Page 8 of Justice

4

JUSTICE

My mind was stretched in every direction as I made my way to the casino. I thought of how to balance parenting Storie and Dream. I wanted to give Dream the birthday of her dreams and I knew it was going to piss Storie off. Whatever. That’s the consequences of her fuckin’ actions.

And then I couldn’t stop circling back to, her. The thick beauty with the prettiest eyes I had ever seen. She happened to be the best person that we interviewed. Rita voted yes on her and the entire family loved her. I made a note to call the agency tomorrow and tell them that we would like to go with her.

The Banks Grand lit up the night sky like a second sunrise, and every time I pulled up on it, some small part of me still couldn’t believe we built the thing.

It started as a casino. Now it was a mini city. A hotel that ran forty stories into the dark, gold light pouring out of every window. An arena that sold out concerts three nights a week. Michelin rated restaurants, luxury boutiques, a spa, three nightclubs, a High Rollers Lounge where sheikhs and senators lost more before midnight than most folks see in a lifetime.

People flew in from across the world to spend money under our roof. Our spot was luxurious and bright, bigger than our rival the MGM that was up the road. Some nights the pride of it filled me up so much, I didn’t even feel like achieving another thing. But sky’s the limit. If we could do this, just think what we could do with Freetown.

Then I took the private elevator down to the floor that wasn’t on any map.

Because that was the other truth about the Banks name, the one that didn’t make the marquee. You don’t build something this big, this clean, this bright, without a basement. Somewhere the light doesn’t reach. Somewhere the family’s other business gets handled, discreetly, by the people trusted to handle it.

The elevator opened on concrete and a single hanging bulb, and the smell of a man who’d already been bleeding a while.

Bryce was standing over him. There was a man zip-tied to a steel chair in the middle of the room, head hanging, one eye swollen shut, lip split down the middle and still weeping red onto his own shirt. It was Bryce’s friend Bam. And Bryce had already tried to rectify the situation.

“Justice. Man, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I know how this look. I caught him myself, running a cheating ring right up under us. It was him and two dealers skimming the high-limit tables for months. And that shit is on me, I know it’s on me, ’cause I’m the one that vouched for this nigga,” Bryce nervously apologized.

“I fucked up. I brought him down from around my way. So the second I found out, I called him in and I handled it and then I called you. I ain’t wait. I ain’t sit on it. Called you soon as I knew.”

He was talking too much. Men talk too much when they’re scared, and Bryce was scared, but not of the man bleeding in the chair. He was scared of me. He stood there braced for it, shoulders up around his ears, waiting on me to come out my face at him, waiting on the storm.

I didn’t give him one. Long ago I learned to move with peace and calm. I didn’t want anyone predicting my moves before I was ready to move.

I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t take off my coat.

I walked past Bryce like he wasn’t there, pulled a folding chair off the wall, set it down in front of Bam, and sat. Unhurried. Leaned back and looked at the man like we’d run into each other at a cookout.

“Bam,” I said, easy. “How’s your mama doing?”

His good eye came up slowly. Young nigga was confused. That was the first crack. He’d braced for the same storm Bryce braced for, and instead here I was asking about his people, gentle as a church deacon.

“She, uh.” His voice came out wrecked. “She good. She aight. Her sugar been bad but she… she good.”

“That’s good. Diabetes is a monster, man, I got an aunt that got it too.” I nodded, slowly.” And your daughter? Little Nyla. She still playing ball up in Baltimore? Point guard, right? I heard she nice.”

And that was when Bam started to cry.

Not from a fist. Bryce had hit him and gotten nothing but blood for it. Bam started to cry because I asked about his baby girl’s jump shot in a calm, kind voice, and somewhere down in the animal part of him where a man keeps his last hope, he understood exactly what that kindness meant. It meant there was no talking his way out.

It meant no deal was coming. You don’t get gentle with a man you’re going to let walk. You get gentle with a man when the decision is already made and there’s no reason left to be anything but.

Bam started crying when I said his daughter’s name. Bryce had beaten him bloody and gotten nothing. I asked about his baby girl, and he knew there wasn’t going to be a deal.

“Justice, please.” The tears cut clean lines through the blood on his face. “Please, man. My kids. It was the money, my baby need surgery, I was gon’ put it back, I swear ’fore God I was gon’ put it all back⁠—”

“I know, Bam. It’s alright.”

Then I stood. Buttoned my coat back, smoothed it down the front, and turned to Bryce.

“You vouched for him,” I said. “So you handle it.”

Every drop of color left Bryce’s face. “Justice…”