By the time I was in my early thirties I’d already traveled a long way. Havana, Kingston, prison, England. And then, a legal citizen of the United States.
I’d arrived in Brooklyn four years earlier, a few days after my 28th birthday.
I was staying in Crown Heights, with distant relatives of my ex-wife’s sister-in-law. A consolation prize of sorts, I suppose, for divorcing me while I served out my jail sentence. The one I’d received for being a party to someone else’s criminal activity on government property. In Kingston, Jamaica.
One of the men in the house linked me with a position as a night watchman at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. I was thankful for the opportunity and happy to have a job that allowed me time alone to mull over plans for my future. Taking the long bus ride back to Crown Heights in the early morning hours afforded me the opportunity to learn the routine of work-a-day New Yorkers heading out to their nursing, construction and sanitation jobs. I’d arrive back to an empty house, catch a few hours of sleep then hit the streets. I needed to make connections.
It took me two years of working silent overnight shifts, clocking overtime hours whenever I could grab them, and absorbing the rhythms of the street before I found myself ready to make a move. I’d stacked my money and fixed on a business plan. I set out to find a physical space to house my modest future empire. I knew I needed to focus on Nostrand Avenue, the hub of all neighborhood activity.
Back then, gentrification was barely a distant notion and property was cheap and plentiful. One could secure a lease on commercial space for as little as $400 a month. I’d only been searching for about a week, the day I stumbled on the future site of Black Star Shipping & Logistics. It was an old-fashioned storefront wedged between a tax preparation office and a beauty salon. I jotted down the phone number listed on the “For Lease” sign and looked around for a payphone.
The lady who answered my call sounded Trini. She told me she’d meet me in front of the shop in half an hour. I walked right back to the “For Lease” sign and waited. She arrived ten minutes later and introduced herself as Mrs. Alleyne. By the time she’d walked me through the public-facing shop space and extensive warehouse area in back, we’d agreed to a twelve-month lease at a favorable rate. I told her I would bring her a money order for first and last month’s rent plus security deposit by 2pm, the following day.
“And would you happen to know of any available rooms for rent nearby?” I asked. She appeared to be the type of lady who would be on top of such matters.
“There’s a very small studio at the top of the building that’s currently empty,” she replied. “Let me show you.”
We stepped back outside.
Mrs. Alleyne pulled a key out of her cracked leather purse and opened the front door of the apartment building over the store. We climbed up two flights of steep, rickety stairs. The studio’s door was unlocked. We walked into a tiny room that contained a miniscule kitchen and living area with a sleeping alcove to the side. The bathroom barely had space for a tub. The tiles were Pepto-Bismol pink.
“I’ll let you have it for an extra $200 a month, gas and electricity included,” said Mrs. Alleyne.
“I’ll take it!” I told her. “When can I move in?”
“Tomorrow, if you want,” she replied, matter-of-factly. I’ll give you a key once you drop off the money order.”
We shook on it.
Once in residence, I wasted no time in getting my company off the ground. Drawing on my experience as a customs clerk at the Port of Kingston and supplementing it with things I’d learned guarding warehouses at the Navy Yard, I set myself up as an all-purpose freight company, specializing in safe and expedient shipping to Jamaica, West Indies.
In a nod to my upbringing, my business entity was registered under the name Black Star Shipping & Logistics.
Things fell into place quickly, and it didn’t take long for me to develop a steady stream of customers. At that point, I’d estimate that eighty-five percent of my business was above board. Strictly legitimate. The other fifteen percent, derived from contacts I’d made while learning the streets, required a bit of a delicate hand. And I was fine with that. It wasn’t much different from the games I’d been forced to play back in Jamaica.
Everything seemed to be under control.
And by the time Rafael Montilla turned up on my doorstep, I felt well established.
