My brother-in-law Harris rode shotgun as Junior drove the Land Rover up Third Avenue toward 125th Street. I was in the backseat watching the streets of Harlem pass by like they were my own personal TV show. Queens might have been my home, but Harlem had been my playground since I was a teenager hanging out with Daryl Graham. I don’t know why it had taken me so long to get back uptown. I’d been home for almost six months, and this was the first time I’d stepped foot higher than 65th Street. I just wished it was for a happier occasion.
By the time Junior wheeled the car in front of the impressive Strivers’ Row brownstone, I had mentally prepared myself for our meeting. I would let Harris take the lead, hanging back with Junior for security purposes, but I had known from the moment the old man told us who we were going to see that I would have to let my presence be felt.
At the door, we were greeted by a middle-aged black woman, clad in all white from head to toe. She had been expecting us, and Harris, always the arrogant fuck, walked right by her like he owned the place. Junior and I, on the other hand, shook the woman’s hand politely then gestured for her to lead the way. Despite his overbearing size, Junior had always been the most respectful of my mother’s children. With that being said, I could tell he was nervous from the way he kept tapping his suit jacket to make sure his gun was still there.
He did, however, remain composed and alert, which was good. One of the first things my Uncle Lou had taught me as a teenager was that you should always be concerned about the unknown. Junior’s nervousness told me that he understood that he was way out of his element. We’d entered a different world by coming here, and neither Harris nor my brother knew what to expect—but I sure as hell did.
The woman led us down a long, wood-paneled hallway that reminded me of something out of an old horror film. She eventually left us in a room that I assumed was a library because the walls were covered by bookcases bearing thousands of old books. Harris immediately took a seat at a large antique table and began rummaging through some papers in his briefcase. Junior, obviously still out of his element, began fiddling with his phone like it was an extension of his hand, most likely texting his girl Sonya.
With no imminent threat, I bypassed the chairs, walking across the room to the bookcases to look through a few of the old books. I was impressed that most, if not all, appeared to be written by people of African descent, and that the large majority of them were first editions. Most people didn’t know this about me, but I was a book enthusiast, and had read a multitude of books even before I went to prison. I also had several highly collectible first editions of my own, though nothing like this.
As I skimmed through an original copy of J. A. Rodgers’ From Superman to Man, the library door opened. Two large, suit-and-bow-tie-wearing brothers entered, posting up on either side of the door like sentries. A few seconds later, a very short, dark-skinned man in his seventies stood in the entryway. I recognized him right away. His name was Minister Aariz Farah, and despite his diminutive stature, you could tell he was to be respected.
Harris, ever the brown-noser in the presence of powerful people, rushed over to Minister Farah like a bitch in heat, with his hand stuck out in greeting.
“Minister Farah, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Harris Grant, legal counsel for Duncan Motors. You spoke to my father-in-law on the phone earlier.” Without saying a word, Minister Farah took Harris’s hand, giving him an unimpressed once-over. “I’d like to introduce you to my brother-in-law, Junior Duncan.”
“Nice to meet you, sir.” Junior walked over and shook his hand. From the cold, hard stare Minister Farah was giving them, it did not look like our meeting was going to be very productive.