[center][h3]A Cage in Harlem Part I: [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A8eLHZXv-60]"Summertime"[/url] [/h3][/center] [b]Harlem[/b] [b]1936[/b] A light rainstorm fell on Harlem that scorching hot summer night. Instead of breaking the heat, the rain just increased the humidity. Cage could see steam wafting off the pavement from inside the car. He pulled a handkerchief out of his dress’ shirt’s breast pocket and dabbed sweat from his bald head. Jeff, sitting in the driver’s seat, perused over a racing sheet. The rain futzed with their radio, but the sounds of big band music filtered through the static. Glen Miller and his orchestra were playing at the Rainbow Room and NBC was broadcasting it out across the city and the country. “I think your tip may be bullshit,” Cage grunted. “Turk just likes to take his time is all,” came Jeff’s response. Cage had been working with Sergeant Jefferson Pierce for five years now. The two men were the only black plainclothes officers among the NYPD’s sworn officers. And, naturally, they were assigned to work Harlem from the 32nd Precinct. Jeff was the only black sergeant inside the organization, just one of two black men to attain any kind of rank. Cage knew that Jeff had earned those sergeant stripes and then some. He’d had twice as much service time as Cage, and had put up with at least twice as much shit from within and without the NYPD. “Speak of the devil,” said Cage. The skinny form of Turk Barrett came out of Ms. Sadie’s, pulling the collar of his blazer up against the rain. Cage started to open the door, but stopped when Jeff put a hand on his shoulder. “Not yet. From the way Turk is walking he just lost a lot of money. Five gets you ten he’s going back to find work.” Jeff tossed the racing form into the backseat and started the Ford. They gave Turk a long leash as he walked down 110th Street in the rain. Cage lit up a cigarette despite Jeff’s dirty look. Cage cracked a window to temper his partner’s passive aggressive waving. “Think he’s going to the Cotton Club or to Harlem’s Paradise?” Jeff asked Cage. “Depends on how much money he lost gambling,” Cage replied. ”If he lost a lot, he’ll go to the Cotton Club and pick up a package. If he lost [i]everything[/i], then he’ll go to Harlem’s Paradise and put himself at Stokes’ mercy.” Jeff nodded slightly at the younger cops’ logic. If Cage didn’t know any better he may have seen a flash of pride on the man’s face. Cage felt even better as they saw Turk approach the Cotton Club. Harlem’s preeminent nightclub and, despite its location, was white’s only for the most part. You had to be somebody rich and famous if you were black and wanted to pass through the doors. NYPD were also pretty sure it operated as a front for organized crime, with heroin being sold out the back. How else could you explain “dishwasher” Turk Barrett being able to afford such nice suits and such hefty gambling debts. “What’d I tell you?” Cage said as he flicked the butt of his cigarette out the window. Turk ducked into a side alley beside the club. Jeff parked the Ford and put it in park. “Alright,” said Jeff. “When he comes out, we put him against the wall and shake him down. Try to sweat him and see if we can roll him up. From there we-” Jeff’s words were cut off by the sound of gunshots. Gunshots coming from the back of the Cotton Club. Cage and Jeff jumped out the car with their own guns drawn. And that’s when hell broke loose. [hr] The gun felt heavy in Turk's hands. It always did any time he held in it his rough, calloused hands. He rarely pulled it out. He wasn't like these other two-bit gangsters always flashing iron whenever they got a chance. For Turk, the gun was a weapon of last resort. He usually used his fists and legs and the occasional switchblade to get his work done. If Turk pulled a gun then people were going to die. The two dead bodies on the kitchen floor were proof of that. Turk had walked into the back entrance of the Cotton Club and found manager Paulie Legs and his bodyguard Momo talking business. Momo flashed a cool look towards like always, but was off guard. Like Momo, Turk was the hired help around here. There was no reason to be on guard. It was easy enough for Turk to pull out his snubnose and blast away at the two men. He killed Momo first with two shots to the chest and neck. What was going on dawned on Paulie just in time to get a bullet in the forehead. The contents of Paulie's brains splattered against a set of pots and pans hanging above the kitchen's prep area. Turk quickly tucked the gun back into his waistband and started to rifle through Paulie's pockets. The Cotton Club always closed on Sundays so there would be limited staff here, but plenty of them were around to hear the gunshots and come running. Turk found Paulie's keys and hurried through the kitchen towards the manager's office. He unlocked the office and stepped inside, locking the door behind him. The digs were standard, a couple of chairs and a desk with a door behind the desk leading outside. But in the corner was a safe nearly as tall as Turk and at least a ton heavier. On Paulie's keys was the skeleton key for the safe. Turk slipped it in and popped the safe open. He nearly licked his lips at the sight of all the heroin. Six packaged pounds of pure, uncut heroin from Turkey, appropriately enough. More than enough to pay off Turk's debts and buy him a new life. Turk found a paper bag in the office and started to put the heroin inside. He stopped when he heard the door to the office rattle. "NYPD! Open up!" [i]Fuck[/i] Turk stood and grabbed the bag as the door began to shake on its frame. One of the benefits of the manager's office was it had access to the side alley. Turk ran towards the back door as the door behind him buckled and came off its hinges. "Stop!" Turk didn't bother to look back as he bolted out the back door and ran like hell down the alley.