America 1982-Chapter 399 - 49: Martin’s Fruit_3
"No, we’ve run into some trouble, Martin, maybe you can help me," Spike immediately said.
Martin patted the credit card in his pocket that belonged to Tommy, making sure it was still there, "Of course, I’m always willing to help people out."
Even Spike Lee and Vanessa Williams were asking for help from this unimpressive-looking Martin Hart, and everyone present, besides gaping, had nothing else to say. Even the nightclub manager quietly shuffled his feet closer to Martin, curious to learn more about this Mr. Hart from the West Coast.
"Uh... It’s about the movie ’Do the Right Thing’ that Tommy invested in. We used to shoot on Stuyvesant Avenue in Brooklyn, but now the problem is that we need to reshoot a few scenes, so we’re back here. But there’s a street gang called the Decepticons that says we have to pay them more protection money, or they won’t let us start filming. When you called, we were negotiating with them. Vanessa said that when she filmed ’NiggerBoss,’ she encountered trouble with a crew in Compton, and it was you and your guys who stepped in to resolve it. So, maybe you could come over and have a word with them to help us solve this problem?" Spike Lee explained from the other end of the phone.
Hearing this, Martin immediately swallowed hard!
He could throw his weight around in Compton because the Jack brothers and the infamous Butcher of Compton backed him up, and the Jack brothers followed his orders mainly because their boss had instructed them to listen to him, an important figure from the East Coast. It wasn’t actually because of his own problem-solving abilities.
And how would a black street gang from New York take orders from a black gang from Los Angeles?
He feared that if he went there and introduced himself as the NiggerBoss from Compton, Los Angeles, asking for face from these guys, he might just get a gun pulled on him and a one-way trip back to Los Angeles in a hearse.
Now looking around at the people who already considered him a big shot from the black community in Los Angeles, Martin tried to relax, adopting the demeanor he’d observed from his boss, lifted his glass, and said nonchalantly,
"How much do they want?"
If it wasn’t much, if worse came to worst, he could just pay them with his boss’s credit card.
"A hundred thousand," Spike said gloomily.
"What? A hundred thousand could buy half the lives in Compton!" Martin blurted out when he heard the figure.
Spike explained helplessly, "If we have to choose a new location, we’ll have to spend even more to rebuild a pizzeria and half a street somewhere else. They know this, and that’s why they’re asking for that amount."
Martin deeply regretted his decision to call Vanessa. A phone call to the actress was going to cost him a hundred thousand dollars. The investment was so disproportionate to the returns, it was immeasurable.
"Spike, my guys are all in Los Angeles. It will take time for them to get here, and I don’t have many capable people in New York. Around here there are just some..." Martin glanced at his black friends nearby and said, "nobodies. Look, I’ll go there and pay the hundred thousand. Once your movie makes money after release, we’ll talk about whether or not you need to pay me back."
He knew Spike Lee didn’t have much money; the guy would mortgage his own property just to finance his movies, so he didn’t expect him to repay the money immediately. But he couldn’t bear the cost himself in the end.
Just imagine, he was only doing his job normally and had been sent by his boss’s father to clean a carriage that hadn’t been used in over a hundred years. If he owed his boss a hundred thousand, he estimated the other party might make him toil in that damn mill until he dropped dead.
"Thank you, Martin. We’ll wait for you to come over," Spike Lee, with no better options, replied. New York street gangs were trouble, and he didn’t even dare call the police; if a few of them were arrested, the gang, angered, would retaliate against him and the crew with even more brutal methods to wash away their so-called shame.
Martin hung up the phone, looked at everyone, and announced, "Party’s over, folks. You all heard, I have some other matters to attend to."
With that said, he prepared to leave. At that moment, a young, large black man, dressed plainly and completely unlike the others, stood up from the outermost seat in the crowd. He hadn’t spoken much all evening, and even when his arranged date talked to him, he was very shy, so much so that Martin didn’t even remember his name.
Now, the young, tall black man approached Martin, "Mr. Hart, may I come with you?"
"You are... what’s your name again?" Martin asked while putting on his coat with help from his female companion.
"Albert, Albert Kell," the black man said with an honest face, "I’m from Brooklyn; I know the area well."
Martin had thought to call Page and have him accompany him, as he was used to having Page by his side for support. But hearing the black man’s offer, Martin finally nodded, "But I don’t have time to drop you home, kid."
After getting into the rented Lincoln, Martin lay back in his seat with his eyes closed, frustrated, while Albert debated for a while. Eventually, he naively asked, "Sir, are you really going to pay the Decepticons gang a hundred thousand?"
