I’m not really hungry, ma’am.”

Nina scribbled down the directions to Delores’s house, then made her way upstairs. Reality hit her as she saw Dwight lying in her bed, sound asleep, mouth open and snoring with each breath. Nina quietly tiptoed to her closet and threw on a pair of jogging pants.

Downstairs in the kitchen, she grabbed her bag and her keys and looked at the piece of paper she had written the directions on.

Ivy Hill,she thought to herself as she made her way out the front door.

“Come on in, Miss Martin,” Delores said, greeting Nina with a friendly smile as she ushered her into the living room.

Nina looked around the spacious penthouse. She could see that Dutch had showered his mother with every luxurious amenity possible.

“Can I get you anything, tea or maybe some coffee?” Delores offered as she sized Nina up.

Delores could see what her son saw in the young woman. Even without makeup, Nina had a flawless beauty. She was demure with a quiet strength and obviously educated but not removed from where she came from.

“Yes, please. Tea would be fine.”

Nina saw immediately that Dutch had his mother’s eyes and complexion. His height and smile, however, must have come from his father. Delores herself looked good for her age. Time had been good to her. Delores had jet-black hair, and her face showed no signs of aging, no wrinkles, no blemishes, no crow’s-feet.

Delores poured Nina a cup of tea and placed it in front of her.

“Thank you,” Nina said, reaching for the sugar.

“Oh, you’re welcome,” Delores replied.

“Miss Murphy, I want to thank you for letting me come over in the middle of the night like this. I really needed to talk to someone. Actually, I really needed to talk to you,” Nina said, nervously stirring her tea.

Delores gently placed her hand on Nina’s to comfort her.

“It’s fine. Really, I don’t get much sleep at night these days. I just hope I can help you. You say you were a friend of my son’s?”

“Yes, ma’am. We dated for a while,” Nina said, nodding.

“Oh, I see.” I know she not here to tell me I’m a grandmother or nothing crazy like that,Delores thought, while secretly wishing for a grandson that looked like her own son. But Nina’s eyes told her a different story.

“I know that this may be hard for you… But what happened in the courtroom three years ago?”

“Happened? I’m not sure I understand,” Delores interrupted.

Nina searched for a way to convey what she was feeling and why she had come.

“Miss Murphy, for three years I’ve tried to put Bernard and what he meant to me out of my mind. I had deep feelings for him, but I couldn’t accept his lifestyle. I couldn’t accept who he was until it was too late.”

Nina noticed that she was stirring her tea again, so she let go of the spoon.

“By then he was gone, and anything we could have had was gone with him. I accepted that and tried to go on with my life. I did go on with my life, but in many ways, never completely.” Nina took a deep breath. “Until things started happening.”

“What do you mean, things started happening? What kind of things?” Delores questioned with furrowed brows.

“I know this is going to sound crazy. But little things of great significance. If I told you, you would probably think I was crazy.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Delores said sincerely, wanting to know the things Nina was talking about.

“Well, one night, I came home from work and music was playing from my stereo. At first I thought it was the radio, but then I realized it was a CD that I didn’t own. I never figured out how it was playing, but it was, and it was playing a song that we shared. Then flowers were sent to my office. Not just any flowers, but hundreds of exotic flowers that no one I know could have possibly afforded. Then tonight, a limo was sent to me for my birthday. The driver claimed I ordered it, but I didn’t. I don’t know who did, but whoever it was ordered the limo in my middle name. No one knows my middle name, and… I just can’t think straight anymore. But I can’t stop thinking.”

“I take it that Bernard knew your middle name and you think it was Bernard who sent the limo and the flowers and somehow got in your house and played a CD that the two of you used to listen to?”

“I know it sounds crazy, and you probably think anybody could’ve done those things, but I know in my heart, I swear, that those things are signs, Miss Murphy. Signs.”

“Signs of what?” Delores asked. The girl must be crazy. Let me get her out my house.

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I had to see you. I thought that maybe you knew something. If anybody knows, I figured it would be you.”

“Knows what? If my son is still alive?”

“Yes, exactly. That’s exactly what I was thinking, Miss Murphy. I know he’s in a lot of trouble, especially if he’s alive, and you wouldn’t be able to tell anyone. I realize you don’t even know me. But, I swear, Miss Murphy, I just need to know. If he’s alive, ask him why he’s doing this to me, because he’s driving me crazy.” Nina shook her head in despair.

Delores looked at Nina and watched her body language as she spoke about her son. She didn’t know Nina. For all Delores knew, Nina could have been anyone trying to get information about her son.

If she thinks I know something, why would she think I would tell her? Delores asked herself. Delores never spoke of her suspicions to anyone and certainly wasn’t about to start today. She felt bad for Nina. She reminded her of herself. She knew despair, she knew pain, she knew heartache. His name was Bernard James, Sr., and he was her son’s father. She had lost her love a long time ago and also refused to let go.

“Please, Miss Murphy, I know you know something,” Nina pleaded.

“And that ring, did Bernard send you that, too?” Delores inquired.

Nina glanced down at the lie she wore on her left ring finger and moved her hand from above the table to under it.

Delores stood up slowly.

“Nina, I can only tell you what you already know. Bernard is dead. This I can assure you because I cremated his body myself. Go on with your life and forget my son.”

Delores wouldn’t dare tell Nina anything else. She wasn’t about to share her private thoughts with a complete stranger. Besides, if her son had wanted someone to know something, he would have said it himself. As his mother, she had never said a word to anyone about him, and she wasn’t about to start now.

“Go on with my life? How? I can’t. I’m at a crossroad, a major crossroad, and I can’t cross,” she pleaded with Delores not to end their conversation. But she knew it was already over. “What about all these unexplainable events?”

“He’s dead, Ms. Martin. Please let yourself out.”

Their eyes met for a split second before Delores turned and left the kitchen. Nina was trembling so violently, she had to brace herself against the table. She began to sob. Her tears splattered onto the table as they rolled off her cheeks.

She had come to learn the truth and in a way she had. Delores was hiding something. Nina could feel it. It was in the woman’s eyes, and Nina saw right through her. What was she trying to hide? She could hardly look at me when she spoke to me. Yes, his mother is definitely hiding something. But what? Maybe he is alive, maybe.

Nina felt it, and deep down, she believed.