“Take your time,” I said just to mess with his head, and flipped the hourglass back over to emphasize it. He then moved his queen to gobble my rook. My one remaining bishop ate his queen.
“Game over,” he said. But it wasn’t rightfully over. He still had moves he could make.
“You have moves open—why quit?” I asked, using the word quit to push him to play on to the finish either way.
“Don’t you know?” he asked me. “The game is always over once a player loses his queen.”
“But one of your three pawns could become your queen,” I said. But why was I helping my opponent?
“A pawn can only pretend to be a queen. But only a queen is a queen,” he said. It sounded to me like this was his philosophy on life.
“You want to talk about life, or do you wanna play the game?” I baited him. Our first game ended in a stalemate.
“Rematch?” I asked him. He accepted and we began. But at a certain point, I purposely let him have it. He looked at me hard.
“Sloppy move,” he said. “That’s unlike you.”
“Your move,” was all I responded. I had decided I would lose the game. But in the real world I would play my position and somehow win in some other way. I was grateful to him for a few reasons. That was enough. He used the opening, dominated in the game until he called checkmate.
* * *
“Second stop,” he said after his Oldsmobile plowed down the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, not cruising but with great effort. Now we were in another beat-up neighborhood located in Queens, the opposite of the area I lived in, about to head into the side entrance of a brown brick three-story commercial building on a block of small businesses where any customer might think it was too risky to shop.
We got out. I didn’t ask any more questions. I knew he knew by then what I was game for, and what I wasn’t.
The front door was solid steel, no window or placard stating what they were selling or what a customer could expect. He pressed a buzzer. The loud buzz responded with an even louder buzzer. Santiaga opened the then unlocked door and we were one step inside, facing a gold gate from floor to ceiling, like cell bars that even a slim body couldn’t slide between. It was locked and there was only a dim light, which revealed a set of stairs, the wall to the right lined with tall stalks of real sugarcane. Without our pressing a buzzer, a buzz sounded and the gate opened. We walked down. Each step was painted with a clean wide gold stripe.
In the basement, nothing was renovated or plush. The floor was made of some kind of rock and there was a huge tree stump, metal benches, and tables.
“My man Khan,” Santiaga said, introducing me to a brown-skinned man who had a three-foot-long ponytail, longer than a horse’s and beyond his backside. It almost concealed the long, thin scar that ran across the back of his neck that confirmed that someone had once tried to cut his head off. He survived murder. His hair was not manly, but his mannerisms were. His voice was rough, but he sang his words to an unfamiliar rhythm. Similar to Jamaican but not Jamaican, I could tell. He had to see the confusion in me as my mind tried to place him as having originated from either Pakistan, India, Bangladesh, or Kashmir. His name was Khan, and that is definitely a Muslim name.
“Guyana, Indian,” he said without me asking, and he pointed to the small model flag of Guyana he had posted on a drink mixing stick and mounted on one of his tables. “But me grow up rough like dee African.” He pushed his fist forward and bumped knuckles with Santiaga. When he withdrew his hand, I saw his fingers were worn and ragged and some of his fingertips burnt. Looked like he had either tried to seer off his fingerprints, or he had strangled a few men who all had thick muscular necks. Maybe one of them was the one who had tried to chop off his head.
“He’s one of my champions,” Santiaga told him, referring to me. “I’m gonna need eleven rings, twenty-four-karat dark gold. Size his finger,” Santiaga told him. “Khan makes jewelry with the same kind of passion that you play ball,” he said to me. The Indian pulled from his jeans buckle loop a set of about thirty steel rings and chose one out of all of them. It fit exactly on my finger.
“See what I mean?” Santiaga asked me. “Precision,” then he reached into his denim shirt and pulled out a Zip Lock bag. My mind prepared for the worst because of what Ameer’s father had once mentioned to us about the Hustler’s League. I started suspecting and speculating that it was cocaine or crack in the Zip Lock, but it wasn’t. “That’s fifteen ounces of gold, 425.24 grams,” Santiaga said, handing it to Khan. I checked it out. It looked like the light brown sugar my Umma used in some recipes. “Got it from your guy in the DD,” Santiaga said to him.
“ ‘Ira the Jew,’ or from Levi?” Khan asked.
“Ira—he’s the more trustworthy of the two,” Santiaga said. I knew then that DD stood for Diamond District. Of course I had been there in many of the shops, wholesalers and retailers in midtown Manhattan. And of course I recalled eagerly that Santiaga had an apartment on the east end of that money block that led straight to the diamond district.
Khan took the bag and hit an intercom button. A young girl, about Naja’s age, quietly stepped down the stairs and without words rolled up Khan’s ponytail and pinned it in place with a pure gold, uniquely crafted barrette that looked like it came from some royal family’s treasure chest. It fit over the bulk of the wrapped-up ponytail and held it in position on his head like a crown. She handed him a red bandanna, then turned and left.
Khan went to a worktable that had a black stone top. He opened Santiaga’s Zip Lock of pure gold and spread a thin line of it onto the stone. He dropped a few drops of a solution onto the gold, saying only two words, “Nitric acid.” The line of gold did not dissolve in the acid. Then he chose another bottle and dropped another solution, saying, “Nitric acid plus hydrochloric acid.” The gold disappeared. “Genuine, yes mon,” he declared. Santiaga nodded his head in approval.
Khan was a chemist, a genius scientist in an urban laboratory customized especially for him. Unlike any jeweler I had ever encountered, Khan made his jewels by hand, from scratch, like a baker making a pineapple upside-down cake. Taking inventory now, in his space was a gas tank, and an oxygen tank, and a huge container plastered with a red warning sticker that said SULFURIC ACID. There seemed to be enough items down there that with one tiny mistake, the whole building would explode and be leveled. Santiaga observed me staring at the sulfuric acid and said suddenly, “It’s lethal—burn the skin right off your body in twenty seconds or less. Some stupid stick-up kid tried to rush this spot. That acid got thrown in his face. Gave him a whole new look and a whole new outlook. That was before my man Khan got the steel door and gates installed with the camera and the buzzer locks.”
There was a hammer—no, a mallet—that was lying on the tree stump. I picked it up as Khan worked his skill at his station. The handle was solid and the head was heavy as barbells and even heavier than an ax. In the corner of the room were some machines that looked like they came from the seventeenth century, with hand cranks and spinning metal wheels. He had metal saws and heavy sharp shears and every version of pliers, some thick enough to trim bushes or to pull fingers out of their sockets and some tiny enough to pick up the tiniest of diamonds. All of his tools could be converted into deadly weapons. I was imagining that he probably could make some wicked knives, better than a blacksmith. I envisioned designing a diamond-handled gold sword for my second wife, a weapon worthy of her caliber. Or maybe something more creative, tiny swords that could be worn as hair ornaments to hold her thick bun in place. When she needed them as a weapon she could just pull it from her hair and fire it into the eye of her enemy.
The intensity of the fire from his blowtorch captured my attention. “Don’t look ’pon it directly. You can blind yerself,” he warned. “Almost two thousand degrees,” he said and I was amazed to see that the gold changed from powder to liquid gold, then poured inside of two molds that each sat inside two identical clay dishes filled with sand. He pressed
the two clay dishes together. The liquid gold solidified into the shape of a ring. He dipped it into some solution. An hour and a half later, he handed me my gold championship ring. It was warm in my hand. He took it back and went to one of the antique machines, flipped a switch, and buffed and polished the ring lovely on a spinning cylinder lined with heavy brushes. “Dis is de prototype. Me can do ’nough tings to make it one of a kind. If you don’t like, I torch it, it turn back to gold liquid in tree seconds. Maybe you want fer put a diamond pond dat?” he asked Santiaga. Santiaga reached into his denim shirt again and pulled out a smaller Zip Lock half filled with diamonds.
“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 wa
s 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.