American Gangster

14. Cooley High

The domination of Blue Magic on inner city streets, both sides of the river, was complete within months. On this typical August afternoon, hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk, kids were wrenching open a fire hydrant to cool off, inadvertently splashing the beat-up Chevy parked down the street and across from the 23rd Precinct in Harlem.

Frank Lucas was in casual clothes, sitting in the junker he called Nellybelle. He owned one hundred custom-made suits, and his automobiles included a Mercedes, a Corvette Sting Ray, a 427 muscle job for kicks, and of course his Lincoln Town Car. But for keeping an eye on things, looking like just another homeboy, loafing in a T-shirt and slacks in a three-hundred-buck piece-of-shit car, was just the thing.

He was like a ghost haunting the domain he owned — 116th Street, between Seventh and Eighth Avenues — a shadow, what back home they called a “haint.” He would sit there in Nellybelle, invisible, and just watch the money roll in.

Right now, inside that dingy gray stone precinct house, a clock in the locker room would be reading 3:58... two minutes till shift change. Cops, in the synthetic breeze of fans sending humid air around, would be getting a jump on quitting time, exchanging uniforms for street clothes. Other guys were reversing the process, as outside blue-and-white squad cars came and went.

A minute later, a bus moving down 116th Street would turn down an almost empty Eighth Avenue. Nothing shaking. A haunted house of a street.

And the haint haunting that house sat in his clunker with its windows up and its top-dollar air conditioner blowing full blast, listening to the wicked Wilson Pickett wrapping up “Mustang Sally” so an announcer could mark the arrival of 4 P.M.

With quiet, even smug pleasure, Frank watched out a window smeared with hydrant juice as 116th Street transformed into Times fucking Square. From alleys, storefronts, tenements and around corners came junkies and dealers, flooding the sidewalks and the street with black faces.

“ ’Nuff niggers to make a Tarzan movie,” his brother Huey had said on first seeing this phenomenon, prompting Frank to scold him for his negative language — he would not suffer that kind of self-denigrating talk from his family and employees.

Taking his product out for sale at cop shift change was another of Frank’s innovations. He knew it would take a couple of hours for those lazy bastards to get their uniforms on and their asses in gear and out of the break room and onto the pavement.

And his buyers, man, you could set your watch by them. Word was the Transit Authority was planning to reroute the Eighth Avenue bus, ’cause of all the congestion, cars and delivery trucks getting snarled up by the stream of customers and sellers.

Small blue cellophane packets changed hands for the ten-buck-per-bag fee Frank insisted upon. Within minutes, in alleyways and dank, grim rooms, the contents of those packets would be cooked up and sucked into syringes, and plunged into eager veins.

Within the hour, decks of rubber-banded tens and twenties would be stuffed in envelopes and runners would deliver them to the Lucas brothers: Melvin at his metal shop; Dexter at the dry cleaners; Turner at a tire service shop; Terrence at an electrical shop; Huey at his body shop — hardworking souls, the Lucas boys.

Later, at Red Top’s apartment, the brothers would converge with their envelopes of cash, which became piles of cash, which initially had been a problem. Those boys, with their backwoods math skills, could simply not deal with all that paper money. First time they tried, Huey shook his head and said, “We’re gonna be here all night, if we count every bill.”

So Frank had bought them a money-counting machine, a mechanical marvel that would flip through the bills with its counter rolling up impressive numbers, while the brothers rubber-banded it all into new decks of $100,000. Huey jotted down the numbers, and his brothers stuffed the money into cardboard file-type boxes, which were then taped shut.

From these boxes, the 100G stacks would be transferred by Frank into safety-deposit boxes at the — Chemical Bank in the Bronx. He was alone in the safety-deposit vault, of course, but the vice president who’d been so helpful was now a friend, who even got invited to parties at Frank’s penthouse.

The banker and Frank were sipping drinks in the middle of a shindig that Hugh Hefner couldn’t have topped, which was fitting since the penthouse was now beautifully furnished in a modern Playboy pad kind of way.

This was an office party of sorts, celebrating Blue Magic’s success, with Frank’s brothers, cousins, wives and girlfriends partying alongside certain business associates, including distributors like mob-guy Rossi, trusted old-timer Charlie Williams and assorted East Harlemites, plus a scattering of plainclothes cops on the payroll.

The stereo hi-fi system was pounding out soul tunes, and right now Marvin Gaye’s “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” had guests dancing in Frank’s living room — which had more space for the activity than Small’s Paradise’s dance floor, anyway.

The banker was asking, “You got a stockbroker, Frank?”

Why did these white people insist on doing business at parties?

But Frank, the perfect host, merely said, “I deal with enough crooks as it is.”

Juggling his drink, the banker managed to get a business card out and jot down a name and phone number on the back.

Working to be heard over Marvin Gaye, the banker said, “This broker is as honest as he is discreet. Just ask around. He’s got a list of clients in your field.”

“Yeah, well, thanks, but—”

The banker shook a finger. “No ‘buts,’ Frank — you can’t go around leaving all of your money in safety deposit boxes. Promise me you’ll give him a call.”

Frank took the card and nodded and the banker went off to look for food or maybe a spare female — Frank always pumped a few high-class working girls into a bash like this.

Sipping his drink, Frank was happy to see his family, friends and business associates having a good time; but the truth was, this level of noise and this degree of rowdiness made him uncomfortable. He would rather be spending the evening alone with Eva, listening to jazz or watching TV.

Eva was playing hostess, charming everybody with her smile and bright eyes and lilting accent; and the way she filled an evening gown didn’t hurt, either.

Charlie, the veteran affable dope dealer, came ambling over with his arm around a balding, mustached white guy in a black suit and white shirt and no tie, who looked like he might’ve been an athlete half a lifetime ago or so.

With a wink and a grin, Charlie said, “Frank, this is Mike Sibota.”

Frank recognized the name: this was a former Yankee player who was now scouting for the team. Right now Sibota seemed to be working hard not to look nervous.

“Mr. Sibota, a pleasure,” Frank said, and extended a hand. They shook, and Frank asked, “What can I get you?”

“From what Charlie tells me,” Sibota said, “a lefthander. Your nephew?”

“My nephew,” Frank confirmed. He tilted his head and risked a grin. “Got an arm on him.”

“Any experience?”

“Just sandlot. Didn’t graduate junior high. But I bet you’re not in the market for a scholar.”

Sibota, relaxing, said, “I’m in the market for a lefthander.”

Frank gave him his patented easy smile. “Well, it’s been Stevie’s dream, all his life, to play for the Yankees.”

Sibota laughed. “A Southern boy likes the Yankees?”

“He has good taste, Mr. Sibota. Plus, he’s good enough to start tomorrow.”

“So I hear.” The scout handed Frank a business card. “You have your nephew come see me. And we’ll give him a tryout.”

“Just a chance. All he asks.”

The conversation continued, about baseball and how the Yankees were doing (not that great — playing .500 ball), but Frank was only listening with one ear. He was picking up on a noisy conversation ten or so feet away, and glancing over there as well.

His brother Huey, in tinted goggle glasses and a polyester pantsuit, was holding court with his wild-ass driver Jimmy Zee, and their fine-looking if coked-up girlfriends, as well as a white cop, a detective whose name Frank couldn’t recall.

The little group was gathered around a glass-top coffee table with a pile of coke on it that hadn’t been among the appetizers Frank’s caterers set out. The brazenness of it irritated Frank, and the grab-ass game Jimmy and the dick were playing made the back of his neck tingle.

The dick was play-acting, flashing his gold shield and patting Jimmy down for a frisk.

“What’s this?” The cop yanked a .45 automatic from under Zee’s jacket. “Oh, that’s it, man, I am takin’ you down for this, I’m takin’ your black ass in.”

Jimmy laughed and batted the air. “You can’t take me in for that shit, motherfucker — I got a license for that.”

“Okay,” the dick said, handing back the gun, which Jimmy slipped back in its shoulder-rig. “Then what about this shit?” The dick gestured to the pile of coke on the coffee table.

“They don’t sell no licenses for this,” the dick said. “In fact, I best confiscate this shit...”

And the cop bent down, and sucked up a line.

The females were laughing like Flip Wilson was performing, and not some thickheaded, bent cop, who was about as funny as a fall down the stairs. Frank, still talking to the baseball scout, was wondering if he ought to get over there and put an end to this foolishness...

Powder on his nostrils, the dick took out his handcuffs and said, “All right, Zee, all right — now I’m busting your ass!”

The women howled with laughter, and Huey and Jimmy were laughing, too.

Huey dug in his pocket and got out a fat money clip and peeled off a C-note. “Let me bail him out, officer — I need the man to drive for me.”

“What is that, a bribe?” the dick demanded in mock indignation. “Now all your asses are under arrest.”

So the dick made a big show of pretend-arresting the group. Frank, with one ear and half his attention, took this in, thinking he ought to shut this high school nonsense down; but Frank was busy with Sibota, and Sibota was Stevie’s ticket to the big leagues, and if the scout wanted to chat, Frank would chat.

So Frank didn’t see what turned the fun into something ugly. He didn’t see the dick pretend-frisking Jimmy Zee’s woman Darlynn and putting his hand all over her right breast.

But Jimmy saw it, all right, and said, “What’s this shit?”

Huey’s opinion (which he later told Frank) was that what really riled Jimmy was that his girlfriend didn’t complain about the grope; but Jimmy considered himself a gentleman, and wouldn’t slap the bitch in public.

Right now the dick was fooling with his handcuffs and playing at taking Huey away, saying, “I gotta take all you evil lawbreakers in!”

But Zee wasn’t having any.

Huey’s skinny mean driver/bodyguard glared at the handsy dick and demanded, “I said, what the fuck was that?”

The dick blinked. Huey stepped away. The dick, innocently, asked, “What was what?”

“Fuck you,” Jimmy said, and then the .45 was in his hand and the report of the weapon in the high-ceilinged space was like thunder.

And the dick was on the floor, right now, clutching at his leg, blooding running through his fingers onto the shag carpet.

“Are you fuckin’crazy?” the dick gasped.

“Man touches my woman’s titty,” Jimmy said, “is crazy. And next time, he’s dead.”

Frank didn’t have to excuse himself, as he moved away from the baseball scout and through his guests, because they were all so stunned and scared...

Jimmy saw Frank coming and held up the gun like it was a party favor and smiled, unconvincingly, as he said, “Aw, he’s all right. I just shot him in the leg, is all.” Jimmy bent over the fallen, bleeding, whimpering cop. “What are you complaining about? You got a health plan, ain’t you?”

Frank approached. “Jimmy — a word?”

Jimmy said, “Aw, Frank, come on, he’s fine. Here...” Jimmy got in his pocket and brought out a wad of bills and dealt C-notes off like a poker hand.

The bills floated down onto the shaking cop, who looked like he might pass out any second.

Jimmy said, “Five hundred, all right, bro? Six?” He dealt another C-note and it fluttered to the floor into a pool of blood. The cop snatched it out before the bill got ruined.

Then Jimmy grinned at Frank, and around at the other guests, saying, “See? He’s feeling better already.”

Frank took Jimmy gently by the arm, and this time he did excuse himself, as the host moved with the man through the partygoers and brought him over to a wall and, finding a nice space between framed modern-art paintings, slammed his misbehaving guest into the wall.

Jimmy was shaking.

Frank got in his face. “You want to take your gun out again? No. Didn’t think so.”

“Frank... honest... I...”

“Shut up, Jimmy.”

Frank hauled the idiot, who seemed on the verge of tears, by the arm and across the room and tossed him at the door. Jimmy thumped into it, then opened it, and scrambled out without closing it.

Frank did.

As Smoky Robinson sang “Tears of a Clown” courtesy of the hi-fi, Frank strolled out among his guests and smiled with every ounce of charm he could summon, and lifted his arms as if in welcome. “No cover charge, folks! Please — enjoy yourselves.”

But Zee had put a damper on the festivities. Frank had Doc take the wounded cop home, where a real doc on the Lucas payroll would make a house call. Within an hour, the penthouse was empty but for Eva — who, still in her gown, was doing her best to clean the blood stain off the rug with salt and soda water — and Frank’s five brothers.

And Frank.

They sat, mostly on a sofa. He paced. Slowly. Like a cat. A big, pissed-off cat.

“This kind of stupidity,” he said, and shook his head, the cold rage obvious in his voice, “I can’t have.”

Looking like the Lone fucking Ranger in those tinted goggles, Huey said, “It was an accident.”

“Accident. You don’t shoot a man by accident, Huey.”

“I... I know, Frank. But Jimmy feels terrible about it.”

“Feels terrible?” Frank planted himself before Huey, stared down at him. “Jimmy don’t feel shit, coked up all the time, way he is. This is who you have drive for you? This is who protects your ass? Get rid of him.”

Huey’s eyes widened behind the big tinted lenses, his expression half-shocked, half-sorrowful. “Frank, you can’t mean that... He’s your cousin! What’s he gonna do?”

“I don’t care what he does. Just so he doesn’t do it in my world.”

“He can’t go back home. We brought him up here! There’s nothing left back there...”

“Does any of this sound like my problem?”

Huey risked a smile and patted the air. “Listen, give him a chance, give me a chance, to go and talk to him. I’ll straighten his ass out.”

Frank just stood there looking at his brother behind the ridiculous glasses; what was Huey trying to be, a goddamn spaceman? It was like talking to a cartoon character.

“Give those here,” Frank said, and held out his hand, palm up.

“What?”

“Glasses.” Frank’s fingers made the “come here” gesture.

“What? Why?”

Frank grabbed the things off his brother’s face and threw them to the carpeting and cracked and crushed them under his shoe.

Then he backed off and, one at a time, he caught their eyes and held on until each brother had to look away.

Finally Frank said, “Jimmy Zee goes back to North Carolina, or to hell, for all I care. Cousin, brother, doesn’t cut shit with me. I’m giving you the chance of a lifetime. Blow it, and you’re gone.”

There were gulps and nods and mumbled apologies.

“Now get the fuck out,” he told them.

And they went, as the Jackson 5 — the hi-fi not so loud now, but still distinct — sang “Never Can Say Goodbye.”