A Moment of Silence: Midnight III (The Midnight Series Book 3) (61 page)

“Nice idea. I have the gems here, but these are for my queen. After you finish my ring orders, I’ll order a separate piece for the wife. Just hit me up when the other ten rings are ready. First, let me show you my championship ring design and engravings so you can finish ’em off nice, perfectly.” They hovered over a paper that Santiaga pulled out of his pocket with some designs drawn in pencil.

I was captivated. I thought it was incredible that this guy from Guyana, who felt like an everyday Brooklyn black man and was styled and street in his manner, but looked like an Indian straight from India, could do everything from start to finish. He could cook
and mold and bang and shape and design and engrave the gold. He could create by hand the diamond settings and was even a diamond setter. He couldn’t have been thirty years old yet, but he was a master of his trade. How could I not think so? I saw the gold powder in its rawest form and later held the handcrafted twenty-four-karat dark gold ring in my palm after watching him closely through every step, movement, and process. Besides, he had photos mounted of beautiful bangles and earrings and necklaces.

“Did you make all of the jewels in your photos?” I asked him.

“Every-ting come from my shop is original, handmade. You supply the gold or diamonds of your choice. I make it one of a kind.”

“What about you?” Santiaga turned and asked me.

“What about me?” I said.

“You came into some paper. Want to place an order of your own?”

“How did you learn the trade?” I asked Khan. “If you don’t mind,” I added.

“I worked for some Indians that owned a shop in Guyana. They treated me like a little nigger. I was their runner, running from workstation to workstation. In one area they made bangles, in the other rings, in the other necklaces, in the other they made settings for diamonds, and in the other they set diamonds. I played dumb. The pay was dirt, yet the gold was a noble metal and the jewels I was handling were all precious and the Indian owner was filthy rich. I lived in the tenement he owned. I didn’t complain. Kept me eyes open and me mouth closed. Learned everything, but me act like I know nothing. Seven years later me open me own shop so I could take care of me muddah.”

“How much for a bar of gold?” I asked.

“Depends on the weight.” Then, Santiaga and Khan spent the next half hour teaching me the weight system, about pennyweights and ounces and grams, karats and points on diamonds. It felt good. Any man not breaking down and humiliating the next man, but
teaching him something priceless that he can use to his benefit for a lifetime, is the feeling of father to me.

“Once I tell you ‘this is my man,’ you can trust that you can show up at his shop, order what you want directly. He won’t fuck with your gold or switch out your gems. There’s a whole lot of goldsmith’s and jewelers who will. He can make anything you can afford, anything. He made that chessboard for me. The ‘real board,’ ” he said, referring to the twenty-four-karat gold board that no one would forget after seeing it once. The one with the princess cut diamond perimeter and the detailed handcrafted diamond and gold chess pieces. “And without my recommendation, you couldn’t get past his steel door. This is a no-advertisement, by-word-of-VIP-mouth-only operation.”

Without revealing my reasons or relations, I ordered two bars of gold, valued at five thousand dollars each, an heirloom for my twins,
Insha’Allah.
At the same time, I decided right there in that basement that as I earned, I would set aside stacks and convert them into gold bars to back up my paper money and secure my family’s financial future.

Even though I was already in Queens, I let Santiaga drop me back in Brooklyn on Fulton Avenue. I would hop on the train. That’s just my way. In the train car, I thought about how I appreciated him. At the same time, I thought about his attempts at mind control. He held onto the ring Khan made, but he made sure to place it in my hand without words or instructions to let me know I had to be pivotal in securing the black team championship. The ring, and allowing me to see what he did not allow others to see, was the incentive. Of course I understood the importance. Maybe he had another wager on the game. A bet so deep that if we won it for him, the price of 15 ounces of gold and the $25,000 for MVP and the $10,000 for the five starting champions would seem like nothing to him.

Before I had climbed out of his humorous Oldsmobile, Santiaga said to me, “I know you let me win the rematch. But what you don’t know is that I allowed you to let me win. It showed me your character. You’re a man who is capable of keeping your ego in check, and
not showing your best hand when there’s nothing in it for you. Great strategy, awesome timing—I like that. The next round we’ll play for real after your tournament ends and I receive your machine shipment. At that time, there will be no courtesies or debts between us.”

I appreciated that Santiaga didn’t find it necessary to warn me not to tell the team about the rings, or not to discuss what I’d seen and where we went. I took that as the beginning of a trust. He did say to me, however, “The same way Khan tested the gold to confirm that it’s genuine, men test men for the same reasons.”

*  *  *

July Fourth in “Do or Die Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn on Kingston Ave. and Herkimer Street,” the championship game. The stands were full, the park was packed, no standing room. Kicks covered every stretch of cement; kids climbed the fence, reached the top, and stayed, squatting there. Their friends were riddled in between, all the way down to the bottom. Fingers clenching the fence wiring and faces pressed to see in. It was only 11 a.m., but the ’hood was wide awake, cleaned up nice and fresh dressed for their holiday. Full families were out in anticipation of seeing their sons battle for the highest prize that wasn’t money, but recognition. The red team entered the same way they had entered every game, a team of individuals only connected by the fact that they each wore something red. They didn’t have uniforms. However that day, their coach, who was the opposite of Coach Vega, had gotten his shit together and had outfitted his top five players in red and white Nike Dunks and the rest in red Converse Weapons. His squad, known for being wildly disorganized and explosive, were also unpredictable. They were the only team in the league where one of their players turned around in the heat of a game and punched a member of his own team in the face for not passing the ball to him at the exact time he was open and had the shot. They were known for playing football-basketball, fouling and tackling, blocking and knocking opponents out. They’d rather take the personal or team foul, technical or otherwise, as
long as they won the game. But that style got them through the playoffs and straight into the championship game as the only team that could face the undefeated black team.

Navy-blue Jordans with the metallic swoosh hugged all ten pairs of feet on the black team. Black starter jerseys with navy-blue numbers and all-black shorts—that’s how we were doing it. The crowd was on our shit for our style, the girls mad excited and their mommas more excited. In the intensity of the adrenaline rush I was calm. I had sent my whole family to Martha’s Vineyard. It wasn’t my original plan, but my second wife had said some words that moved me. I also had figured out that I needed it to be only me and my ball and the hoop, in my mind.

“This is what we worked for. Think of everything you sacrificed: time, sweat, summer jobs, and even pussy, to bring you to this moment. Go out there and make me look good,” Coach Vega said—his signature line. Team owner Ricky Santiaga was too charged to sit. He stood up front in his white tailored leisure suit and white crocodile Gucci loafers and Gucci sunglasses, surrounded by a few men who couldn’t fuck with his look.

On the blacktop, the captain and starting red team guard, Ameer Nickerson, was my enemy and my best friend. He had fire in his eyes and the power of the charismatic underdog. He riled up the crowd to cheer for him, then turned to his teammates and threatened them. Familiar with his ways and watching his gestures, I knew.

Jump ball and I have thrown away all friendship and allegiance for the next two hours. Big Mike tapped the ball best, Panama swiped it, threw it to me, and I slam-dunked. It was psychological. Vega had said we needed our first two game points to be intimidating to deflate the reds’ egos. Having watched the red team during the playoffs, he said they hustled hard, were skilled and physical, but not thinkers.

Their ball, the pass was in, and swift Machete stole it. He dribbled, passed it backward to Big Mike, and he hit from the foul line.

“Tighten the fuck up!” Ameer screamed at his teammates. He then caught the pass and was dribbling downcourt. He passed the
ball to his forward tucked in the corner and he scored the shot. Now they were tightening defense, checking us hard. Ameer told the other point guard on his team, “I got him,” and pulled up close on me. Hovering, he tried to strip me. I wasn’t having it, and passed the ball through his legs to Panama. “Get on him!” Ameer told his man to check Panama, but then pushed his man out of the way and leaned on Panama himself. “Like this,” he told his man, then stripped Panama and was heading back to his hoop. His man ran down long. Ameer passed the ball, and from the right corner, they tied the game, four to four.

Each step of the way it was neck-and-neck. Crazy watching Ameer play every position for his team, even center, even though he wasn’t tall enough for that. Ameer was smacking Panama’s shots and trying to check me at the same time. As I watched, I plotted to just run him, shake him down till he was out of breath. That’s why there’s a team. One man can’t play every position and shouldn’t have to.

The first quarter ended, 28 to 27. Panama complained that Ameer was riding him and we needed to switch it up. “Midnight, you and I will play forward position, give Machete and Jaguar the point guard position for a quarter, just to confuse them. Big Mike, I need you to smack their balls back like this is volleyball. Don’t let ’em get near the hoop. Machete, you check that crazy red point guard, their captain.”

Second quarter, Ameer went up, Machete smacked his shot. Loose ball; the red team snatched it up. They passed back to Ameer. He went up for the shot again, kicked Machete, and sank it. The crowd went wild. The coaches were out of their seats. The referee called the foul. The black team got possession of the ball. Ameer’s shot did not count. Machete was tight. But Ameer was tight also.

“Hands in their faces!” Ameer yelled. Jaguar was dribbling, he cut left, then right, shaking the red man checking him and sinking the layup. Ameer went to his man and leaned on him. His finger was in his face and his man pushed him off. Their ball; his man
passed it. Ameer dribbled, faked the pass. Machete went for the fake; Ameer was up in the air unguarded, sank the shot, and elbowed Machete on the way down. The crowd hollered. Machete’s eye was fucked up. But the ref called the foul on Machete. The crowd was in an uproar. Vega called time out.

Coach and Panama tried to sit Machete down and send in a sub. Machete argued that he was good. Dolo, who somehow crept up to the bench even though he had been missing from all of the practices and playoff games since his blowup, said, “I told y’all niggas you was gonna need me. Look at the score. Y’all only beating them by two. What? I could’ve done that,” he said and he was wearing a plain black T-shirt, not our team jersey, and a white pair of K-Swiss.

“Shut the fuck up!” Big Mike told Dolo.

“Yeah, I got your shut the fuck up. Don’t even ask me to play until you show me some money,” Dolo said. “No show, no go.” Big Mike lunged toward him. Panama pulled him back. “Focus!” Vega yelled. “He’s a nobody. Forget about him.”

“Yeah, I’m a nobody. Forget about me. But y’all five ain’t gonna get no burn. Fucking bench bums. Coach rather play a one-eyed point guard than any of you!” Dolo shouted. “Slide with me and we could work the crowd and get some money in our pockets,” he offered the bottom five. But the crowd noise and excitement level was too high. Dolo, on edge, couldn’t grab the spotlight.

Ameer’s team, refreshed from the time-out, came back, doing some kind of crazy dance steps. My mind was divided. I was the ball player who planned on defeating the opposition, and the ninjutsu warrior who had a problem with Dolo, the loose cannon from my team.
Focus
, I told myself, then I hit long, a three-pointer. I snatched my point guard position back and checked Ameer to put a clamp on his thirty-two-point game, which was more than half of the points his team earned. Halftime, score was 57 to 54, in our favor.

Sweating hard, I was in the black bandanna, hustling like my life depended on it. I was on Ameer so rough, but we knew each
other too well. We were both canceling one another out. Neither him nor me hit any points for six minutes into the third quarter because of the way we blocked, defended, and offended. It gave our teammates the opportunity to score. Ameer got his hands on the ball somehow. I stripped him. Then he stripped me. The crowd was on their feet. I was back checking him. He passed the ball to his man. His man passed the ball to the red center. The red center passed the ball back to Ameer. He pumped, like he was going up for the shot. I jumped. He darted underneath me and hit the shot from an impossible, awkward angle. Now everyone was standing.

Our ball; Machete was dribbling downcourt. Ameer left his guard over me and pulled up on Machete. They were both in close, and talking shit to one another. “Fuck it, I’ll give you the lane,” Ameer said to Machete.

“I’ll take it,” Machete said, and headed for the layup. Ameer stripped him from behind and was on his way back down to his hoop. He passed the ball forward, then ran up full speed before the black team could get back and set up. His man passed him the ball and he layed it up. A herd of girls started calling for him, “Romeo Red, Romeo Red, Romeo Red!” It seemed like I could see his head swell too big for his neck. “That’s right!” He pumped his fist and banged his chest. Still, the score was 79 to 76, our favor, at the end of the third quarter.

Our ball, and our bench was suddenly missing four players. I shot a look towards Panama. Panama shot a look towards the bench. Braz connected eyes with Panama and me and mouthed, “Dolo,” and swiped his hand across his neck. The five starters, including myself, knew we had to be without error to win the game. I also knew we had an off-the-court problem. As I was dribbling downcourt, I saw Dolo maneuvering through the crowd. Kid had a twenty-two in his grip and his hand hidden at his side. Half a second away from approaching where Vega and Santiaga stood, I stopped and fired the basketball at him, hitting him in the head and causing him to lose balance. The gun hit the floor. The front-
row crowd stood, saw the gun on the ground, and scrambled. Dolo tried to pick it up. But when he reached forward he got dragged backwards, out of the view of the players and the fans. As the rumor spread through the crowd to even the people who saw nothing, some started to make moves like bullets had been fired, when they hadn’t.