CHAPTER XII

17:00

Afterwards, they took a shower together and merely touched and stroked each other intimately.

What number heart this is that you gon' break? The Voice was clearer now, unlike earlier when he was chatting with Cynthia, although deep down he had recognized the bane of his life since... a certain incident. After the shower, they dressed in downtime clothes: he threw on some Trukfit jeans and a white V-neck t-shirt. She was wearing another pair of his boxers and one of his sweatshirts that fit like a dress on her. (Why did women like wearing men's boxers? The same reason they liked wearing their man's clothes!)

They went to the kitchen and she discarded the bit of food she had begun serving earlier. She took a few minutes to reheat the salmon-stuffed pasta shells with asparagus and a single fat potato on the side, cut down the middle and drenched with Velveeta cheese. Beverages were white wine for her and Tropicana Mixed Fruit juice for him. They ate in the living room while checking their messages and watching reruns of the old Sandford and Son comedy show, featuring John Elroy Sandford, better known by his stagename Redd Foxx.

"You don't know nothin' about this, baby," he teased Naomi. "Y'all was probably watching Archie Bunker, or, if poor to middle class, Al Bundy."

"What's wrong with All in the Family and Married with Children?" she asked.

"I kinda dig Al, but that other nigga Archie? Racist as fuck!"

"Yeah, he was a bit racist." They ate for a bit. "But I watched this, too."

"Lies."

"Stop, I did."

"What's his best friend name on the show?"

"You mean Grady?" Branson's eyes popped open and he choked on his food. She was beating on his back and he held up his hand. He was okay in a minute.

"Never beat somebody who's choking on their back, baby," he wheezed. She covered her mouth.

"I'm sorry, babe, I didn't know."

"It's cool but um... What was his son's and wife's and wife's sister's name on the show?" She was a bit puzzled but she remembered what they had just spoken about. She smiled a bit.

"Lamont, Elizabeth and Aunt Esther." Branson stood up and grabbed his chest with one hand, mimicking Fred Sandford having a fake heart attack.

"This is the big one," said Branson. Naomi also put a hand to her breast and stumbled around with the other arm outstretched.

"I'm comin', Elizabeth!" They both burst out laughing after speaking at the same time and fell back on the couch, kissing each other. He picked his plate back up and was at ease until he noticed a few missed calls from Get Right and Cynthia. He smiled and called Get Right.

"Ayo, homeslice. What it do? Where you been?" Get Right said as soon as he picked up.

"Remember that shit for Chulo, right?" Yesterday evening's hookup with Chulo came back to Get Right. He had gotten a bit tipsy there.

"Hmm. You right, you right. Check it, tho. There's this li'l nigga got into it with Imani earlier today down on Lex; wound up smacking her. I tried to get to you but your phone just kept ringing. So I hit up Reg and a few of the goonies and we all went down there." Get Right said something to someone in the background. "Katrina just said she had called your shorty but Nay said you wasn't there yet. Anyhow, five-oh was on deck so we dipped. Branson waited, dipping his last stalk of asparagus into some liquid cheese; he knew there was something more to come. "I know where that nigga live, though." And there it was. Branson finished the asparagus and put the empty plate away on the table before leaning back into the plush sofa. "So, like, I need somebody to hold me down on this one. This is personal."

"You don't wanna enjoy life, nigga."

"It ain't even like that. That's how it starts. You know the streets, nigga. You let one li'l thing go and you gon' be letting your head go, too." Well, it wasn't that dramatic but Branson understood.

"Okay, it you've made up your mind, when we gon' do this?" There was no use trying to talk him out of it. Branson knew his comrade. Some shit you could talk your comrades out of, some shit you couldn't, nor did you want to, especially if it involved women. Niggas were real sensitive about they females. Get Right was going to do this, with or without Branson's help, but 1.) he knew his chances of success were better if Branson was there with him; and 2.) he couldn't trust anyone else. There was certain shit you could do with just certain people.

Besides the police being there, Get Right had not been comfortable fading a nigga with Reggie and the others there. But he knew he could trust Branson.

"I figure tonight at like eight or eight-thirty." Branson shook his head. Well, fuck it. They would have to use one of their throwaway cars, a hatchback. The Forum had invested in a few such whips parked in certain no camera zones around Manhattan and The Bronx. Branson thought of the green Honda Civic parked on 130th Street and 8th Avenue on a quiet side street. Sometimes he would go tune it up for like half an hour to keep the battery from dying, many more times he would send a little nigga down the block to go do it for him. The windows were slightly tinted to make it more difficult for anyone inside to be recognized.

"Hold up. We know the nigga or his peoples?" There was a pause and a sigh.

"Yeah. Blue Boy, outta Johnson. Branson rubbed his temples.

"You... You do understand whatchu might be about to get us into, right?"

"Yeah," Get Right said instantly. There was a lull in the conversation.

"I-ight. Change up your threads, don't forget your mask..." Branson coached him on a few other things. They would have to burn everything later but that was someone else's responsibility. "I really hope it's worth it, bro, cuz you know them pigs. It's gon' get hot."

"Hey, we was in the crib all night." Get Right was laid back with Imani draped over him, Katrina smoking on the side, having just gotten the blunt. "And for the record, yeah, it's worth it, brodie." Branson didn't think so but his man was going to war, so he too was going to war and he had to keep his man's spirits high and his attention razor sharp. An idea popped into Branson's mind.

"I-ight then. I'ma hit you up at seven-thirty."

"Hoffa!" The line dropped and Branson sat staring at the t.v. without seeing it. Naomi came and sat nearer to him, also placing her empty plate on the adjacent table. She put a hand on his shoulder.

"You all right, babe?" she asked. A few seconds passed before he responded.

"Yeah... But I'm thinking you gotta get up outta here." She removed her hand from his shoulder and he could see her withdrawing into herself, face becoming stone still. "Not like that, babe," he assured her, grabbing her hand in his. She frowned and cocked her head. "I'm thinking later tonight I'm gonna put you in that apartment I got in midtown." He turned and faced her. "Without implicating you, lemme just say that I need someone who, if necessary, can say I was here tonight, the entire evening. I can't get in the details because, again, I don't wanna implicate you." She was a quick study. He could see her catching on as she nodded, a frown on top of her original frown now. "I gotta do something tonight, but I'ma leave my phone here so when police triangulate my position using my cell phone the towers will place me here, feel me?"

"Yes, I know how that works," Naomi said. He nodded in appreciation of her understanding.

Also, you gonna call GR phone at about eight-fifteen tonight. Imani or Katrina gonna pick up. Talk as long as you like, hang up and they're gonna call you after a bit." She understood, and he was glad she seemed solid for the bit of time they had known each other. "When I get back tonight we going downtown to put you in your new crib." She nodded and leaned into him, head and luxurious hair on his chest. He bent his head to put his face in her hair.

"By the way," she lifted her head. "How do I get come out of the alpaca?" In short order he was roaring with laughter. She was stunned at first but joined in too shortly thereafter.