America 1982-Chapter 284 - 12: Big Shot Martin
Long Beach, inside a community bar named Clarity in the North Long Beach black community.
Two black policemen in uniform stood in a corner of the bar, smoking and quietly laughing in conversation with Page, a long-lost former colleague.
Tommy’s bodyguard, mouthpiece, barber, and TV actor, Mr. Martin Hart, now shirtless, wore only an Armani suit that still had its tags, his wrist adorned with a flashy gold watch. On his chest, apart from the abundance of chest hair, the most noticeable thing was an almost baby-arm-thick gold chain. The gold diamond rings on both his middle and ring fingers gleamed as he stood at the center of the bar, with a stern face, holding a beer, and surveying the forty-plus black men and women who had been invited into the bar by the policemen and Page. 𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢
He looked just like those gang leaders from the black community, while Page and the policemen beside him seemed more like his private guards.
These black individuals clearly recognized the policemen and Page, but they felt somewhat puzzled about Martin’s identity. Why did it seem like these two notorious former policemen from Long Beach’s black quarter were so subservient to him?
Who exactly was this black man that even the black butcher, Lotte Page, worked for him?
Just moments ago, Page, the old white man himself, had opened a beer and handed it to the imposing young black man under everyone’s watchful eyes.
It had been many years since North Long Beach had witnessed such domineering presence, a sight usually reserved for the black leaders of Compton, Los Angeles.
"Martin, Martin Hart, that’s my name," Martin slowly gulped down a mouthful of beer, then looked around at the black individuals sitting on various seats in front of him. He tried to mimic the tone of the black gang bosses he had seen in Miami, arrogantly saying,
"Listen up, you guys, I need a little favor from you. Sit here for sixty minutes, freely enjoy the drinks and food, and when you leave, you all will receive a gift. Page, show them the gifts I’ve prepared."
Page flicked away his cigarette butt, walked to a storage room in the corner of the bar, and returned holding a medium-sized cardboard box, which he opened in the center of the bar. Inside was a box full of packaged food, all from top brands—not the cheap stuff from discount supermarkets—milk, organic oats, and some fruit, all overflowing inside the box.
"Enough food for a family of four for two days, a gift from Mr. Hart to you," Page said, then stepped back behind Martin.
Seeing Page’s humble demeanor towards Martin, the black onlookers couldn’t help but exclaim in surprise. When had Old Page ever been so polite to black folks? With a ruthless record of killing seven black individuals without conviction due to so-called mental illness, he had always been a terror in Long Beach. But now, he was actually addressing a black man with respect!
They racked their brains, attempting to sift through their memories to figure out what made this Martin Hart so significant.
"And the favor is really simple. I’ve set up a TV station, a black-owned TV station, and there’s a test broadcast program that I want you to watch and give me some feedback on," Martin said, glancing at Page and tilting his head slightly.
Page took out a tape from his pocket, went to the TV set at the bar, inserted the tape into the home video player, and after setting it up, turned on the screen.
The black individuals looked curiously at the screen, wondering about a black TV station, a test broadcast program?
"What should I call you? Ma’am," the TV showed a black host holding a microphone, standing outside a clearly run-down black family home, asking a young black woman beside him.
"Helen," the woman replied nervously.
The host continued, smiling at Helen, "Alright, Helen, you wrote in your application that you have five daughters, wow... and they are all named Helen? You and your five daughters, you’re all named Helen?"
Helen nodded nervously, "Yes."
"...I mean, how do you tell them apart? Like when you call them to eat or something?" the host asked, puzzled.
Encouraged by the host, Helen tried to calm herself on camera, "I just call out ’Helen, come to eat,’ and then they all show up."
"Okay, but what if you want to speak to just one of them, how do you do it then?" the host posed another question.
Helen looked at the host as if he were an idiot before saying, "...I call them by their last names."
The group of black individuals in the bar burst into laughter at Helen’s response, as this is indeed a common situation for single black mothers, although it’s rare for mothers to give all their children the same name.
"That means, your five daughters each have a different father," the host asked with an exaggerated expression.
Helen nodded, "Yes."
"Then you’ve come to the right place, Helen. ’Finding Daddy in America’ is here to help you and your children out of this tough spot! Come on, let’s go inside and meet your kids," the host said excitedly, "I can’t wait to help you!"
The host was led by the woman into a messy abode, and inside the living room, two black girls around five or six years old were sitting on a couch, watching TV while taking care of their youngest sister, who couldn’t be older than three, as she snacked on chips. As soon as they entered, the host immediately instructed the camera to pan away from the television set and reminded Helen, saying:
