HARLEM, USA
Although Harlem is but a few thousand yards from some of the wealthiest families in the country, most do not cross 110th street, for that means coming face to face with the ugly realities of life.
On a hot summer's day, like today, fire plugs are turned on full blast. Children from the neighborhood run around soaked, doing their best to remain cool. On every corner, square freezers serve flavored shaved ice, and like the pied piper, a Mr. Softy truck slowly drives down every block with a trail of children running behind it. The air is thick with humanity and although the weather today has been expected to hit 102 degrees, now at one in the afternoon the temperature has hit 98. People trying their best to beat the heat sit on stoops fanning their selves drinking fresh brewed iced tea or homemade lemon aide.
A black Lincoln town car with municipal plates comes to a stop at the corner of 112th and Malcolm X Boulevard. Three boys run in front of it to catch the ice cream truck that has just passed. The two men in the car draw attention to themselves by their dress. Their suits and ties and being white make them stand out, even in a car with tinted windows. The only white folks that cross these streets are Police and college students looking to score, weed of smack, so when a child sees the men, he logically concludes the are one of the former.
"Po Po." A child screams as they ride past the fire hydrant that he plays in.
"Why are we interested in this place?" The man in the passenger side asks.
"I can sum it up in one word, gentrification. Gentrification means more government money, more taxes, more tax breaks, a better local economy, a better economy a better New York, a better New York, more votes, more votes, more terms in office. It's that simple, gentrify, gentrify, gentrify."
"Why can't we just impose Eminent Domain?"
"We're not building a highway, so we have to think of more industrious ways to move out the old and bring in the new."
Parked to the side of 127th and Lenox, Officer Lewis Newton waits in his patrol car for the black Lincoln. When he sees it pull up behind him, he opens his door and walks to the drive side. The driver rolls the window down and nods.
"We need you for back up."
"What kind of back up?"
"Follow me."
The loud thump of music blasting at rock concert decibels can be heard from the parking lot of the Black Bird Gentlemen's club. A valet runs up to the black Lincoln and opens the door.
"Welcome Sir." He says as the two men step out.
The driver hands the valet a ten and looks over to Lewis, walking towards them, and gestures for the men to follow him.
Lewis stands waiting in front of a large blue wood door and as he opens it the music from inside pushes its way out. The two men drop their heads in sync and walk behind Lewis.
A six foot five bald black man towers over them, looks at Lewis and the two men standing behind him and says, "Welcome to the Black Bird."
Lewis looks up at him and smiles and then yells, "They want to see Maurice."
Barely above a whisper had the man responded. "Maurice is a very busy man."
"He owes me a favor. Tell him I'm collecting." Lewis says.
The doorman steps away and disappears into the sea of half-naked women, bottle girls and patrons. Lewis turns and looks at the men and says, "Now you owe me a favor."
For the two men the noise becomes unbearable as they stand silent scanning the large open floor. Men throw dollar bills at women as they dance on stages, swinging from poles and grinding on laps to the baselines of the music being played by a DJ high above in the rafters.
Lewis nods his head at the two men and smiles as a young woman takes her top off in front of him.
"I'll be with her if you need me."
The bouncer knocks on a door marked, 'Private' before entering. He then walks up a short flight of steps and excuses himself.
"Maurice, you got some visitors."
Maurice swivels around in his chair and looks out the two way mirror, overlooking the club. He sees the two well-dressed white men, brushing off the advances of the three topless women and asks, "Police?"
"No. Well, one of them is, Lewis."
"What the fuck does he want?"
"He said, he's collecting a debt and wants you to speak with some friends of his."
"Who are they?" A man lying on his back on a leather sofa, smoking a cigar asks.
Maurice shrugs his shoulders and gestures for the bouncer to let them up.
The bouncer emerges from the back of the club and whistle, waving for the men to follow.
The two men look at each other and walk towards him, continually brushing off the girls in the club.
The bouncer walks them through a maze of dressing areas, passing topless women putting on makeup before approaching the door that leads to a set of stairs. He point up, "He's waiting for you."
When they enter the room, a man approaches them, pats them down and points to two chairs in front of a desk
Maurice walks out from a bathroom zipping his pants. He then sits behind a desk, props his feet on the top, tilts his head and examines his visitors.
"You ain't cops. I can tell that from the way you're dressed."
"My name is Roland Girard and I want to make you an offer for the property you own, on 110th."
Maurice shakes his head and leans back in his chair. "Not for sale."
"You haven't heard my offer."
"Whatever it is, I'm not interested."
"I'm offering five..."
The man sitting next to Roland leans forward in his chair. "We can make things bad for you."
Maurice rolls his head and laughs along with the other men in the room. He drops his feet, slides his chair closer to the man and sneers. "Who the fuck, are you?"
"That's John Morales." A voice from the back of the room says.
Roland and John turn to see the man in the corner of the room, smoking a cigar lying on a leather couch.
