“From our window seat we could see the crowded sidewalk where housewives bickered with vendors over greens, olives, cheeses, clams, whatever; it was an Italian version of Maxwell Street, a barrel of work gloves here, a bin of bread there, anything you needed, from pomegranates to underwear. “I always think of Harlem as Negro,” Evalyn admitted, as we began dessert, each of us working on a gaudy pastry. “East Harlem isn’t,” I said, cutting the dick-shaped sweet with a knife. “Lucky Luciano operate...s out of this part of town. Lucky and the boys noticed a long time ago there was money to be made in Negro Harlem.” “Money?” “Sure. Most of the big nightclubs in Harlem have Italian owners, or anyway mob guys like Owney Madden—you’ve heard of the Cotton Club, Evalyn? And a couple years ago, Luciano made his move on the colored numbers racket, from here.” “This apartment house we’re going to,” she said, “seems to be mostly Germans.” “Not surprising.” “In an Italian neighborhood?”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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