I accompanied Bolo to the sidewalk- I have to admit, I wanted to see the back of him as he walked away from my place of business. He shook my hand and said, “I look forward to continuing our discussion. I feel that we both have the same goals in life- why not start with Panamanian Star?”
“I’ll see you back here in three days’ time,” I replied. “Let’s see where we can land at that point. And until then, have safe travels.”
As long as this man continued to speak to me only in English, I would suffocate him with labyrinthian sentences filled alternately with bland platitudes and deeply meaningful silences.
I watched Bolo walk away- he made a right onto Sterling Place. I could only assume he’d parked his car somewhere on that block- this man was not taking a bus or subway back to Queens.
I turned around to face my storefront. “Black Star Shipping & Logistics” was hand painted, twelve feet wide and a foot high, styled in red, black, and green cursive. I’d hired an old school Jamaican sign painter, classically trained in the art of hand lettering, to execute the work. It was a masterpiece, and I was going to hate to see it scraped away. But I knew Panamanian Star was already in effect, even before the building changed ownership. A necessary evil, and a signifier of my changing fortunes.
Mrs. Alleyne was a landlord and I was her tenant. In control of my own destiny.
Rafael Montilla had made it clear to me that he was a landowner, and I was to become his tenant farmer. Absorbed into his infrastructure, with limited say in how it was run.
I was going to have to accept this unexpected turn of events, but I’d also have to quickly plan a way to maneuver it to my advantage. Shadow Boss style.
The next morning, I decided to shutter Black Star for the day, so I could tend to some of my other ongoing business interests, those that were a bit more far afield. First stop would be out by the autobody shops on Utica Avenue. I decided to take a dollar van up to Farragut Road then get out and walk the rest of the way. I was still new enough to Brooklyn to get excited by the sights and sounds of city life, as the border of Crown Heights melted into Flatbush, and I was young enough to think that I was immune to street danger- having the safety of my own private car wasn’t a priority at that point. Public transportation and foot carriage suited me just fine in those days.
Looking back at the man I was back then, I have to smile- a smooth operator with little money and excess amount of heart. Before I’d gotten to Black Star status I’d started taking all of my surplus security guard money and flipping it on the street. We’re talking bare bones loan sharking- money floated in such small amounts and for such negligible profit that it was a huge stretch to even call it something as predatory as loan sharking. It was more an opportunistic exercise in network building and lead generation, one that developed as I made inroads to the Caribbean networks of Crown Heights and Flatbush, East Flatbush and Brownsville. An after-hours dominoes game in the back room of a Jamaican-owned tow-truck company or a straight razor shave and shape-up at a Dominican barbershop would inevitably turn up at least one person who was in need of an extra fifty or hundred dollars until next payday. I’d float them the money, charging twenty-fivepercent interest, then play back to see who would reliably return my money on time and what favors I could call in based on these developing relationships. None of this was ever going to be life-changing, but it was just enough for me to keep my ear to the ground and develop a certain amount of trust amongst my peers.
Once I exited the dollar van at Farragut, I walked 20 minutes to Utica Avenue and made a left. My destination was an auto body shop that had been there forever. It’s still there to this day, but under a different name, different owner. Back then it was called Clarendon Collision and owned by a Jamaican named Prentiss. Prentiss was in his mid 40s, a huge slab of a man with hands like catcher’s mitts. He was one of the first people I met who made me feel like I’d find a way to insinuate myself into a viable network of like-minded, risk-averse people looking to make moves without rocking the boat.
Clarendon Collision had a classic 80s body shop setup- a gigantic garage space with a hefty roll-up security door, a small cashier’s office set up in the front right corner and a small, paved backyard area.
There were around four guys working when I strolled up that day. Music was blaring from a boombox at the front- Super Cat, “Tun It Over.” I walked up to a kid in the middle of doing an oil change on a souped-up BMW and asked if Prentiss was around.
“Him inna di backyard,” the kid said, barely even glancing at me. “Mek him know seh wi hungry!”
I smiled, nodded and made my way through the garage.
I found Prentiss out back, cooking up a mess of chicken on a jerk drum.
“My yute,” he hailed me up.
“Boss man,” I replied, taking a seat at the picnic table.
“Linky told me you’d be stopping by today,” Prentiss said. “He’s at lunch. Told me to tell you to hold tight until he gets back. He’s got you.”
“I never worry about Linky,” I replied. Linky was one of the easy ones. “Your kids inside told me to tell you fi hurry with the chicken. Dem a hungry.”
Prentiss laughed and said, “You can’t hurry greatness.” He then gestured to the cooler by my feet and told me to grab a drink if I wanted. I rummaged around and took out a bottle of water.
Jerk smoke billowed towards me as Prentiss flipped chicken over. My stomach growled.
“How’s things over in Crown Heights?” Prentiss asked me.
“Holding strong,” I said. “Some white man’s trying to buy my building, but I think I’m safe.”
“Hmmm, not surprised,” Prentiss replied. “They’re coming for us, Hopeton. Just you watch. Five years from now and you’re not gonna recognize this place. Any of it. That’s why I made sure to own my own building. For myself. Mek them try fi get rid of me.”
When it came to self-preservation, Prentiss had always beenahead of the curve.
“If I had a spare coupla hundred thou lying around, then I’d be buying my building from Mrs. Alleyne,” I said, ruefully.
“You may not have it now, but you will,” Prentiss assured me.
“Jah willing.”
“Jah will provide.”
Prentiss closed the lid to the drum pan and grabbed a Heineken from the cooler.
“Heard any news on I-yon?” I asked. Every time I passed through Clarendon Collision I asked this same question, and had yet to receive a positive response.
“Yes, man. It’s not good.”
I-yon had quit the shop to push ganja full-time, with a posse operating out of the East 90s. About six months ago he’d gotten caught up in a raid and had been languishing in Rikers ever since.
“Was he sentenced?”
“Deported,” Prentiss said, heavily.
“Whaaaaat? Over weed?”
“Over weed,” Prentiss confirmed.
I shook my head in amazement.
“And let this be a lesson, Hopeton- if you don’t have your citizenship, don’t do anything crazy. Keep it strictly above-board. They’re looking for excuses to get rid of us.”
Well, now I knew my first bargaining position with Bolo.
