Chapter 24: A Stroll Into Harlem

Author's Note: I know I haven't really shown much confrontation between races since people back then usually stuck to their own group, like the italians, but this is a warning since back then when Jim Crow was still in effect it was just a regular thing to be so open about your distaste so don't come at me with pitchforks for my interpretation of the 1930s.

A week later,

"Extra! Extra! Detective commits suicide in shame after arresting an innocent kid!" A newspaper salesman roared at the bustling traffic of brooklyn.

"Here." Thomas gave him one nickel as the paperboy tipped his hat before continuing to shout out. 

Thomas scanned the paper briefly before crumpling it and tossing it aside, a newfound determination shining on his face.

It dangled in the oncoming wind as the newspaper slowly unraveled itself from being crumpled seconds before as it revealed the headline..

'Detective Albert commits suicide after arresting innocent kid!'

Meanwhile In Lucky's Office,

"So that's how you're gonna fill up the hole that is bootlegging?" Ricky took a sip of rum, asking as Lucky nodded his head.

Every mob within the commission was already scrabbling around trying to find out a way to fill the massive profit machine that was bootlegging.

During this time, bootlegging and rum running were highly profitable ventures, with even the lowest earning families in the commission making at least 35% in profits from its area.

All the families had plans for their newfound focus, and Lucky eagerly took over the prostitution racket, which had been left rather untouched since his old boss died.

"Now with no other crime boss to stop us and their attention divided as it is already, our family is gonna take over all the small scale prostitutes rings which will not only fill the gap of bootlegging, but also elevate us even higher." Lucky smirked proudly, telling Ricky his plans without hesitation.

Now that he was officially part of the Luciano family, Ricky inherited all of his predecessor's thoughts and plans. However, this role also came with a new perk that he hadn't been entitled to before.

Ricky actually got a voice in the decisions.

"How are you gonna move all this new money cause our small businessness won't be able to clean all this dirty cash flow?" Ricky questioned, unable to figure out how Lucky was going to move all this new dirty money, only to see Lucky smirk while playing with a card.

"That's where you come in Ricky, I'm going to hand part of this problem to you." Lucky choice made Ricky stand up in shock.

"Wait, but-"

"No buts, being a leader doesn't require being just strong but smart, figure it out, WITHOUT help from your boys." Lucky waved Ricky off, who frowned but nodded, rubbing his temple as he headed to the door.

"Good luck." Lucky shouted right as Ricky was about to leave before halting his steps.

"Luck is for fools." Ricky smirked while repeating the thing that Lucky always said.

"That's my boy." 

Ricky decided to take a walk through the streets, receiving nods and respectful gazes throughout the territory since his position within the family had been completely solidified, seemingly demanding respect from those around him. 

It wasn't an entirely new feeling for him; over the five years of being Lucky's son, he had grown accustomed to the respect. However, this newfound level of notoriety was still a little strange to him.

With the notoriety came responsibility, an entirely new challenge for him as Ricky found this far more difficult than the prospect of reincarnating with a system.

Honestly, Ricky didn't know how to process his father's sudden announcement and struggled to make sense of what to do next.

An hour passed, and without realizing it, Ricky ended up in the heart of Harlem, letting out a haggard sigh.

"I need a drink." Ricky muttered to himself, noticing the weird and scared looks from everyone around him. 

It took him a couple of seconds to realize that he was the only white guy in these streets, which were filled to the brim with African Americans. 

Harlem, originally a white-only neighborhood, had undergone a transformation as New York slowly became a hub for all walks of life.

On orders from the local government, African Americans were basically pushed into residing in this controlled district that made up Harlem, and soon after, all the white folks moved out.

Feeling the weight of being unwanted in these streets, Ricky's eyes darted around until they landed on a club with big, bold letters.

'The Cotton Club.'

Looking around, Ricky saw that the front entrance was closed, however right as he was about to kick rocks, he saw a back door.

"Let's hope they'll serve minors." Ricky smiled while strolling into the club which was completely desolate since it was still mid day.

The only people here were two old day drinkers sitting at the bar and a lone bartender to serve him.

"A-Ah, are you here for Owney Mad-" The bartender suddenly asked, thinking this young white gentleman was here for business.

"Nope, here for a drink." Ricky plopped onto the seat right between the two old black men who raised wary glances at him.

It wasn't hostility but rather slight fear, wriggling around in their seats in an uncomfortable manner at Ricky's forthright attitude.

"S-Sir the w-white section is over there." The bartender tried to inform Ricky as he turned to see a white waiter waving at him though no one was in the seats.

'I ain't that depressed to drink alone.' Ricky thought, thinking he was in too good of a mood to simply sit at the bar and drink, wanting to chat with someone as he gained a buzz.

"I'm good." Ricky shook his head before slapping a hundred on the bar, startling the bartender since that had to be the biggest bill he'd ever seen in his life.

"Put this on my credit, get me and my fellow drunkards three of your finest whiskeys on the rocks." Ricky laughed while nudging the two men who were coldly gazing at him before they turned to surprise.

"R-Right away!" The man eagerly took the bill and started filling it up with illegal liquor.

"Ya got a name boy?" The old man smirked after setting down his empty glass.

"Ricky, but just call me Slick."

3 hours later,

"L-Looky here~" In the bar, a drunken Ricky found himself surrounded by around thirty black folks. 

Ricky had managed to find his buzz and further it into a drunken state quite fast, inciting laughs from his fellow drunkards.

Word spread fast and more people started to trickle into the wild antics of the random white boy causing a riot within the club.

Holding up a trumpet he stumbled upon, Ricky proceeded to play the most god-awful tune, showcasing his lack of rhythm as the group burst out laughing at the discordant sounds emanating from the instrument.

"Hey Booker, what did ya think of my tune!" Ricky boisterously laughed to his new friend, the bartender known as Booker Rhodes who served in this state.

"God awful." Booker laughed as the surrounding people roared in agreement with their laughs echoing through the bar.

"Oh what, can you do better?" Ricky wobbled on the table, holding out the trumpet yet Booker hesitated.

"I ain't all that-"

"Oh come on, don't be such a pussy and show me how it's done." Ricky slurred his words as the crowd excitedly urged him into it, but Booker continued to shake his head.

"I'm not getting on the counter-"

"Booooooooooo!" The crowd booed with Ricky leading the mob, the peer pressure mounting until he finally climbed onto the counter and grabbed the trumpet from Ricky's hands. 

He took a deep breath, the weight of the moment heavy on his shoulders and as he began to play, the room fell silent, captivated by the raw emotion pouring from his instrument.

Booker Rhodes unleashed a passionate melody, a soulful rhyme clouded in the blues of a man who had known heartache. 

His music painted a vivid picture of the struggles of a black man supporting not only his parents but also his wife and two kids. 

Booker bared his soul to anyone who would listen, pouring his heart out through his music and the crowd was in awe, including Ricky. 

In that moment without even knowing it, Ricky unknowingly changed the course of Booker's life. 

Booker, who was destined to be a 9-5 bartender, found his wings through Ricky's encouragement. 

"WHY THE F*CK IS THE FIRST THING I SEE IS A BUNCH OF NEGRO'S GATHERED AROUND A DIRTY F*CKING NI-"

"HEY DIPSH*T, I'M TRYING TO LISTEN SO WILL YA SHUT THE F*CK UP!" Ricky jerked his head around to a fat drunk white guy, frustrated at the sudden interruption when wanting to relish his buzz in Booker's tune.

"If it isn't an actual ni***** lover in the flesh, haven't seen one of you in a while but it makes since that cotton picker lovers hang out in the cotton club!" The drunken fat man roared in laughter at his own words as if it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen, slamming his hand on the counter repeatedly.

"What the f*ck did you just say-" Ricky's eyebrow twitched, about to drunkenly bash his face in only for a hand to appear on his shoulder.

"Wait, Slick." Booker stopped Ricky since after talking for an hour, Ricky finally managed to convince him it was alright to call him by his nickname.

"That's Owney's brother in law, you know, the owner of this club, Owney Madden?" Booker tried to persuade Ricky who scoffed with a scorn riddled laughter.

"It's best to leave him be and besides Slick, ima strong fella who can take a little slack-" Booker patted his shoulder, thinking that Ricky was sticking up for him.

"Huh, when did this become about you?" Ricky asked with a confused expression, about to beat the crap about him for talking sh*t to him rather than being racist to Booker.

"This is about him disrespecting me and the name I represent." Ricky tapped his chest, keenly aware that any insult aimed at him was also a slight against the family, because he's a Luciano.

"What name, Slick?" Booker asked weirdly, thinking Ricky was far off his rocker.

"Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you Booker but guess what my last name is?" Ricky suddenly realized, seeing Booker confused at his question.

"Ricky?" Booker asked, thinking all he knew was Ricky's first name.

"Not only that but the one and only, Ricky motherf*cking Luciano." Ricky patted his chest, almost falling off the table at his own gesture.

"L-Luciano!!!!" Booker didn't realize until the last name registered. 

Despite living far from Brooklyn, he had heard of the Luciano family through the various second handed stories he'd encountered as a bartender.

"But even then, it'd be best to not pick a fight with him-"

"Yeah f*ggot, you best listen to yer little boyfriend and f*ck off!" The drunkard spouted off, the already drunken and easily influenced Ricky snapping at this lackluster provocation. 

He pushed Booker off of him and lunged off the table, dropping onto the ground with a thud before sprinting at him.

*BAM*

The drunken man couldn't react as Ricky's fist plunged into his greasy cheek, pushing him backwards and disrupting his balance.

The man stumbled back, trying to regain his balance, but before he could, Ricky gripped the hair on the back of his head and slammed it down onto the whites-only counter.

*BAM*

"THE F*CK YOU CALL ME? SAY IT AGAIN!" Ricky drunkenly roared, the alcohol clouding his reasoning as he held the man's face up, blood trickling from his nose.

*BAM*

"C'MON, WHAT DID YOU SAY?"

*BAM*

"F*CKING ANSWER ME!"

Ricky mercilessly slammed the man's head into the table, blood and teeth staining its surface until he then threw him to the ground, revealing his battered face.

It was excessive, but to uphold his reputation within the Luciano family, Ricky had to confront anyone who spoke ill of it, whether indirectly or directly.

Some of the surrounding witnesses flinched, but most showed smiles since this old drunkard was hated around these parts. 

The man's name was Sammy O'Conel, and he had only come to the Cotton Club for the free drinks. 

However, for the entirety of his stay, Sammy had heckled any and all men and women who would listen.

Spewing constant badmouthing and racial slurs, he would even go far with the woman as well while fondling them and beating up any man who tried to stand up for them, knowing he could get away untouched.

Sammy was the type of person who found satisfaction in making others' days as miserable as his own life.

However, Owney always brushed it off as harmless, citing Sammy's First Amendment right to free speech. 

And why punish him for exercising that right? 

Over time, the regulars at the Cotton Club got used to Sammy's antics, until one day, he tried to heckle someone who should never have been heckled in the first place.

*BAM*

*BAM*

*BAM*

Ricky didn't stop there; his anger flared when he saw his opponent's face, and he began stomping on him, his heel digging into his body.

"WHAT IN TARNATION IS GOING ON HERE!" Owney strolled into his own establishment before screeching at the sight of his brother-in-law being stomped into oblivion.

"GET YOUR HANDS-by the hands of mother mary." Owney was about to pull Ricky off of him until he recognized just who his hands laid on.

*BAM*

Ricky, without batting an eye, sent a right hook right at Owney's throat as the Irish gangster gripped his neck.

"KUERK!" Owney let out a gargled air of breath as Ricky sent another punch into his gullet.

*GASP*

"You want some too, huh?" Ricky grabbed Owney's hair as he desperately tried to shake his head only for a knee to be thrusted into his face.

"Of course you do." Ricky spoke for him while throwing Owney to the ground before grabbing the glass that was recently poured for Owney's brother in law and downed it.

"Ah, that's good stuff~" Ricky wiped his mouth while looking at Booker who was frozen in shock.

"Aye Booker." Ricky wobbled while pointing at Booker still holding the trumpet as he flinched almost immediately.

"Where is this owner you spoke of, I've decided to make a very reckless decision." Ricky spoke words which made Booker wary though pointed at the down man.

"Right there, Slick." Booker pointed as the other nodded in response as Ricky scratched his head.

"No sh*t." Ricky looked down in surprise at the unconscious Owney before nodding his head.

"Well whatever." Ricky shrugged before taking Owney's collar and dragging him away.

"Where is this guy's office?" Ricky drunkenly asked Booker who anxiously scratched his head.

"It's in the main establishment, Slick." Booker informed as the crowd looked down instinctively.

"Then come over here and help me take him to his office so I can have a proper word with him." Ricky tried to lug him though he was too heavy as Booker bit his lip.

"I can't enter, it's a white only-"

"Jesus f*cking christ Booker, get your ass over here before I pull out a gun and make you do it!" Ricky yelled, unwilling to engage in a heartfelt moment about his apparent uncaring attitude towards Booker's return into the white only establishment. 

All he wanted was to get to the unconscious guy's office and Booker did as his name suggested and quickly made his way over to Ricky, helping carry his boss towards the main area of the Cotton Club. 

The club revealed itself to a drunken Ricky, who couldn't care less if the stage was made of gold as his sole focus was on carrying the unconscious Owney to his office.

"Phew~" Ricky and Booker let out almost at the same time once they set him on a chair.

*BURP*

"Cewel desssk." Ricky slurred his words, reaching new heights of drunkenness as he sat at the pristine wooden desk, only for Booker to misinterpret his words.

"Slick, it's not 'jeweled' it's wooden." Booker instinctively corrected Ricky before flinching as his face beamed pale at what he had just done.

Never in his life did he ever correct a white man since if he did, a beating would surely come afterwards causing him to prepare for the worst.

*PFFFT*

"Did I say Jeweled?" Ricky let out a drunken laugh while clutching his belly while leaning back in Oweny's chair.

"N-N-N-No I m-m-m-m-misheard-"

"Oh relax Booker, I'm not gonna lynch you." Ricky joked only to see that it clearly didn't make Booker laugh but instead terrified.

*Sigh*

"Listen Booker, I really don't give a f*ck if you were purple. The only thing that matters is if you're annoying or not, and you're pretty cool." Ricky tried to calm the visibly shaking Booker since he knew all too well what happened to people who spoke their mind.

In this era, Jim Crow laws enforced rampant segregation between whites and blacks however unlike in the south, the north was a little more tolerant.

Ironically, despite its name, the Cotton Club was inaccessible to black people, who were relegated to a shabby area located to the side of the club where they could only drink for inflated prices. 

The only time a black man was ever seen in the Cotton Club was if they were performing there for the white guests.

While segregation in Northern states like New York was not as rigid as in places like the south, it was still present. 

Segregation in the North was often economic and informal rather than official. 

For example, it wasn't "illegal" for black and white students to attend the same school, but school districts would be drawn so that mostly black students would attend a particular school. 

But even then, some white students would attend mostly black schools and vice versa.

When white families found themselves in a black-majority area, they often moved to mostly white suburbs, encouraged by practices like redlining and declining property values, which led to a popularized term called white flight. 

This was a primary way racism manifested in Northern states, however, tolerance did not equate to equality, and not everyone considered themselves equal to their fellow man.

"O-Ohhhh~" Owney let out a pained groan as Ricky raised an eyebrow, not at the whining man, but at the object lying under the table.

"Look at this beauty." Ricky admired the pistol in his hand that was found under the desk, waving it around as Booker ducked right when the barrel hovered towards him.

"Jesus Mary and Joseph, I'm gonna be shot by some white boy.'' Booker was scared out of his wits end when Ricky suddenly pulled out a pistol and started waving it around as he grabbed his chest.

"What is-R-RICKY WAIT!" Owney looked up before the memory of his encounter with Ricky was jarred to the forefront of his mind with the sight of him waving around a gun.

"I-I didn't know and Sammy was wrong-"

"Oh shut up, you don't even know what he did." Ricky almost sneezed from being so allergic to his BS, waving the gun in his hand as if to try to dismiss the smell of it.

"Ricky can't we talk-"

*Burp*

"How come you're the only one here that seems to know who I am?" Ricky asked, leaning on his hand while Owney gulped when gazing at his own pistol in Ricky's hand.

"T-The Italian mafia's tend to keep to themselves more than others, but I'd be a fool not to know the son of Lucky Luciano." Owney buttered Ricky up and told him the whole truth.

Unlike the other gangs in terms of notoriety and outward influence, the scars from Silicy ran deep within the Italian mobs which is why they were so insistent on keeping their names on the low outside their own territories.

This was real reason no one truly knew Ricky's appearance since earlier on, Lucky had invested heavily in protecting his identity along with the other members. 

Yet, despite these efforts, there were always outliers.

"I know he was wrong." Owney stuck with his words as Ricky let out a dry laugh before pointing the waving gun at him.

"Ya know I feel really insulted, so how are you going to make it up to me?" Ricky raised an eyebrow, speaking as if it wasn't himself that started everything while forcing Owney to bite his lip.

"Anything Slick, I'll do anything to get out of your hair." Owney closed his eyes, praying he could simply get out of this situation while Ricky nodded with a relieved face.

"That's great, real great, then I'll just tell you what I want." Ricky laughed heartily as he gazed at Owney who forced a laugh to join in.

"I want this club."