It wasn't until the black chauffeur that came with the rented car, with a smile on his face, personally opened the door for Martin, and Martin stepped out of the white Lincoln limousine—the same model used by Michael Jackson—holding a glass of wine and dressed in brand new designer clothes with tags still attached, that he still felt like everything he was experiencing was just a dream.
His boss had actually let him rent a luxury car to see the famous nightclubs of New York.
Even Mr. Page didn't get this kind of treatment; who would dare say Tommy or his father were white supremacists? Martin felt he would be the first to rush up and knock down those slanderers.
Before him now was an old three-story building on New York's 125th Street, with a neon sign on its roof displaying its name to New York: The Cotton Club.
