CHAPTER XIX

22:30

Branson walked with Naomi as she took in the new place. It was sparsely furnished but the master bedroom was already hooked up. Branson had wanted to show this place to his main chick, but she had something better coming. Naomi could enjoy this. There were two other rooms, unfurnished as of yet but well cleaned and ready to be moved into and used.

A cleaning lady Branson knew from another part of the City dropped by twice a week to clean the apartment. She would also stock the fridge at least half full of microwave dinners and fruit juices Branson liked so much, the Tropicanas in the cardboard containers, and the Sunkists also. There was a decent sized Zenith plasma screen in the bedroom and a smaller one in the living room. If he needed a place to hide in comfort, this was it.

But now, it wasn't.

"Why you not talking? You like it or not?" Branson asked Naomi whilst reclining on the only piece of furniture in the living room: a large black couch. Naomi eased her not unpleasant weight onto him and lay on top of his body.

"I love it, babe. But..." She looked up at him. "This place gotta cost an arm and a leg every month. How am I going to maintain it, even with a job?" By just the size of the place she knew it was expensive. A three bedroom apartment in New York? One had to be wealthy for such an extravagance.

"Did I ask you to 'maintain it'?" Branson asked her, while holding up and repeatedly crooking each forefinger and middle finger of both hands to imitate quotation marks. Naomi shrugged noncommittally. "Don't worry about it. The place is yours, no strings attached." She looked skeptical. "Well okay, if you fuck around, you gotta get the fuck out."

"Mm-hmm," she said, effecting a pretentious yawn. He grabbed her by her armpits and used his thumbs to gently tickle her. She screamed and started play crying. "Stoooop, babe. Please don't- ah!" He continued tickling her and she laughed in huge gales of forced mirth.

"You wanna make fun of me, huh?"

"No, baby, no, I'm not- ah!Hahahahahahahahahaha!"

He let her go and she hugged him and he hugged her back and everything, at least for these small instances in time, was blissful. "Loyalty should always be rewarded," he told her. "If you had stolen even a quarter from me, you would've been out the next day." He kissed the hair on her scalp. "The apartment is yours, no matter what happens between us. Just please don't let me catch a nigga in here if I'm ever around."

"Thank you so much, babe. But why wouldn't you be around? You going somewhere?"

"I don't know yet, ma. I don't know." Her smile faded a bit. "Don't worry too much - everything's gonna be all right."

"Branson, I gotta get a job." That was the first time she had used his real name in some days. "If only to make it look good, especially to nosy neighbors, I'm still gonna need a j - o - b." A bright light came on in his mind and he smiled widely. "Hey, that's a nice set of choppers you have but I know you don't show them for nothing. What gives?"

"Man oh man, I think I know where you can get a good job. But lemme speak to the other big homie tomorrow and find out something first. Don't sweat getting a job, even if that don't work out, I'm still gonna need your help." He saw her really thinking, calculating about what he just told her. It was good to have thinkers on your side. Respectful thinkers. Yes man would only nod their heads and tell you what you wanted to hear. She, at least, was weighing the pros and the cons.

"I accept. I got your back. One hundred percent."

"You don't even know what I do, Li'l Bit." That was what he was suddenly taken with calling her: "Little Bit," since she was so small, but with a fat ass, though. She rolled her eyes in response.

"From the first night I saw you, I knew what you did, Bran Bran. I could sense it." She held his chain and medallion up from his chest. "You were too casual with your shines, comfortable in your secret wealth. With famous rap stars, producers, actors, shit like that, they're always just a little bit... nervous. Even with security. Like that night, remember Diddy was at Sylvia's with us." Naomi was right: even with security, music and movie stars who rocked their shines and expensive apparel in public always seemed nervous, as they should be.

After all, anybody could get it. Biggie and Pac had priced that.

"So you was checking me out that night, huh?"

"Yeah, yeah. A li'l sum sum. You didn't have any security but you moved with all the confidence of an army."

"I'm dark skinned so it's difficult for me to blush and you see it but... I'm blushing right now." They laughed and she showered him with kisses of burgeoning love and affection. "You wanna chill here for the night or go back?" She thought about it and finally, with pleading eyes, spoke in the enchanting manner possessed solely by females and little children.

"Can we please stay here tonight? My first night in my first apartment in New York. I want to remember this night forever."

"You want some head?" Branson asked her, smirking.

"Do you want some head?" Branson laughed again as she got off him slowly holding and pulling on his hand.

"Wait, ma." She stopped and looked back at him questioningly. "I gotta go pick something up for that appointment with Kingson and the other big homie in the a.m." She looked disappointed. "I'm sorry yo. Don't get all sad and shit." She hugged him and he kissed her forehead as he squeezed her round, fat ass, reveling in the lush and possessive feeling it gave him.

"Go take care of business and hurry back though." He nodded and told her to make sure the door was locked before going to sleep if he still wasn't back, that he might be back real late. Hell's Kitchen had really changed during the nineties and early twenty first century bit there were still elements of... chaos still roaming about. He got in the Benz and made a call as he drive off. A croaky voice answered.

"Yo, what up, chief?"

"What up, Skar? You got them whips ready?"

"Everything Gucci. Come through."

"Be there in a few."

"One." Skar was Dominican but sounded like a Black nigga, fair in complexion, the classic "pretty boy," but his name was "Skar" not because he had scars on his face or anything like that, but rather because of the number of scars he had given to other niggas.

Skar, as with the other Captains, was official, a no nonsense type who kept it a buck all the way. His voice was a bit raspier than even DMX's, permanently damaged from the blunts he smoked and all the yelling he did. Branson had earlier asked him to buy two luxury sedans and put both in Naomi's name: Naomi Osario. Within half an hour, Branson pulled up to park where Skar lived, in a slightly quieter spot than the main street. Branson had again come strapped, just in case.

One Hundred and Fortieth Street between Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. Boulevard and St. Nick Avenue was more easygoing than the other areas of influence. But it was the second most profitable locale. Whatever he was doing, The Forum left Skar to his devices, as long as he wasn't making the spot hot or causing them to lose money, either of which was bad for business, obviously. That was The Forum's ideology: laissez-faire. As long as you did your numbers and you weren't in the public eye for personal dumb shit, you were left alone to your devices. They gave each other dap and Skar lighted a blunt while they walked a small ways up. Skar's crew walked a short distance behind them. Branson whistled low as he approached the idling cars. Some niggas on a nearby stoop appeared to be watching over the cars; they nodded to Skar and he nodded back, throwing his hand up in the Bloods sign of greeting. Skar was an old time Bloods gang member. He had also been in and out of prison many times over the years, which was where he had bestowed so many scars on so many recipients.

"I-ight, so check it: this dark red one here is the G80. Shit got twin turbo, V6, sunroof, heated and ventilated seats - and check this out." Skar got in the G80 and manipulated a circular controller on the center console. A fourteen and a half inch touchscreen sprouted from on top of the dashboard. "Shit come with voice command, buttons on the steering wheel and Android Auto - bro, this South Korean thing is mean!

The driver's side door was open and Branson was leaning on top of it when a cop car slowly drove by. Strangely enough, there were uniformed black and whites in front and what looked like an undercover in cop in the back seat. Branson ducked to keep from being recognized. Skar had seen them too and stopped talking until they were some distance away.

"How the sounds feel?" Instead of answering, Skar merely turned on the radio and increased the volume slightly. The sound system was stacked, and with an incredible thumping Bass Boost. Skar pressed another button and the dashboard and screen retracted.

The inside was plush burgundy and practically screamed "comfort."

"That look dope as fuck. What's next?" Kingson asked. Skar stepped out of the G80 and they went to the next car up.

"This other whip," Skar began pensively, "is mainly about comfort. It's also called the 'T-8 Inscription.' It's a hybrid that's both supercharged and turbocharged. It gives 60 miles per gallon in the city. Thing is... There's like a- a type of delay when you hit the gas and the steering wheel ain't as precise as it could be." Skar opened the driver's side door and got in. He pressed a button on the handrest and a nine inch infotainment system lit up in the center of the dashboard. There's Apple CarPlay and Android Auto available here also."

"It's like the Genesis is better, though," said Kingson, feeling more drawn to the Genesis.

"Yeah, I think so too, bro. But still, they're both damned good cars. Skar was slightly older than Branson and he knew so much - he had been perfect for the Captain position. "Ay, uh, what's up the homeboy Chulo? He good where he at?" That was a loaded question.

"Yeah, he damn good. My brother about to be on the job and we gon' make it do what it do." Skar cocked his head for a few seconds, nodding repeatedly.

"I-ight, so first thing's first: I need you to drop off the Benz in front of my spot. Skar handed him both sets of car keys for the new cars and Branson handed him the keys to his Benz. Less than twenty minutes later, Skar came back sauntering up the avenue, thick gold chain glistening every time passing and parked car lights bathed him in their beams. Skar's thing was gold, though he had a large booger in his right ear. Branson got into the Volvo and, as much as he fucked with Skar, he would never let anyone, except his main shorty, know about his hideout.

Skar waited while Branson took off downtown with the Volvo. It wasn't his business to know where one of the bosses was going or what he needed two cars for. He didn't ask dangerous or nosy questions.

It was as Skar had said: the luxury was the most appealing thing about the S90, that and its hybrid feature, but yeah, the steering was slightly, just a tad bit, off, in reacting. Anyway, this would likely be one of his "shadow" vehicles. The Benz wss too well-known in the City. He needed something to get around in quietly, and this could be it. He parked in front of Naomi's building, locked the car and took a cab back up to Harlem. When he got back to Skar, the latter had lit another blunt and was in a cypher with his crew and the other niggas on the stoop. Skar went over to Branson and they leaned against the sedan.

"How much both whips cost?" Branson asked.

"A man and thirty. That's with all amenities, roadside assistance, including all wheel drive, massaging seats, damage warranty and a bunch o' other fancy shit." Branson thought about it. A hundred and thirty thousand? Not chump change, but definitely worth it.

"Bet. You want it in the bank or your Mobile Money account?"

"You could send it through Mobile Money, my sister's Crypto Wallet account. Banks are too dangerous." Branson went to the stoop where he sat and told Skar to watch his back. He began the somewhat lengthy affair of transferring one hundred and forty thousand dollars from an offshore dummy corporation into Skar's sister's Cryptocurrency account, unregulated by the government, and that was why Cryptocurrency pissed the fuck off out of the government. They claimed it was to insure regulations existed to protect both sender and receiver but governments were just some nosy muthafuckas, that was simply all.

Plus, they wanted their cut.

Ten minutes later, they gave each other dap and Branson again took off, this time in the G80. The extra ten thousand was for a job well done, especially on short notice. When you appreciated the good work people did for you, they would do good work for you in the future again.

He got to Midtown and had both cars idling when he called Naomi downstairs. She came out a bit groggily but after a yawn and stretch, her eyes opened in amazement. He asked her which car she preferred to have. He was already planning on giving it to her and explaining why it was a better vehicle but Branson was relieved when she chose the Genesis - at least the semblance of free will was maintained. But was it really free will, was it really a choice when one already knew the outcome?

Was this how God dealt with humans?

Crocodile choices, said The Voice in his mind, now countrified, now citified. This led Branson into a philosophical analysis in his mind as he gave Naomi the keys to her new car and watched her excited reaction to all the amenities she discovered inside. But yeah, back to the subject matter: when God gave you a choice, was it really a "choice" if He already knew what you were going to choose?

Well, and why not?

A human, mortal mind could not, by its sheer limited faculty, comprehend the vastness, the all compassing complexity of its Creator, so, within time and space, within that which we could perceive, the "choice," indeed, was free. Also, if God knew you were going to make a bad decision but loved you so much, He wanted the best for you, would He not, somehow, dissuade you from making a bad (or less worse) choice? Of course He would, kind of like Branson had just done for Naomi right now, kind of like a parent does for its children. They went upstairs to retire for the night.