And that message held appeal for a number that, though small, was growing. Darian Brown knew it would grow to a large movement in time of its own accord, but that would allow time for the white man to chisel away at the hard edge of their determination. Softening them. Convincing many that peaceful measures would work. No. No longer. Darian Brown, a thirty-five-year-old product of the Los Angeles ghettos who had tested the bounds of the white man’s law, knew that time was their enemy. “Now” was their friend. This movement needed a spark to ignite it into a blaze that nothing could stop. And it needed members, committed individuals, to make that happen.
But there were different types to serve the movement. There were workers, and there were soldiers. Darian needed soldiers now more than anything. The workers could lead boycotts, and harass businesses. The soldiers would serve a more vital role. One with risk, but one that would reap great benefits for the movement.
In any group he spoke to Darian always tried to pick who fit into which class. This night had been no different, except for the fact that he saw a potential soldier in the group. Young. Clean. Not one of the foolish gangsta types who stupidly thought the NALF was an avenue to legitimize their self-destructive behavior. And this one had an intensity to his face, as if the muscles were sculpted to a mask of stone. Rigid. Determined. A possibility. One worth approaching.
“What brings you here, brother?” Darian asked the young man as he drew a cup of coffee from the bottom spout of the tall metal pot.
Moises was surprised by the question, and more surprised by who was asking it. “Uh. I saw the poster down on—”
“I didn’t ask what directed you here,” Darian said. “I asked what brings you here. The ‘why,’ not the ‘how.’ “
It was so obvious as an internalized reason, but how to say it. How to explain it. Just say it. “I think it’s time to fight.”
“Go join the N-A-A-C-P,” Darian suggested, his intonation of the letters dripping with mockery. “They fight for rights. Don’t they?”
“Not mine,” Moises answered. “Not the way I want to. Not the way that will work.”
Darian nodded acceptance of the point, his lips pouting. “Well, we may have some common ground there. What’s your name, brother?”
“Moises Griggs.”
Darian looked behind and called over the other two who sat with him in the NALF hierarchy. “Brother Moises, this is Brother Mustafa.”
“Power, Brother Moises,” Mustafa Ali said, gripping Moises’ hand in a shake reminiscent of the hold shared by arm wrestlers locked in battle. He wore a brimless hat inspired by the African kinte style, but with the NALF logo of two clenched black fists on its front.
Moises nodded, not knowing if he should respond with the same salutation given him.
“And this is Brother Roger,” Darian said.
“Power, Brother Moises,” Roger Sanders said, exchanging the same raised handshake. Of the three NALF men surrounding Moises, he was the tallest, fully six inches taller than Darian’s five-five frame. That modest height, and some talent, had gotten him a college scholarship to UCLA, and nothing else. He was “valuable” to the white educational establishment when his physical attributes were functioning well, but when a bum knee reduced his ability it was good-bye Roger. Enjoy working at Mickey D’s. Just like the slaves America had kidnapped from their homeland, Roger realized he was valued only as a thing that could perform. His ancestors had bailed cotton and tobacco. He had thrown a ball through a hoop. Until Darian Brown showed him that there was a path to respect. A real path.
Moises sipped from his coffee after the greetings. He could see others leaving the building in ones and twos. No one else had gotten the attention he was receiving, but neither had they been excluded. He looked to the faces of the three men, wondering why they had taken an interest in him. Wondering, but not concerned that they had. Darian Brown’s words that night had made more sense to him than anything he’d heard in his life. More sense than the forgiveness crap that had weakened his people to the point that the whites could attack them with impunity, just like they had done to Tanya. Tanya.
“You know, I liked what you said…Brother Darian.”
Darian smiled at the young man. “Good. Maybe you’d like to hear more in a few days.” After we check you out, of course. That was a matter of prudence. The pigs had done lower things trying to infiltrate other movements.
“Yeah. I’d like that.” I’d like that a lot.
“Then you drop on by next Wednesday, Brother Moises,” Darian directed him.
“Sure.” Moises read a finality in the words, as if it was time to go. As if they wanted him to go. But why… Of course. They were being careful. He had just come in off the street, after all, and even an invitation to come back didn’t necessarily mean they trusted him. They wanted to make sure he was for real. That was it. And if they were being that careful, then they had to be for real. They had to. They were the real thing. Real fighters.
“Wednesday, then,” Darian said, reaching out for the cup in Moises’ hand. The young man handed it over and left the building, the last of those who had come going with him.
Mustafa closed and locked the glass door behind Moises, then pulled down the shades on all the front windows.
“Moises Griggs, huh?” Roger wondered aloud. “I heard that name somewhere.”
“I think he’s legit,” Mustafa said. “He’s too young to be a cop.”
“Check him out anyway,” Darian ordered. “Now what about the meet?”
“Sunday,” Mustafa answered. “Two in the afternoon.”
“Where?”
“The zoo.”
Darian considered the site briefly. “Good. Your choice?”
“Theirs.”
“Well, at least they’re smart,” Darian observed. “It’d be easy to spot any cops. Okay. We do it.”
Roger looked to both his comrades. “I don’t like dealing with these guys.”
“Because they’re white, Brother Roger?” Mustafa asked.
“That, and that we don’t know shit about them.”
Darian had gone through this before. Roger, though bold in his thoughts, was timid in manner. Overly cautious once the worry had been put aside. “Listen, white don’t mean shit. We need money to get things off the ground. Do you think this place is rent-free? Do you think the shit we’ll need to really strike out comes cheap? It doesn’t, Brother Roger. If someone comes along and wants us to do a job for them then we have to consider it, especially when there’s as much in it for us as these guys are talking. Money from white people. Better from them than from us.”
“You saw the bread they flashed us,” Mustafa said. “And the guns they gave us. And there’s more where that came from.”
“That’s what they say,” Roger countered.
“That kind of money is worth a little risk,” Darian said.
“Why us?” Roger asked. “Why’d they pick us?”
Darian looked at his comrade for a very long moment, ignoring the questioning that was now beginning to bore him. “Are you going to be asking ‘why’ when whitey is putting the chains back on your legs? Brother, our time is now.”
“But we don’t even know what they want us to do,” Roger pointed out.
“I guess we find out Sunday,” Darian said. “If we want to do it for them, we do. If not, or if we’re not sure they’re not pigs, hey, we walk away. But I am not going to pass up a chance for the kind of money they’re talking about.”
“Yeah,” Roger said, nodding. “You’re right. Okay.”