Jackson Heights was known as the cocaine capital of the United States long before people started flocking here from Williamsburg, Greenpoint, Astoria and the Upper West Side for the underpriced co-ops and lush private gardens. In the 80s, you could draw a straight line from Roosevelt Avenue to Cali. The neighborhood has changed drastically in the intervening years, yet apparently, remnants of the old Jackson Heights remain. Last Sunday there was a robbery and shooting in the early morning hours. I heard on the news later that one of the robbers was shot by an off duty cop who tried to stop them. Then, later that same day our friends who live in the building next door had their apartment burglarized. There was a break-in in the same building last year, and last St. Patrick’s two guys rolled down the stairs and landed in front of my apartment. One guy literally beat the feathers out of the other mutilating his down jacket. This is New York, though, and as I was told by my first landlord when I moved here, there’s crime everywhere in this city. Even in the post-Giuliani era. Yet, these crimes are petty compared to the execution style gangland murders prevalent in the neighborhood during the coke era. The Colombians are still here by the way, but I guess the ones that remain have traded in kilos for los pollos a la brasa.
