Chapter 38: Water-Bellied Snake
"Guru."
He swallowed a mouthful of stale water.
Shamick carefully ascended to the second floor of Harlem's Paradise, guided only by the flickering neon and low throb of nightclub beats echoing from the dance floor below.
"Shit, this is the real Harlem's Paradise… This is what I'm talking about." From the shadowed edge of the balcony, Shamick gazed down at the first floor's pulsing scene. The music vibrated through the rails. A slow grin stretched across his face, laced with awe and expletives.
Tempering his excitement, he walked deeper into the dim corridor. A few well-built men, clearly Stokes' hired muscle, stood sentinel near the doors. Their suits weren't for fashion; they were armor. Shamick instinctively stiffened but kept moving, unnoticed. He followed the narrow path toward a sleek door, beyond which soft murmurs indicated a meeting.
Inside, Martin stood, visibly tense. Opposite him was Cornell "Cottonmouth" Stokes, Harlem's self-styled kingpin. He stood poised beneath a massive framed poster of his alter ego, Mr. Notorious—crown glinting under low lights.
"I've never been one for beating around the bush," Cornell said, adjusting the collar of his tailored suit. "So start talking. What the hell happened?"
Martin opened his mouth. "We ran into someone—"
"Nah, nah." Cornell raised a manicured hand, silencing him. He turned his eyes toward the glimmering crown on the poster, his voice oily with menace. "I don't pay you fools to bring excuses. This ain't group therapy. You get paid to handle business, not cry about it."
"It was an Asian guy," Martin said quickly. "Yellow-skinned. Red undershirt, busted-up sneakers. Weird aura."
Cornell narrowed his eyes. "One guy? Took all of you down?"
"He… kicked me across the street. One kick."
Cornell paused, easing into his leather chair, tapping the armrest slowly. "One kick," he repeated, tone unreadable.
"We might have a bigger problem," Martin added nervously.
Suddenly, the door burst open. One of the bodyguards dragged in Shamick, his shirt rumpled from the scuffle.
Martin blinked. "Shamick?"
Cornell glanced between them. "You know this kid?"
Martin shrugged. "Not really. Just seen him around."
Cornell leaned forward, eyes piercing into Shamick like a predator sizing up prey. "Then tell me, boy… why are you lurking outside my office like you got a death wish?"
"I was just lookin' around, I swear!" Shamick blurted. "I know Dante, I'm with the team sometimes!"
Cornell's gaze hardened. "You see, kid… in Harlem, there are places you don't just look around in. Especially not mine." He motioned to the bodyguard. "Do it."
"Wait! I know who that guy was, the one who wrecked your crew. I saw him earlier today!"
Cornell held up a hand. The bodyguard paused.
"Talk."
—
"There's a small storeroom on the third floor. Not much, but you can use it as a bedroom for now."
The neon signs outside the Chinese restaurant flickered as Mrs. Connie led Li Ran upstairs. The place had closed for the night, and the hum of Harlem's unrest filled the silence like a storm on the horizon.
"Also, try not to wander around after dark," she warned, arms crossed but tone laced with concern. "Law and order here ain't what it looks like on TV. Especially in Harlem. Too many folks with empty pockets and heavy hands… and not all of them go after just white folks. They'll come after you too."
Though her face was stern, her advice came from the heart.
"It's not easy, coming to America alone," she continued. "I don't know why you're here, but work hard. Survive. The pay here's low, but it'll keep you fed, and sometimes that's enough."
"Thank you," Li Ran replied sincerely.
Though he knew his stay at the restaurant would be temporary, Mrs. Connie's kindness reminded him of the community ties often lost in bigger battles.
BANG—
The door burst open.
A group of black thugs swaggered in, wielding baseball bats with the arrogance of untouchables. Their leader, tattoos trailing down his neck—took the lead, sneering at the decor.
"I'm sorry, we're closed—" Li Ran began, stepping forward, but Connie yanked him down behind the counter.
From the kitchen emerged her husband, Mr. Lin—eyes weary but determined. He wiped his hands on his apron and stepped forward.
CRASH—
A thug smashed a ceramic jar. The gang leader stepped forward, voice dripping with disdain. "How long you been in this country, huh? Picked up some English yet?"
"My English is fine," Mr. Lin replied, positioning himself between the thugs and his wife.
"Then you understand this: Cornell Stokes and Councilwoman Maria Dillard are rebuilding Harlem. That means donations. You in?"
Li Ran took in the scene. Extortion, masked as politics. Classic Harlem power-play shades of Kingpin's racket in Hell's Kitchen.
Mr. Lin, trembling but firm, said, "This restaurant was bought by my father. We don't owe Cornell or Dillard a damn thing. We supported Maria in the election, not for this."
The thug sneered. "Old man, you got no idea how things work now."
He raised the bat. "I ain't got a thing for respecting elders, so cough up before things get ugly."
A line had been crossed.
Li Ran stepped forward.
"I think they've said enough."
"Ah Xing!" Mrs. Connie hissed. "Stay back!"
But the gang had already noticed him.
"What'd you say?" one of them asked, turning toward Li Ran. He dug a pinky into his ear, unimpressed. "Didn't quite catch that. Maybe say it again?"
"I said," Li Ran replied, calmly eyeing the raised bat, "they've already answered you."
Before he could finish his sentence, the nearest thug's face twisted with anger. He swung his bat at Li Ran's head, the wood hissing through the air.
But this time, Li Ran didn't back down.
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