Once home, I counted my money, a thousand dollars, and placed it gently in the safe that I kept way in the back of the little studio’s only closet. I’d made a day’s profit of two hundred dollars and gained some invaluable intel along the way.
Accounting completed, I took a quick shower, brushed my teeth and put on some night clothes.
Then I sat on top of my bed, listening to AM radio, going over in my head all of the information I’d learned that day.
Bolo was a player, but I didn’t yet know the size and scope of his reach.
Giving up control of my shop would put me in a position of subordination that I’d vowed to never find myself in, ever again. But in this current power structure, I could see I was going to have to re-evaluate. I’d rather deal with the likes of Rafael Montilla than walk away from Black Star. I refused to give up the one thing I’d ever managed to establish for myself.
But I’d have to find a way to make it worth my while.
And if I was going to get into business with this man, I’d have to get my papers straight first. Deportation was not an option. Neither was incarceration. I could never serve at anyone’s pleasure again. Two years in the Kingston Penitentiary had taught me that.
I took a deep breath and let the music wash over me.
We got to tell the people. To let them understand.
We are gathered for a reason. To fulfill God's plan.
I got under the covers and shut off the light.
Father God, please close my eyes and let me sleep.
