Soon as we reached the place, we saw Chris getting out of the back of his father’s car. Friday nights were reserved for beginners, so we stayed out of the way in the dojo. After seven years of training there, on our nights off we used it as a meet-up spot for us three, like a community center. Meanwhile, Sensei was patiently instructing a class of beginners. I wondered if we looked that out of balance and hopeless when we first began.
“Check this out, I met this cat Tyriq who asked me about joining some basketball team that’s jumping off over at Boys’ and Girls’ High School next Friday night,” I told them. “What y’all think about it?”
“What about it?” Chris asked.
“It’s some games leading up to a tournament. Y’all want to get down with it?”
“What’s the stakes?” Ameer asked.
“I don’t know, man. I didn’t ask.”
“We could hustle up more cash on our own unless they got some kind of real-type prizes,” Chris said.
“Yeah, we can’t just put in all that work for just one big-ass trophy and some bullshit ribbons and T-shirts,” Ameer added.
“You remember what happened before when we won that pee-wee tournament? They only had one brass trophy for the whole team to share,” Chris said. We all laughed.
“Yeah, I had to beat all y’all down for that one. That’s why that piece of junk is still at my house,” Ameer bragged.
“Nah, it’s at your house, ’cause I didn’t want it,” I reminded Ameer. We pushed through the dojo door laughing and cracking jokes, following behind Chris, who had his basketball.
On the basketball court a couple of blocks over from the dojo, we three was known as the Shake and Take Boys, because of how we put it down. At first the Shake and Bake Boys used to run the court over that way, but we beat them enough times that we took their spot, their title, and their money. We wasn’t the type of ball hustlers who pretended not to know one another then beat other unsuspecting players out of their paper. We made it known that we worked together. We never let no other players come in and divide us up or pick us onto their squad. If somebody wanted to battle us, they had to bring their three ’cause our three stayed the same. We three had balled on the same team at local parks for so long that our styles flowed together. I never had to worry about passing the ball and Chris not being on point. Chris had what the girls called a baby face. It must’ve been true ’cause other players used to underestimate him all the time, double team me and leave him wide open. He could sink it way out from the deep wings of the court. So me and Ameer used to feed him unpredictable and slick-ass passes. He stayed alert, played great defense, got good looks, and didn’t panic under pressure.
Ameer was nice and smooth with his three-pointers, plus mad nice with the layups also. He was a showman who was dedicated to making any of his moves look good. He liked to humiliate his opponents, which he did often. He hated punks who called fouls, ’cause he loved knocking players over and respected them more when they tried to knock him over too. If they wanted to fight about it, Ameer used it as a chance to practice our fighting skills with untrained street fighters.
Known for being completely silent on the court, the most swift, and for the way I handled the ball—anything the two of them couldn’t do—I picked up the slack.
Whenever a few dudes seen us running the court at the park, they came up with a challenge. Ameer always sets up a bet. We always win.
Niggas can’t handle loss, even when it’s fair and square. And the older the cats, the more they tend to bitch and moan. Most of the time we three gotta fight. We didn’t hesitate. We battled like Brooklyn. We held our own and collected our money. Chris was like our treasurer. He held on to the bulk of our winnings, minus a couple of slices of pizza and drink. We agreed that we was gonna save up to buy a car when we all turned old enough to get our licenses. Chris wanted a Pontiac Sunbird. Ameer wanted the Fiero GT. I had my eye on this mean-ass, pretty Porsche I saw at the dealer. Seriously though, we all knew that chances were we would end up dropping a few g’s on a used bomb and all taking turns driving or riding together.
This night the teens who showed up to challenge us didn’t have no money. They rejected Ameer’s bet and wanted to “play for fun.” Ameer laughed at their broke asses and told them to step off. They got tight about it ’cause they had four girlies on the side holding their radio and waiting on them. These cats would not move off the middle of the court.
Chris knew shit was about to heat up, so he waved me and Ameer over talking about, “Fuck it, let’s bounce. There’s no money here.” Chris was like that. He would fight when pushed. But he tried to keep fists down and profits up.
Determined, Ameer stepped up to them and said, “We’ll play you for your girls. I’m checking for the redbone anyway. If we win, they hang out with us for the night. If you win we’ll let you walk with fifty more dollars than you got right now.” Ameer smiled waiting for their response.
Chris took a good look at the girls and picked one for himself. Them other dudes was standing there with their screw faces on, mumbling secrets back and forth to one another, vexed at the girls who were looking more and more like they were liking Ameer’s bold style. I took a couple of steps back so I could get a good look at them niggas to see where their hands was at and what they was carrying in dem pockets. The shortest dude among them threw up his hands and said, “Fuck it, let’s run it! Matter of fact, make it a hundred dollars,” the teen said. Ameer hollered, “Deal!”
I had money in my pockets. Umma Design’s money, which I had just collected, was in my front pants pocket. My tips were in my inside jacket pocket. I also always kept five hundred dollars of my own in my right leg pocket in case of emergency. I didn’t know if Ameer and Chris had enough money on them. I knew Ameer was the type who would place a big bet whether he could pay it off or not. That’s how sure he always was.
As Ameer took the ball back and checked it, the girls turned the volume up on LL Cool J’s joint, “Rock the Bells.” Ameer passed me the ball. Soon as I started bouncing the ball, Ameer started talking shit to fuck with their minds. “It’s good y’all took the deal. Them girls was gonna leave y’all asses anyway ’cause you niggas ain’t got no money.” While the kid checking Ameer let Ameer’s words take effect on him, I passed the ball back to Ameer, who laughed in their faces as he shook them and laid it up.
They played hard and sweated a lot, but seemed more focused on their anger than the hoops. Sensei always said, “Anger cancels good judgment.”
Soon as one of them reached in for the ball I made it disappear. They didn’t see it again until it was swishing through the net. That night, Chris was the high score. Ameer was the showman, who purposely messed with their minds. They couldn’t fuck with us.
We ran a full court three on three. In less than an hour, we took them down. Curse words hung over their heads like cartoon characters. Steam blew out their ears. The short one threw the ball against the fence way on the other side of the court. Then they made their move. Two of them went and threw their arms around their girls, the other grabbed his radio and tried to walk off.
“Shorty!” Ameer called out to the light-skinned one. “Come here.” She yanked herself from out of the other one’s grip and turned back to look at Ameer. Easily, she began walking over to our side.
“Get your ass over here,” the other guy screamed on her. She didn’t listen to him. Now she was all up on Ameer and all three of her girls had followed her over too.
The three niggas charged us. Ameer pushed the girls to the side and we all started brawling on the cement court. The girls started screaming and jumping up and down like excited cheerleaders, their titties bouncing up and their asses pulling them back down to the ground.
Them boys got tired before we did. We could’ve fought all night. We left them on the ground and walked away with the four girls.
The short motherfucker stood up, holding his head from the pain we put on ’em. He started hollering about th
e girl in the blue jacket was his sister. I figured he had to be lying because what would his sister be doing over here walking away with us? Quickly, I looked in her eyes. She didn’t say she wasn’t his sister. Matter of fact, she didn’t say nothing.
“Go back over there,” I told her. She sucked her teeth, stomped her foot, and went.
Chris’ lip was busted. We got a cup of ice from Mickey Dees and kept it moving.
“Where we going?” Ameer’s girl asked.
“Where y’all want to go?” Chris answered.
“I don’t know,” Chris’ girl responded.
“We can go to my house,” the girl walking beside me said to everybody.
“You think we want to hang out with your mother at your house?” Chris asked her sarcastically.
“She ain’t home,” the girl said in a bold voice.
“How can you be sure?” Chris asked.
“ ’Cause she works all night in the toll booth at the bridge. She on her way to work right now,” she said with complete confidence.
“All right, let’s do it, then,” Ameer said.
“Is your father home?” I asked her.
Everybody started cracking up, a bending-over type of cracking up, and laughing. No one bothered to answer my question.
“Don’t worry,” the girl said. We all kept walking, now following her lead to the subway. I felt I had to ask at least one more question.
“What about them niggas from back there? Do they live around your way?” I asked. All of my boys stopped walking. They were getting focused now and waiting on her answer. I could see that Ameer now understood where I was headed with my questioning. I wasn’t one to walk right into a setup. Why should we give them boys time to get locked and loaded? I didn’t want to catch a case on some bullshit.
“Them niggas?” the redbone asked, as if she wasn’t just associated with them five minutes ago.
“We don’t know them niggas,” Chris’ girl added then laughed.
“We met them on the train ride up here,” the girl walking beside me said.
Chris and Ameer were cool with their answers. They all started walking together again.
“I gotta work early tomorrow morning. I’ll ride over with y’all. But then I gotta step,” I told them.
“What about me?” the girl walking beside me asked.
“What about you?” I answered her, straight-faced.
“Forget it. You ain’t right,” she said back.
On the train ride me and her didn’t say nothing to each other. The other two couples was all hugged up. The redbone and Ameer were lapped up.
She lived up in Harlem in the Lincoln projects, known to us Brooklyn cats as “Stinking Lincoln.” That night, as we rolled up outside her building, we had to get by fifteen or so dudes in bubble jackets and hoods. They were watching us. We were clocking them. I kept my hand in my pocket on my heat. In any projects, even when it’s dark outside you can still see and feel the hatred.
On the noisy streets, when niggas confront niggas there’s usually a loud silence before somebody starts busting shots. The silence was already there.
The girl walking with me broke it. “What’s up, Petey, Brian, Ramel, Mook . . .” She rattled off more than ten of their names like they was a bunch of fucking kindergartners. They spoke back to her. We didn’t break our stride.
Somehow, her calling out their names lightened up the tension. With the cease-fire in place, we made it to the building lobby without having to let off.
We elevated to the fourth floor. In the upstairs hallway, in front of apartment 4G, she moved her hands in and out of her back pants pockets and then her front pockets, searching for her keys. Chris and his girl and the other two was laying up against the wall waiting. I pulled out my four-five and handed it to Ameer. “Let me let you hold something,” I told him. He took it. “Good looking out, brother,” he said.
All the girls’ eyes followed my gun. The one fumbling with her keys started staring into my eyes so hard she was melting my pupils.
“Come on, bitch,” her girlfriend nudged her jokingly. She found her keys lost through a hole inside her jacket pocket. As she opened her door, they all pushed inside. She stood holding the door open for me. I turned my back to her and pushed through the metal exit door leading to the stairs. I took the four flights down. I left out the side of the building, switched up my path.
12
AKEMI
At Cho’s the next morning I was prepared. Saturdays always brought in a heavy flow of customers. Some people realized that fresh seafood is always delivered on Friday. So on Fridays I spent a lot of time unloading and moving boxes and barrels and buckets, and Saturdays I spent a lot of time scaling, cutting, clipping, and gutting fish. Routinely, on those kind of days I covered my head with a bandanna. I put on some welding glasses that I used to keep fish scales and particles from flying into my eyes. I had on my work clothes, a raincoat, and an apron on top of that. I’m sure I was looking crazy and exaggerated. But I was quick and thorough at my job.
Around three o’clock I washed down my counter. I headed down to the basement. I had brought and stored a change of clothes and some other items in the locker. Since I was going to meet the girls, I was gonna take advantage of the convenience of the basement shower stall for the first time. The water was good and hot but the air underground and the floor was both freezing. I guess Cho never had to worry about anybody trying to live down there since it was more freezing than outside.
Fresh, I spotted Akemi even when I was halfway down the block from the bakery. It was the way she stood in those heels. For the first time, I noticed that Nikes on a female’s feet don’t have the same magic as heels do.
As I came up close I saw she was wearing a black pleated miniskirt. Her shapely thighs were covered with wool tights that hid her flesh but revealed the curve of her legs. She was wrapped tight in a black butter-leather jacket well tailored to fit her shoulders exactly and ride down the curve of her waistline, hugging her hips gently. Her black leather gloves were tucked inside the belt that held her jacket closed. Her black epi-leather handbag was dangling on the tips of her pretty fingers.
“Konichiwa.” I calmly gave them their greeting. Akemi smiled and the other one giggled.
“Um. Yesturday, we forgot to ask you your name,” the other girl said. I looked at Akemi who was looking at me as though her dark eyes could see beyond my face and into my soul.
“Midnight,” I answered. I figured that was the name to give. I had seen some Chinese movie where every character had a hot-ass name. And I knew a lot of Asian names were rooted in the weather, seasons, and the elements.
“Mayonaka,” the other girl translated.
“Mayonaka,” Akemi said, serious-faced, with a curl of smoke swirling around her pretty lips from when her breath mingled with the cold air.
Now I understood that mayonaka meant “midnight” in Japanese. For some reason, the way Akemi pushed out this one word warmed me up like crazy.
“Are you two hungry?” I asked them. Her girl translated my question.
“No, she’s nervous,” her friend translated.
“Ask her what she’s so nervous about. She’s the one who wanted to kick it. Tell her I would never hurt her.” I was looking directly at Akemi when I spoke my words. She was looking right back at me with those big dark eyes. She didn’t seem nervous to me. And I could feel the pull I had on her.
“Akemi says you look so handsome.”
“Tell her to tell me that herself,” I responded. The girl gave her my message. Akemi lowered her eyes then lifted them again slowly and spoke to me in her language. Her voice was so soft. The flow of her words sounded like the seductive whispers of Sade on her Diamond Life album. The soft way she spoke, I had to listen carefully and focus on her hard and block out the regular noises of the New York City streets, with the buses, taxis, horns, and hordes of people moving in every which direction.
A thought came over me real quick. I
wanted to take Akemi out, just me and her. The extra girl was helpful, but she had a different feel to her. She interrupted the strong silent signals moving back and forth between me and Akemi.
“Ask Akemi if she can hang out with me on her own.” The girl looked disappointed but she translated my question anyway. Akemi answered with a bright-ass smile.
“What time does she have to be back?” I asked her friend.
“Our aunt and uncle will close the gate on their store at 7 P.M. If she wants to ride back with us, she should be back by then. If it’s later than 7 P.M., she has to go straight to Jackson Heights, Queens, where they live. She should be back no later than ten. I’ll tell them she went shopping. If she goes past 10:30 P.M., it will be a lot of trouble for her,” she said. Now I realized that the two of them were related.
Then they began talking Japanese to each other. I watched Akemi’s mouth moving as well as her facial expressions to gauge her reactions. I could tell she was with it.
“Okay. I’ll go back to the store, then. Are you sure you two will be okay?” Akemi’s cousin asked reluctantly.
“Everything is cool. She’ll be home on time, don’t worry,” I told her.
“Oh, and she’s an art student. That’s what she likes,” her cousin said as she turned to walk away.
I knew I could have asked her cousin all these questions about who Akemi is and what she liked. She would give me quick responses in her clear American accent. But I wanted to find out for myself what Akemi was all about. Besides, I was attracted to Akemi’s Japanese accent, which sounded so much sweeter in my ear.