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Life is short. Jimmy’s life may prove shorter.
His gang mates have grown up and shipped out, and the nine to five is grinding Jimmy into a person he no longer recognizes. There has to be more to existence than waking up every Saturday with a half-eaten kebab and empty wallet. The wide blue skies of America sing a siren’s song, and Jimmy decides he’s ready to give life a do-over—even if it means leaving his childhood sweetheart Kelly behind. But Harlem has chewed up many a finer man, and drugs, power and money are fickle friends. If he survives the looming shit storm, Jimmy might just learn that the answers he seeks are waiting to be found in the most unexpected places.
Extract I
John Jones, Jimmy's Boss was an egregious bully. He caught him in the corridor, barking;
“What’s the answer?
“To what?
“The fucking question, come on,”
That was John freakin’ Jones, so frantic he’d start a question at the end. There was a time when he would start in the middle, giving you half a chance to respond but now he skipped the chase expecting everyone to follow and if you didn’t you were out. Jimmy survived, on Simon’s say so, by playing the good boy.
Extract II
She made her way to the station deliberately taking a longer alternate route and by chance strolled by the coffee house where Jimmy sat. Their eyes met, she did not believe in coincidences; someone was trying to tell her something so went in to find out more. She pulled up a stool and looked at him squinting distrust;
“You know what I think Jimmy?”
“No?”
“I think you’re a sweet bwoy; strictly hit and run,” He hated the presumption. True, it was a new facet but thought himself clever enough to conceal it. He fell back defiant.
“I’m worse than that,”
“What’s worse than hit and run?”
“A man who stays. You get over a Sweet bwoy overnight but a man who stays, that’s risky, that takes a bit longer,”
Extract III
They visited Snook as planned; a hard to the core Rasta, the epitome of cool. He lived in a rundown tenement off Hunt’s Point in the Bronx. His flat was on the first floor. Prostitute and dealers hung in the stairwell seeking game. Incense burned above Snook’s door marking a free zone. In the hall hung a framed oil of Haile Selassie, Jah; the incarnation of Christ. On the side stood hydroponic Aloe Vera prune pots, sprouting stems with purpose.
“What do you use them for?” He cut one revealing a clear, gel like inner.
“Try it,” Jimmy took a bite.
“Fucking vile,”
“It’s a bit harsh at first, raw. You can use it on skin, hair I usually mix it with, pineapple and honey and drink it.” Snook led him down the corridor to the back room and opened a bulky white fire door. He was immediately hit by the familiar woody tones of skunk. Eyes fell on a clinic clean hi-tec lab, rows of marijuana plants 4ft high, bristled under dedicated HSP lamps. Silent overhead steel extractors pumped scent through to window vents.
“You sell this stuff?”
He nodded. “I got some clients waiting, come.” They went back to the lounge. His neighbour, Eli an orthodox Jew sat there, side curls hanging beneath his Hasidic hat; smiling politely, waiting for the main event. A large porcelain bowl was bought in by Snook and placed on an ornate glass coffee table. Mohammed, a regular, dressed in a white thwab, placed a green bong filled with water alongside. He stood wrapping his Gutra head scarf round his head and afterward poured hot mint tea into shot glasses. Eli cracked a bottle of vintage Johnny Walker and glugged four lowball glasses, Mohammed began stuffing the bong with grass.
Extract IV
He touched down at JFK, stole a medallion taxi and headed across the Queensboro Bridge. The reveal of the skyline blew him away, captivated, shrank small, flying to Cloud city. Buildings a hundred stories high pierced the sky, congested sidewalks with people shuffling eager to cross the line before their up-time. This was fast and loud Manhattan.