In These Streets Read online

  “Yeah, explain that shit, Sinclair,” Derrick chided with widened eyes, making Jamal even more irritated.

  “I mean if you’re gonna do all that, at least get a chick with a bomb body,” Ricky insisted. “Those itty bitty titties your girl is working with can’t be—”

  “Ricky,” Jamal began warningly.

  “I’m just saying, I’ve got a thirty-six double-D redhead with freckles down at the club if you want me to introduce her to you since that’s your thing. Just think of it as an upgrade.”

  “There is no ‘upgrade’ from Bridget. She’s not a goddamn cellphone. I don’t want to trade her in!”

  Ricky raised his brows and took another sip from his bottle. “You sure about that, bruh?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Jamal answered firmly, taking a guilty glance at Derrick over his whiskey glass.

  The truth was, there was only one woman in the world who Jamal would consider pursuing if the opportunity ever came, who Jamal would “risk it all for,” despite being in a relationship with Bridget—and that woman was engaged to Derrick.

  Though Jamal had known the beautiful Melissa Stone just as long as Derrick—meeting her on the same day as he had nineteen years ago, Derrick had connected with her first. He’d often wondered, if he had been the one standing in the hall when she came in that day versus Derrick, would their lives have played out differently? Would he be the one engaged to Melissa, not his boy?

  Over the years, though Derrick and Melissa had broken up and made up quite a few times, Melissa only seemed to have eyes for Derrick and never seemed to consider Jamal in that way. Jamal wasn’t surprised. Derrick was taller, darker, and admittedly, better looking than him. It was hard to compete with that. He suspected Melissa would always see him as just her man’s best friend—and he would always have to keep his unrequited feelings and desires to himself.

  “You look like you’re hesitating there, Jay,” Ricky joked, as if reading Jamal’s mind. He ran his thumb and forefinger over his beard. “Got a nice side piece in mind?”

  Derrick burst into laughter.

  “It’s okay. You’re in the circle of trust,” Ricky continued, making Derrick laugh even harder. “I swear, we won’t tell. Just blink once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no.’”

  That’s when Jamal lost it. He had come here to tell them something important, not to be made fun of the whole night, which is what they usually did. It was always Derrick and Ricky ganging up on him, making him the butt of some dumb ass joke.

  “Oh, this shit is funny . . . real fuckin’ funny,” Jamal snarled. “Don’t you get tired of being the jackass, Ricky? Or is that all part of this bullshit, ‘Pretty Ricky’ persona you’ve created?”

  Derrick fell silent and Ricky looked taken aback.

  “That’s why I’m so tired of this shit—all of it! That’s why I’m ready to move on,” Jamal muttered sullenly before taking another drink.

  “Why do you keep saying that?” Derrick asked, squinting again. “Move on from what?”

  “From us,” Ricky answered for him. His affable smile had disappeared. “That’s what you mean right, Jay? You’ve been dancing around this shit the whole time. You’re ready to move on from us. Just say it!”

  “Man, that’s not what he means. Don’t exaggerate,” Derrick insisted, waving him off and sucking his teeth. He turned back to Jamal. “That’s not what you mean, right, Jay?”

  Jamal hesitated. This was what he came here to say, wasn’t it? But now he found it hard to utter the words. He dropped his eyes to his glass, staring at the brown liquid inside.

  “I’ve . . . I’ve been promoted to deputy mayor now, and the mayor and other people at City Hall won’t look kindly on me being close friends with someone who owns a strip club, who’s in business with dudes like Dolla Dolla. Something like that could ruin my reputation and the career I’ve worked really hard to build and . . . and I’ve gotta be smart.” He finally raised his eyes from his glass and looked at his friends. Derrick looked stricken. Ricky looked furious. “I know I can’t tell you what to do with your lives, but I can’t let that dictate my life either. For that reason, I . . . I’ve gotta break ties. I’m sorry.”

  The table fell silent. Only the music playing on the overhead speakers filled the void. Finally, Ricky let out a cold laugh and shook his head.

  “This is some bitch ass shit, man,” he said. “That’s cold blooded as fuck! I’m a liability now? Funny, I wasn’t a fuckin’ liability when you were asking to borrow money to pay your rent when you were a broke law student. We weren’t fuckin’ liabilities when we were keepin’ niggas in the neighborhood from beatin’ yo skinny ass!”

  “You think I wanna do this?” Jamal asked, leaning forward. “I don’t. You guys are like brothers to me. I don’t wanna do it, but I have to, Ricky. Don’t you get that?”

  “Man, you ain’t gotta do shit! No one’s forcing your hand but that bitch you live with,” Ricky said, slamming his beer bottle back to the table.

  “Leave Bridget out of this.”

  “No, I’m not leavin’ that bitch out of this! You started acting stuck up as soon as you started fuckin’ her—you punk pussy ass! She’s tryin’ to turn you into the next Clarence Thomas and you’re too stupid to figure it out!”

  “Look, Ricky,” Jamal said, pointing his finger at him menacingly, “you can call me whatever names you want, but keep Bridget’s name out your mouth, okay?”

  “Or what, nigga?” Ricky shouted, rising to his feet, drawing attention from other patrons in the bar and lounge. He spread out his arms. “What you trying to do about it?”

  Jamal started to rise to his feet too. He wasn’t a fighter, but his days of being bullied were over.

  “Y’all stop!” Derrick said. “You’re not gonna fight. Just sit and calm the fuck down. All right?”

  Jamal and Ricky continued to glare at each other before they finally sat back in their chairs.

  “Look, Jay, we understand that you’re doing big things now,” Derrick began. “You’re on the come up. We get it. We’re proud of you, man. But that doesn’t explain—”

  “It doesn’t explain why the fuck you’re cuttin’ off Dee, too!” Ricky interrupted, pounding his fist on the table. “He doesn’t have a strip club and he ain’t in business with Dolla! What’s your weak ass excuse for cuttin’ him off, you ruthless motherfucka?”

  Jamal pursed his lips. “I don’t want to cut him off, but I know if I told you we weren’t boys anymore, Derrick would say then forget his number too. Am I right, Dee?”

  Derrick hesitated, then nodded.

  “Yeah, because Derrick understands what loyalty means, unlike some other bitch ass niggas up in here,” he said, rising to his feet again. He opened his wallet and slapped a few bills on the table. “Well, you delivered your message. We heard that shit loud and clear—and now I’m out of here. Here’s the money for my drinks.”

  “Come on, Ricky,” Derrick lamented, closing his eyes. “Don’t leave like this. We can—”

  “No, I’m good.” He stepped out of the booth. “I got somethin’ to do back at the restaurant anyway. It’ll be a better use of my time.” He glowered down at Jamal. “Nice knowing you, Sinclair.” He then walked across the bar room to the glass door, mumbling to himself. “You punk ass . . . bitch ass . . .”

  “How could you do this shit?” Derrick asked, making Jamal turn back around to face him. “Don’t you realize how messed up this is?”

  “I told you why I did it. I can’t—”

  “But that doesn’t make it any less fucked up! We’ve been boys since we were kids, Jay . . . or Sinclair . . . or whatever the fuck you call yourself nowadays. Ricky’s grandmother passed and you remember what happened to his sister, Desiree. We’re all he’s got, and you’re just going to toss him aside like this? Like his friendship . . . like our friendship, don’t mean shit to you?”

  “Dee, we’re all grownups. We’ve gotta make choices and—”

  “Yeah
, I get it,” Derrick snapped, scooting out the booth and slapping a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “And I guess you’ve made yours. Now I’m making mine. When you get tired of being in the sunken place, hit a brother up, all right? Until then . . . peace out.”

  Jamal then watched, dejected, as his boy stalked off.

  Chapter 4

  Derrick

  Derrick walked down the stone path, bordered on both sides by a yard crammed full of garden gnomes, ceramic toads, and clay pots overflowing with ferns and colorful daises. He climbed the concrete steps leading up to the brownstone, ducking slightly to avoid a brass wind chime. He glanced around the brownstone’s front porch. It was just as cluttered as the yard, with more flowers, a hammock, a metal dinette table, and two chairs. There was barely space for the welcome mat that urged visitors to “Wipe Your Paws!”

  He hesitated before he pressed the doorbell, contemplating instead going back down the steps and to his car, which was parallel parked along the curb on the quiet, residential street.

  Maybe this is a bad idea, Derrick thought, wiping his hand over his face.

  If Melissa found out he had come here, there’d be hell to pay. But still, he felt like he needed to do this. There were so many things that seemed to be going awry at the Institute and now, his personal life. He had to get some advice, some insight, on how to handle all of it. The only real place where he could get that advice would be here.

  He rang the doorbell and waited a beat. A few seconds later, he heard barking and saw a tall figure walk past the front door’s stained glass window. The door swung open revealing a skinny dark-skinned man wearing a T-shirt and jeans covered with splatters of paint. A chocolate-colored Labrador was at his knee, barking and trying its best to push its way through the door.

  “Hey, Dee! I wasn’t expecting ya’! What are you doin’ here?” Mr. Theo called out, wiping his hands on a wash cloth. “Back! Get back in there I said!” Mr. Theo shouted to the dog, nudging it aside.

  Now standing before his mentor and Melissa’s father, Dee shoved his hands into his jean pockets anxiously. “Just decided to stop by. Did I . . . uh . . . did I come at a bad time?”

  Mr. Theo shook his graying head. “Hell, no! I was just painting an old piece of furniture and making a damn mess of it. Besides, I can always make time for you, son!” He waved him forward. “Come on in!”

  Derrick nodded and stepped over the threshold. He immediately bumped into a two-foot-tall stack of newspapers sitting by the entryway, sending them tumbling onto the welcome mat.

  “Oh, damn, sorry about that!” Derrick exclaimed.

  Mr. Theo rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed before leaning down and reassembling the haphazard stack. “Don’t apologize. I blame Lucas for having this shit everywhere.” He gestured to the pile and gave a rueful laugh. “As you can see from our front yard and porch, he’s the biggest damn pack rat. I complain about it all the time, but it don’t seem to make a bit of difference!”

  “I heard you scandalizing my name, Theo Stone! I am not a pack rat,” Lucas called out from farther down the hall.

  He leaned out through the archway leading to their kitchen, and the dog trotted toward him. He was about the same age as Mr. Theo, though he wore glasses, was several shades lighter, and slightly heavier in build. He smiled and waved in greeting.

  “Morning, Derrick! How’s it going?” Lucas asked, leaning down to rub the dog’s head.

  Derrick cleared his throat. “Uh, good. I’m good,” he mumbled.

  “Well, you’re just in time for my little experiment.” Lucas stepped into the hallway. “I was just making a frittata I saw on the Cooking Channel the other day, and it should be ready in fifteen minutes or so if you wanna be my guinea pig and try some with me and Theo.”

  Derrick quickly shook his head. “Nah, uh . . . I’m good. Thanks though.”

  “You sure?” Lucas inclined his head. “I made it with fresh basil and tomatoes we grew in our backyard. And the eggs were—”

  “Lucas, honey,” Mr. Theo murmured, “the boy said he doesn’t want any frittata. Okay? Leave him be.”

  Honey . . .

  Derrick tried not to visibly wince when he heard the word come from Mr. Theo’s mouth.

  He knew Mr. Theo was gay, but he’d managed to ignore that fact most of the time. But being around Lucas, Mr. Theo’s boyfriend, and seeing them together, hearing them use words like “honey,” or “baby,” was a jarring reminder that the Mr. Theo he knew today was not the same Mr. Theo he’d thought he’d always known.

  The man he’d admired for years—the one who had taught him discipline and courage, strength and sacrifice—had obviously been leading some secret life during that time. He had locked away a piece of himself from everyone: the boys at the Institute, Derrick, Melissa, and even his wife.

  Derrick now watched as Lucas shrugged. “All right. I’ll take the hint. But you’re missing out on a five-star breakfast, Derrick. I promise you!”

  “He’ll survive,” Mr. Theo said. “Maybe you can wrap some up for him and he can take it with him.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Lucas answered absently before heading back to the kitchen.

  Mr. Theo tilted his head towards an adjoining hall. “Come on, son. Let’s head on down to the basement. If you came this early in the day and didn’t call first, you must have somethin’ on your mind.”

  Derrick nodded. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Well, you can talk while I paint.”

  * * *

  “So what you got to tell me?” Mr. Theo asked a few minutes later as he leaned over an old coffee table, with a paintbrush in his hand and a small can of antique white at his feet.

  The room they sat in was damp and smelled of wet newspapers. It likely used to be an old cellar, based on aged brick walls, concrete floor, and solitary awning window. But now Mr. Theo and Lucas used it as a storage room.

  Derrick shrugged and exhaled loudly from his perch on a nearby stool, filling his lungs with the smell of paint and turpentine. “A little bit of this. A little bit of that. There’s a lot of shit going on right now at the Institute and—”

  “There always shit going on at the Institute,” Mr. Theo said with a chuckle as he began to paint one of the coffee table legs. “That place has hardly any funding, little resources, an overworked staff, and more children that need help than you could possibly help in one lifetime.”

  “Yeah, well, I got word earlier this week that the city might not renew our grant. That’s a fifteen-percent cut to our budget.”

  Mr. Theo raised his gray brows. “Why aren’t they renewing it?”

  “Don’t know. The mayor and his folks are supposedly rethinking his funding priorities. He’s re-assessing,” Derrick said, using air quotes. “They said maybe the city wants to look at other worthy causes.”

  “‘Other worthy causes,’ my ass!” Mr. Theo shook his head as he continued to paint. “I swear that motherfucka’ is trying to push all of us black folks out of this city. First, we had a corrupt mayor. Now we’ve got a tight-assed Uncle Tom! He just wants to make it as rich and white as possible. Of course, he doesn’t want to give money to the Institute when it’s full of poor black kids.” Mr. Theo paused. “You talk to Jay about it? I bet he can help out. He got that promotion over at the mayor’s office, didn’t he? Ain’t it his division? Maybe he can make them give you the money.”

  “I didn’t get a chance to talk to him about it. I don’t think he would listen anyway.”

  “Why not? I thought y’all always had each other’s back . . . that you, Jay, and Ricky, were like brothers. You have been since you were kids.”

  “Yeah, I thought so too, but Jay is moving on up in the world,” Derrick said while gazing down at his clasped hands. “He’s even going by his middle name, Sinclair, now. He said he’s ready to move on from his old neighborhood. . . his old friendships . . . his old life. He said he thinks we’d hold him back.”

  Mr. Theo rolled his eyes and grumbled. “Y
ou know, even when Jay was a young boy I could see that need in him to be so big and grand. Remember how he told everybody that he came from money?”

  “Yeah, I remember. He said he had some rich daddy down in North Carolina.” Derrick snickered. “Not with those raggedy ass Converse kicks he used to wear. Ricky and I knew he was full of shit, even if we didn’t tell him that we knew.”

  “He wanted y’all to look up to him, Dee. In some ways, he still does. He wants to prove himself. He just keeps going about it the wrong way.”

  Derrick pursed his lips. Maybe Mr. Theo was right, but it still pissed him off that Jamal could treat friends that he’d known for almost twenty years like a basic chick who he was trying to shake off the morning after a one-night stand.

  “I don’t know. I guess,” Derrick reluctantly conceded.

  “Trust me, son. He’s still trying to find himself.” He squinted as he leaned down to examine a spot he’d just painted on the table.

  “He’s thirty damn years old. Shouldn’t he know who he is by now?”

  “Hell no! I sure as hell didn’t at thirty. The man I was then wouldn’t recognize the one I am today. I was confused as hell back then.”

  Derrick fell silent.

  He felt like he was wandering into delicate territory with Mr. Theo. He had come here to unburden himself, not to have Mr. Theo to do the same. But he had questions, so many questions, that he was afraid to ask and wondered if Mr. Theo would even be willing to answer them.

  How the hell can he be gay? How does that even happen?

  Derrick had been asking himself this since Melissa revealed three years ago that her mother and father were separating. Six months later, her father had moved in with Lucas.

  “That’s the reason why they separated. He’s been fucking some other dude on the low this whole time!” she’d shouted. “My own father! Can you believe that shit?”

  She’d cut off all contact with Mr. Theo thereafter, and spoke about him only when she had to. Essentially, Theo Stone was dead to her.

  Derrick hadn’t cut off all contact with Mr. Theo, though Melissa assumed he had. Whenever he went to see her father, he felt like he was lying to her, like he was cheating on her. He just couldn’t see what Mr. Theo did in as black-and-white terms as she did.