America 1982-Chapter 397 - 49: Martin’s Fruit
It wasn’t until the black chauffeur that came with the rented car, with a smile on his face, personally opened the door for Martin, and Martin stepped out of the white Lincoln limousine—the same model used by Michael Jackson—holding a glass of wine and dressed in brand new designer clothes with tags still attached, that he still felt like everything he was experiencing was just a dream.
His boss had actually let him rent a luxury car to see the famous nightclubs of New York.
Even Mr. Page didn’t get this kind of treatment; who would dare say Tommy or his father were white supremacists? Martin felt he would be the first to rush up and knock down those slanderers.
Before him now was an old three-story building on New York’s 125th Street, with a neon sign on its roof displaying its name to New York: The Cotton Club.
"Good Lord, I never thought I’d be able to come to The Cotton Club in New York, my ancestors, your descendant has finally made it big." Martin drained the glass of wine and handed it to the driver beside him, then stepped toward the club’s main entrance. The black manager, who had been notified by phone and was waiting specifically for him, personally welcomed Martin in.
The Cotton Club in New York was seen by black people on the East Coast, or rather most of the United States, as the highest-level nightclub. It was established during the Prohibition era, but at that time, due to racial segregation policies, black people could not enter to patronize the club, even though it featured all of the renowned black performers of the time. Those black artists could only perform for white patrons.
The waitresses were all carefully selected black women, with even more stringent requirements than the Miss America Pageant. Each woman had to be under 21 years of age, at least five feet six inches tall, light-skinned, and during work, required to wear uniforms specially designed for the club—light, cool, sheer, and hazy.
In short, ensuring they didn’t fully expose their bodies but still allowed customers to vaguely glimpse any enchanting scene they wished to see.
At its peak, The Cotton Club had branches in over a dozen major cities including Las Vegas, Portland, Texas, California, and more.
However, these branches were mostly controlled by gangs, like the Cotton Club in Chicago, which was owned by the infamous Al Capone’s family, while the one in Las Vegas was owned by the Italian mob boss Carlo Wei’s family.
But everyone believed that the Cotton Clubs in other cities only shared the same name; only the Cotton Club in New York was truly worthy of being called a luxurious and fashionable high-society nightclub.
All of New York’s black people knew that The Cotton Club had the most beautiful black girls, but they could only watch as white people enjoyed the company of those women. Later, when World War II broke out and the United States began to relax restrictions on black people, allowing them to protest some of the extremist white policies, the first demand of nearly all affluent black men in New York to the government was to allow them to enter The Cotton Club just like white people.
This shows the obsession black people had with The Cotton Club. 𝑓𝘳𝑒𝑒𝓌𝘦𝘣𝘯ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝑚
Regrettably, although the government agreed, The Cotton Club did not. In the end, the white owner of the long-established club made a very tough decision to counter the government’s ruling.
That was to close permanently.
He would rather shut it down than allow black and white people to enjoy the same pleasure on his territory.
Later on, New York’s black elite, including Langston Hughes, along with other black entrepreneurs, acquired the now-shuttered Cotton Club, maintaining all its past shows and opening its doors to black people, making The Cotton Club an exclusive nightclub for them, and the original white clientele became mostly black.
Every renowned black singer and actor, including Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, Donna Summer, and others had performed there, turning the club into what was almost a sacred entertainment venue in the hearts of American black people.
So, when he learned that he could choose any place he wanted, Martin almost didn’t think twice before heading here.
"Tim, do you know where I am? I’m at the goddamn Cotton Club! The Cotton Club in New York!" Martin, sprawled grandly in the empty nightclub hall, holding his cell phone, called his distant cousin in New York: "The money isn’t easy to make at The Cotton Club? What do you mean it’s not easy to make? The guests only pay for one person, but in fact, there are four guys pinning your cousin down in the bathroom stall... I’m a customer! I’m not here to sell my ass in the restroom! What the fuck do you think of me? I’m a big shot, not some sleazy gay black guy looking to make quick cash in a nightclub! But speaking of which, how much could you earn for a quickie in the restroom of such a high-end club?"
"No, no, no, tell me where you are, I’ll have my driver come to pick you up. You can invite some friends over; of course, it’s on me, brother. Today, I am beyond what you can imagine."
Parties or entertainment are simply an irresistible temptation for black people. In two hours, The Cotton Club was filled with over thirty black people. Although apart from his cousin Tim, Martin didn’t recognize anyone, that didn’t stop him from having a good time socializing with them.
Martin, flanked by several female companions, basked in the adulation from his fellow black people who had come to join his party, bragging happily:
