Chapter 10 Chapter IX

The first thing Branson did was drive down to 103rd Street and park closer to the 3rd Avenue side. It was where the hip hop group The Fugees had filmed their song "Guantanamera" a couple of decades ago. This was East Harlem, better known as Spanish Harlem. He went inside a building and buzzed an apartment on the ground floor. He was buzzed in. The apartment was down a long corridor, just past the building's only staircase. There were three apartments: one directly in front of him and one to his right and left, their front doors facing each other. The front door of the apartment on the right had been left open. He walked in and saw Abuela making breakfast while Abuelo was yelling at someone on the phone in a back room. Jewelz and Chief, both brothers, both Puerto Rican, were inside their childhood room playing Gears of War.

"Fuck y'all niggas gon' play video games ya whole life?" Branson asked them. "What up, fam?" Chief answered, not looking up at him.

"Branson, what up, homie?" Jewelz paused the game and gave him dap, followed by

Chief. Branson sat on their bed and started rolling a blunt.

"Close the door, bro. You know Abuela can't stand even looking at that shit," Jewelz cautioned him.

"Nah, we not smoking in here, we gon' smoke in the back, outside," said Chief. Branson shrugged. These niggas were childhood friends from junior high school. Branson supplied Chief with his own personal money to be hustling for them both, out where their families had lived within a small community on Roosevelt Island. The latter was about three miles long, situated between Queens and Manhattan. Kingson's and the

brothers' families still lived on Roosevelt Island but they themselves had moved out long ago.

The difference between Black and Hispanic families was that the latter stayed in contact with each other more often. Spanish people were notorious for their unity, especially in prison where they were known as "Germans," an allusion to the Germans of yore whose unity of purpose was almost unparalleled. Kingson, "the last boy scout," as Branson often called him, stayed close to their family, somewhat, certainly more than Branson who stayed as far away as possible. Paradoxically, Branson greatly enjoyed interactions with Chief's family. The faults within every family cause us to believe that other families are idyllic. All families are flawed in one way or another but we're all blinded looking at other families, yet we believe our vision to be 20/20 when judging our own. Kingson loved Jewelz and Chief like brothers also and visited their crib at least

once a week, usually bearing gifts.

The weed was classic Harlem Purple Haze smoked throughout Harlem since Killer Cam made it famous decades ago.

"Yo, I'm out front, fuck the back - it's legal now, nigga," said Branson, walking out the room. On his way out the front door, Abuela caught his arm and pointed to breakfast.

"Tu no quiere?" she asked in a low but still energetic voice.

"Si, Abuela, yo quiero. Ehhh, yo..." replied Kingson, struggling with the Spanish. "Yo quiero fumar tañ bien." He made a smoking gesture. She tittered and slapped his arm with the weight of a butterfly.

"Okay, okay, hijo... pero..." Branson walked out silently, leaving the door unclosed. Abuela could draw you into a series of past recollections, stories of former lives that were dizzying in detail and length. The family had told him to just go wherever he was going, that the onset of senility was on her. It wasn't often but when it did happen he waited a bit and then, when her attention was distracted or she turned around to do something or suddenly fell asleep, he made his exit.

He went through two doors (the inner door required a key from the outside) to get to the front of the building where he sat on the railing to one side of the entrance under a gazebo. Jewelz came out as he lighted the blunt. A few puffs later, Chief came out as

he was passing the blunt to Jewelz. One thing COVID ain't stop - puff puff give. Passing the blunt was an age old tradition - it formed bonds that went deep. And the more you smoked with certain people, the deeper and more appreciative the bond became. You began knowing more about the person by what he or she spoke about when they were high, how they acted, how and what they ate, their limit of marijuana and liquor, their family issues. Blunt smoking and blunt passing, as cultural and societalrituals, would never go out of style.

These three shot the breeze like old times, like the hundreds of times over the years they had smoked here and elsewhere, together, having each other's backs, occasionally dissing each other's family members and each other. Some people walking by greeted them, having known these bejeweled youths since their preadolescence. The first blunt went around the cypher several times before Chief lighted another one - Hawaiian Watermelon Haze pervaded the area. It was a strong strain of Haze best cultivated from out of State that had made its appearance in Harlem in recent weeks. Branson took a few more tokes, held it and slowly exhaled with his eyes closed. He opened his eyes and nodded at the light watermelon flavor in his mouth.

"You made the tally this week?" Branson asked Chief.

"Hell yeah, nigga," Chief replied, passing Branson his own share of the week's takings. A pound of that loud sold for two thousand, five hundred dollars (two-five). If you sold by the ounce, you could make five thousand, two hundred dollars (five-two). But if you sold dimes, twenties and, occasionally, fifties - small plastic "baggies" of weed were sold for ten, twenty and fifty dollars, respectively, one could make a bit over ten thousand dollars in a week. Chief did that every week, easily, and got a three-five flat salary. If he made more, that was fine, as long as Branson got his six-five at the end of the week, all was right with the world.

"Think you can handle two a week?" Branson watched Chief closely - if he hesitated in his answer, Branson wouldn't give him the two a week.

"No doubt," Chief answered instantly, looking up at Branson. "Even three."

"I-ight. Take the whip up to Branson's and get three shopping bags," said Branson, handing him the keys. "He'll be waiting." They finished the cypher and Chief took off, a light drizzle falling. Branson made a call to the other Harlem Branson who often supplied him and told him Chief was on the way for three "beef patties." The message was well-received and well understood. Branson and Jewelz went back inside and breakfasted on some arrozcõnpolloand orange juice.

Afterward, they spoke further on finalizing their plans to renovate the apartment building they were in. It belonged to Abuelo but it was rundown. Most of the apartments were vacant and Branson had already contacted a renovation company to start work the beginning of May. It was the still April and the company's workers had begun bringing their equipment to start renovations on the top floor. They both took a walk upstairs to see how the preparations were being put in place. Everything seemed professionally laid out. A short time later they met up with Chief as he was coming into the building and as they descended to the ground floor. Chief was carrying three square blocks of well wrapped loud in his hands. Cuomo had changed the game. They all went back into the apartment and Chief opened up one of the blocks.

"Oooohhh we!" Chief exclaimed when the bud expanded out of it's blocky shape, buds and clusters of buds mushrooming out of the package. The smell was wonderful, like something out of a special level of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Daps all around and Branson got his coat and was about bouncing from the crib with

Jewelz. On his way out, Branson folded a couple hundred dollars inside Abuela's palm.

"Que Dios te bendigo, mi hijo," Abuela blessed him in, holding his face in her hands as he leaned over. "Muchas gracias, hijo, muchas gracias."

"De nada, Abuela," he replied, truly touched by the display of affection and her blessing.

Don'tmeanshitinyourcase,cuzyoustillgoingtohell, said the voice in his head. Jewelz was the COO of a Hispanic construction company downtown and had to leave

for work. His Landcruiser was in the shop so Chief would take him in his kitted out BMW stationwagon. They made plans to meet up at Jewelz's crib in Kew Gardens, Queens, on the weekend. It was about 9:30a.m. on his way out the building with the brothers. He again gave daps to his niggas and got in his Benz to answer the call.

"What's up, secret lover?" Branson greeted as he picked up the phone. "Hey, baby," a woman's voice purred in his ear.

"What can I do you for?"

"You can do me for anything, daddy."

"Whoa ho ho!" he exclaimed. Aren't we in a hot 'n bothered mood!"

She laughed in a sultry fashion that she knew would instantly get his dick up. "Yeah, I want that dick inside me right now, daddy."

Branson pressed his hardening dick.

"Baby, what the deal? I'm about to be in traffic."

"Remember what I told you I've been wanting to do since last Christmas? What I've been telling you I'ma do eventually?" He thought back to that night and a chill rippled through him.

"Yeah," he said cautiously. "I remember."

"Well, I'm going to do it in a little while." The silence was heavy, thick with possibilities. "Oh, and another thing. I'm pregnant." Branson controlled himself with tremendous effort of will.

"That's lit. As fuck." Another brief and heavy silence. "Is it mine?"

"It surely is, my heartbeat." Branson reclined his seat a bit and nodded smugly to himself. "Well then, I guess the time has finally come. You sure you wanna do this, now?"

"I've never been surer in my life, baby."

"Hmm. Okay, my golden gal. It's gonna take about a month to get everything ready." "We got time, Bran. We got the rest of our lives."

A mounting excitement caused time to slow down as Branson drove up the streets before turning right and up the avenues on 125th Street and Lexington Avenue. He was going to surprise inspect the blocks and their Strongmen but his heart wasn't even there anymore. However, he knew how to put business before pleasure, because there would beno pleasure without business. He turned left on 125th Street and Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard (better known as 7th Avenue) and parked in front of the White Castle. Bucky wasn't around but he flashed his number and waited.

A child. Wow. Yeah, it was time.

The few hustlers on the block came to greet him. Within a few minutes Bucky hurriedly came out of Ennis Francis Houses, a large one block former housing unit turned co-op between 123rd and 124th Streets, just one block over. Niggas in front of the building peeped him and he peeped them too. Bucky spotted the Benz immediately and made a beeline to the luxury car. He was the youngest Strongman, but his numbers were good and consistent. Branson felt that consistency, even in mediocrity, was to be applauded. The car door lifted with an air an airlock opening sound as Bucky approached and got in, pushing the button for the door to close. He was familiar with the whip and greatly admired it. He had on a gray Adidas sweatsuit with some gray Adidas sandals. Around his neck was a thick sixteen inch long platinum chain with an iced out "Jesus piece" that glittered cleanly in the midmorning sunlight. Branson handled it in admiration.

"That's kinda fire," Branson complimented.

"Good lookin', big homie." Bucky replied. "Nothing like yours though." Even though platinum was more expensive than gold, the diamonds interwoven between the thick gold links in Branson's chain were of extraordinary cut, clarity, color and carat - the latter were the "four 'C's'" by which diamonds were graded. Branson made a modest gesture. "So what it do, boss?"

"Ain't shit. Just checking up on my Strongman, making sure all the Captains is good." Bucky nodded his head to Branson's response. "Right, right," he agreed. "Well, the

workers where they 'posed to be, most of the fiends still at work, the shooters laying low

keeping watch and the boys ain't out yet." Bucky just scratched his head, thinking. "E'ything cool, I got e'ything under control." Branson thought about warning him not to be in his chick crib too often, especially in the daytime, but ifitain'tbroke,don'tfixit.

"I-ight, cool," said Branson. He gave Bucky a dap and the latter got out the car, heading back to Ennis Francis. Bucky's bitch was Honduran, an exotic little cutie niggas knew to stay the fuck away from. Bucky was a hothead and could easily smoke a nigga for talking to his bitch. So went the rest of the morning and a part of the afternoon: Branson

unexpectedly popping up on the Strongmen, justkeepingniggasontheytoes, he kept telling himself.

You'saMUTHAfuckin'liar, mocked the voice in his head, laughing into the distance.

MaybeIis, Branson thought back at this spirit or demon or whatever the fuck the voice represented, butain'tamfkagonnaknow.