
As a result, Louis had grown fatter and richer, not necessarily in that order. He'd bought a palatial home on the Upper West Side-close enough to Harlem to appear to be still in touch with "my people," but far enough away to alleviate the fears of whites he invited to dinner at his house.
On occasion, someone in the black community-especially those pesky ministers who declined to be bought and were his biggest critics-would question his choice of neighborhood and friends. But he'd piously explain to his sycophants in the media and from friendlier pulpits that it was important for black men and women to see other successful black men and women living in fine estates as good as any white man's, and collecting fine art and finer automobiles. "I see myself as a role model for young men and women of my community. They see me and know there is no height to which they cannot aspire with hard work and perseverance."
Those who persisted in their criticism would find themselves looking down from their pulpits into the angry eyes of those same young men who mugged for the television cameras. Nobody seemed to notice that an unusually high number of outspoken ministers and other conscientious community leaders became victims of crime-assaults and robberies, after which they tended to grow strangely quiet, although not always.
Such drastic measures weren't always necessary. Several ministers earned a better part of their "salaries" from monthly deposits set up at banks in their names, and were happy to invite him to deliver the occasional sermon-or call to action-in his fine, stentorian voice that added to the grandeur (as he saw it) of his three-hundred-plus pounds.
