After Death(27)

Putting aside his burner, staring at the screen of his iPhone, Aleem says, “I shoulda known better what I was gettin’ into with her. The bitch was always trouble.”

Kuba nods, sucks air through his teeth, and says, “All of ’em are, sooner or later. Least she’s hot.”

“Even hotter back when. That’s how they get you.”

“Iffen they’re hot,” Kuba says, “it’s fly fishin’. She’s the hook hidden in pretty feathers, we’re the fish got no chance.”

“You talkin’ wisdom now,” Aleem says. “Fly fishin’. We got no more chance than a junkie he wants to quit but goes right on loadin’ his kit with China white. I been long addicted.”

Not for the first time, Kuba misunderstands. “Addicted? Shit you are. I never seen you do a line or even take a toke.”

“Addicted to pussy,” Aleem clarifies. “My name is Aleem, and I’m a pussyholic.”

“Man loses his judgment in the presence of it,” Kuba agrees.

Aleem sighs. “Loses all common sense. Iffen you don’t have it, you can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t do business with a clear head. So you do her, she’s never been so satisfied, callin’ you baby, callin’ you Superman. Then thirteen years later, she’s dissin’ you, runnin’ away with your child, knockin’ your whole life off the rails, playin’ you for a fool.”

The subject vexes Kuba. “It’s a tragedy is what it is.”

“It’s more than a tragedy.”

“A tragedy and a crime.”

Aleem says, “It’s all that. Worse, it’s an affront.”

“The front of what?”

“An affront. An insult, man. Spittin’ in my face.”

“A woman so much as talks smack at a man, he got to teach her regret. Spittin’ in your face got to have consequences.”

“Pains me how she must be breakin’ my boy’s spirit.”

“She has her way,” Kuba says, “he’ll be dancin’ ballet and wearin’ makeup.”

“That won’t never happen.”

“You take him from her, she won’t just stop. Not her.”

Aleem is silent, staring at the blinking signifier, while Kuba pilots them through the thrashing rain. After a minute or two, he says, “Okay, here’s how it is. Our crew gets her blocked, the bitch got nowhere she can go. Hakeem and Carlisle they take the boy to my crib, settle him down. Other four homeys get back to their business. You and me, we make damn sure Nina can’t get her hook in no one never again.”

“What’s Antoine gonna say?”

“Antoine he ain’t relevant no more. We don’t tell Antoine. I keep the boy out of sight. Day after tomorrow, it won’t matter what Antoine wants. He won’t be givin’ orders to no one, nowhere, about nothin’ no more.”

Kuba likes the plan so much, he’s nodding like a bobblehead doll. When he stops nodding, he says, “How you see it goin’ down with Nina?”

“How you see it?” Aleem asks.

“I don’t mean no affront.”

“You my brother, Kuba. Talk free.”

“I mean, she was your woman.”

“She’s nothin’ to me now. ’Cept a pain in the ass.”

“I’m thinkin’ it’s a wasted opportunity iffen it’s a quick trey eight in the head.”

“What opportunity?”

“She weren’t your woman once, I woulda been on her long ago.”

“You want to tear off a piece ’fore we pop her?”

“Sure would be somethin’ to remember in my old age.”

Aleem is aware of Kuba’s preference for heavy action. Whenever some fresh who’s being pimped gets out of line to an extent that she can’t be rehabilitated for the market, Kuba sets aside a full day to break her down so much that nobody wants to look at her again, let alone touch her. Aleem has never been present for one of those sessions, but he’s seen the aftermath. He is intrigued. Nina has been such a threat to his reputation and so smug in her churchified ways that she deserves whatever she gets.

“I wouldn’t mind storin’ up a memory myself,” Aleem says.

Kuba has such a sweet smile that few people could ever imagine what lies behind it.

“Let’s catch up with her again,” Aleem says.

Kuba accelerates into the wind, the rain, the night, and the promise of a passion for which there is no Valentine’s Day card.





IN THE TWILIGHT KINGDOM




At a corner table with a panoramic view of the elegant room, Durand Calaphas orders a four-hundred-dollar bottle of wine, which he might or might not finish. He is in no hurry. Later, he will have the filet mignon, which lists on the menu for seventy-six dollars, side dishes additional, and will probably cost eighty-two in another month. His job comes with such a generous expense account that no purchase of his has ever been questioned, and his credit card, issued by the agency, has no charge limit as far as he is aware. This is the bold new age of Modern Monetary Theory, which holds that excess has no consequence because the government can tax the economy into prosperity and the treasury is bottomless, or something like that.