by Omar Tyree
The reporter saw there was no way around him and shook his head.
“No, there’s no problem.”
Jurrell leaned back up, nodded his head, and said, “Good. You can go now.”
The young reporter walked off without another word.
“Sorry I’m a little late, Shareef,” Jurrell commented. “But when you gotta chase that dollar, you gotta chase that dollar. You know what I mean?”
He was all suited and tied up, but still gangsta with his swagger.
He said, “Well, let’s roll. I’m parked right up the street.”
The two men headed up Lenox toward 126th Street, with Shareef still cautious of his surroundings.
“So, what was that all about?” Jurrell asked him.
Shareef grinned. “Actually, I think I was in the wrong on that one. I screamed on that kid twice now. But does he know who you are?”
Shareef was impressed with how easily Jurrell had silenced him.
Jurrell answered, “Nah, I just have a way of talking to people. You know me, man. I size a nigga up, and know just how I can get to him.”
“Yeah, you got that right.”
They made a right on 126th Street and reached Jurrell’s car parked close to the corner. It was a dark blue Lexus GS 400. Jurrell popped open the doors with his remote key.
“I never would have thought of you as a Lexus man,” Shareef commented as he climbed in on the passenger side.
“Exactly,” Jurrell responded. “You gotta keep ’em guessing. So I left the Mercedes, Beemers, and SUVs alone. They’re too much of a target.”
He made it sound as if he was still illegal.
Shareef asked him, “You still doing things you need to stay under the radar for?”
Jurrell started the ignition and pulled into traffic.
“Nah,” he answered. “I’m just trying to stay under the radar from people who know me from my past life.” He said, “That’s why I was so happy to see you back up in Harlem. You’re like reinforcement for me to stay on the straight and narrow. You a brother who made it from here, you know. In fact, you need to start thinking about investing up in Harlem.”
As he spoke, one of his three cell phones went off. The one ringing was red. He also wore a black and a blue phone, all laced to his black belt.
“Hold on a minute,” he told Shareef. “Harlem Mobile,” he answered. He listened and responded, “Yeah, I got the new ones. The LR oh-two and oh-three models, right? They added a couple more features and made ’em sturdier. The previous model was breaking too much…”
He stopped and listened again. “Yeah, I got them, too. But they cost twice as much as the regular phone. I’m just letting you know that up front. ’Cause I don’t want no surprises with my money.”
Shareef was surprised with how safe he felt while riding inside of Jurrell’s car. He seemed to have forgotten all about the street goons who were after him at the moment. Would they still be after him while he was with Jurrell, or was that only a false perception?
“So, where are we headed?” he asked.
“I’m checking out these new condos on Madison, Park, and Lexington. They got storefront property available on the bottom.”
Jurrell looked Shareef in the eyes and said, “Harlem is changing, man. Harlem is changing.”
Shareef said, “You still got your hard rocks on the streets though.” He wanted to lean their conversation toward his current predicament.
Jurrell smiled as he waited in traffic to make a right turn onto Park Avenue.
He said, “You’re never gonna get rid of that. Getting rid of criminals is like getting rid of poverty. And that ain’t gon’ happen in America. Poverty keeps things in order. It’s like the slow lanes and the fast lanes on a highway. The broken down cars stay to the right, and the sports cars and limos do their thing on the left.”
“I should just stay in my lane then, hunh?” Shareef asked him and grinned.
Jurrell looked at him and said, “Nah. You still gotta exit sometime, right? The rich and the poor are both on the same highways. So we still have to cross paths.”
Shareef nodded. Their conversation was nowhere near what he wanted to talk about. He figured Jurrell had indeed traveled a long way in his life. He sounded like another street philosopher, how Cynthia had explained Michael Springfield. And that gave Shareef the idea to go straight for the jugular.
“Yo, you hear about Michael Springfield this morning?”
“Nah, what about him?”
Before Shareef could respond with more information, Jurrell’s black cell phone rang. He looked down at the number on the screen and pressed mute to let it ring.
Shareef said, “I heard somebody set him up and shanked him today. Did you hear that?”
Jurrell nodded and said, “Now I have.” He added, “But you should have known that. When you get involved with inmates, you don’t know what their situation is gonna be. That’s why I always told my mother to pray for me and don’t expect to see me again. And she didn’t like me saying that shit, but that’s what it was. On any given day you can die in prison.”
He said, “They’re not reforming anybody in there. You reform yourself, and you stay out of other people’s business.”
“So, what do you think happened with Michael Springfield? He got in somebody else’s business?”
“Or they just got in his,” Jurrell answered. It was that simple to him.
He said, “You still gotta remember the crabs in a barrel syndrome with our people. Maybe Springfield hooking up with you was too good a thing for somebody else in there to handle. And it go down like that sometimes. It’s old debts and old enemies. That’s what I mean by staying low out here. You can’t be too flashy with people who know you. But if you act too broke, you can’t get no business. So you have to work a happy medium.”
Before Shareef could respond, Jurrell parked the car and hopped out for his first appointment. Shareef followed him out and thought about his attire. He wasn’t dressed as professionally that day as Jurrell was in his sharp suit. Shareef wore blue jeans and a tennis shirt.
“You sure you want me going in here with you?” he asked to make sure. “I mean, you look like the pro, and I look like the scrub today.”
Jurrell looked him over and laughed. “Don’t worry about that. I got it.”
Shareef followed him across Park Avenue and into a new building of burnt-orange brick and gray cement that was twelve stories high. The first level was all storefronts that were mostly empty.
Jurrell pointed to them.
“This right here is a gold mine, but most of us can’t afford the rent.”
Shareef looked and nodded. He agreed with Jurrell’s assessment. The right business on the ground level of Park Avenue was sure to draw an easy crowd.
They walked into the entranceway and security area, where there were key entry sensors, a room intercom system, a video camera, and a security guard station inside to the right. Jurrell punched in five numbers for the sales office.
“Harlem’s Park Avenue Number Three,” a receptionist spoke through the intercom system.
“Yes, this is Jurrell Garland. I have a one o’clock appointment for a walk-through.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Garland. When you enter the building, you want to turn to your right; we are halfway down the hall on the left.”
“Thank you.”
Nnnrrrrrkk!
The glass door buzzed open for Jurrell and Shareef to walk inside. They spoke to the security officer and headed on their way down the hall toward the sales office. When they arrived, the receptionist got their full attention. She was a college-educated dime-piece wearing a tailored peach suit. She stood from her desk and introduced herself to Jurrell immediately.
“Hello, Mr. Garland, my name is Meredith. Welcome to Harlem Park Avenue Number Three. If you’d like to have a seat, I’ll let our sales manager, Barbara Cunningham, know that you’re here.”
“Okay,” Jurrell responded and took
a seat.
There were comfortable sofas spread around the office with coffee tables filled with magazines. Four architecture models of the Harlem Park Avenue condominiums were displayed on four-foot-high stands.
Instead of taking a seat next to Jurrell, Shareef took a look at the models. The first element that struck him were the outdoor swimming pool and tennis and basketball courts placed inside the condominium walls on the roof of the fourth floor.
Jurrell followed Shareef’s eyes and chuckled. “That’s the same thing that got me. I saw it on the Internet. Now we’ll see it in real life.”
Shareef couldn’t help himself from thinking, I wonder how much a two-bedroom costs here.
Meredith walked back out from the sales manager’s office. “Barbara will be right out to see you.”
Jurrell repeated, “Okay.” He seemed at ease there. He even crossed his legs, wearing black leather shoes and dress socks. On a hunch, he asked Meredith, “Do you know who this guy is?” in reference to Shareef.
Meredith sat back behind her desk and looked Shareef over.
When it took her too long to respond, Jurrell filled her in. “You ever heard of the author Shareef Crawford?”
Meredith’s eyes stretched wide. “Get out of here.” She pulled a hardback book from out of her desk. She flipped it over—The Full Moon—and felt embarrassed when she stared at his mug on the back jacket.
She then covered her face with both hands. “Oh, my God. Like, I never really thought about meeting an actual author before.” She held the book out and asked, “Can you sign this for me?”
Shareef felt as awkward as she did. Jurrell had put them both on the spot.
“Sure, I’ll sign it.”
Meredith hustled back out of her chair to bring it to him. By the time she reached him, the sales manager, Barbara Cunningham, a white woman in her forties, walked out from her office, followed by a gray-haired white man in his fifties.
She shook his hand and said, “Welcome again to Harlem Park Avenue Number Three.”
Shareef signed Meredith’s book and asked her how she spelled her name to personalize it.
“So you’re a writer, are ya’?” the gray-haired man asked him. He peeked to see what name was on the front of the book jacket.
Shareef nodded to him. “We all don’t play basketball,” he joked.
Jurrell stood up from his seat and laughed. “That’s for sure,” he agreed.
Barbara Cunningham asked him, “So, you two know each other?”
Jurrell answered, “Do we know each other? We did the first nine years of grade school together. Now he lives down south, and I’m try’na get him to see what Harlem is up to now.”
Barbara jumped on it like a true businesswoman. “Oh, we have a two-for-one deal then. We have condos available that are right next to each other if you’re interested.”
Shareef caught on and didn’t want to ruin Jurrell’s game, so he went along with the program.
“Well, you know, I have to see what you’re offering first.”
Barbara chirped, “Okay, well, let me get the keys.”
They followed her out of the office and around the bottom floors of the building, where Barbara showed them the fitness center, the media room, a reading lounge, a grand ballroom with three sections, and several conference rooms with long tables and tall business chairs.
When they reached the fifth floor and walked outside into the courtyard area, Shareef and Jurrell both felt like kids in a new playground. The recreational area was elevated on a two-foot-high platform, with two full basketball courts, three tennis courts, and an Olympic-sized swimming pool with a diving board at the deep end.
Shareef said, “Impressive.”
Barbara chuckled at him. “Oh, it’s lovely, isn’t it? Physical fitness and family recreation is the way of the new world. And at Harlem Park Avenue condominiums, we want to make our residents feel as though they can get away from home without having to leave the premises.”
“I heard that,” Jurrell spoke up.
They stepped onto the platform before the sales manager pointed out the two-foot drainage system that surrounded the elevated courtyard.
She said, “We have a drainage system for rain and snow that surrounds the courtyard. That way the elements of the Harlem weather will never settle on the roof. The rain and snow empty right into a drain system connected to the plumbing of the building. There’s even heated pipes to help melt the snow and ice of winter.”
Shareef nodded. “So you thought of everything in advance.”
“Oh, yes. We’ve had this Park Avenue design since two thousand and one.”
After a few minutes of looking around and admiring it all, Barbara said, “Now we can go look at some of our availabilities.”
As she walked forward in front of them, Jurrell whispered, “This shit’ll make you forget you’re still in Harlem.”
Shareef grinned and chuckled.
Once they were shown the first three-bedroom condo on the sixth floor, it all began to come together.
“We have hardwood floors, large living and dining room areas, walk-in closets, stand-alone showers, Jacuzzi baths, a washer and dryer room, state-of-the-art stoves, microwaves and refrigerators—all from General Electric—ceiling fans, large bay windows available on the upper floors, a central-heating and air-conditioning system, a maid service…”
Jurrell finally stopped her rapid delivery and said, “A maid service?”
“Yes, we have a maid service and a dry-cleaning service, both available by call, or by scheduled appointment,” she answered.
“So, how much would this one cost?” Shareef asked her.
Barbara squinted her eyes and answered, “I believe this one is one point six million. And the three-bedrooms on the penthouse level go for two point four. But we only have one of those left.”
She ran off those prices if they were professional basketball players with millions to burn.
Neither Jurrell or Shareef flinched.
Nevertheless, Shareef stated, “Let’s see what else you got in the small-man’s price range.”
Jurrell laughed and agreed with him. “Dig it. I gotta put on another hundred pounds before I can fit in this one.”
The second condo they saw was a two-bedroom for eight hundred sixty-seven thousand on the ninth floor. Then they viewed a one-bedroom for six hundred thirty-five thousand on the tenth.
Shareef asked her, “Do you have any split-level lofts?”
A split-level loft was what he owned in Florida.
“Yes, we do,” she answered him. “And all of our split levels are located on the east side of the building, facing the Harlem River. Would you like to see those next?”
Jurrell nodded. “Yeah, let me see what that looks like.”
They walked over to the east side of the building and took one of the elevators back down to the fourth floor. When they entered the loft, it was the smallest square-foot area they had viewed so far.
Barbara told them, “This is the smallest loft we have, a one-bedroom at eight hundred seventeen square feet.”
Jurrell walked inside and liked the floor plan immediately. It was small, but not that small. It was small enough for intimacy, but large and open enough to move some nice furniture around with a large flat-screen television set. And since he didn’t have a family to worry about, he figured he didn’t need that much room anyway. Then he spotted the stairs to the right of the room and took a walk up to see the bedroom.
“Oh, yeah, I like this one,” he commented from the stairs. “You just keep everybody downstairs unless you give them private admittance for up here.”
Shareef and Barbara smiled at it. Shareef figured Jurrell would like a split-level. There were few people who didn’t like them, especially for bachelor pads. The split-levels seemed to be a real turn-on with women. They always wanted to see what’s upstairs.
“What’s the price on this?” Jurrell asked from over the bedroom rail.
“How many of these do you have available?” Shareef asked her.
“I believe…three or four. But I have to check again in the office.”
Jurrell walked back down the stairs. He said, “I don’t need much more room than this. This size right here is perfect. And this whole split-level thing is sexy, like you got a house inside of an apartment.”
Shareef chuckled to see Jurrell so excited by it.
“So, the down payment is ten percent, and twenty percent to bypass the mortgage insurance?” Shareef asked the sales manager.
She nodded. “That’s correct.”
Shareef did the quick math and said, “So that’s about forty-five thousand to get in and ninety thousand to bring the monthly mortgage down.”
Barbara looked at Shareef and told him, “It sounds like you’re a pro at this.”
“Yes, ma’im, I’ve gone through the process a few times now.”
Jurrell looked at Shareef and nodded. He was very pleased that he had brought Shareef there to help with the negotiations.
Barbara said, “Now, of course, you know the owners association has dues payments every six months, and the final say on new resident applications. But you guys should pass that with flying colors. A phone company entrepreneur and a bestselling author—they would love to have the both of you here.”
Jurrell and Shareef eyed each other. The owners association was definitely something they would need to discuss.
“We’ll both take home a package with the floor plans and prices that we’re interested in and get back to you,” Shareef told her.
“Well, the Harlem Park Avenue condominiums have been rated number one in affordable luxury, occupancy, overall service, and in equal employment hiring. So while you two shop around for a new home in Harlem, just remember that we are one of the best,” the saleswoman concluded.
JURRELL LEFT THE APPOINTMENT with Shareef and was ecstatic.
“Damn, Shareef, we worked the shit out of that. But do you think they’ll do a background check on me or something?”
“A credit check,” Shareef told him. “You have to qualify for a mortgage loan.” And honestly, he didn’t see how that was going to happen unless Jurrell had built up an excellent credit record since being released from prison.