Hell's Kitchen scrapped and Midtown talked; Harlem, though, Harlem
sang.
And nowhere moreso than in
Harlem's Paradise tonight. Yes, out there on the streets of Manhattan awaited brutal violence, vigilante justice and gangland crime, but the
Paradise was a place you came to forget all that. To indulge in fine beverages, fine company and finer musical performances so exclusive you'd be talking about them for weeks, guaranteed. If, of course, you were lucky enough to get in. The neon-tinged sign attracted nightlife of all kinds looking to get drunk or get lucky, and to do it inside one of the most premiere clubs east of the Hudson.
And if you weren't permitted entry, well, you could at least hear the bass thumping outside. Inside housed a venue considerably larger than the nightclub currently being dismantled by a rampant turtle down on the Lower East Side. The expansive dancefloor, stage and cocktail area was overlooked by a grand balcony adjacent to the club's VIP-only upper level, where the food chain's apexes could sit back and enjoy their evening in leisure. And in this club, in this neighborhood, there was only one man at the top of that ladder.
There was no apex predator deadlier than a cottonmouth in its domain.
And they do drive-bys like up and down the thighs
And there's car chase, going on at the waist
Keep a vest on my chest
I'm sitting in my room, as I'm looking out the face
Somethin' to write about
I still got some damage from fightin' the White House...
He stood at the balcony railing like the moon overlooking a mountain peak, the room's atmospheric lighting shifting between darkened blues, greens and reds that cast him in a sinister glow from the right angle as he watched the live music performance. To the people who knew him and the various people under his employ, mostly he seemed to just be taking it all in tonight; Like he did yesterday. Like he did every night.
The beatific sneer on his face said he was enjoying it. The subordinate standing a short distance behind him, on the other hand, seemed more apprehensive, a nervous curve to his lips that showed trepidation at the sort of reaction his words might draw from his employer. His hand grasped a phone away from his face, opposite palm covering the receiver.
"Mister Stokes? He's for real pissed. His boy's sayin' he won't pay."
To the thug's surprise, the response was more optimistic than he had expected. Cornell Stokes turned away from the balcony, looked at his employee over one shoulder garbed in a well-tailored suit, and... laughed, a condescending baring of teeth that rattled out over the music. He walked over with a confident saunter, looking away and briefly wetting his lips with a flick of the tongue as he clapped his man on the forearm.
"He'll pay."
He beckoned for the phone and brought it to his ear, letting his voice carry through to the other end of the line.
"Inform Mr. Sionis we know what he's about. He wants my line of product without having to deal with the crazies runnin' Gotham, he buys direct from me and I deliver. Our arrangement's been good. Nobody brings the hardware I bring. High-grade, military co-opted experimental shit, only guaranteed protection there is against pests. Like those bats, like to come through his window."
Cottonmouth's smile, having remained in full bloom up to now, gradually faded into a scowl.
"Remind him that goin' into business for myself against my former supplier wasn't no insignificant health risk. My prices still undercut Diamondback's, every time, which means I'll up the cost to within a motherfuckin' dime of his and all my buyers are gonna thank me for it. You dig?"
He listened to the response and seemed satisfied by it, whatever henchman he was talking to having obviously not been expecting anyone other than another goon on the line. That alone was daunting enough.
"Our arrangement stands. If Sionis has anything further to discuss, tell him to put his own damn self in a car and drag his ass to Manhattan, talk to me face-to-face like men do. And tell him leave that spooky shit Halloween costume o'his in its display case. A white boy in a black mask's a good way to get smoked in Harlem."
He hung up and dropped the phone back into his subordinate's hand, taking a moment to grip him lightly by the jacket and lean into his ear with a quiet message.
"Bring something I tell you to handle back to me too many times and I'll bust your damn mouth."
Cornell sniffed, patted the thug on the shoulder again and leaned back out, straightening his own suit jacket with one hand and checking his watch on the other.
"You got the night off to think on that. Bring the jeep round for me in the morning." He walked past the dumbfounded-but-attentive thug and to his private booth, sinking into a chair and reclining backwards as a waitress brought a cocktail to the table.
"S'about time I check if cousin Mariah's got those hand-me-downs ready."