Think Harlem in the early '70s:
"Everywhere you look there is this new standard of cool. And you pick up on it. And if your man is stepping out of a Rolls Royce, you
know he's doing something right. Add to that the fact that he's got knife wounds all over his body and in America you've got yourself a culture hero. Here is a guy so downright virile, and sure of it, he can afford to dress like a
woman. He's wearing a monk coat, a contoured silk shirt and high-heeled crocodile shoes . . . he's got diamond rings up and down his hands . . . he's . . .
the fucker's wearin' pearls! . . . He's got on a white felt hat with a brim as wide as the Astrodome . . . and maybe there's a feather in it . . . velvet trousers with a twenty-eight-inch flare . . . and shades . . . always shades . . . three A.M. and shades . . . he's got lace cuffs . . . and . . .
Jesus Christ . . . a cane . . . with sterling silver brightwork. And the son of a bitch is six-four. He never bends his knees or his back . . . he folds at the waist . . . he pivots from the hips and struts like a bayou water crane. He has a tall, fragrant, fox-furred woman on either arm, calling him
baby . . . or
sir! And this motherfucker's wearing a sixteen-hundred-dollar, gold and ivory, emerald-encrusted coke spoon around his neck.
Step aside, suck-er. Now, you
know your girl friend is going to be in bed with him tomorrow. All day. Broadway Joe has let you down. Budweiser is a thing of the past. You have been sold down the river. And all you can say is
shit . . . suck-er."
From
Snowblind: A Brief Career in the Cocaine Trade by Robert Sabbag.
