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Albert stares in front of him, drumming on the radio.
"Maybe $2 million!" screams Winston.
Albert still shows no response.
"How about $2.5 million and naked women?" Winston turns to look.
"You're sick," says Albert.
They tour Brooklyn aimlessly, its heights and its depths, past isolated mansions on Ocean Avenue, down Flatbush where decay is like fungus on cellar walls, up Fulton Street where the wreckage is nearly complete. Blacks in Brooklyn are passive invaders, hermit crabs, living in shells built for other creatures. Except for sporadic housing projects nothing has been built for them. It's a land of hand-me-downs.
Finally Winston drops Albert off at the Fort Greene Projects on Myrtle Avenue about half a mile from the Brooklyn Bridge. Albert lives with his parents, four brothers and a sister in an apartment on the 12th floor. He often has to take the stairs to his apartment because the elevator, like many of the other conveniences, seldom works.
The irony of Albert's current situation as opposed to the one predicted for him because of his basketball skills is becoming ponderous. Just yesterday he received a letter from Coach Lefty Driesell's office at the University of Maryland urging him to have an enjoyable summer and to fill out a basketball questionnaire. The University of Maryland has obviously heard about Albert King. There is also the fact that his girl friend just moved to Arizona. He feels so down he declines Winston's offer of a free snack at Colonel Sanders. "I don't feel like eating," he says. "Or anything."
The Eastern high school calls about Albert. The townspeople want him so badly they're ready to make him mayor. All the wealthy citizens are behind the project and there's big money to back it up—free clothes, free food, an apartment, undisclosed luxuries.
"Rodney," the spokesman says, "we can take care of the boy."