American Gangster Read Online Free PDF

114th Street and a world of black people—Harlem USA, where Bumpy Johnson had come into his life.
    Frank didn’t consider himself a violent man. He was willing to respond in self-defense, when need be, and he would do violence when business called for it. He took no pleasure in fists, knives or guns, and did not seek such foolishness out.
    But foolishness did sometimes seek him out.
    For example, on a cold clear morning a week after Bumpy’s burial, Frank was sitting eating breakfast in his favorite diner, minding his own business, eating his damn eggs, reading the sports section. He hadn’t given ten seconds’ thought to Tango Black since he’d seen the bald thug scrounging food and drink at Bumpy’s wake.
    So when Tango and a bodyguard as big as he was came strutting into the diner, heading Frank’s way, Frank didn’t bother looking up from his paper. Tango was all in black, including a black leather jacket that said the dude was trying to be Shaft, only Shaft wouldn’t have worn all that gold jewelry.
    But when Tango planted himself next to Frank’s booth, Frank knew foolishness had arrived. Still, he did not bother to look up at the man. He had enough on his mind, reading the paper and forking his eggs at the same time.
    â€œDidn’t you see the jar, Frank?” Tango rumbled. He glanced back at his boy and they exchanged school-kid grins. “I think he walked right past it. . . . Did you walkright past my jar, Frank?”
    Frank already knew that there was no jar in question, not really. This was Tango being clever. Poetic. Frank ate a bite of eggs, not caring to comment on Tango’s poetry.
    Finally Tango plopped himself down across from Frank. The big man was smiling but not really happy. “The
money
jar, Frank. On the corner. What I got to do, put a damn sign on it?”
    Frank gestured to his mouth, indicating he mightanswer if he weren’t busy chewing. Tango waited with surprising patience for Frank to swallow, which he did, but his guest got an irritated look when Frank’s next move was to reach for his cup of coffee, and wash the bite down.
    With quiet menace, Tango said, “Bumpy don’t own 116th Street no more, Frank, in case you didn’t notice. Bumpy don’t own
no
real estate in Harlem no more, in point of actual fact. I’m the new landlord and the lease is twenty percent.”
    Frank, dabbing at his mouth with a paper napkin, gave Tango a skeptical look.
    Tango’s eyes widened and he gestured with open hands. “Don’t like the tariff? Then don’t sell no more dope, Frank. Try gettin’ a real fuckin’ job. Need one? I could use a driver, drive
me
around, open
my
door, like you done for Bumpy. Remember, Frank? Yessuh, nosuh, where to suh, right away, Massa Johnson suh.”
    Halfway through the speech—even before the most insulting part—Tango was a dead man. Of course, Tango didn’t know that. And Frank would let Tango walk around a while. But Tango was already a ghost, just getting an early start on haunting Harlem.
    Coolly, Frank said, “Twenty percent, huh?”
    The big bald head bobbed up and down. “Offa every dollar. Every vig, every truckload, every girl, every damn ounce. You pay your tribute like anybody else, Frank. You put it in the goddamn
jar
.”
    Gently smiling, Frank shook his head. “You’re a businessman, Tango. So you understand business.”
    â€œThat’s what we’re talkin’ about here. Business.”
    â€œBut twenty percent’s my profit margin. If I’m giving that to you, then what am I working for? I’m not looking for a hobby.” Frank shrugged. “You hit me, everyone you know, for twenty percent, you put us
all
out of business. Which puts
you
out of business.”
    Tango displayed a yard of white teeth. “Then you’ll just have to work harder, Frank. Raise your prices and shit.”
    Frank