CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Ascension

Meetings of this sort were made for warehouses. Meager light from hanging bulbs. Cavernous. High windows; a lot of them. Crates. Wooden platforms. Lots of cement surface, enough for an execution, a dismemberment or a top-secret meeting. The Tocci family used this particular warehouse for all of the above—and for hijack storage as well. Being just off of busy Rockaway Boulevard and minutes from JFK Airport, the Queens location was also a convenient one. Inside, to the rear, at a classy wooden banquet table that was a remnant of a hijacking from years past, Jay and a crew of henchmen looked on as Sal listened to the onslaught of spitting invectives.

“. . . what do these ginnies think we’re running here, a fuckin’ boarding house, where’s they can come and go as they please without payin’ dues? Then they’s got the nerve to threaten us . . . what was dat you told me, Sal?”

“Peace of mind, boss.”

“Ohhh! So the BIANCOS are gonna let the TOCCIS have peace of mind, huh?!” The Don was red hot, and his pound of graying hair shook out of place like swaying grass in the ocean deep. Sal seldom witnessed the Don get angry. Tense, yes. Aggravated, indeed. But angry . . . that meant a body would be floatin’ in Sheepshead Bay within hours. And all things considered, he was close to the edge right about now.

“This is the highest form of disrespect. To come to OUR territory without so much as a whisper . . . that’s SHIFTY! And DAMNED DISRESPECTFUL! And to top it off with a threat? AAARRRGH!” The Don was foaming at the mouth now. This tantrum had already gone into an hour. Long enough. And Sal just stood there, content that he wasn’t to blame. He’d personally witnessed the Don pull a weed-whacker out of nowhere one night and slice a henchmen’s head clean off. So this was a good night. Now everything seemed to move in slow motion. Sal was watching and listening, but the arms waving and the mouth moving in front of him were a hazy vignette of slow motions and deep, growing echoes. Sal turned to look at Jay, the tyranny reflected in his eyes as well. Jay returned the glance and they both leveled their eyes back at the big man. The word “respect” drilled into both of them. Then, before Sal could blink, the Don pulled his forefinger from under one earlobe, across his neck towards his opposite ear. That was the gesture. Terror unleashed.

Even When You Win, You Lose

“Look, Ma. No hands!”

Gil was headed down a steep hill on a bicycle with no breaks. The mob wanted him out so that they could build and grow with no competition. He had virtually chased his son away, and gave his staff all access. He became negligent with the lease option on the New Rochelle home—six months in arrears, to be exact. The club payments were a few months behind, giving the property owners the wherewithal to void the contract and raise the rent.

And just so, since Gil wasn’t holding up his end, the property owners did indeed raise the lease payments to $10,000 a month. TEN THOUSAND! And poor Gil had no choice but to pay it. Blood money. Everything he had accomplished though the years, the peanuts he had gathered and the money he had invested was tied up in Fool’s Paradise. To add fuel to the fire, representatives from S.L.A. came and launched an investigation relating to sexual propositions made by a few dancers.

“It’s Dino, Gil . . . pick up.” Dino was speaking to Douglass’s answering machine at the Main Street office in New Rochelle. He was so accustomed to calling him by his father’s nickname. It was late in the evening, otherwise Sharon, his secretary, would be in to take the call. There was a beep, but Douglass caught the call just in time.

“Hey . . . just got back about two hours ago. You comin’ over? There’s a lot to talk about,” said Douglass.

“Gil. They closed your father. The S.L.A. came in . . . some undercover shit. I didn’t even recognize them.” Dino was hyper. Demetrius was wide-eyed as he listened to the speakerphone voice.

“So, what happened?” Douglass was casual, not a nervous bone in his body.

“They made some propositions to a few of the girls—everyone turned them down; cop was written all over them.”

“So who . . .”

“Claudine.” Douglass smirked at the mention, as if he should have known.

“Never fails. You lay with ’em, you live with ’em. Funny, my father used to say if it ain’t broke don’t fix it.”

“Gil . . . the shit is broken now. They locked your pop and Claudine up overnight. Let ’em out the next day. But they padlocked the club . . . sledge-hammered a hole in the wall; sawed a hole in the door and wrapped a big ole thick-assed chain through there. They weren’t playin’.”

“Dino, I hear you talkin’, but I told you this would happen a long time ago.”

“I know. I know. I think Gilmore’s is over, Gil. For good.”

“Where you at now?”

“Yo, man, I’m on the job. I begged my boss to give me extra hours. The closing fucked up a lot of people, man. Gil even lost his house. Everybody’s out looking for jobs. A few are auditioning at the new club across the street . . .”

“Across the street?”

“Yeah. The Pretty Girl. They’re not open yet, but it looks like mob money all the way. Listen—I’ll get with you Saturday.”

“Dino, we gotta talk.”

“Okay, I promise, Saturday.” Douglass hit the speakerphone button and the connection went dead.

“I knew something was up across the street, Doug. Some of the girls have been tellin’ me about it. Some Italian named Tony is at the wheel. They say he doesn’t know what he’s doin’.” Demetrius seemed to be right on top of things, not at all thinking about the job he just lost.

“Yeah? Well, let ’em go. They can’t touch what we’re about to do. It’s always been that way, ever since I was a youngster there were copycats. But they could never quite match my juice. Now come on, let’s go over some more of the details for Sunday.”

The day was fast approaching. Douglass titled the event “Investor’s Day.” The ad in the papers boasted a 50% return on investment within one year. The sell was designed to provoke action.

And did it ever.

Greg handled the particulars, reserving a small ballroom at the Ramada Inn Hotel, picking the best dancers to be hostesses, making copies of the business plan, arranging for the refreshments and organizing the schedule for the day. He called a few of his Georgetown alumni, “The Fabulous Five,” to assist with the publicity on the Investor’s Day event in New Rochelle, and also the Black Beauty Day in Chicago. The guys would handle most of the work remotely, but Greg assured them that they could be physically present for Black Beauty Day in Chicago. That got them excited and working even harder. Finally, Greg devoted $2,200 to a meager publicity stunt which the Fabulous Five perfected. He hired 13 stretch limousines from a local company, and directed them to show up at 11:30AM—the presentation was scheduled to begin at noon. While investors straggled into the hotel, they couldn’t help but to be impressed by the blitz of stretch limos which virtually reached around the perimeter of the hotel. The cars added prestige and significance to the event, so much so that men who happened to be rooming at the hotel—diplomats and businessmen alike—came to the event. By 12:30, the hard work, clever tactics and precise planning paid off. Close to 100 investors or their representatives were in attendance. Some came in their own limousines or at least a high-priced foreign car. There were ladies in business outfits, men in suits and even lawyers. Some attendees brought attache cases, many were taking and making cell phone calls, while others were empty-handed and skeptical. The welcome committee made the visitors feel comfortable. There was soft jazz music and bunches of red and black balloons floating high above each round table. Chairs filled rather quickly and the anticipation was on high. There was a sense of modesty amongst the staff, yet somehow they all knew that this presentation would have to swim or sink. And because there was only a sprinkle of women amongst the sea of male investors, the dancers on hand felt most comfortable, knowing what they knew about men and how most of that first impression was but a facade. They were pros at seeing through men and their smoke and mirror games.

Douglass strolled affirmatively in a back hallway, peeking though a window now and then to get a feel. In moments he’d have to face them all and put it down. He’d have to motivate that money until it wiggled out of their pockets and purses, right into his hands. His attitude was determined, and he was convinced that every one of those individuals in the ballroom were born educated and successful for the sole purpose of investing in his new club, Gilmore’s Black Beauty. Douglass was committed to making it happen.

Through a portal window in the swinging door, Douglass thought he’d recognized some faces in the crowd.

“Should we keep it on steady record or use the voice-activated mode?” Hammer and Walsh were in the ballroom, trying their best to be undercover. Walsh had an uncharacteristic pair of horn-rimmed glasses on, a pair of jeans and a V-neck velour pullover sweater. Hammer wore a pair of blue and white Nike sweats with matching kicks. He was fiddling with a miniature tape recorder, a fresh cassette tape. He operated as though he was racing to beat out a deadline.

“Keep it on steady, Hammer. We don’t want to miss anything . . . hey—there he is.” Walsh nodded towards the extreme left of the room.

The ballroom was diverse with many white, black and Arab men and women sprinkled throughout. One or two Asians stood out, obviously outnumbered. Greg expected this and was prepared. Hostesses gave special attention to those members of the audience who seemed out of place. One particular table had a team of darker black men, dressed in distinguishing African fashions, head wraps and all. At first sight it looked so obvious that it could have been a gag—costumed men that arrived at the wrong event. But as Douglass stepped out into the ballroom, ignoring the theme of eyes that evaluated him, he realized that his eyes did not deceive him. He circled to the “African” table and approached the rear of the room with a warm smile.

“Fumi.”

Old Friends, Long Money

“Mista G’more.” Douglass was at a sudden loss for words. He had not seen the Nigerian since he was draped in torn army threads back at Passaic County Jail and they barely got to say goodbye when the feds snatched Douglass up out of there. And then there was that damned statement about the universe bringing them together . . . to think that actually worked! Fumi suddenly looked shorter with his generous, squinting, smiling eyes and his humble, wide grin. Yet he appeared more powerful now with the support of his entourage of other Nigerian men behind him. Within seconds the two were in the hallway outside of the ballroom, summaries about their trials and tribulations, post-Passaic. Fumi’s team of Africans (6 in all), stood nearby, posting like soldiers in all-black corduroy, safari outfits. It was now 12 noon and Douglass could see Greg vying for his attention. To the side of Greg, Demetrius, Dino and Danni waited and wondered what was going on.

“G’more . . . you know you have shown me your plan long ago . . . and I would not be surprised if you have improved and fine-tuned it to the best of your ability. But, now that I have been called here, regardless of the ad in the Wall Street Journal, I recognize my purpose, my friend . . .”

—Fumi placed his hand up on Douglass’s shoulder—

“. . . You have my support. I’m looking forward to investing in your project. But, more than that, I am more interested in investing in you. I want to help you.” Douglass was hearing, but not truly listening. His eyes were on his own team of soldiers standing by.

“. . . Okay, I’ve got to go and do this presenta—what?” Douglass was so busy with his thoughts that Fumi’s commitment was almost ignored.

“I said . . . I will invest in your project. I have already seen indications of your resilience, Douglass. And that is all I need to see—and I want to be first to commit. How much did you say you would need?”

“Oh . . . uh . . . t-two million.” Douglass was falling apart inside, and the emotion rose into a stutter, but he held out from collapsing there in the lobby.

“Okay, Douglass. Consider it done. And there is much more where dat came from.” Douglass was seduced by Fumi’s soft, affirmative tone—the voice he spent months with in jail. Fumi inspired his confidence there on the inside; and now, he was doing it again on the outside. Fumi’s expression didn’t crack in the least. He was intent and sincere as though it was not to be questioned. He stood a foot or so shorter than Douglass, but his affirmations were as tall as any monument. Douglass curled his forefinger at Greg. Greg rushed over with Demetrius, who was steadfastly awaiting directions, while Dino remained still, keeping an eye on the actions of everyone. He found it hard to trust anyone.

“Greg . . . run with it,” said Douglass.

“Okay. You ready?”

“Greg . . . take a deep breath. You know my presentation back to front. We’ve rehearsed it together in Florida and here in New York. Handle it for me.”

“What’s wrong, why aren’t . . .”

“Greg—” Douglass cut him off. “—Think about it this way . . . the only reason that we’re going through with this presentation—?”

Douglass looked at his friend Fumi.

“—is so we don’t get sued for wasting people’s time.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Greg held a frazzled expression. Douglass put both hands tightly on Greg’s shoulders and smiled.

“Because we already have the money, Greg. Greg, meet Fumi. Fumi, meet Greg, my right-hand man.” Now, Dino and Demetrius were shaking hands with Fumi’s men and everyone was getting all buddy-buddy. The group of black men had swollen to a dozen, and just about everyone in the room was looking in their direction.

Greg was ever more charged with excitement, ready to begin the presentation before the curious audience. He pivoted and stepped past Demetrius and Dino.

“Fellas?” Douglass didn’t say any more (and a slight tilt of his head), and the two immediately followed Greg towards the platform at the front of the ballroom.

“Please . . . come wi’ me, Mista G’more.” Fumi and his ever-distinguishable Nigerian dialect and smooth gestures were infectious, almost controlling Douglass’s senses as would a puppet-master.

“Danni, I’ll be a minute.” And now Danni stepped away.

While Greg called the audience to attention, Douglass was escorted into one of two hotel elevators. They rose one level and exited through the rear entrance of the building. As they proceeded through the glass doors, the men converged on a trio of shiny, black Navigators. Douglass was thinking how everybody must like these trucks as he followed Fumi into the rear door of the center vehicle. The door was closed behind them and remaining soldiers paired off into the front seats of each Navigator. Fumi mentioned a few words in his native Yoruban tongue and the driver picked up his 2-way radio mic from a tray between the seats to repeat the directives to the driver in the lead truck. Douglass nearly melted into the soft leather seat, no choice but to face the televisions in the headrests and other generous electronics in the trunk. The back of the jeep, the walls, the panel overhead, and the console that divided the two back-seat passengers, were loaded with luxuries. Temperature controls, stereo with CD changer, the global satellite hook-up, 3 separate mobile phones, a fax machine and a laptop computer that could swivel from a back panel of the driver’s seat.

“How did you expect us to travel, by camel?” Fumi was replying to Douglass’s amazement as the younger of the two had to rub his eyes, wondering what the hell he just got himself into. Is Fumi a CIA operative or some shit? Douglass now craved to know the truth.

“. . . So to answer your question, no. I’m not with the CIA and I’m not an Ambassador. I am an African prince. One of thirteen hundred grandsons. We are all Princes working towards becoming king of the Yoruban Tribe. Our accomplishments, contributions to our land, to our people and our determination is what separates a prince by birthright from a prince in power. I too am working towards becoming King.” Douglass allowed his eyes to wander dramatically.

“Well, you’re doing a pretty good job, if I do say so myself.” Fumi extended a generous smile as the caravan headed south on Route 1.

“By your standards here in America, this may all seem like accomplishment. But this is not new to my people. Our family has treasures and wealth untold. Much of it is buried and protected from the outside forces of the world; forces that are planning and plotting to rape our land. Some of it has been awarded to us by elders who want to see us do good in the world and to build on our family’s accomplishments. We are a truly powerful people, Douglass.” Fumi held a discerning gaze. Again, his confidence glimmered like the spark in his eye. “I’m simply an African man who has come to the states for prize investments. The only reason this government trapped me was because of red flags I must have raised during my spending spree . . .”

“Spending spree?”

“Yes, Douglass . . . it’s called our Buy America campaign. I’ll tell you more about that later. But you must at once know that my efforts in this country are all admirable. I’ve paid sales tax and property tax on all of our purchases. I’ve invested millions into sound businesses with respectable terms, yet certain adversaries . . . and we’d like to recognize them as jealous men . . . have been misleading to the courts. I am not a criminal. I am a man of honor. However, I believe that if you have dark skin in America, you cannot escape the hatred that is still deep in the soul you are born with. You are presumed guilty, and you must work your way up from there. However, to see true criminals, all one needs to do is to look at the history of this country. They have killed tens of millions of my people . . . your people . . . the very first people on this earth, just in order to fulfill their own wrath. They’ve slaughtered us. Suffocated us. We have been severely punished. Before the white man came to Africa, we were the world’s superpower, with the wealth of human resources and the wealth of spiritual resources. Today, they have left us scrambling . . . killing one another for our own natural resources. They’ve massacred many millions of our people, leaving our natural resources, our human resources and our spirits in shambles . . . and they still smile in our faces. The culture and the unity that was once our sacred formula is now what keeps us apart. My land is breaking apart because of an internationally sanctioned rape and a lingering condition of dementia. The world owes Africa a tremendous debt.” Douglass felt a tightening in his chest and some guilt for his complacent American dreams.

The lead Navigator turned right off of Route 1, only a few miles from the Ramada, and headed past a sign. “THE POINT. NO TRESPASSING.” The vehicles weaved down a two-lane drive, approaching a giant iron gate with a small shed set out front on the median. As the short line of trucks got closer, the watchman inside of the shed stood up and investigated the procession through his pane-glass window. The guard’s demeanor swiftly adjusted from inquiry to humility once he’d recognized who was coming through. Accordingly, he activated the gate to electronically open so that it wouldn’t slow the progress of Prince Fumi. He waved, half salute, and the convoy of vehicles glided past in as-usual fashion. Once the vehicle reached a clearing, breezing out from under the marvelous canopy of oak trees to the left and right of the road, the bright daylight swept the entourage into a breathtaking panorama. Expertly landscaped, the road was lined with foot-high rose bushes. The bulbs were tiny and a thrill to see in full blossom. Outside of that, the road was surrounded by the Long Island Sound, making it seem as though they were sliding across the water’s surface. The tract of land stretched out to a cape where a large home was positioned at the end of the road on a small island. The closer they came, the larger it grew. From a quarter-mile away, the house reflected the sun and created the image of a round, symmetrical diamond, surrounded by a pristine blanket of grass, a gallery of colorful flowers and the calm waters of the Long Island Sound. The group rolled up a circular driveway and stopped just short of the entryway to the residence.

“Welcome to The Point, Douglass.” Fumi’s eyes shined in a knowing way. And Douglass bought into the feeling, with no choice but to smile at it all. He could see evidence of New Rochelle in the distance. There was Hudson Park, Glen Island and a theme of private beaches spaced between the public ones. Further back, up on a crest, was the Wildcliff Historical Arts Center. Many boats were docked or covered, out of season. Although the attractions were a couple of miles of water away, the difference between where he lived and where he stood now (outside from distance) was the same separation of studio thinking versus the mansion mind. The home itself was a marvel to look at, something like a habitat of rustic, cultural flavor, pleasantly trapped inside of a crisp and nearly transparent architectural masterpiece. Yes, it was fanciful like a castle, but in a post-millennium sort of way. Douglass guessed that there were close to 15 acres of island or better. The architecture was its centerpiece, like a jewel set on top of a green velour pillow, yet composed of glass and steel, sweeping rooftops projecting the notion of a circular fortress. The men left their vehicles and flowed towards the pavilion which shaded an open, arched underpass. The passage was like a short tunnel, aligned with fern trees, and the walk was layered with the authenticity of cobblestone. After passing through, Douglass realized that the walk-through led into an open courtyard. In the center was a pond with an active fountain at its core. Inside of that, elevated on a hill of stones, there was a glistening, black-iron, oversized statue of an African woman balancing a basket on her head. Fumi could see that the masterpiece captured the attention of his guest.

“That represents the burden of all the black women. They carried before slavery, during slavery and still today, after slavery is said to be abolished.”

The house with its various sections enclosed the courtyard and the pond with floor-to-ceiling picture windows, two levels of them. Circling the pond and the centerpiece, the group moved towards the far end of the courtyard and an entrance distinguished by two massive doors. They were black and looked heavy on sight; perhaps balance precisely, these were the kind of doors you could fit a grand piano through without dissembling it. As they approached, the doors were opened as if calculated by someone within; a man in white safari corduroys.

“Good day, sir.” Douglass recognized the vibrating voice, the respect and personality as a constant amongst his fellow Africans.

“Thank you, Chuckuma.” And they proceeded on a grand tour. The estate was indeed roomy, bursting with high ceilings, beams, skylights and windows galore. The halls were marble, and when they weren’t, there was absorbent carpet that slowed each footstep. There was dramatic accent lighting at every turn, and also directed towards limestone lifelike statues near each doorway, as though each open room had its own gothic security. White walls were adorned with endearing paintings of African Kings. There must’ve been a hundred of them positioned at various ascents and balconies. The home was cleverly modern . . . almost cosmopolitan, but with gratuitous amounts of indoor palms, plants and wild flowers. A horticultural free spirit ran wild through every hallway and balcony.

Douglass was captivated by a soft rumble of drums that streamed throughout the house. Radical! And cultural, too, just like the colors of deep brown couches, black throw pillows, black sofas and ivory chairs. Kente references draped about. Interior and exterior views were unobstructed. Incense was mild and reminiscent of herbs and wildlife. There were even gardens indoors along the hallway floors, with floodlights plotted close to the replanted, towering trees which reached towards the ceilings. And then, to virtually create endless withdrawal from the outside world, the home was sophisticated. While it was simple, lofty, comfortable and quiet, with every bit of furniture sculptured and relevant to the motherland, the residence also had its neat hooks. There was a large breakfast room at the east side of the home, offering a view of an endless sound. There were a few winding stairways; one was the larger in the entrance hall, complete with a spectacular gallery of legendary jazz singers to entertain the climb. Finally, the gardens, the underground game room, tennis and basketball courts, indoor/outdoor swimming pool and a pool house with sauna and jacuzzi left little to the imagination, isolating and insulating everything from the jaws of the outside world. And still there was more.

A private movie viewing room was created according to Fumi’s specific tastes. A giant 100-inch screen, framed by red velvet curtains. Harlem Renaissance-style woodwork with gold-emblazoned trim. The plush, black carpet ran wall-to-wall. In the corner of the theater room was a concession stand, just like the big theaters, stocked with Now-or-Laters, Juicy Fruit, Doublemint and Big Red gum, Hershey’s Kisses, Jolly Ranchers, and Sugar Daddy caramel pops. In an adjacent corner sat an old-fashioned popcorn machine. A music system was wired for each room in the house. In the master bedroom, filled with panoramic water views, there were three 5-foot panel displays, situated in a semi-oval across from the king-sized bed. Other audio-video components were inset behind a sliding glass panel in the wall. They included a high-end, digital satellite music system, a digital video disc player, a satellite system, and a voice-operated personal computer. Commands to the PC were picked up by microphones in the headboard and deciphered by voice recognition software, to be viewed on any of the 3 monitors. Besides access to the Internet, voice commands also controlled air heating and cooling systems, security, video phone and a telecommunications network. Every instant that Douglass blinked seemed to bring forth another amenity to tell of. He wanted to explode when Fumi told him the price was only 20 million.

Only?

However, in their ensuing conversation, as the men all reclined in the sunken living room with a fire blazing near to them, Douglass soon realized who he was associating with. Fumi made it all too clear; living, breathing and now speaking up to the status as one of Africa’s most aspiring diamond mine owners. Now, Douglass could see that the home in all of its magnificence befitted, but barely caught up to, a man in his 40’s who had already amassed profits of three hundred million in the past year alone, with various investments in the United States. Moreover, Fumi had recently purchased 187 fast food restaurants, several exclusive sports cars, and 4 Gulf Stream jets.

“O-h-h-h . . . I see. And now you want to add a topless club to your list of toys?” Douglass’s jaw was still lowered, in awe of all he’d heard and seen in just one hour.

“Actually . . . Please, Chuckuma . . .” Chuckuma came over to refill Douglass’s glass of orange juice. “I am spearheading the Buy America campaign. As you are aware, there are billions and billions of dollars in Africa not being put to good use. Buried. Perhaps I am ignorant to even mention amounts, because the reality is that nobody knows the extent of wealth in the motherland. If it’s not diamonds it’s iron ore, if it’s not gold, it’s cocoa, and if it’s not agricultural resources, then it’s oil or gases. Africa is the world’s mightiest land of wealth. Still. The land is limitless in terms of valuation. The lineage of my tribe . . . the Yoruba tribe, is the most powerful tribe in all of Africa. One of substance. We mean more than this itty-bitty President. More than this nation’s so-called Fortune 500, and beyond meaning when it comes to spiritual, or cultural heritage and roots. They have uprooted some of us, but not all. I have come here to the United States not only to invest and to make more money with our money, but I have also come to rescue some of my people who are cowardly, ignorant or either naive to the wealth of life that awaits them in their native homeland.” Douglass wanted to smack himself, feeling that this must be a big dream.

“So . . . no. It’s not the topless part that impresses me. In my homeland I see topless everyday. It’s natural, and I would never have to pay admission . . .” Fumi looked to his soldiers and they smiled in kind. “I’m really investing in you, Douglass. Even if you thought owning and operating a football or basketball team was profitable or important, I’d support and finance the purchase. It is not the investment, Douglass. It’s you.” Douglass took a long, methodic breath, as if it was his last exhale of headaches and misery . . . as if it was his very first inhale of wealth untold and a lifetime of plenty. His mind was busy with expenditures as he began to satisfy his imagination with images and intents.

“Chuckuma . . . ola edo.” Fumi mentioned something in the Ebu language. Chuckuma proceeded forthwith, quickly returning with an attache case. It was thin like a paperback dictionary. Fumi laid the attache on the glossy, black coffee table which separated them. He popped the tiny latches and retrieved 2 small, leather pouches from inside. From one pouch he poured a small pile of stones—obviously diamonds. They sparkled like solid formations of spring water. The prisms and definitions were see-through and yet reflective of any evident light. From the other pouch, Fumi poured a separate pile, a larger pile of rocks. They were larger, less defined and quite yellowish. Not as brilliant as the other pile but a greater mass.

“Diamond class one-oh-one, Douglass. What pile would you prefer if you had your choice? This pile? Or this pile?”

“Uuuhh . . . I guess, this one.” Douglass was unsure what Fumi was getting at, but predictable nonetheless. He pointed to the brilliant diamonds.

“Bad choice.”

“Well, Fumi . . . to tell you the truth, any choice is better than no choice at all.” Douglass laughed to himself.

“Yes, I see . . . well, what these are,” indicating the larger pile, “are unfinished, uncut diamonds.” Fumi picked up one and let Douglass review it closer. “See, this diamond that you’re holding now has the finished value of this entire pile of polished diamonds over here. It’s a little uglier, but with some finishing and cutting and polishing, it’s worth probably three hundred and seventy thousand dollars.” Douglass suddenly looked harder at the stone, real careful with it now. He quickly realized that the pile which it came from had about 20 others that were just like it.

“Now, in villages and jungles and on shores in our land, these uncut stones are laying out in the open; they may be a foot below the earth’s surface, or maybe one hundred feet down. But those that walk over them everyday have no need for them. They don’t place a value on diamonds as they do food and clothing, or shoes.”

“You mean, an African would prefer a pair of Jordans over a stone that could buy them two thousand pairs of Jordans?”

“Yes, but they have no way of using diamonds, as they do . . . Jordans. Just think about walking down a dangerous street in New York and you are held up at gunpoint just because the man wants your Jordans. You’d give him the Jordans I hope, because at that point in time, your life is more of a priority than some silly sneakers. Well, that is the same issue in our land. The same mentality and priority. Circumstance has a gun to the heads of our people. We are forced to sacrifice the full value of our Jordans—our diamonds—for the mere priority of survival.”

Boston Post Road: Part One

Like a nightmare pulled out of a fantasy, Douglass shook from his drowsy state of mind, with two of Fumi’s soldiers waking him, looking around from their seats in the front of the Jeep. He’d fallen asleep on the ride back from The Point and was now in the parked Navigator in the hotel parking lot. When his eyes cleared of film and his mind of haziness, Douglass could see familiar faces leaving the hotel with folders and proposals in hand, discussing details as they headed back to their own parked vehicles.

“Are you okay, Mista G’more?” One of the escorts was genuinely cordial.

“Yes, of . . . of course. Thank you.” Douglass leaped to exit the Navigator.

“Mista G’more. You’re forgetting something.” Douglass looked intuitively back towards the seat and grabbed the small leather pouch. Now he suddenly became lost in time, recalling the details of the mirage. He was to use the uncut diamonds to acquire a construction loan. The rough stones were worth 3 and a half million dollars. At least. The funding source, wherever he went, would give him 3 million with the diamonds as collateral. But he was to use the money in trenches of $250,000 and provide Fumi with detailed reports of his progress. There was a simple handshake that bound their agreement. Fumi merely wanted the principle back, plus whatever percentage Douglass felt was amicable over and above current interest rates. That’s probably the straw that broke the camel’s back; knocked Douglass out cold as soon as the motorcade drove him away from The Point. The rest was up to him. He felt like he needed Fumi’s soldiers when he remembered that the small sack in his possession was worth over 3 million dollars. But he reconciled and asked himself, “Who the hell would think that this pouch was worth 3 million?!”

Inside the hotel and down in the lobby outside of the ballroom, Douglass could see that his staff was already reviewing fond memories. The scene was nothing short of the exhaustion that resulted from a busy night at Fool’s Paradise. Glasses and balloons scattered about, tables dissembled and chairs everywhere. All at once the family that loved and supported him rose to greet him. That’s when he told himself, If they only knew.

Sunday night was as tragic as well as it was eventful. While Douglass and his followers celebrated the rest of the evening at Emily’s Restaurant in Harlem, spending enough to invest in the future of that establishment, trouble was brewing in the Bronx. Tony was asleep, snoring on an office couch, with a thin Versace-shaped damsel waking from under him; stressing for breathing room. He’d promised her a job. She couldn’t dance worth a shit, but with a favor provided he’d take her on. Now that the favor was done, she really need to get out from under this pot-bellied fool. A lil’ suck and fuck meant nothing to her; she’d been here before. Now it was time for a shower.

“Shit! It’s like one in the morning.”

“Where ya goin’, Sally?”

“Home to shower, man.” Sally revived the chewing gum that was stale between her cheek and gums. Tony yawned, his thick, cruddy exhale nearly hitting her in her face as she pulled on the street clothes over her nude, frail frame. Tony turned over after watching her one last time and mumbled into the couch.

“Gimme a call. And use the back door. Make sure you shut it, woman.” Sally didn’t bother responding, and after gathering her things she shot out of the rear door—expecting to catch the very next subway to leave Dyre Avenue—and she slammed the door behind her. It was partway down the driveway when she was suddenly pushed up against the side of the building.

“Who are you?” a muffled voice demanded.

“S . . . Sally . . . I—I’m a—a dancer.”

“Dancer,” a voice told another.

“Let ’er go.” Another voice ruled above all. “And don’t you dare turn around. Git.”

Another voice said, “And don’t even bother coming back. Kapish?”

Sally feared for her life and balance her stilettos along the graveled driveway until she disappeared down the sidewalk. The crew of arsonists continued their strike, hulking back towards the gas cans they’d put down, back to dousing the perimeter of The Pretty Girl. The fumes were already strong, but the gangsters didn’t care. All six of them were milling about, going for more cans in the pickup truck, completing their orders. Gas was poured and splashed along the base of the building, at every exit and corner. The men kept it up until they could see the drenched walls glistening under the moonlight. Seconds later . . .

WHOOSH!

By two in the morning, the group of celebrants was laughing and filing out of Emily’s, headed for the curb where the jeep stood alone. Angus locked the door behind them, ending a night for the Gilmores to remember; a night of good food and fond memories of their struggle. Snow was beginning to trickle down, just encouraging the whole gotta-go attitude. Valerie, Mechelle, Debbie, Dino, Demetrius, Greg, Douglass—all of them filed into the jeep, while Danni got behind the wheel. There was a calm in the vehicle as the ride home inspired deep thought, wide open eyes basking in the amazement of their instant success. Everyone’s mind was on Chicago and the task ahead of them.

Along I-95, minutes from New Rochelle, Danni recognized a glow in the air. Upon a more focused examination, he realized that this wasn’t a giant candle. A fire was blazing. He woke the others and Douglass insisted that Danni take the exit to investigate.

As they approached Boston Road, and the intersection near to where Fool’s Paradise once thrived, they fixed their eyes on the events about 100 feet from the intersection.

The Pretty Girl! Ohmigod!

There was a police blockade erected to block traffic from turning right towards the activity. A fire truck had apparently just arrived, with men now jetting back and forth around the emergency vehicles in the vicinity. Police were posted about, making use of themselves, while traffic cops stood at various intervals, directing the early morning traffic into U-turns or alternative routes. Meanwhile, the Pretty Girl was blazing like a sky-high birthday candle under the early morning snowfall. While firemen searched for a working hydrant, police stood by and watched the building go up in flames.

“What are the details, Sam?” Chief Washington was on the scene, all too aware of the infamous popularity of this particular intersection. Fool’s Paradise over there . . . The Dunkin’ Donuts shop over there . . . and so on.

“Likely an arson, Chief. There’s one gas can in the rear, abandoned just feet from the building. The business isn’t open yet, so there’s no reason for anyone to be inside. Nobody has contact numbers for the owners or any caretakers. So far, unless somebody left the coffeemaker on inside, it looks like an outside job . . . close as I can see to arson.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Nadda one.” The chief went to his vehicle to contact headquarters.

“Patch me through to . . .” Chief Washington made the emergency call to Wade.

Wade reached for his ringing phone. “Wade speaking.”

“Sorry. I just needed your opinion on something. How’s the vacation?”

“Just groovy so far.”

“By the way, I’m missing my favorite news anchor lately . . . you know, the one from my favorite evening news program. Any ideas where she might be?”

“Huhmph . . . ,” Wade laughed under his breath, “. . . no idea, Chief. Okay . . . now I’m awake. What’s up?”

“It’s a fire. Down here on Boston Post Road.”

“Don’t tell me. Fool’s Paradise?” Brenda rolled over with her eyes closed in a satisfied warmth, putting her hand to Wade’s bare chest. Snuggling.

“No. That’s been closed for a couple weeks now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah . . . S.L.A.’s call. Lost their license. No, this is a spot within view of Fool’s Paradise. On the other side of the intersection. They were building a club here called The Pretty Girl . . .”

“I know the spot.”

“Well, it’s nearly destroyed now. Looks like arson. Any ideas?”

“I’ll sleep on it and get back to you.” Wade hung up his cell and nestled with Brenda’s head in his embrace. His eyes were open, thinking about Douglass’s plans for the new club. The new club was planned for a huge warehouse on the same block, except across the street from where The Pretty Girl was being developed. So much activity in one area. Wade could see why the Chief called him. All he’d have to do was place a call. Not now. Too comfortable with Brenda nude against his body in a South Beach hotel. Tomorrow was another day.

Douglass breathed a sigh of relief, now confident that the fire was not interfering with his plans for Black Beauty. It was a strange coincidence that it was just across the street from where Black Beauty construction would begin the following week, but he didn’t think much of it.

Danni made a U-turn to avoid the police activity and they headed back towards I-95. He passed a limousine that sat at the curb, close to the 24-hour Dunkin’ Donuts.

Inside the limousine, Fat Jimmy was feasting on a half-dozen bag of donuts, washing it down hastily with hot coffee.

For Fat Jimmy, this was like watching a movie, complete with being visibly nervous, sweating from his receding hairline. He kept the tinted, Plexiglas partition raised so that Bruno wouldn’t detect his hysteria. But Fat Jimmy was caught between a rock and a hard place. He had a meeting set with Tony at 1 AM, but the place was now an orange glow of light. My money. The family’s investment, going up in smoke. Jimmy was shaking ridiculously, and secretly wondering if Tony might be inside. He phoned the club helplessly. Busy signal. He just knew Tony was inside. Incinerated. I just know it! And now, he wasn’t even concerned with Tony’s body as much as he was with facing his boss . . . Anthony, the son of mob boss Chucky Bianco.

The Black Beauty auditions were about to commence. Every string was pulled and every resource accessed so that this event would blow the roof off the mother. Douglass involved everyone except for Dino, who was all about the construction. It was necessary for Dino to oversee the contractors so that the Black Beauty Manifesto was followed down to the XYZ. Moreover, if there were issues that he couldn’t address, Douglass was a cell phone call away. Included in the Chicago event were Greg’s comrades from Georgetown U.

All the while, for a week and a half at least, the Fabulous Five had pumped the volume on the audition for aspiring ethnic models and dancers. There was a poster that called for all ages and a website that was constructed as the key ingredient. For $5 (a substantially low photography fee), women and girls would show up in their best outfits. Those over age 18 would take swimsuit and lingerie shots. The best of those in attendance would be placed on the website with creative graphics and their biographies for about a year, until the next audition came around. Essentially, the website would serve as a black model’s gallery where fashion photographers, video producers and even film directors could review images for selection and potential work. Those that were not selected would receive a set of photos from their audition and a note of appreciation. Meanwhile, everybody would be happy. Black Beauty International would be the catalyst and also have first pick of those future candidates who might be interested in dancing at the new Black Beauty. There were brochures made to match the posters and distributed to beauty salons throughout the area. Radio interviews were conducted, and Valerie, Debbie and Mechelle filled in as spokeswomen for the search. The hotel Marriot posted the Black Beauty Search on their marquee and news coverage was arranged for the big day.

On Wednesday morning, the 8:30 flight from New York arrived with the entire entourage at O’Hare Airport in Chicago. All twelve members zipped through the terminal, and after a quick stop at baggage claim, they headed straight for a minivan that stood outside in the passenger pick-up zone. A hired driver took the group down the expressway towards downtown Chicago to the Center City Marriot. As the bus approached, everyone admired the tall buildings and ritzy atmosphere. Basketball was in the air, an energy that Chicago thrived on. But no time for that since bigger and more personal agendas were in store for the event organizers. There was one day until a city’s worth of black beauties would converge on Center City, into the waiting arms of one hungry, well-financed entrepreneur.