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HE’D JUST STARTED his second term on the Council when an envelope came through the mail slot of his office. It was hand printed, the card inside engraved, inviting him to dinner at a private residence on the Upper East Side. It had no return address or contact information and Prieto’s assistant was about to throw it in the trash when the phone rang. The caller was confirming that the invitation was received and hoped that Councilman Acevedo would not be skipping their dinner. The timing freaked the secretary the fuck out and she ran into his office saying that she had canceled everything on his calendar before and after this dinner. He called one of his frat brothers who worked in real estate to see what he knew about the building.
“That address is nothing but money. I think they print it in the basement. The Selbys have two units in there. Both the brothers.”
In a city of real estate dynasties, the Selbys were one of New York’s most prominent. The father had spearheaded the redevelopment of Bryant Park a generation before, and the sons had sunk a fortune into redeveloping the Lower East Side, to mixed results. But, in the aftermath of September 11, they found opportunity. With downtown desolate of people, filled with dust, and backlogged by slow insurance payouts, and with landlords unable to collect rent, the brothers headed to Ground Zero with literal carloads of cash. Betting that the desire for immediate relief from misery would obscure any misgivings. The people—the small business tenants, condo owners, the landlords—certain that nothing could be built on top of all this tragedy, that nothing would ever be possible on this square of misery—thought them fools. In a highly public news conference, the Selby brothers unveiled a broad plan for the area, where, on a windy day, trapped ashes from the fallen buildings might still unwedge themselves and flurry the air with death.
The city, for its part, thought the Selbys Heroes of Hope—that’s what the mayor called them—and Prieto’s colleagues moved to reward them as such with tax breaks upon tax breaks. Who, in the wake of such disaster, wouldn’t support such entrepreneurial vision? For his part, Prieto was unsettled by any one family scooping up such concentrated plots of land, tax free, but sensed that public morale was too low for such cynicism. Besides, as his sister pointed out to him, with all of his colleagues from the Manhattan districts on Selby payroll of some form or another, why squander the political capital by raising the issue? Just quietly vote against it. No need to poke an urban bear.
Which is why, when he realized that it was this very bear summoning him to their ultra-luxurious, doorman-and-private-elevator-entry-actual-motherfucking-Picasso-in-the-foyer-and-a-maid-in-an-actual-motherfucking-maid-outfit lair, he knew it could be nothing good. Prieto had never given much thought to The Man. The notion of one mythical, monolithic, rich, powerful White Man puppeteering the lives of people of color to keep them dancing in service of his larger plan seemed far too simplistic to serve the complex issue of systemic oppression very well. But, on that spring night in 2003, after the maid took his briefcase and the butler escorted him to a dining room half a city block away, passing a museum’s worth of fine art en route, Prieto found himself thinking, if The Man existed, this would certainly be his apartment. He had made it a point to arrive fifteen minutes early—no person of color serious about being taken seriously was ever late to meet white people—but the two Selby brothers were already seated, napkins on their laps and wine poured. In that moment Prieto knew he’d already lost whatever battle he was about to fight. No matter what he had mentally prepared for, they were already a step ahead. It was a setup.
A place was laid for him, but where a plate would have been was an envelope. He sat and opened it, looking to their faces for a tell and finding none. He pulled out the photos and inhaled deeply; the first showed him fellating a man in what was clearly his own apartment, the next featured his face visible during intercourse, his partner clad in leather. He exhaled and stood up.
“I have to be honest, gentlemen. What have you got here? Some photos? Of me with a man? New York’s a very liberal city; this is hardly leverage.”
“New York is quite liberal, Councilman,” the elder brother, Arthur, said, “but you’re not the councilman for Chelsea or the West Village. You represent, as you so proudly say whenever a camera is near, Sunset Park. And I’m not so sure the Catholics and the macho Hispanic community you speak for would be quite as happy to be represented by—what’s the slang your people use?”
Nick, the younger, chimed in: “Maricón, Arthur.” He seemed pleased with his Spanish.