Chapter 15 Chapter XIV

Gimme the keys," Branson told Get Right as they crossed the street. Get Right gave him the keys to the Tahoe and Branson floored the accelerator most of the way to Kingsbridge. By the time they got there though, police presence was heavy and the building was cordoned off for nonresidents. Residual smoke wafted from some part of the building. The Fire Department was on hand and there was a bit of confusion. Smoke was heavy in the air. Branson parked on a side street opposite and down from Chulo's building; he and Get Right watched the large crowd gathered in front of the building and which partially spilled over onto the street. Everyone had seen the video by now and the police allegedly had two males in custody, some dudes said while passing the truck:

that hadto be Bolo and Nut. If Chulo was locked up he would've found a way to contact them by now. Chulo was well-known and well-loved in the neighborhood. He was nowhere to be found; ditto, Ygritte. Allegedly, the children were safe with one of their uncles on Fordham Road. There was no getting inside the building so Branson drove up to the VA Hospital and parked near the front.

"That nigga could be anywherein The City," Branson muttered.

"Nah, not just anywhere," Get Right answered. "We know a bunch of his usual hangout spots - let's go check those before these pig ass niggas start."

"Hold up, doggie, if he don't wanna be found, he not gonna be found. And how we gonna look? Even if we took a buncha goons to look for him? What, we police now?" Branson thought a few minutes. "I-ight then. What say we head back to the block and wait on the nigga to holla?"

Get Right thought about it - no better options presented themselves. He shrugged. Why not? On their way back to the block, Branson's phone began to ring: "unregistered caller." He found a corner to park beside and answered the phone.

"Bison," said Branson as he answered the call.

"Yo, yo, my brother," muttered Chulo from the other line." Jojo,mybroda! "What happened, man?" Whahapping,mang?

"Funny ass nigga: you tell us, bro. Yeah and Get Right here too." Get Right exchanged brief greetings with his co-boss.

"I need for you to go to 63rd and Lexington. Opposite the train. We talk later."

They hanged up and, almost an hour later, in worsening traffic, Branson parked opposite the Q and the R train station at 63rd St. and Lexington Avenue. It was going on 6p.m. Thirty minutes after they arrived, a young man with a basketball and sportswear

knocked on Get Right's passenger side door. Get Right had the Glock 9 in his left hand pressed to the inside of the car door as he rolled down his window.

"Hey, Mister, we gotta go," the boy boldly stated before walking off. Get Right and Branson exchanged amused glances; the former tucked the handgun at his waist and got out of the truck. Branson wasn't packing any heat so he played the wingman, trailing some meters behind Get Right who himself was trailing a few meters behind the little nigga. They wound up on 59th Street and 3rd Avenue, walking up the stairs of the Roosevelt Island Tramway.

Hmm, Branson wondered. Howthingscomearoundfullcircle.

All three paid their fare and boarded the tram. The young baller had dribbled the ball the entire distance to the tram, gracefully avoiding the increased pedestrian traffic. There were two ports, one for each tram as they docked at either end at the conclusion of an approximately five minute aerial voyage. Normally, when one tram was docked in Port A on the Manhattan side, the other tram was docked in Port B on the Roosevelt Island side. The distance the tram traveled was approximately two-thirds of a mile. Both trams passed each other hundreds of feet in the air over a hundred times a day, electronically guided from inside the tram by a proficient tram conductor and supervised by other technicians at control boxes in adjacent offices at the ports. The limit of people allowed on the tram was 125. One set of doors of each tram opened onto the appropriate

docking platform, the other set opened on gated walkways descending from each tram at both ends.

Their mystery guide stood at the other set of closed tram doors looking out on the gloaming down third avenue where so many rear bumper lights winked their angry red orbits more steadily than not, as each inhabitant made his or her way home to other unknowable destinations. After about a minute, there was a warning to "watch the closing doors," just like train conductors warned in their daily subterranean journeys in the dark of New York's underbelly.

The tram ride was nostalgic for Branson. Manhattan dropped away in its starry, ligh- suffused glory and Roosevelt Island soon loomed with its own (less) bright acclaim. Queens, specifically Queensbridge, was also visible on the horizon, another luminous body, another refreshing bite of The Big Apple. The Triborough Bridge, linking Queens, Manhattan and The Bronx, loomed mightily to the side of the of the tram, and strangers

curiously observed other strangers on their pilgrimages to each other's subjective finales. It was fun, a wonder, to connect with people in such a fashion, from not too great a distance, but they might as well have been leagues apart. Yes, The Big Apple,

where so many dreams come true, but so many more fell through the cracks to never be heard from again. Branson enjoyed the tram ride bittersweetly. For as the tram descended back to the earth, so too would the dreams of the Southern and Midwestern girls searching to become models and film and music stars, once they realized their bite of The Big Apple was worm-riddled.

An apple is pleasant to the eye, when ripe. Its glossiness is meant to reflect its readiness to be eaten. It entices the sojourner, weary or vivacious. Some are lucky to bite into the sweet side of an apple. Most others, however, discover its saccharine nature only after their bite crunches into maggoty flesh, as well as the flesh of the overripe apple itself and the flesh of other rotten organisms hidden inside. The

combination can be quite distasteful, to say the least, and one is forever haunted by that bite, aspirations crushed. Many do not survive. Most that make it out in retreat never return but can be seen on social media in Florida or elsewhere bragging about their current city being better than New York.

But Branson was a New Yorker, a true survivor. He not only survived, he thrived.

As the tram docked, the young baller glanced left and right but couldn't spot Get Right to his far left nor Branson to his not too far right. The conductor bid a good evening to everyone right before opening the doors to let his temporary charges debark. The kid walked down a short rampway and with some others of his fellow passengers,

continued up toward the sole Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA) train station. Up that way and not too far began the habitable buildings of the community of Roosevelt Island.

There was also a bus service to take people from the tramway to the community areas. Most people took this bus but many others chose to walk because of the modicum of exercise involved in walking some way to their homes. A leisurely five minute walk from the Tram landed one at the train station. The well-lighted, predominantly glass building was above ground, clean, with a view of everything at street level: the turnstyles, the MTA agents in their booths, the elevators and two escalators separated by a wide flight

of stairs going down. Only the top parts of the stairs and escalators were visible through the crystal clear glass. The trains arrived and departed on two directionally different tracks some twenty-five meters below ground. One track went to Queensbridge and beyond, the other left Queensbridge through Roosevelt Island on its way back to Manhattan. As a matter of fact, 63rd Street and Lexington Avenue was the stop after Roosevelt Island but Chulo had taken them the long way, obviously for his own security.

The vast majority of Roosevelt Islanders took the train to get off the island. A mass of people were just coming out of the train station and justlike that, the kid was lost in a lake of human bodies. Branson hanged back a bit more, watching Get Right move slowly in the crowd, trying to not look like he was searching for somebody and looking exactly like he was searching for somebody.

A hunter green Landcruiser crawled up the one way street in front of the train station. The windows were tinted. It was behind Get Right and had quietly passed by Branson, who ducked behind one of the train's outer walls. The one-way led up some distance to the right, snaking left and up to the main street of Roosevelt Island which was a two- way street. The main street of Roosevelt Island was appropriately, drily and drolly called "Main Street." The paths that circumscribed either side of the island were just big enough for vehicles to drive on but were usually reserved for cyclists, joggers, police

and other security vehicles.

Another, smaller and much less wide pathway (this one could be said to properly be for joggers and/or cyclists) ringed and was a few steps down from the larger side street. This pathway was bordered by iron-reinforced rectangular concrete pillars at least a meter and a half high, with attached iron grilles an inch apart separating the pillars. There was also a cylindrical iron pipe going through near the top of each pillar ringing around the entire island at chest height so one could lean on it or even sit atop it if one dared.

Branson moved slower in the crowd and surreptitiously ducked beside one of the station's walls, keeping a wary eye on the Landcruiser. His phone rang.

Unregistered caller.

"IseeyouandIseeGetRighttoo,"saidChulo.Eyeseejuandeyeseegayright2. The Landcruiser's lights flashed severally. Get Right turned around and, catching sight of Branson approaching the SUV at leisure from behind, he also made his way to it. Branson got in the back sofa seat a few seconds before Get Right entered from the street side. As they took off, the bulky silhouette in the front passenger seat reached up to turn on the light in the truck. It was Chulo, but when he reached back to give his co- bosses daps, they merely stared. From just a few days ago as he was leaving for upstate, to now, Chulo had aged years. The overhead light highlighted sunken cheeks, bleary eyes, shadows under the eyes and a furious frown was permanently plastered on his brow. He turned the light back off as the truck drove past the first inhabited apartment complex on Roosevelt Island, called "Southtown," a sprawling affair, built on what used to be a large multi-sports recreation field. Turning left and going up a short

distance, the single lane became a two way street. Branson's memories of the past came back to him as the SUV passed 510 Main Street, the first of a rambling series of interconnected buildings known as "Eastwood." Then the library zoomed past, the pizzeria and 540 Main Street (still a part of Eastwood where many young people congregated because of a long stone bench under a glass and steel gazebo-type structure - there were a few such structures on the island). All the buildings on this one side of Roosevelt Island were interconnected, though many small businesses had their storefront under some apartments. All of these storefronts were connected and protected from the elements by intricate glass and concrete partitions and gazebos - Roosevelt Island was indeed a marvel of creative construction.

That was why it was so expensive to live there. Mainly diplomats, doctors, politicians, actors, rappers and ambassadors lived there. Eastwood sloped away with the last building, 580 Main Street. Westview (an interconnected two-building condominium) was on the other side of the street now, where Branson's retired parents lived with his half- sister Cindy whose "job" it was to take care of them. Branson and Kingson paid the bills and the person taking care of their parents to ensure their comfortable existence at the end of their lives. After Eastwood came another sports recreation field known as "Northtown," directly opposite Westview, a smaller version of its counterpart southwards. Northtown was attached to a slightly elevated park to sit and relax in or play handball or dodgeball or watch or play b-ball on the sole b-ball court two meters or so farther down. They passed all this, the large school on the left he had attended as a child but at a different location not too far up the street. To the right now they rolled

past the third entrance and exit to and from Roosevelt Island: a short, spiraled ramp vehicles used to ascend up and cross the Roosevelt Island drawbridge into Queens or by which they could also descend to the island.

The memories flooded Branson as they passed the adjacent Roosevelt Island garage, the only supermarket on the island, several large apartment complexes again on the left side of the street, called "Riverview," on down until they approached the outdoor/indoor tennis courts. The Landcruiser turned left down a smallish side street and drove a bit farther across to where some ancient looking houses were situated.

There were two ancient hospitals on Roosevelt Island, Coler and Goldwater by name, one situated at each end of the island. Had the Landcruiser not turned left, they would have arrived at Coler in short order, a short distance from which squatted the now defunct lighthouse at the very tip of the north side of the island. Branson dimly remembered these ancient environs he used to explore as a child and at which the only church back then on Roosevelt Island (the Good Shepherd Community Church) held

picnics, birthday parties, festivals, etc. The SUV parked in front of one of the large houses. Chulo got out and was followed by Branson and Get Right. The driver, an older fair-skinned gentleman, stayed in the car. Chulo unlocked the high and spiked front gate to the dilapidated and haunted looking structure.

Inside was nothing like how the outside presented itself. Inside was well furnished, clean and spacious.

Sincewhentheniggahadthis place? Branson and Get Right were wondering at the same time. Over the years, Get Right had bought and renovated some houses down south and was now renting them. Branson had simply bought some properties in and out of State but was holding onto them to eventually sell for what would be their

appreciative value. Chulo led them through the house to a sparse but fashionable parlor. A few divans were strategically laid out on a large carpet. Chulo removed his sneakers before stepping on the carpet; Get Right and Branson followed suit. They sat around a small but broad oval and wooden table. Get Right stretched out on a divan while

Branson merely reposed, never fully at ease, but comfortable.

Chulo recounted how he had caught Ygritte cheating on him. He didn't tell them everything, for obvious reasons, like howJulio had been "dealt with" or even ifthe deed was done - only that "songtinghapping" and it would never happen again. The children were safe with some other uncle of theirs on Fordham; he didn't say where Ygritte was, nor was it their business to ask. There were plenty nosy niggas, and bitches, in the cemetery.

"So whatchu plannin' now?" Get Right asked him after a short and gravid silence. Chulo's thoughts turned and turned. A young woman who bore a passing resemblance to Chulo entered the parlor carrying a tray of beers, Malta and waters. She served them each; Branson knew he'd be driving again tonight so he took only a Heineken, a Malta and a water. He downed half the Heineken immediately. The other two took beers in abundance. The tray was set on the table, still laden with the majority of beers. Some minutes passed in silence in the brightly lighted room. A complex plan blossomed in Chulo's mind but it all depended on how it was executed and by whom. He stared at Branson.

Branson stared back, downing the other half of the Heineken.

"I need your brother. Verdad, yo quiero habla con tu hermano." Chulo wanted to speak to Kingson about this delicate and all too explosive situation. He explained that he wanted Kingson to be there when he turned himself in. There was no other viable alternative - he had to turn himself in - he had two children, for God's sake. But before all that, Kingson

had to prove himself again by getting Nut and Bolo freed first. Then they could focus on freeing Chulo. And this had to be done quickly.

Chulo scrutinized Branson. The latter knew that if he tried to explain the marital problems Kingson was going through, especially with Mia having just declared for divorce, Chulo would think he was frontin' and not trying to help him.

"I'll see him tomorrow morning and run everything by him first." Branson held up a hand. "He's been real busy so I can't promise you anything, Chulo."

"That's fine," Chulo replied, smiling, or frowning less. "Pero try, mira." They continued drinking for about fifteen more minutes, chitchatting about trivialities. The mystery woman who'd served them earlier came back into the room, still stately in her prim and proper gray suit, the skirt going down below the knees. She reminded Branson of a browner skinned version of an old junior high school teacher on whom he'd had a mean crush: Ms. Ladenheim. Tall (on heels), professionally dressed, seeing glasses, long and wavy black hair, a small mole at the right corner of her mouth and dimples that really brought out the curve of her cheekbones when she smiled. In addition, Ms. Ladenheim had a juicy booty going on back there and some ripe ass mango titties. A meanpink toe. Branson had always stared at her titties as a young teenager.

The Robin Byrd Show and Ron Jeremy pornos had spoiled Branson at a young age.

The woman had a brown paper bag in her hands and went to stand by Chulo, handing him the bag. Chulo reached into the bag, seemed to count something and gave the woman a certain amount of money to give to Branson. Her politeness while handing him the money was unfeigned, easily accomplished, meaning it was real.

"That's twenty racks, said Chulo. "Ten for Bolo, ten for Nut." He paused, reached into the bag again and pulled out five thousand dollars. "This is for him, personally," Chulo handed it to the woman who again came to give Branson the additional money. But this time, while handing it to him, she rubbed the inside of his palm with the tip of her forefinger. He acted normal and clasped the money together. The woman went and sat near Chulo silently this time. It was difficult to keep his eyes from her but Branson managed. They continued drinking a bit longer, shooting the breeze.

"Oh, I forget. I bring some cigarettes with me for us. But only Nut & Bolo know where they are." Branson thought about that too. Kingson hadto get involved - there was too much unknown shit, too many variables, they wouldn't want coming to light. And Kingson could definitely keep a secret. Get Right finished his fourth Heineken and looked at the time on his phone.

"Brodie, we gotta bounce," Get Right said to Chulo. "I gotta get the take from Skar and the rest of them niggas; it's getting late." Chulo nodded and stood up; everyone followed suit as well. Chulo led them out. At the front door he stopped Branson.

"I remember long ago you say Roosevelt Island a good place for getaway," Chulo began. He looked around. "I take your advice, invest, and get away." He raised a hand to encompass the house.

"You did good, homie. You did real good." Branson replied. They gave each other daps. Chulo told them his driver would drop them off at 63rd and Lexington. As they were getting into the Landcruiser, the silent woman rushed out of the house past Chulo to the vehicle to hand Branson the bottle of water he'd left behind.

"Gracias," he thanked her.

"De nada," she replied, simultaneously placing a small piece of paper into his hand along with the the water. He played it cool as he got in the back of the truck with Get Right. When the driver drove off, Branson casually looked back at the house and shewas still there, eyes fastened on him, watching as the SUV rolled out of sight.