Chapter 16 #2
decided to bust Aphrodite’s for both the drinking and the gambling.
Pandemonium broke out between the cops and the remaining patrons. As dancers ran screaming from the violence, Daisy and I
ducked away.
Someone had bolted the emergency exit to stop the cops from coming in, but there was one more—wasn’t there?
“Nick, get down,” Daisy said, pulling me to the floor as a gunshot popped off from somewhere.
We started to crawl, navigating around the busy feet, the broken stools, the stomped dice.
“Uh, when did you learn that move?” I asked.
“Oh, that?” Daisy said, glancing over her shoulder. “They teach it to you in finishing school. Right after tea etiquette.
How to throw a man over your shoulder.”
When we stood up again, it was at a free door—the second exit. We ran outside and up the sloped alley into the streets slick
with puddles.
Across the road, we found the roofless black car where Zihan was waiting, beckoning for us to hurry up. Once Daisy got in
the front and I in the back, he pushed the gas and the car sped down the street.
Jay had been chasing Pierre, but he must’ve gotten a cramp in his foot because where we picked him up, he was hopping on one foot and screaming in pain.
The car screeched to a halt, and Zihan grabbed him by the collar, pulling him right off the sidewalk and throwing him into
the back with one hand.
“Ow!” Jay screamed as he fell backward against me.
Zihan pressed the gas and veered into the street. An oncoming car in the other lane honked as he swerved to follow Pierre
down into an alley. The car ran over puddles and dips of damaged pavement as he grabbed a trash can and then threw it at the
car—its nasty, slippery fruit peels and food wrappers raining all over us.
Then Pierre mounted a motorcycle—his dog tucked into the sidecar—and took off, back onto the main street. We turned out of
the alley so fast the car almost tipped over, and I had to hold on to Jay to stay steady. This car was speeding like a runaway
train about to fly straight off the rails.
Ours was the most reckless engine on the road until we turned to see that Pierre had dumped his motorcycle to make for a fire
escape. We stopped the car, and I jumped out to chase him.
I managed to grab him and threw him against a dumpster. “Not so fast!” I punched him in the face.
I became a raving mad loon hellbent on revenge!
I didn’t mind it. Maybe I’d been holding this inside for too long—the way I barely got out of Greenwood, the way I’d been made to feel grateful for West Egg like it was a grand act of charity instead of a means to tame us.
But we weren’t boys in need of taming! We weren’t strays to be thrown scraps!
Students were failing at life because we were being treated like kindling. Why not punch a guy?
“Who started the fire?” I screamed, punching him again, breaking the skin on my knuckles.
“That’s enough, Nick,” Daisy said, pulling me away.
It was not enough though! How dare he help someone who’d burn us alive?
Jay and Zihan were watching me like I was a maniac. I resolved to stop punching and catch my breath. I couldn’t yell at the
man incomprehensibly and expect answers.
Pierre, frazzled and skinny-necked, looked even weaker with three punches in his face. “Who are you people?” he whinnied.
“What do you want from me?”
“Official business, as far as you’re concerned,” I said, steady. “Word is, you’ve got a knack for coverups. What’s your latest
one about?”
“Whoever mentioned my name is a liar,” Pierre said.
“Was it the West Egg fire?” I demanded.
“I don’t know shit about that! Look, I’ve covered up a lot of bad things, but I didn’t do no cover-up for a school fire—this
I know for sure.”
He was giving me nothing, so I punched him again. He started laughing and shouting, “Lay it on me! Let’s go again,” until
another punch knocked him out.
Daisy walked over to me and looked down at the unconscious body at my feet. “Well, Nick, what do we do now?”
“Leave him,” I answered. “We have what we need.”
Daisy raised an eyebrow, and I pointed to the motorcycle Pierre had abandoned, still sitting down the block, where the mutt
was sniffing around for his owner. The tag of the dog’s collar—sure to have Pierre’s address engraved on it—almost gleamed
in the spotlight of the streetlamp.
“Trust me,” I told her.
I had a plan for this now. Sometimes just asking wasn’t enough.
Daisy had work in the morning at six o’clock sharp. Jay said he was exhausted, so he was heading home. I explained that I
needed some time to myself to think. Just so they wouldn’t worry, I added that I would be home shortly. When they left—Jay
promising to hail a cab and escort Daisy home—I asked Zihan if he’d break into Pierre’s apartment with me.
“I figured you were lying to them,” he said, his tone knowing. “But I’m in. Lead the way. I’ll follow.”
His quick acceptance only made the weight of my decision easier to carry. There was comfort in knowing that Zihan was game
for whatever came next.
I never had gone to such extreme measures to get answers before. But we had to find justice on our own now that no institution
was supporting us.
We left Pierre where he had fallen, leaning against the dumpster, after searching his jacket for his house keys.
I took a knife to both his motorcycle tires to get a head start, while Zihan grabbed the leash of Pierre’s dog and put him in the car. Once I read the dog’s tag, Zihan drove us inconspicuously to Pierre’s tenement.
Pierre lived in an opulent penthouse that showed a view of Union Square—a park surrounded by office buildings. There was a
filing cabinet behind his desk. I opened it to find stacks of folders and binders.
Soon I was caught up in the bizarre contents of Pierre’s records. I found a stack of newspapers that showed investigative
reports of several crimes, but nothing damning.
I sat on the floor and sifted through the file cabinet. I pulled out more newspaper clippings and stumbled on something unexpected.
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE IN SELECT PUBLICATIONS
NEW GOVERNMENT BUREAU AIMS TO TARGET RADICALS IN HARLEM
Washington, D.C.—Attorney General A. Mitchell Palmer has intensified efforts to safeguard American ideals by ordering sweeping
raids on radical organizations, including the Universal Negro Improvement Association. To further these aims, his office is
establishing a special bureau to investigate and monitor suspected agitators, compiling records of their activities and associations.
Among those supporting the initiative is prominent real estate investor Tom Buchanan, who has contributed large funds to aid
the bureau’s work. Buchanan has expressed concerns about maintaining the character of neighborhoods such as Harlem, which
he describes as increasingly affected by the unchecked migration of Negroes from the South.
Thus far, Palmer’s campaign has resulted in five major raids, over 400 arrests, and the deportation of 54 foreign-born radicals.
Authorities insist that their efforts are necessary to rid the nation of subversive influences. Harlem, rapidly becoming a
hub of Negro commerce and culture, has drawn scrutiny, with officials vowing to curb the moral and social disruption brought
by the invasion of Southern migrants.
I read it, and then reread it. Tom was funding the arrest of undesirables and sweeping in to rebuild over their bones? No
wonder he was buying everything Negroes owned—he wanted to get rid of us. A man who moved like this required partners to help
him cover up his image. Pierre was one—a corrupt guy who wanted crumbs from Buchanan’s wealth.
And Gatsby was another. He did business with Buchanan, a man who was supporting people who hated migrants. He sure as hell didn’t care about West Egg’s mission.
I grabbed a notebook from Pierre’s desk and jotted down notes from the papers. I was connecting the dots. I arrived here looking
for anything I could find on the Blue House, but I was coming away with a full chart of evidence for why Buchanan needed to
be stopped. He was coming for our community in Harlem.
With his hatred for migrants clear, could he have conspired to burn the Blue House down as just one more piece in his plot?
One step closer to reshaping Harlem as a neighborhood and wiping away our presence?
Buchanan must have been thrilled to see his crime push Negroes into protest, to twist our anger into proof that we didn’t
belong here.
“I just found what I needed,” I told Zihan, my voice shivering with tension as I turned to him. “Let’s get out of here.”
This was bigger than just one attack. Buchanan wasn’t just after real estate—he was waging war on our entire existence in
Harlem. This wasn’t just about justice for the Blue House. It was about saving Harlem, my community, from being entirely snuffed
out.