“Yasmine and I aren’t together,” Brice said, dragging his foot across the cobblestone pavement.
“She paid the loan off.” Jace paused.
“I didn’t marry her.” Brice moseyed to his chair. “You threatened to not show at the wedding…the rest of the family did too.”
“You can’t turn one of them into a house wife.”
“She was a stripper.” Brice shook his head, stretching out his legs. "Nothing else."
Jace arranged the beef patties and kabobs on the grates. He removed them off fumbling to turn on the heat. Spraying the cooking surfaces, he held his hands over until it was hot. Replacing the food, he look over his shoulder glaring at Brice.
“What’s important is getting the neighborhood back to the people.” Brice said folding his arms.
“Shut up, Brice,” Jace said. “You know how much money it cost me to pull my restaurant out of Detroit and find vacant property to rent in Southfield and Troy.”
“Maybe you should have stayed. It would’ve been cheaper.”
“Forget that, my stores were robbed and workers shot even after they gave up the money.” Jace said, smacking the flipper against the top of the burgers. “Yasmine may want to stay and hire their asses but not me.”
“How long before we eat?” Brice asked. There are still people in the community who lived and work among the violence. They aren't section away from the violence. His uncle and mom were always the same, Detroit’s poor asked and prepared to be poor unlike Latin American and Africa where it was bought on them.
“It’s about ready,” Jace said, flipping the burgers and rotating the kabobs. “I’m going to make that call.”
What’s the difference? Brice thought. Mom sponsored a child for twelve years but never gave a penny to the neighborhood kid who wore the same clothes daily. She got angry when she caught him eating out of our garbage.
Jace brought the oval shaped phone to the table with its 100 ft. cord trailing him. He dialed the number pacing behind Brice. He got an answer. Brice approached the grill and picked up a bun off the shelf. Then he grilled it, added a heaping of ketchup, and put the meat on it.
“Come talk to your dad.” Jace gestured his hand for him to come over.
Brice smashed the top bun on the meat. He sauntered into the living room and stretched out on the suede couch. He glanced over his trophies from running track and his school pictures. Jace was his gangster dad. He had run a Successful business by out smarting the Bautista family and staying legit.
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