“Didn’t I say the man’s a genius?!”
The voices rose into a cacophony of enthusiasm. Rahman signaled for them to quiet down.
“Hold up a minute. Let me finish. Now, each of you will remain independent but central control remains with Salahudeen. What he says is law. Period. Any objections?”
He looked around, but no one spoke.
“Same thing with clothes. One supplier, same stipulations. Any objections?”
Silence once again filled the air.
Rahman signaled to Hanif and Mustafa to begin passing out envelopes filled with five-thousand dollars to each man.
“I hope y’all accept cash because my money don’t agree with the Kufar’s banks,” he announced, but no one minded.
Once they were passed out, Rahman continued.
“You all are proud shareholders in our vendor franchise. But one last thing. If anyone buys from another supplier or in any way violates our agreement, we’ll expect our five grand back on the spot. If you don’t have it, forfeit your corner. We move as one, so there’s only two sides and you’re either with us or against us.” Rahman’s imposing stature gave his last words their needed emphasis.
The meeting ended and the men filed out, all except for Rahman’s team.
“Phew! I never gave away two hundred grand so quickly, yo,” Hanif commented, tossing the empty bag aside.
“In six months, our investment will easily triple based on the volume Newark does daily,” Rahman informed them. He had done the calculations and configurations and had it all figured out.
“Mustafa, I hope your peoples can handle this kind of weight.”
“Can they? They got barrels and barrels of oils, shipped straight from Arabia,” Mustafa said.
Rahman turned to Salahudeen.
“What’s next?”
“I talked to them guys on Eighteenth Avenue. They willin’ to sell the block for a buck-fifty.”
“A hundred and fifty grand?” Rahman asked, rubbing his beard as he thought for second. “All right, cool. Make it happen, and Sal?”
Salahudeen looked at him.
“Please tell them dudes business is business. Once the block is ours, not one rock touches Eighteenth Avenue, all right?” Rahman warned.
Salahudeen winked.
“Come on, Ock. Who gonna try and cross One-eyed Roc?” Salahudeen joked. Rahman chuckled.
“Okay, now it’s party time. Salahudeen, call the brothers. We goin’ to a strip club.”
Hanif’s eyes grew as wide as dinner plates.
“Yo, Ock. I know you been gone awhile, but a strip club?”
“It’s a Muslim party, yo,” Rahman told the huge muscle-bound bouncer at the door. They were outside the Diamond Club. The parking lot was packed with niggas coming to get their freak on along with the thirty-five Muslims, give or take a few, who stood shoulder to shoulder, keeping order. The bouncer looked at the solemn- faced brothers then back at Salahudeen and Rahman as another bouncer hurried to the door. Both of the men looked like black Arnold Schwarzeneggers.
“What the fuck? Y’all on some bullshit! Get the fuck outta here before I lose my patience,” the first bouncer barked, standing toe-to-toe with Rahman. Rahman took a step closer to the bouncer, tensing his muscles, ready for action.
“Eighteenth Avenue is under new management, brother. Now, let me in to see Freddie. Tell him One-eyed Roc is here.”
The second bouncer recognized the name instantly.
“Ay, yo, Roc. We don’t want no problems. We just tryin’ to do our jobs.”
“Well do ’em and go talk to Freddie before I lose my patience,” Rahman retorted calmly.
The second bouncer disappeared inside the doorway while the other bouncer continued to glare at Roc. He could feel the bulge of his nine in its holster and he was itching for a reason to pull it out.
The second bouncer came back and tapped the first on the shoulder. “It’s cool, Joe. Freddie said let ’em in.”
Rahman and Salahudeen moved to enter, but the man put his hand on Salahudeen’s chest. His intention was to stop him and scan him for weapons, but he didn’t get a chance to speak. He heard so many guns lock and load, the metallic clicks echoed through the parking lot like the breaking of a thousand twigs. Upset, but not stupid, the bouncer slowly removed his hand from Sal’s chest, and Salahudeen and Rahman entered the club.
As they walked through the double doors, Rahman looked around at all the women. They were dancing on stages, on tables, on laps, upside down, on their knees. He shook his head as the bodyguard escorted them to Freddie’s office. Rahman didn’t stop and knock. He turned the knob and let himself in.
“Roc, baby! How you doin’, son?” Freddie chimed nervously.
Freddie was a tall, lanky, light-skinned brother. He stood up and rounded his desk, adjusting his Cartier frames. He held out his hand to Rahman, but Rahman didn’t take it. Instead, Rahman said, “You’re closed.”
The bodyguard had already informed Freddie of what was going on. Freddie knew Roc and he knew what Roc was capable of. He didn’t want any part of the gangsta.
“Closed?” Freddie echoed. “What’s the problem, Roc? What I do? How you gonna come up in my…”
That was all he was able to get out before Roc open-handed him so hard his glasses flew off his face and smashed against the wall. Freddie fell back against the desk. The bodyguard tried to make a move on Roc, but Salahudeen delivered a vicious blow to his kidneys. The bodyguard doubled over but quickly recovered and charged Salahudeen like a bull. Sal was only six feet tall and 175 pounds at best. But what the bodyguard didn’t know was that Sal was a lethal weapon. Salahudeen sidestepped the oncoming assault and followed with a leg sweep that sent the bodyguard crashing headfirst into the door. He then grabbed the man’s dazed head and rammed his knee up into his face, twice. Blood covered Salahudeen’s pant leg as he released the unconscious body to slump to the floor. Meanwhile, Rahman had snatched Freddie off the desk by the throat and pinned him to the wall, trembling with rage.
“You heard me, nigga! I said closed! Out of business! Ain’t gonna be no strip club on Eighteenth Avenue. Either pack up or
Freddie was terrified. He couldn’t understand what was going on. All he could think was that Roc wanted the business for himself, or maybe he was on some extortion quest. Freddie was willing to pay.
“Come on, Roc, man. Is it money, man? You wanna piece of my hustle?” Freddie asked with his mouth bloody.
“Hustle! Hustle? Nigga, you ain’t no hustler, you a pimp! A hustler, I respect. But a pimp, I’ll kill in front of his mama! Get out and if you even breathe something to the police, I’ll murder you and your family. Understood?” Rahman asked, throwing Freddie against a file cabinet. It crashed to the floor. Freddie quickly got up and staggered out the door.
“Clear the club and bring the girls in the back,” Rahman told Salahudeen. The Muslims moved into the club in an orderly fashion. Salahudeen grabbed the mic from the deejay.
“The Diamond Club is officially closed for good. All y’all trick-ass niggas get out and all y’all females, if you want a thousand dollars, get dressed and meet us in the dressing room.”
Niggas yelled obscenities and threats, but a room filled with gun-toting Muslims helped move things along at a rapid pace.
While the brothers cleared the club, Salahudeen and Rahman entered the dressing room where all fifteen strippers waited patiently to learn what it was they had to do for a thousand dollars. As soon as money was mentioned, they hurried and covered themselves, dressing either in their clothes or in a robe. Only two girls remained as they were, bare-breasted and wearing thongs.
Any man would’ve been sexually aroused by a room full of exotic dancers. But the Muslims weren’t. They were
