In nineteen seventy-two it was like a curse had been spoken: Harlem, I put a spell on you.
It was an everyday reality. The streets bowed down to the power called heroin. One million dollars a day on one hundred and sixteenth street—thousands of lives held in captivity—thousands of demons set free. Dope fiends haunted doorways and stairwells, spooking everyone but the rats and roaches. Children played in the same alleys that hid pimping, pushing, and using. Heroin was King Kong on the community’s back. Someone had to do something.
“Freeze, you monkey ass fools!” Like justice herself, two Bauer .25 automatics aimed at her hemmed up prey, Arabica Jones broke down the bust. “Don’t make me chirp these Crickets. It won’t turn out too good for you boys!”
Her tight leather jumpsuit melted over her body like shiny black, liquid sugar. She spoke downward into her cleavage, “Wacko-jacko, wacko-jacko—Come get these fools!”
She shook her Afro in disgust. “You boys ain’t too swift—how you gonna let me roll up on you like this? You, Sweet Daddy Davis—don’t look away from me! Yes, you, fool. You goin’ up for a long ride!”
In the low-hanging, pale warehouse light; light that seemed almost afraid to touch anything, Detective Jones was on fire. Crates of pure heroin, stacked ten high surrounded her. There was product out on the table in between Davis, his four lieutenants and their suppliers; two of Davis’ men were white around their noses like Georgia mules. Davis coolly looked to the man on his left. As the man began to reach for the pistol on the table, the side door crashed open and the Vice squad swarmed in like army ants.
“Jones,” Chief O’Malley barked her name like a curse. Fat and sticky with sweat, he tore into the petite detective. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’!”
“Easy, man. I couldn’t wait any more. Hassle me later. Let’s just get this trash off the streets right now, okay?”
Her smooth smile was like cool water on O’Malley’s hot splotchy face. He was still pissed, but she did just close an eighteen month investigation; an investigation that before her involvement, was a cold one.
O’Malley: “How do you do all this in thigh boots with six inch heels on ‘em?”
Jones: With her hip cocked to one side, “Because I’m good.”
“Lis’en….” O’Malley spoke with less hostility. But Ms. Jones cut him off.
“Whatever! Damn. Can’t it wait until in the morning!” Arabica turned to strut away.
“Jones,” O’Malley growled, his greasy neck bulging over his sweat stained shirt collar.
“Yeah, I know. You’re gonna chew my ass off.” Walking away shaking her head on purpose, and her hips because, well, that’s just the way it was, “In the morning, man!”
O’Malley snorted, then bellowed, “I’ll be sure to skip breakfast!”
Diverting his attention to his men, he whipped up that big circle in the air over his head with his stubby, hairy index finger and hollered, “Wrap it up!”