Sunday Best (Excerpt 1)
Long Island, New York
Summer, 1966
` Harlem in his rearview mirror and a tangerine sun occupying a sparkling blue sky, Deacon drove east on the Long Island Expressway. He was feeding speed to his new 1965 Mustang convertible when he recalled the reason for his spur-of-the-moment trip out to the Island.
There is nothing like receiving a desperate appeal from your childhood friend in the middle of the night to pique your curiosity, he thought. The thought lingered like a patch of blackened snow long after a snowfall. He hadn’t seen Stacks in a couple of years and the last time he saw him he thought about killing him with his bare hands.
Stacks was one of his oldest friends, and Deacon had never known him to be unnerved by anything. But, there was panic in his voice. And that in turn alarmed Deacon. He spotted his exit up ahead and moved over into the right lane.
It was another half hour drive from the off ramp according to the map. His mind replayed last night’s conversation as he cruised through a succession of wealthy townships, the number diminishing as he neared the tip of Long Island. And then he spotted the house. It was perched atop a grassy hill overlooking the Long Island Sound.
He was impressed with the spacious estate. The gorgeous grounds consisted of six and half acres of beachfront property, a huge custom home, a six car garage, a guest cottage, and a boat house.
All he could think of was how far Stacks had come since delivering news papers as a boy. Upon reaching the front gate, Deacon reached out and mashed the buzzer.
“State your business,” a hefty male voice demanded.
“Ah, could you tell Stakes…ur Mr. Clayton that Deacon is here to see him.”
There was a long pause then the giant rote iron gates swung open. Deacon drove up the driveway that split through the seashore property, the white gravel popping beneath the tires.
Approaching the house, Deacon spotted a phalanx of classic automobiles parked inside the garage. He could only shake his head.
Deacon was soon greeted by a suited behemoth, rifle in hand, who pointed to a parking space. After exiting the car, he was led down a white brick walkway to the massive front doors.
As if on queue, a maid, uniformed in black and white, greeted him with a paper machete smile. Just inside the door, Deacon was overwhelmed by the sheer opulence, including an enormous crystal chandelier, exotic paintings, and a museum of Italian sculptures. The foyer opening to the living areas was adorned in a Italian Renaissance theme mixed with Hellenistic works of art.
As his eyes swept over the rich interior, Deacon spotted another sentry, outfitted with a shoulder holster over his starched white shirt. Hands clasped in front of him, the man’s eyes surveyed Deacon’s every move.
What the hell has Stacks gotten himself into, thought Deacon.
“Walk this way, sir,” instructed the maid. “Mr. Freeman will receive you in the den.” Deacon soon found himself in a spacious den, garnished in Italian leather furnishing with vaulted bookcases lining the walls. The room was warmed by a roaring fire.
“Would you require anything while you wait, sir,” she asked. Deacon shook his head and the woman quietly left, ceremoniously closing the doors behind her.
He asked himself again why he had bothered to come at all since he no longer considered Stacks a friend, and hadn’t for some time. Perhaps, he was hoping to hear that his former friend had fallen on hard times and to revel in his misfortune.
While waiting he roamed about the room studying the many photos decking the walls. The first one to catch his eye was a nearly life-size portrait of Jade over the fireplace. She was a spectacular beauty with bedazzling eyes that reached into a man’s soul. The portrait reminded him that he was still in love with her, if not in the same way he once was.
On the huge desk sat a photo of the old gang. It was taken after Sunday school. He remembered the day it was taken. They were all there: Hannibal, Loveboy, Jade, Stacks, Mandy, Mooch, and himself. The sight of them together ferried him back to fonder days.
“Takes you back, don’t it,” a familiar voice asked, ending Deacon’s trip down memory lane. “How’ve you been, bookworm?”
“Apparently not as good as you, Stacks.” Oh, I’m sorry. It’s Mr. Clayton Freeman III now, isn’t it? Stacks ignored the remark and continued.
“I want to thank you for coming. I’m going to have a drink; let me make you one. I got some single malt scotch, flown in all the way from Scotland.”
“Whatever, man,” Deacon replied with total indifference.
Stacks went behind the bar and opened a small crate; lifting a dusty old bottle from its straw packaging. Deacon could tell that his former friend was stalling, but for what he didn’t know. He decided to speed things along.
“What the hell am I doing out here, man? I don’t hear from you since Loveboy’s funeral and then you call in the middle of the night. Looks like you got the whole world on a string. What could you possibly want with me,” Deacon asked, his tone cold and callous. “Was it to show me that you’ve made it to the top? Something you promised everyone who would listen.”
“How is Mandy,” asked Stacks.
“She’s great. I’m great. Everyone’s great: like you give a damn.”
“Alright, I’m a piece of shit! I get the point,” said Stacks
“Why don’t you just tell me why you called?”
“I’m in trouble, Deacon, real deep shit. With all of my money, my life isn’t worth two cents.”
“Why call me?”
“Could you cool it and just listen,” Stacks said, handing Deacon the glass of scotch. There was a deep silence as both men eyed one another.
“Five years ago I got into bed with some bad people. These are the kinds of people that you don’t want to piss off. But, I had no choice at the time. The banks weren’t about to loan me the kind of dough that I was going to need to make the move I was contemplating, a move that would allow me to play with the big boys.”
Stacks gulped down half the glass before continuing. “For two years I turned over prime Manhattan real estate, several of which were colossal deals. Using a dummy corporate account and some front men, I was able to gain access to a game that the brothers have always been barred from.”
“As I said, why call me,” repeated Deacon, throwing down the scotch in a single gulp. “Why don’t you just give these men what they want.”
“Deacon, you don’t understand how these things work. You see these Park Avenue-types can be as ruthless as the Mafia and with twice the connections. They got wind of my backdoor deal-making and bought up my makers before I could repay the loans.
“In buying my maker, they bought me. They tried to get me to sign my company over to them, and for a fraction of what it’s worth. When I refused, they threatened to have me killed. In sum, it’s my company or my life.”
“Well, turn over your company to them; end of problem.”
Stacks ignored the suggestion, pondering into his drink before continuing. “They sent a few Goombas over here to lean on me.” For the first time Deacon noticed a pistol resting on the far end of the bar. Stacks was watching his old friend closely.
“You guessed it, things got a little out of control and… Let’s just say, we’re way pass threats now. Its blood they want.” He poured them both another drink and wandered over to the curtains and drew them close. Deacon, I’m a prisoner in my own home.”
“Some prison,” Deacon quipped. “Why don’t you just go to the police?”
“Ah, come on, you can’t be that naive. These people own the police and a good part of city hall. Ten minutes after I contact them, I’ll be arrested and later found hanging in my cell, or find myself at the wrong end of a jailhouse shiv. So, thanks, but no thanks!”
“If the police can’t help you and your money can’t buy them off, then how can I possibly help? I don’t even own a gun,” said Deacon.
“Don’t be ridiculous! It’s Hannibal that I need. He is the only one I know with the type of muscle I need, and who I can trust. With him behind me, I got a chance. Of course, I’ll make it worth his while.”
“Oh, I see. You know that Hannibal wouldn’t cross the street to spit on you and that’s where I come in. Well, ain’t nothing happening. You haven’t given a damn about me, Hannibal, or any of the old gang until you needed one of us. Now that your ass is in the sling, you want Hannibal to ride to the rescue.
“Same old Stacks,” he said flashing a hardy grin, “willing to use anyone and everyone to get what he wants. Now you want Hannibal to go to war with the white mob, all to save your rich ass. You ever stop to think how many lives might be lost? Well, good luck with your little business thing.” And, with that Deacon downed his drink, set down his glass, and turned toward the door.
“This is all about Jade isn’t it,” shot Stacks. “It still bothers you that she chose me over you. When you were cleaning toilets, I was making my fortune. Jade was use to the best of everything. And you couldn’t provide her with the life she’d grown accustom to. You couldn’t measure up and it’s still eating at you.” Deacon froze in his tracks, pausing for a second before turning around.
“Okay, you want to talk about Jade, so let’s talk. Yeah, she married you, and what did you do?” You ran her into the arms of a white man. The very same one that got her strung out on that shit.
“Where is she now? Do you even know? Yes, I loved her, but once you two tied the knot, I respected that. You know, what God joined together let no man put asunder and all. Can you say the same thing? Good luck with your problem, Stakes.”
During the ride home, Deacon tried to erase the visit from his thoughts, but he couldn’t. He made his bed, now let him lay in it. But, was Stacks right about Jade. Had he let his feeling for her color his decision on whether or not to help?
We were all so close once upon a time. We would have died for one another. I could at least pass the proposition along to Hannibal. I’m sure he would reject it, but at least I’ll be done with it.
He soon grew tired of the debate and tried to end it with the thought that Hannibal would in no way help Stacks. In truth, there had always been bad blood between the two of them. As the road stretched out ahead, his thoughts journeyed back to that Sunday morning that introduced Hannibal into their lives.
