A Moment of Silence: Midnight III (The Midnight Series Book 3) (42 page)

“He?” Chris and I both said at the same time.

“Yes, our apologies,” she said to me. “And Michelle is a Frenchman. In their country, Michelle can be the name of a woman or a man—they’re just spelled differently,” she explained. “He is a student here in the U.S. and in any case, he is a great instructor, even better than myself.”

“My friend here . . .” Chris began saying as I listened closely to how he was about to set this up. I knew he was attracted to Lila and had already decided that he did not want her body pressed up against my back or her fingers locked around my waist, even though she was an instructor and must do it all the time.

“My friend here will reschedule his lesson with Michelle,” Chris said. Then he betrayed me with a sucker punch. “My friend here prefers a male instructor!” he said. I was straight-faced, but laughing hard on the inside.

“So you plan on becoming a serious equestrian?” Lila asked me.

“I’m serious,” I confirmed. “And I want to sign up for the twelve-lesson package, pay up front, get the thirty percent discount and today’s introductory lesson for free.”

“I see you know your stuff!” Lila laughed. Before I could add anything to it, Chris jumped in. “I’m serious too. I want the same package, same time slot as today, and Lila as my instructor,” he said, giving me a stern look. I didn’t fight the challenge, it was unnecessary. I knew he was jocking for the girl. I also knew Lila was already his. I could hear her body talking to him. I knew she didn’t have to get in the saddle with him to teach him to ride, same as she didn’t have to get in to show me. And me, I was good, really good, in love with my women and all of my desires fulfilled in every way.

“Twelve lessons at fifty dollars each, that’s six hundred,” Chris said. “Thirty percent of six hundred dollars, that’s a one-hundred-and-eighty-dollar discount. And today’s lesson is free. That’s four hundred and twenty dollars for each of us.” Chris looked shocked at his own calculation of the cost, and at the sound of his own voice saying the numbers aloud.

I peeled off eight one-hundred-dollar bills and two twenties and paid for both of us. Good thing the payment went into the cashier’s hand and not Lila’s, ’cause her man Chris was at the front counter shrinking under the weight of the debt and his swift agreement without cost consideration. Now the numbers were dancing
in his head. But he had also gotten Lila’s phone number. I hoped that smoothed it out for him.

“I think I fucked up,” Chris said. We were on the same train, headed to his house, at his request, even though I had mad shit to do at my house. “Now I owe you four hundred and twenty dollars. My father’s going to kill me,” he said, talking to himself really.

“Don’t sweat it, man,” I told him.

“That’s easy for you to say. Thanks for coming back with me. It’s a tactic. Your presence will cut the scolding I get from my father in half. He doesn’t like to beat me down in front of a house guest.” He let off a nervous laugh.

“You got six hundred more dollars coming your way as soon as we complete the wall,” I reminded him.

“Man, you don’t know the half . . .” Chris said. “My father oversees the management of my life. He says my money is his money, even if I went out and worked and earned it.”

“How’s that?” I asked.

“My father will pull out a spreadsheet of all of the money he spent on me since birth . . .” Chris began explaining, and we both had to laugh.

*  *  *

“Wait here,” Chris said. We had just walked through the doors that lead into his Brooklyn brownstone.

“You can sit down you know, on the couch,” his little sister said to me after I had been standing for ten minutes. I didn’t sit though, wasn’t comfortable taking up an offer from a young girl and getting comfortable in another man’s house without first greeting Chris’s father.

“Okay, well stand up if you wanna,” she said, shrugging her shoulders and reminding me of Naja. “Would you like a glass of water?”

“No thank you, I’m good for now,” I said to her.

“That’s what you think. Daddy talks for a long time and Chris
owes you money, so Daddy will be talking for even longer than before,” she warned. Her mother came through the front door and paused when she saw me.

“Oh, hi!” How are you?” she asked me.

“Hello, Mrs. Broadman. I’m fine, thanks for asking,” I said. “Let me help you with that bag.” I reached for the bag of books she carried that looked like it felt heavy.

“No, I’m going to set them down right here. Taylor, why haven’t you offered our guest something to drink?” she asked her daughter.

“She did offer me,” I said swiftly.

“Oh, good. So Chris owes you some money, I understand?” his mother asked, though obviously she already knew. I heard Reverend Broadman approaching.

“Son, how are you?” he asked me. My natural smile came out.

“I’m good, Reverend Broadman,” I said solidly.

“So what are you doing in my house talking to my wife?” he asked me with a stern stance and tone. I was stuck. Then he smiled and said, “Take it easy, fella. I hear my son owes you some money?” His smile evaporated. “Step into my office.” He pointed for me to walk forward. I followed the direction of his finger.

He had a pipe and a pipe tray. Seemed all men smoked something. His office was neat, his files in perfect piles. He wrote with a Parker pen, but also had a fountain pen and ink well. I had not seen that in a long time. On his coat stand there were no coats, but there was one of the religious robes that I had seen him wear once before when Ameer and I visited his church. He had a hat stand with all types of hat choices. Most importantly, I figured, at least to him and his followers, he had a degree from Morehouse College, and one also from New York Theological Seminary.

“Since you are the man with the ideas, I want to talk to you one-on-one. I sent my son to his room. He’s your admirer. I’m his father. I support him. Yet, he seems to follow your ideas,” Reverend Broadman said, taking his seat in his black leather spinning chair with the high back.

“Chris speaks highly of you every time I see him,” I said solemnly. “He teaches us the things that you teach him.” The reverend leaned back and stared at me sternly. “My father is overseas. I listen to what you say to Chris, almost the same as if my father was saying it,” I said, sincerely. I felt this man was about to hit me with a bunch of questions, so I wanted to impact the tone of this conversation. I wanted to say up front that I know Chris has his own mind and thoughts, even though we three are tight and influence one another in certain ways. I wanted to be cooperative with Mr. Broadman and his style of doing and saying things, but I have my own ways and certain things I would and wouldn’t say.

“Like what? What have I taught Chris that you have listened to same as if your own father was saying it?” he asked, his two eyebrows merging into one.

“Your lesson about paying taxes, collecting receipts, and keeping good records. I listened to that and put it into practice in my own business dealings,” I said.

“Is that right? What kind of business dealing does a teenager the same age as my son have?” he asked, as though he might think I was either exaggerating and doing nothing at all or doing something shady.

“I’m in the vending business. My mother and I also have a clothing design and tailoring company. If I had known I would be visiting your house today, I would have brought some complimentary samples.”

“What kind of ‘vending business’?” he asked suspiciously.

“I sell vending machines to business owners who want to expand their stream of revenue. I also own a machine and collect revenue from it as well,” I said.

“Where do you get these machines from?” he asked, and he seemed interested, curious, and successfully distracted from whatever type of sermon he had planned on giving me.

“Of course from a vending distributor. I buy wholesale and sell retail,” I said.

“And where do you store these heavy machines?” he asked.

“I don’t have to store them. The distributor stores them at their warehouse. I have a pamphlet that displays the vending machines and product options. I show it to a business owner or potential customer. Once you make your choice and pay a deposit, I have the machine shipped directly to the location where you want it.”

“What if it breaks?” he asked, trying to cover all of the angles.

“My machines are all brand-new, come with a warranty and a repair kit and instruction manual. Anyone can follow the instructions. It’s user-friendly machinery.”

“And what’s the cut on the profits?”

“The cut?” I repeated. “Once you buy it, it’s yours. You keep one hundred percent of the profit. In certain cases, where I own the machine and you own the establishment, you can give me a space in your place and we can agree to what percentage we want to share on profits, or the establishment can rent me the space at a small flat fee. I pay the rental fee and keep all of the profits.”

“And when the machine is sold out, who’s going to restock it?” he asked. I smiled.

“If you have purchased it, you restock it,” I said. He leaned forward.

“Where are you getting these machines from?” he asked me, sounding more like an investigator than a potential customer.

“Which businessman reveals the details of his supplier?” I asked him swiftly. He flashed a rare smile.

“You said you have paperwork for these machines, son, am I correct?” he asked.

“Yes sir.”

“Then I can just look at the paperwork and it should state clearly where the machine is coming from and how I go about securing my warranty,” he asked like he had triumphantly finally cornered me into confessing some illegitimate or illegal affair.

“Yes, but if you are looking at the paperwork and at your warranty, it would mean that you had already purchased and ordered
the machine from me. You would be my customer. So of course at that point, I would share all of my information with you,” I said.

“How much per unit?” he asked me.

“Depends on what you order after reviewing the photos of the machinery. It also depends on which size and type of machine you chose, and what it dispenses. Could be soda, waters, chips, books, candies, hygiene products, toys, or even shoes.”

“Good idea, son,” he said, turning suddenly positive. “You’re not the first one to have this idea though. I looked into it before. After some research, it seemed like a real rip-off. They wanted to charge me big money up front to buy the machine. Then I would place the machine in my church or business establishment. Then they said for me not to touch the machine. Their company had men who restock, men who repair, et cetera. Then they offered me ten percent of the profit. I told those con artists to stay clear of me before I report them to the Better Business Bureau. How do I pay for something, put it in my place of business, can’t touch it, and they come into my place and take all of the money out the machine and give me a dog’s share?”

“Was it an American vending company?” I asked.

“Of course! I buy American. I drive American cars. I support American workers. I am an American.”

“Well, Reverend Broadman, I’ll keep it one hundred with you. My machines are from overseas. My sales are ‘clean sales.’ Once money changes hands, it’s yours. If you see me on your property after I’ve sold you a machine, I’m trespassing,” I said. “This way we give you total control, one hundred percent profit, which is what you paid for.”

“How did you come up with this idea, young man?” he asked, reminding me that he and I are not peers, and that I am only a teenager.

“I got the idea while traveling in Asia.” I kept it brief.

“Oh yes, son, Chris told me that you were married to an Asian
girl. I thought he was joking his old man. Typically a fella from your generation calls his girlfriend his wife,” he said, chuckling.

“I am married. But I don’t discuss my wives the way I discuss my business,” I said. He looked at me, his elbows on his desktop now and his fingers interlocked in front of his face. “No disrespect, Reverend Broadman,” I said, because it felt like I needed to say it just to keep things respectful and even. He stood up and left.

Returning with Chris close behind him, he cleared the way for his son to repay me. Chris counted it out. All of his bills were twenties and fifties.

“Thanks, man,” I said. With the reverend hovering over him and me, I offered, “Would you like a receipt?”

“Son,” the reverend said.

Chris answered him. “Yes?”

“Not you,” the reverend scolded his son. “You are a debtor. Your friend is an earner, an asset. Your friend understands that his life is a corporation and he is making the best use of his time on Earth.” Then he turned towards me.

“I don’t know what you two are going to make out of horseback riding. When Chris first mentioned it, I thought it was a fine idea because he said ‘one free lesson.’ I agreed to it. After listening to you speak, son,” he said to me, “I can see you have a lot of unique ideas, the art of influence, and great salesman skills. You’d fit right into the Baptist tradition. Come by tomorrow with your vending folder—you might have made a new customer out of me. But, I’ll believe it when I see it. That’s the difference between business and faith.” He chuckled.

Outside on the step in front of Chris’s brownstone, I told Chris, “I gotta get moving.”

“About Lila,” he said.

“I’m good. I’m married. I’m not cock-blocking,” I said, putting my disclaimer on it.

“I know, I wasn’t speaking on that,” Chris said, and he seemed
unusually serious. “She’s a white girl. What do you think about that?”

“Women are women,” I said, and I meant it.

“My mother would kill me,” he said.

“Why?” I asked, and I didn’t know the answer.

“Our family is on display. Everything the reverend’s children do is a reflection on Christianity. That’s how we are raised,” he said.

“Does Christianity say that you can’t marry a white girl?”

“Nah.” He broke his solemn mood and laughed. “Jesus does not say so, but my mother says so, and up until now, I have not had no type of beef with Moms. We good,” Chris said, folding his arms in front of himself.