When the sneer crossed his face, I immediately became concerned and prayed that Harlem would show up at any moment. I knew the teenaged boy didn’t have any good intentions; I just wasn’t sure what they were.
“Welcome to the block,” he stated, walking back and forth in front of the pastry counter with his hands shoved in his pockets.
“Thank you.”
“I’ve heard nothing but good things about this place. You’ve been packed out since your opening. Gotta be making a pretty profit.” He stopped and rapped his knuckles on the case.
I cleared my throat. “Things have been decent. Is there anything that I can get you?”
He glanced sharply up at me from the display case and stared. The cold glint in his dark brown eyes was menacing and hardened, but there was something softer underneath it all. Although I was scared, a deeper part of me told me that this wasn’t who this kid was, but I had no time to worry about that now. I needed to protect myself, and I would reason with him if I could.
My fingers stretched forth to the side of me where my phone and purse were hidden just out of view. I prayed that I could dial 911.
“Yeah, you can in fact. Maybe you don’t know how things work around this block, but this ain’t the safest neighborhood.”
“It’s transitioning, and I’m happy to be a part of that, bringing good things to the neighborhood.”
He snickered. “If you plan to remain safe and have any chance of survival for you or your business, you gon’ need some protection, li’l mama.”
“P-p-protection?” I asked. I was still trying to grab the phone, but it was still just out of reach.
“Yeah. Protection to keep you safe around here comes at a cost. The other business owners know what time it is. If youdon’t pay, you don’t stay. There are some dangerous crews around here, and the boys can be a little harsh, especially with pretty ladies like yourself. I can keep them off you; all you gotta do is pay.”
“Have you lost your mind? I’m not paying anyone anything. If you need a job, maybe I or the other?—”
“You think this is some muthafuckin’ joke? I’m not playing with you. There’s a price to pay to stay on this block, and it comes at the cost of five hundred dollars weekly. You need to pay if you plan to be able to stay.”
My fingers finally reached the phone as I boldly asked, “What if I don’t?”
“Then I can’t protect you from the robberies, the assaults, and the damage that will happen to your place if you don’t. Once this pretty little shop is tagged by the JLBU gang, that’s it. No one will come near your place once they see the letters JLBU scrawled all over your building. They know what that means. They won’t jeopardize your life to make your pockets fat, Miss Moneybags.”
“Please leave before I call the police.”
He laughed. “Y’all rich folks kill me coming to the hood trying to make a profit off of us.”
“Leave now. I’ve already hit the alarm and alerted them,” I lied. I should have had one, and I made a mental note to get one after this incident.
He chuckled cruelly as he headed toward the door. “Good luck with that. I’ll be back in three days. I suggest you have my money.”
I stared evenly at him, refusing to cower, although I was terrified inside.
He glanced back one final time and warned, “Watch your back.”
Although I was shaken, I rushed from behind the counter with the phone in my hand and locked the doors. At the same time, I dialed Harlem’s number.
His call went straight to voicemail. I rushed to the back of the shop shaking, and tears were streaming down my face. Although things could have been worse—he could have robbed me or physically assaulted me—I was still terrified at just his threat.
After sitting in my office for a few minutes trying to calm down and call Harlem again, I heard a loud knocking on the front door. I jumped and screamed. My nerves were shot, and the knock freaked me out. I grabbed a knife and clutched it in my fist before I headed to the front.
Relief filled me when I saw that it was Harlem, and I quickly unlocked and opened the door for him.
Harlem took one look at me and the knife in my hand and asked, “What the hell is wrong?”
I couldn’t do anything but cry and tremble for a couple of minutes. Harlem sat on a chair, and he pulled me onto his lap and held me for several long minutes. He made comforting, shushing noises, kissed the top of my head and my face repeatedly, and kept wiping my tears and rubbing my back.
“Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you. It’s okay,” he whispered repeatedly.
When I calmed down, he asked me what happened again. I told him what happened and gave him a description of the young, light-skinned boy with the thick curly afro.
