American Gangster by Max Allan Collins

Another of the women was stamping small packets of blue cellophane with the words “Blue Magic.”
    Frank shut the door behind his slack-jawed brethren as Red Top—in a halter top and leather miniskirt—came over and smiled in that way of hers, both friendly and businesslike.
    â€œHi, Frank,” she said. “What turnip truck did these boys fall off of?”
    â€œA truck out of Greensboro, honey,” he said good-naturedly. “These are my brothers.”
    She grinned at them and started shaking hands, saying, “Any brother of yours, Frank. Any brother of yours.”
    Huey was watching the women work, not just taking in their titties like the other boys. He asked Red Top, “Why are you putting ‘Blue Magic’ on the packets?”
    She said, “There’s lots of brands of dope in Harlem—Tru Blue, Mean Machine, Could Be Fatal, Dick Down, more than you could count even with your shoes off.”
    Frank picked it up: “Blue Magic’s a new brand name,
our
brand name, for this new, stronger shit.”
    Red Top put in: “Ten percent purity, when other brands are five percent or less.”
    Huey was paying close attention, even if Frank’s other brothers were still ogling the help.
    Next stop on Frank’s nickel tour was just across the way, his favorite diner, where they pushed a couple of tables together and ordered lunch. As they waited for Charlene to bring their blue plate specials, Frank continued to hold court.
    â€œWhat matters in business,” Frank was saying, “is honesty, integrity, hard work and loyalty.”
    Out the window Frank spotted Tango Black, wearing his Shaft-like black leather jacket, bald head gleaming in the sunlight, standing at a fruit stand and helping himself. A fine-looking long-legged gal hung on his arm, and that bodyguard as big as Tango stood watch.
    â€œMost important,” Frank said, reaching for the glass sugar dispenser, screwing off the lid, “is never forget where you come from.”
    His brothers watched with eyes wide as Frank dumped the contents of the dispenser onto his plate, as if he was preparing to chow down on a hill of sugar.
    â€œYou are what you are,” Frank said, “and that’s one of two things: you’re nothing, or you’re something. You following this?”
    His brothers managed to nod, though they remained fascinated by the empty sugar dispenser, its abandoned lid and the pile of sugar on his plate.
    â€œExcuse me, fellas,” he said, and stood. “I’ll be right back.”
    His brothers watched, bewildered, as Frank exited the diner and, weaving between this car and that one, headed across the street, where a big bald guy with a good-looking girl on his arm was filling a brown-paper grocery sack with fruit.
    Empty sugar dispenser in his left hand, Frank approached Tango cheerfully, saying, “Hey, man, what’s up? I was just thinking about you.”
    Tango turned and frowned, more confused than irritated.
    Frank was saying, “You know, I was looking at the jaryou told me about?” He held up the empty sugar dispenser. “And you know what? I didn’t see nothing in it.”
    Tango sneered and snarled, “What the fuck you want, Frank?”
    But Frank’s answer wasn’t words.
    Frank’s answer was to pull his revolver from its shoulder holster and shove the gun’s snout into Tango’s forehead.
    Right out on the sidewalk, on the street, in front of the fruit stand, in front of his brothers and Tango’s girl and bodyguard and God and everybody.
    The ranks of “everybody,” however, were thinning, as people faded away in the deadly silence, including the bodyguard, who backed way the fuck off. Even the young long-legged gal wasn’t on Tango’s arm anymore—she was heading down the sidewalk, her high heels clicking on cement, like she had a doctor’s appointment she just