A Moment of Silence: Midnight III (The Midnight Series Book 3) by Sister Souljah
Authors: Sister Souljah
in my mind.
“So fucking cool,” she would often say about me. “But sometimes,” she had said softly, right before we last parted, “you have to throw cool away for a little while and do what’s best to survive.”
I ate.
5. TETRIS
Their side-room investigation pit was still empty, except for me in cuffs seated in the chair and the decaying burger on the table. The police detectives probably went to reshuffle their deck and would come storming back in here with a different approach. It didn’t matter.
As I drifted off into a half-sleep, I suddenly realized that my mind had been measuring up the murder and the steps I took immediately afterward, as well as which tactics and strategies I should and shouldn’t use now. So focused on that, I didn’t focus on the reality, the impact or the results of my having entered Midnight Wash, that Laundromat. Now I reflected clearly. Now, I concluded that this investigation is not about the homicide I committed.
It was about the drug den that I’d unknowingly entered, to write a letter to Umma and to wash off the evidence of the murder. Unusually sharp usually, I didn’t pick up on what my young life in Brooklyn had already schooled me on. Any empty business is a front for some illegal business, like a corner grocery store with very few groceries on the shelf and no everyday customers. Or a specialty shop whose window displays and decorations never changed because what’s in their windows ain’t what they selling. If I had lived in the neighborhood the Laundromat was in, I would have noticed. But I was just a man on a mission passing through. Now that I think about it, the three machines in a row that had a signsaying they were out of order could have had something big with high street value stashed inside—cash, drugs, guns, whatever. The whole switching of the exit signs and locking and bolting down the doors like that wasn’t a crazy fucking fire hazard should’ve tipped me off. If one of their enemies set that place ablaze, they would all be trapped. And what about all that bullshit about the red bag? If carrying the red bag meant “no man, no beast ah touch ya,” no street cats or cops in other words, would touch me, that had to mean that the cops and the dealers were working together and what they had in common was the red signal and the contents of the red bag.
What about the barefoot women who never opened the door even though they had to have heard the fight and the commotion? Were they also locked in? What else were they concealing and doing? Were there any men behind that door with them?
Now that I was alone in the room, I began to see some of the pieces of the setup. The Red Flamingo was their lookout girl. But she was a weak link in their chain. She was their untrained trusted girl soldier, although I didn’t know why any man would have his woman as the face of his dangerous illegal business dealings, surrounded by other men, blood or no blood relation.
Glad I didn’t fuck her. I didn’t desire her or feel tempted by her. She wanted the dick-down so bad, if I was a weaker man she would’ve had me off guard and half naked. After the stroking, I’d be soaking in my own blood when her man’s men came dropping down from the opening in the ceiling like spider assassins.
There is a difference between men who are believers and men who are not. Believing men don’t take whatever is being offered just because it’s available. The believers believe that there are three people in the room whenever any unmarried man and unmarried woman are in a room alone. The third one is the devil.
Believing men restrain first, and resist and select and take women as wives wisely, with all of their senses. Our reward is peace of mind, peace within our family, and also, Allah’s mercy and protection.
There is a difference between niggas with weapons and trained fighters, armed or unarmed. No matter how much attitude or grimy looks or slick talk any untrained nigga
“So fucking cool,” she would often say about me. “But sometimes,” she had said softly, right before we last parted, “you have to throw cool away for a little while and do what’s best to survive.”
I ate.
5. TETRIS
Their side-room investigation pit was still empty, except for me in cuffs seated in the chair and the decaying burger on the table. The police detectives probably went to reshuffle their deck and would come storming back in here with a different approach. It didn’t matter.
As I drifted off into a half-sleep, I suddenly realized that my mind had been measuring up the murder and the steps I took immediately afterward, as well as which tactics and strategies I should and shouldn’t use now. So focused on that, I didn’t focus on the reality, the impact or the results of my having entered Midnight Wash, that Laundromat. Now I reflected clearly. Now, I concluded that this investigation is not about the homicide I committed.
It was about the drug den that I’d unknowingly entered, to write a letter to Umma and to wash off the evidence of the murder. Unusually sharp usually, I didn’t pick up on what my young life in Brooklyn had already schooled me on. Any empty business is a front for some illegal business, like a corner grocery store with very few groceries on the shelf and no everyday customers. Or a specialty shop whose window displays and decorations never changed because what’s in their windows ain’t what they selling. If I had lived in the neighborhood the Laundromat was in, I would have noticed. But I was just a man on a mission passing through. Now that I think about it, the three machines in a row that had a signsaying they were out of order could have had something big with high street value stashed inside—cash, drugs, guns, whatever. The whole switching of the exit signs and locking and bolting down the doors like that wasn’t a crazy fucking fire hazard should’ve tipped me off. If one of their enemies set that place ablaze, they would all be trapped. And what about all that bullshit about the red bag? If carrying the red bag meant “no man, no beast ah touch ya,” no street cats or cops in other words, would touch me, that had to mean that the cops and the dealers were working together and what they had in common was the red signal and the contents of the red bag.
What about the barefoot women who never opened the door even though they had to have heard the fight and the commotion? Were they also locked in? What else were they concealing and doing? Were there any men behind that door with them?
Now that I was alone in the room, I began to see some of the pieces of the setup. The Red Flamingo was their lookout girl. But she was a weak link in their chain. She was their untrained trusted girl soldier, although I didn’t know why any man would have his woman as the face of his dangerous illegal business dealings, surrounded by other men, blood or no blood relation.
Glad I didn’t fuck her. I didn’t desire her or feel tempted by her. She wanted the dick-down so bad, if I was a weaker man she would’ve had me off guard and half naked. After the stroking, I’d be soaking in my own blood when her man’s men came dropping down from the opening in the ceiling like spider assassins.
There is a difference between men who are believers and men who are not. Believing men don’t take whatever is being offered just because it’s available. The believers believe that there are three people in the room whenever any unmarried man and unmarried woman are in a room alone. The third one is the devil.
Believing men restrain first, and resist and select and take women as wives wisely, with all of their senses. Our reward is peace of mind, peace within our family, and also, Allah’s mercy and protection.
There is a difference between niggas with weapons and trained fighters, armed or unarmed. No matter how much attitude or grimy looks or slick talk any untrained nigga