Gotham Diaries

  GOTHAM DIARIES

  TONYA LEWIS LEE

  CRYSTAL McCRARY ANTHONY

  To Spike, for all of your love and inspiration.

  —T.L.L.

  To my angels, Cole Hinton and Ella Ann—your smiles alone give me reason to wake each morning. Thelma and Magellan McCrary—my parents, my rocks, my sources of strength—no two people take greater pride in their children, a legacy I hope to continue.

  —C.M.A.

  The rhythm of life

  Is a jazz rhythm

  Honey.

  The gods are laughing at us …

  —Langston Hughes

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  About the Author

  Copyright

  ONE

  LOOKING good had become a way of life for Manny Marks. His outward appearance was vital to his existence. Whenever he stepped out of his Harlem brownstone, he made sure to put forth the best image money and connections could buy. In the fiercely competitive Manhattan real estate business, perception could easily become reality. And Manny’s immediate reality was that he was trying to impress his new clients, even if he was tired of selling real estate.

  Today Manny Marks was decked out in his finest summer’s threads: khaki linen slacks, crisp white shirt open at the collar with an Etro rust-and-navy-checked sport coat. The jacket accentuated his suntanned cocoa-brown skin and chemically whitened teeth. He had been told over the years that he had a great smile, so he took care of that asset almost as carefully as he maintained his thirty-six-year-old lean, muscular physique. The Hermés handkerchief in his left pocket was an extra touch; Manny hoped it would signal to the world that he was a man of refinement.

  The first stop of the day would be a scenic walk with his new clients, the Joneses, before their first appointment at 515 Park Avenue, a condominium building friendly to new black money. Normally he would have greeted his current patrons with car and driver at their hotel if they were out-of-towners, like the Joneses—or at their homes, if they were city inhabitants, which he preferred. Occasionally clients met him at the property he was showing. But today was the first time in August that the temperature had dropped below 90 degrees, and the Manhattan air was breathable for a change. It even seemed free from the exaggerated summer scents—burning pretzels, peanuts, sour mustard, gyros, and onions. A crispness descended upon Manhattan near the end of the summer.

  Then there were the Joneses. Even if they were Tandy Brooks’s friends, Eric and Tamara Jones were Midwest imports and required handholding, something Manny had grown weary of unless the people were special contacts worthy of cultivation. The Joneses were anything but special in Manny’s eyes; the “barely” millionaires no longer intrigued him. The real bother, however, wasn’t their lack of large funds. Rather, he found them dull. They both were so ordinary in their drab, midlevel designer wear, and they lacked sophistication. But Tandy had hand-delivered them and expected him to take care of them. And that was an order Manny dared not disobey.

  Manny reminded himself that a commission from anyone was money in the bank. Despite the Joneses’ shortcomings, Manny still needed to make sure the young African-American couple from Flossmoor, Illinois, trusted him enough to buy a three-million-dollar apartment from him. The broker’s image had a significant impact on potential buyers, a concept Manny had learned early in his career, and he had set up the showing to underscore that he was the real deal. His firm’s solid reputation came from strategic planning carefully managed over the course of many years. As the trio navigated the array of fashionable shoppers striding down Madison Avenue, Manny tried to imagine Tamara Jones fitting in with the throngs of chic people. Manhattan could either excite and stimulate newcomers—giving them the opportunity to live their lives to the richest and fullest of their imaginations—or chew them up and spit them out, breaking them in the process. Manny didn’t see Tamara’s dream in these streets.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Marks,” the portly black doorman from Hermés called out to Manny as they passed the posh store filled with women begging to spend six thousand on a Birkin bag.

  “Hello!” Manny returned, noting out of the corner of his eye the Joneses watching the exchange. Impressing upon them his familiarity with the neighborhood and its inhabitants was crucial. They had to feel that Madison Avenue was accessible to Manny and to them. The high-priced boutiques often intimidated newcomers, the snooty salespeople making them feel unworthy. Manny was certain that despite their lack of savoir faire, the midwestern couple knew the significance of Madison Avenue. Each passing acknowledgment from the neighborhood regulars heightened Manny’s image. His familiarity with this world, where the city’s natives stepped in and out of jewelry stores, spoke into their cells while carrying bags from Barneys, or hailed taxis with the ease of dancers, would hopefully demystify the surroundings for his clients.

  As they waited at the corner of Sixty-fourth and Madison waiting for the light to change, looking toward the Krizia boutique, Fifi Pennywhistle stepped out of her chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce, undoubtedly for a day of running up her credit cards. Manny could not have scripted the scene any better as Fifi leaned in to him, air-kissing both cheeks as if he were her long-lost stepson.

  “How aah you, dahling?” she asked. Fifi was a rail-thin Upper East Side staple with a penchant for Chanel suits and oversize round glasses. He had met her when he worked at Tiffany, before opening his own real estate firm. Fifi tipped along in her Ferragamos, gesticulating with her hands; the sun glinted off her assortment of large rings, adornments that overpowered her frail physique—beauty long gone but baubles remaining like artifacts from a better era.

  Manny responded mock-humbly, a technique Tandy had taught him. “Fine, dear, just earning my keep.”

  “I’d say you’ve earned your keep quite well.” Fifi winked at Manny. “So, when are you going to the Vineyard?”

  Manny was pleased that she had mentioned his vacationing at the Vineyard in front of the Joneses. He exaggerated his southern drawl, which northerners like Fifi found charming. “You think all I do is vacation? Some of us do have to work.” Fifi giggled, looking charmed by her exchange with Manny. She should be happy. His last Tiffany “deal” for her had been a 15 percent discount on the seventy-five sterling-silver charm bracelets she bought as shower gifts for her daughter’s wedding.

  “You are so adorable. Isn’t he adorable?” she asked, patting his cheek and glancing in the direction of the Joneses, though not expecting a response. She continued on her mission. In Fifi’s eyes, no one was really important outside of her enclave, least of all the Joneses, but her acknowledgment of Manny was invaluable.

  “Who was that?
” Tamara asked.

  “Fifi Pennywhistle. She was one of my former bosses’ clients. Very wealthy. I think her father had a steel company or something.” Manny purposefully neglected his days as a jewelry salesman.

  “She looks like steel money.” Tamara ogled as if she had come in contact with Queen Elizabeth. Fifi had that effect; she may have clinched the deal for him. At last Tamara was truly impressed. She actually smiled. Before witnessing the small grin that spread across her face, Manny hadn’t thought she was physically able to lift her heavy jowls into a smile.

  Manny was feeling full of himself by this time. This was the high he experienced every time he felt like an insider—a true New Yorker. He was prepared to sell the Joneses all of Central Park. As they continued up Madison, his clients seemed to relax, seeming to realize they were in good hands. Manny was their safari guide through the jungle of Manhattan. He picked up his stride, confident in looking every bit the part of an Upper East Sider, even though he hailed from Alabama.

  Times had changed a lot for Manny since that day, over seventeen years before, when he’d shown up at his cousin Tommy’s fourth-floor walk-up in Brooklyn. He’d been carrying his footlocker turned suitcase and wearing the ill-fitting Brooks Brothers suit he had gotten as a high school graduation present from his grandparents. Manny sat on the dry, cracked wood floor of Tommy’s hallway all night, waiting for his cousin to return. The smell of fried fish seeped out of another apartment, making Manny’s stomach growl. But even that didn’t bother him, because he had finally arrived in New York City. If he had stayed one more day in Birmingham, he would have blown his brains out. He never would have survived working for his father’s construction company, and his mother would have spun in her grave if he had taken a job at the Haley department store selling cutlery—his only other prospect. Instead, he took the money his grandparents had given him—another graduation gift—and bought a one-way ticket to New York.

  When he arrived, he sat falling asleep outside Tommy’s door, waiting for his cousin to get home from his job as a bartender in a place called the Village. But Manny was so excited he didn’t mind the smell or the discomfort in the dimly lit stairwell. He was ready to start a new life. As a gay black young boy, he had never fit in in Alabama. Not that he had ever told anyone he didn’t much like girls. He simply never dated one, except at prom, to which he took Lucille Pritkins, who had sat next to him in typing class their senior year. Truth be told, she didn’t have much interest in boys.

  Tommy’s voice woke Manny from his nodding: “What you doin’ down there on the floor with your country ass?”

  As soon as Manny looked up at Tommy’s towering physique, high-top curly fade, catlike green eyes, and tight, tight blue jeans—tighter than Manny had ever dared to wear—he knew he had made the right decision. He stood up to properly greet his older cousin like his mother had taught him. He could not stop smiling.

  “What you so damn happy about?” Tommy said as he unlocked what seemed to Manny a Fort Knox of bolts before opening his door. Manny followed behind his worldly older cousin like a puppy dog.

  When they entered the one-room apartment, Manny’s eyes roamed over the tie-dyed sheets hanging from the ceilings. His gaze lingered on the cozy space, a bed in the middle of the room covered with an assortment of colorful velvet pillows. Manny wondered what it would feel like to lie in such an indulgent bed. It seemed so plush. Tommy must have been reading his mind as he said, “You get the couch.”

  Manny felt tongue-tied and silently nodded. He hoped he hadn’t done something wrong already. Tommy pulled back a black velvet curtain, exposing a small yellowing refrigerator. He opened the freezer compartment and pulled out a plastic bag filled with a brown weedy-looking substance. He pulled out some papers and rolled the stuff into something resembling a cigarette. Manny watched in amazement at this new world, where his own family member seemed so self-assured, so at ease with himself, as if he didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought of him. After lighting the cigarette that didn’t smell like a regular cigarette, Tommy finally seemed to notice Manny again. “Let me look at you. Take that tired-ass jacket off, looks like yo’ daddy’s coat.”

  Tommy’s eyes felt like ray guns. Manny was frozen.

  “I’m not going to bite you, I’m just checking you out. You turned into a good-looking kid. A little skinny, but we’ll buff you up. The boys will love you here.”

  Manny’s face was on fire. How did Tommy know? Was it that obvious, or did Manny simply remind Tommy of himself when he arrived in New York ready to “find himself”?

  “You need some new clothes, though. You got some money?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good, we’ll go to SoHo and get you some new stuff. You also have to pay me rent.”

  “I know, Daddy told me.”

  “Good. Then we understand each other. We’ll have … we’ll have—” Tommy stammered as he began to cough uncontrollably. Probably from the stinky cigarette, Manny thought. “We’ll have fun. Right now I need—some sleep,” Tommy said, still not gathering himself from the coughing spell. “We’ll go out, eat, shop, do the town when I get up.”

  Manny excitedly sat on the small covered sofa, unable to go to sleep, he was so thrilled. Tommy’s nap turned into a six-hour fitful sleep filled with grunts, groans, coughs, and whispering. But when he woke, he took a shower, put on black leather jeans and a white T-shirt, and looked like he’d slept all night and was ready to party again.

  That day Manny fell in love with Tommy and New York City. Tommy took him all over the Village, which was nothing like the village Manny had envisioned. Manny bought the tightest jeans he could wiggle his little butt into, size 27. And then Tommy opened up to him the New York he had dreamed of, filled with dancing, clubs, drinking, partying, and men. Manny lost his virginity in New York at the health club where he started working out with Tommy. Life was idyllic for the two of them, until that morning Tommy didn’t get out of bed and something called AIDS was the culprit. Then the tough times began. Tommy withered and died. Manny was out of money, and there was no way he would go back to Alabama.

  Continuing their walk, Manny was pumped up by the thought that even though he lived in Harlem, he truly was an Upper East Side staple. He had become a member of Manhattan’s society, albeit a junior member. With Tandy Brooks, a living legend in New York society, and It Girl Lauren Thomas as his biggest fans, he had been propelled to near-star status as a real estate broker to the African-American elite. Still, a mere real estate broker would never be a major player—a thought that was weighing on his mind more and more these days. He had yet to make the transaction that would put him over the top, give him some fuck-you money and social respect. Despite the fact that he owned and operated the most profitable African-American real estate firm in Manhattan, to many, he was only a highly paid salesman.

  “You know the neighborhood quite well, I see,” Eric Jones, a light-skinned classic pretty boy who had eaten one too many cookies, remarked in what Manny interpreted as an appraisal.

  “Fifteen years in the business will do that.”

  “Fifteen years in New York?”

  Manny proudly nodded as they walked past Daniel, currently the best restaurant in New York City, housed in one of Donald Trump’s many converted condominiums.

  “What about the accent?” Eric asked. Manny was immediately suspicious of the question. Eric was from the Midwest, a place where plenty of black southerners had migrated. A southern drawl wouldn’t be deemed charming in Flossmoor, Illinois, like it was in New York.

  Manny gave what had become his “story” once he started working at Tiffany: “I’m originally from Birmingham, Alabama, but I moved to New York for college.” Everyone seemed to respect a student who worked part-time to make ends meet.

  “Oh?” Eric said, perking up. His wife continued to walk silently beside him. Manny almost felt bad for her. The raw energy of the city streets seemed to stifle her. He could see how things would probably go
once they relocated. Eric would have many late nights, going to working dinners and fund-raisers. At first he would invite his wife. She would go once, maybe twice, and be intimidated by the high-octane crowd. She would stop accompanying him to social and business outings, preferring to stay home alone. He would stop inviting her. Then Manny would start running into Eric around town, surrounded by plenty of company. Manny did not envision the two of them lasting. Attractive, aggressive men like Eric always seemed to need a little extra attention once they started believing the hype the city fed them.

  Eric continued, “Where’d you do your undergraduate work?”

  Manny felt a gnawing prick. He did not appreciate Eric prying into his personal business. What difference should it make where he went to school, thought Manny, feeling slightly inadequate. Eric Jones would be the type to ask where someone did his undergraduate work with the implication that he had an advanced degree as well.

  “I went to New York University,” Manny said, then quickly changed the subject, reaching into his thin brown leather briefcase and removing the day’s itinerary. “The first apartment we’re seeing today is in estate condition, with about twenty-five hundred square feet of space, three wood-burning fireplaces, an eat-in kitchen, and good light.” He hoped these country clients understood that in New York, a deteriorated apartment could cost millions just because of its location. Famed agent Barbara Corcoran had put her seal of approval on estate-condition property when, early in her career, she offered one of New York’s prominent families a “thirty-two-million-dollar fixer-upper.” Manny looked at Tamara and Eric to read their faces. The first sell on the first day was always the most difficult.

  “And how much is this one?” Tamara asked, with an edge Manny had not heard from her.

  Manny glanced at the price on the itinerary, even though he already knew the answer. He hated this part with people like the Joneses. “The asking price is three million.”

  “For twenty-five hundred square feet?” Tamara’s voice rose an octave.