Black Pearl

By Alvin Grimes

In his life, Jackson Blaze has been many things: hustler, prizefighter, leg breaker, and decorated war hero. Upon returning home from World War I to his adopted home of Harlem, New York, he finds himself in the middle of a war between gangster boss Jimmy Rose and the Jewish Mafia for control of Harlem's lucrative underworld. After recruiting a handful of his Army comrades to aid him, Jackson wages guerilla warfare against some of the toughest hoods in New York City. As if he doesn't have enough to worry about, he also finds himself in a passionate love affair with the beautiful and mysterious dancer known only as Tamara. When the stakes are life and death, the slightest mistake could spell disaster. If he has any hope of survival, Jackson must decide to follow his head or his heart. BLACK PEARL by Alvin Grimes is a thriller set in the heyday of Classic Pulp Tales, but delivered with a hard hitting modern voice. Two Fisted, double barreled action at its best- BLACK PEARL by Alvin Grimes From Pro Se Productions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: Apr 25, 2014

Book preview

Prologue

Some homecoming this turned out to be, thought Jackson as he stalked the rainy avenues of Harlem. Beneath his slouch hat and greatcoat he was soaked to his skin; his doughboy army boots echoing ominously in the early morning. Ignoring the rumbling thunder and the lightning that pierced the darkness, he continued on his way. Guess I could’ve come back with the rest of the boys, but... His brooding thoughts were interrupted by a man headed his way wearing a tattered overcoat and wide brimmed hat. The wind picked up, adding to the ferocity of the thunderstorm, forcing the man to lean forward in order to remain upright.

A rare smile graced Jackson’s brooding face. That looks like... he thought as the man came closer. It is! Of all the people... The man looked up in astonishment.

Darkhorse! he gasped.

Pretty Mike, Jackson said warmly. How’s it—, before he could finish his greeting, Pretty Mike took off in the opposite direction as fast as he could. What the devil? Jackson exclaimed as he ran after him. Why would Mike be runnin’ away from me? he thought as he began to accelerate. Mike! he roared over the storm. What’re you runnin’ for? Pumping his powerful legs, Jackson began to gain on Pretty Mike, who was floundering after a mere fifty yards.

With the wind at his back, Jackson was soon so close to Mike that he could hear his agonized gasps for breath. In a last effort to avoid Jackson, Mike tried to duck into an alley, but Jackson had anticipated this and grabbed him by the collar of his overcoat. With hands that had shed blood in the back alley, the boxing ring and the trenches of No Man’s Land, Jackson snatched him off his feet and slammed him against a brick wall. Surprised at how frail Mike had become, Jackson held him firmly and looked at the man who had once been a major player in the Harlem underworld—Pretty Mike was not pretty anymore.

In addition to taking what had to have been a shovel to his face, Mike’s torturers had also taken an eye. Gasping more from shame than exhaustion, Mike covered the once beautiful face with his hands and began to gibber and weep. Jackson stood over him, a look of pain darkening his cinnamon brown complexion. He had seen this before in the trenches of Europe—Mike had been broken.

I’m just a broke down niggah, he sobbed, and Jackson, who was angry to the point of exploding, grabbed him by the collar with one hand and yanked him to his feet. Lightning flashed its silver fingers across the dark cloud-filled sky, the eerie illumination making Jackson appear even more menacing.

Ain’t no mo’ niggahs! Jackson snarled.

Chapter 1

Angry, wet and broke, Jackson made his way to Lennox and 125th to Eddie’s Gym, where seven years and thirty-five pounds ago he had tried to fulfill a dream of becoming a professional middleweight.

As he climbed the ancient steps, he could feel the wood groan beneath his weight. Next to my mama’s kitchen, this used to be one of my favorite places, he thought, while his senses took in the unique sights, sounds and smells that can be found in any boxing gym anywhere in the world. He looked at his watch; it read 6:00a.m. He smiled, shook his head and said, Mornin’ shift is throwin’ leather. Stepping onto the gym floor, he squared his heavyweight shoulders and inhaled deeply. The heavy smell of sweat and leather took hold of him and flooded his mind with memories of the thousands of painful hours he had spent here. For long seconds he stood there, dripping wet, eyes closed with a strange grin on his face. His hands became fists and his heart began to beat faster. I’m home, he thought as he felt the urge rise up. That old urge, the urge to hit, to be hit and to hit again.

His ears registered the dull cah-rump sound of leather gloves pounding the heavy bags, the rhythmic slapping of ropes being skipped and the staccato of the speed bag. The urge was like an aphrodisiac and he found himself looking around the room for someone, someone who knew, someone who really knew. His feet comfortable on the worn floors, he loosened his thick neck and began to walk like he owned the place. The regulars took notice and eyed him like suspicious wolves, assessing his ease and deadly confidence.

Looks like he finally learned to come in out of the rain, a gravelly voice said. Jackson turned to see Eddie Hawkins and Chappy Drew walking his way. Chappy had been Jackson’s trainer and cut man; Eddie had been like a second father.

Maybe, Chappy croaked, but it still takes him a while to figure out when.

Probably broke and hungry, Eddie growled.

So tell me somethin’ new, Chappy shot back. Jackson simply looked at them.

Chappy was paper bag brown, lean, grizzled and scarred. When he grinned you could see that most of his teeth were missing—a result of fights and an overbearing sweet tooth. He was wearing shiny brown pants that had tobacco juice stains on them, a frayed white shirt and a moth eaten sweater to keep the chill off his eighty year-old bones.

Eddie Hawkins was an entirely different kind of cat. He was sixty-two years old and about sixty-two pounds overweight. In his youth he had been a journeyman heavyweight fighter and Chappy had trained him. His face had ridges of scar tissue decorating thick eyebrows; his nose had been broken several times and often lulled arrogant people into believing that they were dealing with a man of low intelligence. But a close look at his eyes, which were clear and brimming with wisdom, totally contradicted the brutish exterior. His skin was dark brown and his hair was thick, gray and wavy. His lips were on the thin side which was attributable to the Cherokee blood that flowed through his veins.

He wore very little jewelry and would not be caught dead without an expensive suit on his back. Everything about Eddie said class and not just for class’ sake; he was a student of the world, drawn to the finer things in life and intensely curious about everything and everyone around him.

We could get him a broom, maybe he could pick up a few dollars here and there, Eddie said.

Hell, he wouldn’t even know which end to use, Chappy cackled. They were standing within arm’s reach of each other, warmth and a shared history bonding them together.

Good to see you, Jackson, Eddie said as he and Jackson embraced; fiercely clapping one another solidly on the back and shoulders. You look good, boy. Still doin’ your daily dailies?

Every day, Jackson said ruefully.

He broke off from Eddie and turned to hug Chappy who held up a bony fist and said, I ain’t gonna hug you, ’cause you owe me.

Shaking his head, Eddie said, C’mon Chap, don’t get into that. Youngster just got back from the war and...

So! Chappy interrupted. I don’t care how many Germans he killed. I don’t care if he shoved one a them pointy hats up the Kaiser’s ass. He still owes me a championship belt. Them hammers and that fast money was what did it. Boy had it all, dammit. Middleweight speed, heavyweight power and even-handed on top of it.

Jackson settled down for the barrage. He looked at Eddie who shrugged his sloping shoulders in sympathy and helplessness. Any minute now, he said under his breath.

You wasn’t much better, Chappy said to Eddie. Lose one lousy fight to Jack Johnson and then you want to go back to school. Whoever heard a that? A fighter goin’ to school is like a hole in a rowboat.

Eddie patted Jackson on the back and said, Now you see why I’m glad you’re back.

You always did believe in spreadin’ the wealth, Jackson said dryly.

Ah, to hell with both a ya’ll. In my day I’d a spotted both of ya thirty pounds and whipped you in twenty rounds. Lemme outta here before I come outta retirement. Chappy hobbled away muttering angrily to himself, before turning his ire onto two young fighters who were hammering each other in one of the gym’s three rings.

Stop droppin’ your right hand, boy. Somebody’s gonna knock the cowboy shit outta you one day, he yelled.

Jackson looked at the humiliated fighter and said, But for the grace of God.

Step into my office before he calls you out, Eddie growled.

You’ll notice that I ain’t draggin’ my feet, Jackson quipped.

Stepping into Eddie’s office was like walking into another world; the furniture was of oak and leather, a Pashan rug from Persia lay on the glossy hardwood floor, a hand carved jade chess set sat on a pedestal in a corner, and mixed in with the scent of furniture polish and leather, was the lingering odor of cigar smoke. However, the most impressive thing about Eddie’s office was the huge library that he had acquired over the years. It covered everything from the teachings of Akhnaten to the medicinal practices of the Zuni people, and Eddie had read them all.

I ran into Pretty Mike on my way over here, Jackson said. Eddie bit off the tip of a Cuban cigar which he spat into a plain brass spittoon.

And? Eddie said.

And I’d like to know what happened to him, Jackson answered.

Eddie exhaled a thick cloud of blue-gray cigar smoke and said, Times are changing, Jackson, but Jackson cut him off.

I can see that, Eddie. What I wanna know is what are we going to do about it? Since when do we take that kind of shit off the Italians?

It’s more complicated than that, Eddie said.

I’ve got some time, Eddie, Jackson replied, his tone heavy with sarcasm.

Eddie eyed him appraisingly. The boy has become a man, Eddie thought. Remember when I told you that a stiff tree breaks in the wind?

We’re not talkin’ ’bout trees now, Eddie. We talkin’ ’bout Pretty Mike. And besides, you also told me that there comes a time when you have to snap back or you’ll stay bent.

Eddie chuckled; it felt good to have his teaching tossed back at him with such intensity. He walked over to Jackson and put his hand on his shoulder.

Did you trust me when I told you that?

Of course, Eddie.

Then trust me now, okay? Eddie continued. Mike tried to go toe to toe with the wops and even though he had lots of guts for a pimp, he didn’t stand a chance. I don’t like it, but there’s nothing feasible that can be done at this time.

It was Jackson’s turn to reappraise Eddie, who in the seven years that they had been friends had never shown the least bit of fear. Guess I’ll have to trust you on this, Eddie, he thought. Just like in the old days when Eddie had been his manager, they looked into each other’s eyes and shook hands.

His quick mind moving onto other things, Eddie said, From the looks of you, I’d say you’re looking for something in your usual line of work.

In addition to managing fighters and promoting fights, Eddie also served as a middleman, who for a fee contracted and hired pugs as bodyguards, leg breakers and bouncers. This, along with three gambling joints, combined to make Eddie one of the wealthiest negroes in Harlem.

You always could read me, Eddie, said Jackson as he admired an African wood carving.

You hungry? Eddie asked.

Like a runaway slave, Jackson answered.

For breakfast they braved the rain and walked to Rosie’s, who ran a home cooking restaurant on 8th Avenue. The morning crowd was there and many of them made a point to welcome Jackson back home. While Jackson fielded their questions about the war, Eddie ordered steaks, eggs and double portions of grits.

After a second cup of coffee and a lot of small talk, Jackson put on his business face. You said somethin’ about a job, Eddie. I’m listening.

The older man patted his paunch and said, I don’t remember saying anything about a job.

But you’ve got one, right?

Who’s reading whom? Eddie replied. But anyway, her name is Gladys. She runs a cat house down on Convent and she’s lookin’ for someone she can trust to run her house and help handle her money.

So what happened to the last person? Jackson asked.

Who said anything about a last person? Eddie hedged.

There’s always a last person, Jackson answered with a grin.

Eddie laughed, He got a little greedy. He got a little dead.

Before they could laugh there was a violent peal of thunder and a brilliant flash of lightning which caused everyone in Rosie’s to look towards the steam-coated windows. A woman screamed in terror and pointed to the mutilated face of Pretty Mike which was pressed against the window pane, the madness in his remaining eye transfixing them all.

Go away, damn you! Rosie shouted.

Mike paid her no attention. As he turned his ruined face towards Jackson, with an open hand, he began a rhythmic pounding on the window while insanely chanting, Darkhorse! Darkhorse! Darkhorse!

Chapter 2

Gladys Gleason’s brownstone was located on Seventh Avenue, but the entrance was at the back door of a dimly lit alley. Miss Gleason herself was roughly sixty years of age, but her face made her look about ten years younger and, despite Father Time’s generosity in the weight department, she looked damn good. She wore her hair in the latest finger wave style. A very dark woman, she was one of the few who were not ashamed to show off their full lips by wearing bright red lipstick. Her dark eyes were intense and she had a tendency to appear to be looking through a person when she talked to them. This often made people nervous which was exactly what she wanted to accomplish.

The fact that Jackson was apparently unmoved by her was both puzzling and refreshing. He could either be very confident, which would be in his favor, or very dense which was out of the question for the work that she had in mind.

Jackson was wearing a dove gray, three-piece, pin-striped suit; gray Stacey Adams shoes and matching spats. He sported a black Dobbs hat, gleaming white shirt and dark purple tie. Eddie had staked him on the clothes and given him a hundred bucks pocket money.

Eddie says you a good man, Gladys spoke offhandedly, as she dried out some shot glasses. I need a good man. On the last statement, she aimed those eyes at him again.

Jackson, who was sitting with his legs crossed and idly toying with his hat coolly asked, Well, Miss Gleason, before you go on, maybe you could tell me what you mean by a good man?

Passed the first test already. Most people don’t like to listen, mainly ’cause they don’t like to stop talking about themselves. Then they’re too chickenshit to ask questions, even when they don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ ’bout. Again, she hit him with the eyes.

Yes ma’am, said Jackson, trying to place her dialect and speech pattern in an effort to get a handle on where she came from. He was very much aware of her eye games, but a long time ago his grandmother had told him that the best way to deal with people trying to fix or hex you with the evil eye was to focus on their nose.

As though she had been inside his head Gladys said, I’m from Jamaica, her voice had taken on a thick patois, via New Orleans and Chicago. I been here about eight months. How I got started is my business, as is my choice in whom I sleep with. You understand?

Yes ma’am, Jackson answered. After seven years in New York, he had met more than a few lesbians and couldn’t give a damn about how she got started.

Without looking at him, she continued, A good man will look out for me almost as well as he looks out for himself. She began stacking the shot glasses in a beautiful mahogany cabinet which had etched glass and brass knobs. Reaching under the brass and teak wood bar, she found some polish and a clean cloth and began to polish the bar. He’ll find him a woman outside and leave my girls alone. Somehow she had lost the patois. A good man knows how to drink and not get drunk. He knows when to remember and when to forget.

As he listened to Miss Gleason’s definition of a good man, Jackson also noticed the calculated and economical way in which she moved and thought. This old girl likes to work. It probably helps her think. At that moment he decided that he liked her. His father was the same way.

Gladys, her brow tight as she worked to remove a stubborn glass stain, continued to speak, He uses his head before he uses his fists. Our clientele consists of the very cream of Striver’s row and a few crackers who can’t get enough dark meat...

Directing her attention to the various bottles of booze that ran along the back counter, she began to check each one for its contents and, when one was too low, she would reach into a cabinet under the counter and place a new bottle next to the near empty one. On the one or two occasions that there was no replacement, Jackson observed her making a mental note. As if she had never stopped, Gladys continued with her checklist, For their entertainment, I offer honest billiards, poker and crap tables.

That’s a lot to keep up with Miss Gleason. Jackson was feeling a little insecure. Even though she was not asking him to do anything that he had never done before, he had never been asked to be on top of so many things at the same time.

Don’t worry, you’ll have help and don’t think they won’t be watchin’ you. I expect you to spot the sharks and the sharps and show them the door. You’ll get a percentage of the gambling action and the flatback action—in addition to your salary. I expect you to be presentable at all times and if you have to whip somebody, I want you to be polite about it. Now, answer my question. Are you a good man?

It was all he could do to keep from acting like some sodbuster whose chicken had won first place at the county fair. Now that he knew that he would have some folks to help him with his responsibilities, the whole set up seemed less overwhelming. Sure, there would be the inevitable power struggles among the rank and file; somebody was always feeling that they should have gotten the break. But that could be dealt with, and for the kind of money and pull that Gladys was talking about, murder was not out of the question. Yes ma’am, he said with a straight face.

Good. You’re a little light in the butt, but I don’t think too many folks will want to cross you. You’ve got a mean streak in you and I like that. Don’t fool with my money and I’ll make you rich. Gladys extended her hand to Jackson and they finished this part of the conversation with a firm handshake. What kind of gun you carry? she asked abruptly.

Jackson opened his coat to display a battered, blued steel, 1911 Colt .45 in a black leather shoulder holster. Gladys grunted and said, Got something better than that.

Turning the charm up a notch Jackson said, This is my Sunday-go-to-meeting gun. Gladys chuckled and exited the room, her slippered feet making no sound on the glossy hardwood floor. Seconds later she returned with an expensive leather case which she handed to Jackson.

Open it, she said. Jackson did and before him lay a pair of the most beautiful .38 caliber derringers that he had ever seen. They were turquoise tinted steel with ivory handles.

I won them in a crap game and I want you to wear them. People get nervous around silent dawgs like that .45. Derringers are classier and they don’t scare people. Scaring people is Lonnie’s job. You’ll meet him later. Yeah, I think you’ll work out just fine.

Jackson looked at the derringers, suppressed a grin and thought, Definitely not my style, but for this kinda cash, I’ll carry a rolled up newspaper.

As the days turned into weeks, Jackson and Gladys, through much trial and error, became a team. Jackson, who was more used to relying on quick fists and quicker thinking found himself ordering liquor, haggling with merchants, keeping up with receipts and remaining within Gladys’ unforgiving budget.

For her part, Gladys was fair, demanding and patient, when teaching the teachable. She was a firm believer in everything having its place and had very little tolerance for people who chose to remain ignorant. She came to rely on Jackson’s ability to calm an argument down without creating a scene. His deadly air instantly changed the minds of many who felt that they could run over a businesswoman no matter how tough she appeared to be. And the few times that he did have to become physical were executed with a chilling, but brutal efficiency that left no questions unanswered.

In addition to his meals, he was given a large room on the premises away from the girls, who were always trying to seduce him once they found out that they were off-limits to him. Their clientele consisted of the finest that Negro New York had to offer. Doctors, lawyers, politicians and one or two men of the cloth came by to enjoy the drinks, food and women whose colors varied from sepia to banana yellow.

With his smooth carriage and penchant for elegantly tailored gray suits, Jackson soon became a favorite. He developed a way of dealing with people that made them feel appreciated and cared for without feeling obligated to reciprocate. And, on the frequent occasions that he ran into them on the outside, his stony face gave not the slightest indication that he even saw them, much less knew them.

Gladys had a baby grand piano installed and the spot soon became a hangout for the writers, actors and musicians who were making Harlem the black gold mine of New York. With the artisans, a new dimension was added as they discussed and sometimes heatedly argued about everything from religion to the negro experience in America and abroad.

At Gladys’ insistence, he began to expand his reading tastes beyond the New York Times, Harlem’s Amsterdam News and dime store novels to include the works of W.E.B. DuBois, Booker T. Washington, and James Weldon Johnson. He even had the honor of serving drinks to his personal favorite, Claude McKay.

Looming over all of this prosperity was the temperance movement and the self-righteous pallor of prohibition. The 18th Amendment which was to bring about the banning of the manufacturing, selling and transporting of all intoxicating beverages ripped through Congress in December of 1919. On midnight, January 16, 1920, it became the law of the land, and one hour later the first violations were recorded in Chicago.

As always, Gladys was one step ahead of her competition and had tapped into a group of Italians who had been stockpiling liquor for over a year in preparation for the prohibition, which they knew would only make people want to drink more. And so, for seventy-five cents you could get a shot of pure scotch whiskey at Gladys’ joint. Sure it was a sixty percent increase, but it was illegal and any vice merchant knows that there is profit in illegality.

Gladys knew this and had formed tenuous contacts with the Irish cops downtown and the Italian and Jewish hoodlums who were the suppliers of the forbidden booze. Ever on the lookout for an extra profit, she began to brew small quantities of her own from a still located in the basement of a rental hall that she owned.

She was walking a treacherous road somewhere between the Irish cops, who held all negroes in contempt; the equally racist Italians in East Harlem, who wanted to take over her operations and in the Bronx, there was Jimmy Rosen’s mob that had their wary eyes on the Italians and Harlem at the same time. What they did not know was that Gladys had a few moves of her own in mind.

Chapter 3

Jackson had been standing at one of his favorite spots in the spacious brownstone that Gladys operated from. This particular position was near the white baby grand piano. From this point he could see Lonnie, a huge ex-boxer who was the doorman and the obvious muscle of the joint; Elijah, the small wiry games-master whose sharp eyes never missed a trick; Bunny, fine, chocolate colored with a body built by Fisher who kept the whores in line and right across from her was Milt, the bartender who could remember twelve different orders and quote accurately from the Constitution while playing a serious game of chess. Also from this vantage point his ears could pick up the sounds of Louella in the kitchen as she prepared (by the aroma) what was going to be a good batch of chili.

He was out of his favored gray and instead sported a black three-piece suit, black silk shirt, and a canary yellow tie with a black onyx stickpin. He wore a pair of black Stacey Adams shoes with no spats. On his left index finger he wore a large gold ring with a black onyx setting in which rested a two carat diamond. His hair was cut short, slicked back with pomade and brushed until it had acquired the waves which were presently in style. His pencil thin mustache was precise and his face was cleared of any bumps and ingrown hairs by Bunny who had the overwhelming need to cater to a good looking man; even if he was not hers.

On his left forearm was a rig that with a quick flick of his wrist would slide one of the .38 caliber derringers into his hand. Tucked into the waistband of his trousers was the other derringer and in his right coat pocket was a roll of nickels. He looked like a well groomed panther and he played the role to the hilt.

A party of women had just come in. It was fairly early, only about eleven—and Jackson found himself quite taken with one of them. It was rare that a group of women came here. Usually they would be in the company of men, or there would be the occasional lesbian couple looking for some extra spice for the evening. The leader of this group was Frankie Collins, who owned a string of beauty shops that were giving A’lelia Walker a fierce run for her money. It was a well known fact that Frankie liked her women young, dark and talented. That she operated several whorehouses only added to the supply.

And the young woman whom she kept close to her, like a brood hen guarding her chicks, was a stunning tribute to the daughters of Nefertari. She was chocolate to the bone and wearing a form fitting spaghetti-strapped violet gown with a plunging neckline that proudly displayed her small but arrogantly firm breasts. Sitting dead center, she had a beauty mark that made Jackson think of a nestling black pearl. Her nipples stood out like sun-ripened grapes and the dress accentuated every curve; bringing special attention to her high and beautifully rounded behind. A generous slit revealed well made legs that were slightly bowed. She wore her hair short and natural, which was extremely rare since most negro women were experimenting with harsh chemicals in an attempt to relax their hair. Her lips were full and painted violet, her cheekbones were high and her eyes large with an almond shape.

Jackson could not stop looking at her and watched surreptitiously from a mirrored wall. His sharp eyes taking in the way she looked around the room, admiring her swelling behind as she swayed softly to the blues tune that one of the patrons was playing on the piano. She was immediately drawn to the music and he heard her begin to hum along with the melody.

Frankie Collins was a loud and boisterous woman, known to carry weapons and having no qualms about using them. That she did not like the way her lover conducted herself was evident, but Jackson also noted that this young woman had no fear of her and the more that he watched her, the more convinced he became that this was a woman who did not fear much of anything.

The older woman moved closer to her self-willed property and placed a possessive hand on her sleek back. The woman had an unlit cigarette in her hand and Frankie appeared to be short on matches. Moving with calculated speed, Jackson covered the distance between them in three steps, holding an already lit match in his hand.

Holding Jackson’s hand, she brought her cigarette to the flame and lit it. Her fingers were long and slender, her nails well kept and freshly painted. He could feel a charge of sexual power coursing throughout his body; this woman was dynamite. Their eyes met briefly, but the unmistakable glimmer of interest was there. He could feel Frankie’s malevolent presence from behind and his back muscles began to tense in anticipation of an imagined razor attack. Frankie cleared her throat to growl a warning, but before anything could happen, Bunny walked up and passed her a note.

Jackson took this moment to excuse himself, but not before he had one last, bold look at this beautiful woman. Thanks, she said, but it was something about the way the s sort of played across her tongue that drove him wild. Frankie gave him a graveyard stare, whispered something fiercely in the woman’s ear and exited the room. Bunny, who never missed a trick, figuratively or literally, sauntered over to him. The two had become quite tight and had shared many a secret between them.

Her name is Tamara and the good news is that she likes men more than she likes women.

So why’s she with Frankie? Jackson asked.

If you hadn’t noticed, Tamara is a dancer and Frankie is her sponsor. Girl’s gotta eat. My advice to you is if you’re gonna tumble with that one, do it quick, fast and in a hurry. Bunny looked at Jackson, who was looking at Tamara’s reflection in the mirror and said, Course something tells me that if Jackson Blaze dips his wick in that pussy, he’s gonna wanna stake a claim.

Feigning innocence he asked, It’s that obvious?

Obvious ain’t the word for it, brother, and don’t think Frankie won’t try you for a couple of rounds. Bunny was talking into her drink and trying not to laugh at her friend.

What’s so funny, Bunny? he asked.

Old hard-ass tom cat, Jackson Blaze, standing here with his nose open like a church boy smelling his first piece of trim. Thought I’d never live to see the day. She was really enjoying this. By the way, Miss Gladys requests your presence in the back room, if you can take your eyes off Tamara’s ass.

Her words, or yours? he asked.

Quote; unquote, honey, was her reply. Jackson gave Bunny a playful love tap on her bare shoulder and shot Tamara a look that said, Gotta go, but I sure would like to see you again. He gave Lonnie a quick look that put him on the alert before squaring his shoulders and padding his way to the backroom where Gladys was holding court in a very important meeting.

The backroom was where Gladys dreamed her dreams and talked to her God. There were three ways in and out. One was the route through the Brownstone which Jackson was utilizing. The second was an alley entrance that was used for semi-secret meetings. And, finally, a secret one that led under the Brownstone and into the basement of an eight unit apartment that Gladys owned next door.

When Jackson entered the smoke filled room, he was surprised to see the cream of the Harlem underworld gathered there, including his old