Slipping (11 page)

“Yeah, some clean-ass thirties with the gold caps and some meaty Vogues would look right on this boy,” Don asked, testing the waters.

“I know that's shit.”

“What if I can get you some shoes for yo Chevy at half the store price?”

The ape-faced boy smiled. He had always liked Don and still liked him even though he was a hype. His smile was one of doubt because he knew crackheads always made promises they never kept. Halfheartedly, Monkeyhead said, “Nigga, if you bring me some decent thirties I'll put the money in yo hand with no problem. Long as it ain't no slum shit. Or no Mexican-ass, gold-dipped shit. I want chrome with gold caps. None of them bald-ass Vogues neither.”

A sly smile crossed Don's lips. “Alright, give me yo math. As soon as I get hold of what you was looking for I'll hit you. I hope you gone have that paper.”

On a little notepad mounted on the dashboard Monkey-head wrote his number and handed it to Don. Then he peeled off.

Don stood on the corner looking down at the scrap of
paper in his hand.
This shit is right on time,
he thought. Monkeyhead had opened up his eyes. The young dealers were always buying cars and decking them out. They almost always wanted rims, tires, and sound systems. That was right up his alley. He already knew how to steal cars.

He had stolen plenty of cars with his friends when he was younger to learn how to drive. Usually some unlucky working stiff's car, but that was the way things were around here. The only things he would need were a strong flathead screwdriver and a driver. The driver's job would be to take him out cruising for a vehicle to purloin. Finding a driver wouldn't prove too much of a task. He knew quite a few hypes who owned cars and would jump at the chance to make some easy money.

After purchasing a screwdriver, Don walked two blocks over to St. Lawrence. He was looking for a clucker that went by the name of Weed-Eyes. The older man usually hung out on the corner in front of the liquor store there. Weed-Eyes was always on the lookout for any kind of hustle, plus he owned a car. Don knew that for a small fee, it would be easy to convince him to chauffeur him around until he found something suitable to fill Monkeyhead's order.

The middle-aged crackhead was right where Don had guessed he would be—standing on the corner. Following his daily routine, Weed-Eyes was drinking wine, talking shit with his cronies, and keeping his green eyes peeled for his next opportunity to make a little dough.

Don hailed the tall, light-skinned hype. “Weedy, what's up, my man? Check it out. Let me put this bug in your ear.”

Pausing with the paper-bag-sheathed wine bottle halfway to his lips, Weed-Eyes considered Don's request. “Hold tight, little brother. Imma dig on what you got to say, but first let me knock the corners off this vino, you dig.”

Not to be brushed off, Don said, “Man, fuck that vino. Nigga, I'm talkin 'bout lining yo pocket. I'll buy you a liter of Rosé, you just got to go in there and get it.”

Weed-Eyes handed the bottle to one of the winos standing with him. He accepted the two dollars from Don and went in the store to buy the drink. He returned, drink in hand. He followed Don as they retreated to the middle of the block and took a seat on the abandoned carcass of a stripped car. Weed-Eyes broke the seal on the wine bottle and poured out a small amount. “For the cats that ain't here, you dig,” he said, before taking a long swallow. He offered the bottle to Don, but he declined.

Don waited until Weed-Eyes got himself situated, then he started his pitch. “Imma get right down to business. I got pigeons lined up that want tires and sounds and shit like that, but they don't want to pay no store prices. I can get the merch. My only problem is that I don't got no kind of transportation. That's where you come in.”

Weed-Eyes squinted at the sun. “So what you saying, little brother, is that you want ole Weed to fire up the heavy Chevy and take you out looking for a vic?”

“Yep, that's all there is to it,” Don said. “I'll do the peeling, the stealing, and the wheeling.”

Weed-Eyes asked, “So what the pay looking like?”

“Every night that we come up I'll hit you with a bill,” Don answered.

Weed-Eyes choked on the wine he was swallowing when he heard Don's offer. “You got to be bullshitting. You mean to tell me that all I got to do is take you out, then make sure you get home alright, and I get a hundred bones for my troubles.”

“Yep.”

“That's righteous, little brother,” Weed-Eyes commented. “When do we start?”

“Pick me up tonight at my crib at two in the morning.”

In his room, Don gave Juanita instructions to wake him at two in the morning. Fully dressed he crawled into bed and went to sleep.

Promptly at two, Juanita shook him until he woke. Don cleared the cobwebs of sleep from his head with a hastily smoked rock. He grabbed his screwdriver and left the room. He sat on the front porch, smoking cigarettes and waiting for Weed-Eyes to arrive.

Fifteen minutes late, Weed-Eyes pulled to the curb in front of Don's house. The old, blue Chevy Citation was one headlight short, but other than that it seemed to be in good running condition. Don climbed into the passenger seat and
Weed-Eyes pulled off. The more distance they put between themselves and home, the better the neighborhoods looked.

They had been driving around in various neighborhoods for over forty-five minutes when Don put his hand on Weed-Eyes’ arm. “Slow down,” he ordered. Weed-Eyes complied. Excitement crept into Don's voice as he pointed. “Check that motherfucka out, right there! That cream-colored Bonneville right there! It's some fresh-looking thirties on that bitch, damn! Go 'round the block. Ain't even see no alarm light on it—just a fucking Club!”

Weed-Eyes circumnavigated the block. He slowed down to let Don out. Hands in his pocket, Don walked casually down the same side of the street as the Bonneville. He peered at the windows of the house that the car was parked in front of. He didn't detect any movement within, so he approached the car.

Using the flathead of the screwdriver, he popped the door lock out. With his finger he hit the mechanism to unlock the door. Again he used the screwdriver to break open the steering column on the left side. Next he tackled the Club. The owner had put it on upside down—a common mistake. He pulled and bent the steering wheel until he felt the Club give enough for him to wrench it off. He tossed the so-called theft deterrent on the passenger seat. He got a tight grip on the steering wheel and wrenched it back and forth until he felt it slacken up. He started the car by using his fingers to pull up the ignition lever until the car came to life. He slapped the Bonneville into gear and eased out of the parking space.
Running with the headlights out, he sped up the block. In the rearview mirror he could see Weed-Eyes bringing up the rear. Skillfully, Don handled the large car as he headed for the expressway. Don stopped for traffic lights only when it was absolutely necessary as he headed for home base. At every intersection his head swiveled back and forth looking for police. He didn't breathe a sigh of relief until they pulled into the vacant lot where they would strip the car of its rims and any other accessories he deemed valuable enough to take. The vacant lot was only a few blocks from Don's house, so if they had to make a quick getaway they only had to hop a few gates and they would be in Don's kitchen.

Weed-Eyes proved to be an asset as an accomplice. He handed Don a pair of work gloves, the one thing Don had forgotten, and they got down to business. The older crackhead worked alongside Don quickly and efficiently to help him remove the rims and tires. Don popped the trunk and they removed the amps and speakers. He couldn't find the snatch-out radio so he left the sleeve in the dashboard. Before getting out of the car, he took care to wipe the interior clean of any fingerprints. Leaving the stolen Bonneville sitting on milk crates and bricks, they headed for Don's house.

At Don's house, while Weed-Eyes waited on the porch, Don went inside to make the call. He dialed the number, and even though it was after four in the morning, Monkeyhead answered after four rings.

“Who this?” Monkeyhead asked.

“It's Don, nigga.”

“Who?”

“Don-Don, man.”

Recognition crept into Monkeyhead's voice. “Don, what the deal? What's up with you?”

“I got what we had talked about,” Don said triumphantly. “Is you ready?”

Monkeyhead couldn't believe it. “Don, you bullshitting, nigga. What they look like?”

“These boys is clean as the board of health. Fat meat on the Vogues and the thirties is shining in the dark,” Don said smugly. “What's up, you want to do this shit or not? 'Cause man, I can sell these motherfuckas anywhere.”

“Don't do no shit like that, Don,” Monkeyhead said, a note of anxiety creeping into his voice. “Come over to Harper Court. I got the scratch. Bring the rims. Is that cool?”

Don paused a moment before answering. He had Monkeyhead right where he wanted him. It was time to discuss price. “Monkey, these motherfuckas is clean, with brand-new tires. Imma need at least a gee for these boys.”

“Don, I ain't tripping on the price, I just want to see the merch. Man, bring the shit through Harper. I'm out here.”

Don ran upstairs, grabbed his pistol, and they left.

At Harper Court, even though it was four in the morning, it was business as usual. The only difference was at night the dealers openly displayed their weaponry. Monkey-head was right where he said he would be. He walked up to Weed-Eyes’ car with a Tech-9 slung on his shoulder.
Warily, Weed-Eyes unlocked the trunk of his car while keeping his eyes on the fierce-looking youth. Monkeyhead noticed the way Weed-Eyes was staring at the semiautomatic firearm.

“Don't trip 'bout the heat,” Monkeyhead told them. “Late nights you got to have you some protection, you know.”

Monkeyhead's explanation seemed to allay some of Weed-Eyes’ uneasiness, but not by much. Stepping out of the way, Weed-Eyes let Monkeyhead inspect the merchandise in his trunk.

Monkeyhead's face broke into a wide grin at the sight of the rims. The elated dealer dug into his pocket and pulled out a rubber-band–wrapped knot. “Damn, Don! These motherfuckas right here gone have my shit looking cold! Hell yeah!” He handed the money to Don and called for a few of his fellow workers to help him get the rims out of the trunk.

Don stood back smiling, but all the while watching every movement Monkeyhead made.

“I don't need to count this, do I?” Don asked as he climbed back into the passenger seat. He handed Monkey-head three hundred dollars. “Have one of yo guys bring me a quarter onion and a ball.”

Monkeyhead slammed the trunk when the last rim was removed, then he walked to the passenger door. “Nigga, you better count it,” he said jokingly.

Don laughed as he took the rubber band off the money
and began to count it. “Before I forget, you don't need no music, do you? I got some amps and speakers and shit.”

“I don't need shit,” Monkeyhead said, leaning on the car door. “But hold off on selling that shit if you can. My nigga Sajak was just talking 'bout getting some music and shit for his ride. I forgot that nigga new cell number, but the minute I see that stud I'll let him know that you got some merch.”

One of the dealers walked to the car, leaned down into the passenger window, and dropped a quarter-ounce and eightball of crack into Don's lap. Don gave Weed-Eyes the signal to start the car.

“Get my number off yo phone if you need to hit me,” Don said, leaning out the window as Weed-Eyes pulled off. “If anybody else need some rims for they car let me know. I'm like Pizza Hut, I deliver.”

Monkeyhead stood watching them drive away with a smile on his face.

In the car, Don dropped five twenty-dollar bills on the seat beside Weed-Eyes. He broke open the eightball of crack and pinched Weed-Eyes off a nice piece.

“I know I only told you I was gone give you a bill,” Don explained, “but shit, you held me down. So, I'm gone hold you down.”

Weed-Eyes smiled. “Thanks, little brother, you dig. You got my help anytime.”

“We gone hit them again, real soon. Take me to the crib, the motherfucking sun is 'bout to come up.”

WHEN DON GOT IN, JUANITA WAS WIDE AWAKE.

“Hey, baby, how did things go?” she asked anxiously.

“It was cool,” Don said as he waved the six hundred dollars and tossed the quarter-ounce of crack on the bed.

Juanita scooped it up like a Cubs shortstop. “I love you, Don. You always manage to get yo hands on that butter. When you came in I was just thinking.”

Don had pulled off his shirt and was sitting on the edge of the bed preparing to take a hit of crack. “What was you thinking?”

Juanita came around to Don's side of the bed. She kneeled on the floor in front of him and took the torch from his hand. She lit it and held it to the bowl of the hooter for
him. Don laid back on the bed and blew crack smoke toward the ceiling.

Juanita took the pipe from his hand. “Baby, I was thinking that it got kind of boring with just the two of us sitting here smoking all day. I think we need some company.”

“What is you talking 'bout, girl?”

“I'm just saying that we got a nice little piece of crack and we can afford to kick it.”

“Kick it with who?”

“With my friend.”

“Who is yo friend?”

“Her name is Wanda. She live over there on Cottage Grove in the walk-ups.”

“How you know her?”

“She my brother's baby's mama. She real cool. That's my girl and I miss kicking it with her. If you don't want her to come over here, then you can give me a little piece and I can go over there for a few.”

Don thought about it. He really didn't want to let her out of his sight and he had to admit that it was growing a bit boring just sitting there looking at each other while they smoked. “I don't give a fuck. She can come through.”

“She probably have her man with her,” she hedged out. “He ain't no problem, though. If she don't bring him, then she probably can't come. He be on some bullshit. He ain't like you; he all jealous and shit.”