Page 8

It’s Monday night and it’s slow. A few folks are slow dancing and having drinks. It’s nothing compared to the spoken word shit.

Montrell walks across the dance floor. People part for him like he’s fucking Moses or some shit. Niggas damn near bow to this man. His security, Tank, scans the area and follows close behind him.

Jazz plays in the background like it’s his theme music or some shit.

Von sits at the other side of the table, and we both stand up when Montrell makes it to the table. He daps up Von, and they say something to each other that I can’t make out.

Montrell comes over to me and does the same thing. “Evening, Hall,” he says. He’s been calling me by my last name since I was seventeen, ditching class at T.C. Williams and pushing crack at the playground for him. Back then, him being ten years older than me seemed so old.

Now that I’m forty, somehow he still seems much older than me. Maybe, cause he’s established himself in the business. He got the family: a wife, three kids. Big house in the Fort Hunt area on the water. He got a fucking boat in his backyard.

But with great power comes great responsibility. My mom always said that, and I thought that shit was in the Bible, but it’s just from a comic book character.

After Montrell sits down in the booth, we sit down in our seats.

A waitress comes by with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. She pours him a fresh glass and cuts an orange. She places the slice down on a plate. Another woman comes with a plate of wings and fries.

“Hi, Mr. Davis. Would you like anything else?” she asks him.

“Nah, we good,” he says, waving his hand.

The bartender puts beer in front of us. I didn’t ask for one, but I’m not going to turn the shit down.

“What the fuck is going on with dem poetry nights?” Montrell asks.

I take a sip of the Budweiser. “Trying some new shit. New crowds and customers.”

Montrell stares at me for a moment and then looks over at Von. He drinks half of his drink and sucks on the orange. “Whatever the fuck you doing, triple that shit.”

It’s all thanks to Pinkie, but that’s our little secret. Her computer whiz ass did something and it’s been packed every week.

“I got you,” I say, already arranging shit in my head.

I got two girls who move the pills during the poetry night. No one would suspect them at all. Pretty face, chatty as fuck, and get that money. They’ve been working for Montrell for years. But three times a week means I need more hands on deck. This ain’t the time to complain or ask for help.

“I knew you were the one when I found you as a youngin,” Montrell laughs, shaking his finger at me. He reaches and puts a few hot wings on his plate.

Von mean mugs me and clenches his jaw. “He was just a knucklehead punk who got into fights,” he says, reminding me of my past.

My dad had just passed and I was fighting anyone who looked at me wrong. School wasn’t for me, anyway. What the hell is trigonometry going to do for me in the real world?

“I’ve come a long way. I ain’t swinging unless I’m provoked,” I state.

Von drinks his beer and doesn’t say shit.

“My old lady’s already grumbling about me coming here. Once Zari walks down the aisle, I’m out this shit for good. It’s all you, Drey.”

My eyes widen, and heat runs through me. Yeah, Zari’s getting married, but she was kissing me the other day. Shit don’t even matter. Maybe she wanna fuck me before she’s locked down to one dick for the rest of her life.

But, what does Zari getting hitched got to do with the business? I never expected him to want me to take over. Where is this coming from?

“How’s this shit all him? I’m your right hand.” Von speaks up.

Montrell takes another bite of his wing and wipes his hands. “Nigga, you’re fifty-two. It’s almost time for AARP and shit.”

“Nah, we’ve been doing this shit since we were fifteen and seventeen.”

I sit back and watch them get into it.