Minetta Lane

Chapter 1 The Minettas BLACK WAS WHITE and White was Black in the Minettas, where both the roads and the rules curved in unusual directions. The point at which Minetta Lane intersected with Minetta Street was the heart of a neighborhood that adhered to a race-based code. The street followed the crooked path of an old covered-up creek, giving the area yet another nickname: The Bend. Everyone was well advised to proceed with caution on either of the Minettas, but Black residents had a permanent pass. Whites became immediate targets, except for the Irish gangsters, who walked the streets with impunity because even the thugs in the Bend gave respect when respect was due. “Got ’em when he came ’round the corner. Couldn’t believe all the money he had on him,” Nine-Finger Nate bragged as he gripped a stack of bills with his left hand, which did not feature an index finger, while celebrating his success with his right. “He needed me to ’splain why the cash mine, so I clubbed him ’til he understood. Not enough to bring any police down here . . .” The leader of the group, who went by the name Blood, reassured his men. “No cops gonna come down here—ain’t been here for years. Remember the copper who chased Nine-Finger on the avenue last week? He stopped dead in his tracks as soon as we all waved hello. The police know better than to come in here.” Blood paused when he spotted an inebriated White man wobbling in the distance. Nine-Fingers stated the obvious. “Has no idea where he is. Drunk as s**t. Who next?” Blade raised his hand and the whispers began. “Right this way. We got something for ya. Yep, keep on coming.” They all muffled their laughter as the man, in his twenties, stumbled toward them. Blade disappeared into a tenement, kneeled behind a trapdoor, and pulled the intoxicated man into the basement, relieving him of both his money and his boots. The man was rewarded for his cooperation with a little cross, carved surface-level on his leg with a knife—Blade’s signature move. Those who fought were branded in a more conspicuous manner. Blade’s efforts didn’t yield much of a payday, but the men approved of his new footwear. Blood interrupted the congratulations with a clap of his hands. A Black man stood at the entrance to the lane and appeared to be about the same age as their last visitor. The rules were clear—if he lived in the area, they’d let him proceed unmolested. Otherwise, Black or White didn’t matter. “Man, if that boy turned to his side, you couldn’t see him at all. He may be long, but he sure ain’t wide! Won’t be much trouble at all. Hope we don’t know him,” Nine-Finger said. Bodee Rivers rested against a lamppost at the Sixth Avenue end of the lane. Despite the dim lighting, which provided a better view of shadows than people, he had observed the drunken White man walk down the road and disappear into a building. He checked the piece of paper in his hand one last time. Yup, 17 Minetta Lane. What should I do? Don’t have any money or other place to go, but there’s no way I’m getting through those guys. He glanced to the left and right for alternatives, but found none so he remained frozen in place. Need to go back. Can’t get through. The men moved into the street as they greeted an elderly woman with nods of deference. The woman exchanged some words with the group, pointed, and the entire contingent began a slow march toward Bodee’s position. Are they coming for me or are they going somewhere past me? he thought. Better hide and be ready to run. I’ll try another time. The group advanced to a spot about twenty feet away from the end of the block and the woman held up her right hand. “Stop. It’s him.” Meanwhile, Bodee ran into a nearby alley on Sixth Avenue, slipped behind a tall crate, and stood still with his back flush to the wall. Never find me here—no way, but what if they do? Ain’t no way out. How do I keep getting myself in these situations? Made a mistake coming here. The woman continued alone, but hesitated after turning right onto Sixth and peered down the street. A cat jumped from its perch above the crate, startling Bodee, who took a quick step out and another back into his hiding place. He dug back into the wall, hoping he hadn’t been discovered. The woman walked toward the source of the sound and stopped when she spotted the tip of a shoe sticking out from behind the box—she waited. After a few moments of awkward silence, she called out, “A grown man shouldn’t be hiding like a scared boy. Come on out.” He didn’t move. “No one will hurt you and nobody here with me. I got something to show you.” She removed a tattered photograph from her bag. “Bodee, I’m your Grandma Juba. Spent time with you when you nothing more than a baby. This an old picture of your mama. Been expecting you. Walk by my side and as long as you with me, nobody will do you no harm. Welcome home.”