Prologue Harlem waits. Patched and tarred. Hawked and bitten in the winter, smothered and melted in the heat. Harlem waits… Under its broad skies, pincered between two rivers. Within sight of salvation, the city’s lights, the jeweled bridges. Battered and besieged, on its knees, but unbowed. With blood in its mouth— Harlem waits, and listens for its savior. MALCOLM The rest of the crew were giggling like schoolboys, shrugging off their kitchen uniforms in the cab. Struggling into suits that were more conservatively cut than Malcolm’s but still sharp—light blue and greens, and creamy whites, with bright, skinny ties that Read More