I called my boy Carlos the cab driver and told him that we needed him from seven a.m. until a little past noon. He’s tall and dark-skinned with huge white teeth that always smile at you. His cab was as clean as his grill. No trash, no smell, and really no evidence of customers. Los had always been a neat freak since we were kids, with creases in his school uniform khakis draping over scuffless shell-toe Adidas.
It didn’t take long for our scent to stink his cab up.
“Damn, y’all ain’t playin’, huh? I knew y’all ain’t smoking so I bet y’all got a bunch to sell!” said Carlos, peering through the rearview.
I tossed him three hundred dollars and named our destinations. The conversations I had with the dealers from each area were identical: “Yo, I’m giving samples out for your best customers so hit me later and let me know if you want some.” I played Little League with most of the young dealers and the rest of them knew Bip or Nick. We rode around to make Nick’s drop-offs as well and picked up the cash from Gee. I told him that he could pick up his half brick after I counted the money. He said, “Only because you are you. Anybody else wouldn’t touch the money until I touched the product.” I told Carlos our last stop was Seth’s Auto in Dundalk.
Heading to buy a car, Carlos said, “Damn, Dee, new whips, Yo, wassup? Throw a nigga some work, boy. You know I got kids and shit.”
“Oh yeah, how’s Kyra?” I asked. Kyra was Carlos’s lady and elementary school sweetheart.
“Kyra’s fucked up and wantin’ money, nigga, throw me some work!”
I told Carlos that we were building and I could probably fit him in somewhere.
One thing that gave me pause is that Carlos had a rep for being a shooter. Uncle Gee is a shooter, and Hurk—he’s the shooter of all shooters. I have no interest in murder. I’m not into that homicide life at all. Hustling and committing murders doesn’t work—you have to pick a side. I understand that the two worlds can’t exist with each other, in Baltimore anyway. I was determined to not war with anyone. Death hurts and I’ve seen too many. I had enough shooters around me, but I liked Carlos so I tried to figure something out.
A whole line of dirty pearl and rusty-gold broken-down Acuras were spread across the front of Seth’s Auto.
“Dee, what’s this the lemon factory and shit. These buckets beat,” said Nick while observing the lot.
I told him that the good cars were in the back, and if nothing was good enough, Seth could take us to the auction. Seth buzzed us in. His office was a trailer without wheels, packed tight and made out of paperwork—paperwork on the desk, paperwork busting out of the file cabinets, overflowing with folders. His lot looked cheap as his suit but he was loaded. Seth gets cars for everybody who is anybody. Big-time guys get 600 Benzes and 700 series Beamers. Real big guys get Bentleys and vehicles that we can’t even pronounce. He had a couple of E Class Benzes and some Lexus ES 300s that looked pretty fresh and in our pay grade.
“Hey, Dee, glad you stopped by,” said Seth with both arms extended. His nose owned his face and was probably the only nose in the world strong enough to hold up the set of thick frames he had on.
“No disrespect but I’m not a hugger,” I replied as I opted for a handshake. Nick had eased off to check out the rest of the inventory.
“So what are you looking for? Benz, Lexus, I just got a nice Rover in. Wait, is your car still on hold?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even want it back. I’m just lookin’ for a GS for Nick and I don’t even know what I wanna drive yet. I do want something nice, though, eventually.”
Seth asked me how much I wanted to spend. I told him that it depended on the car. He then said that his friend had a nice 1996 black-on-black GS 300 over on Belair Road.
Nick leaped in front of me. “Dat’s me, how much, unk?”
Seth pulled out his cell to get a price check. I wasn’t going to let my friend ride around in a ’96. I told Nick that he needed to chill when doing business with car dealers because most of them are spineless rats, including Seth. I didn’t care if Seth looked out for Bip or any other street dude, he still wanted to make as much money as possible, like any other hustler. Excited people like Nick always fall victim to the “ignorance tax.” A guy like Seth smells your ignorance, so they tax you! Car dealers, lawyers, and payday loan crooks are notorious for this.
“Okay, guys, follow me,” said Seth. We walked around back to an emerald green GS 400 with tan leather. Nick was speechless.
“How much for that?” I asked, poker face on.
“That’s a ’01 with about twenty thousand miles. I need at least thirty-two thousand and that’s because you are such a great guy.”
“Naw, fuck that! That’s too much,” said a frustrated Nick. I told him to chill again.
“Nick, take a walk, man, lemme holler at Seth.”
I told him that I was flat broke but I’m about to make a run and that we were goin’ to be doing a lot of business.
“Dee, make me an offer. A good one.”
“I got twenty-three thousand cash, in the bag. And I’ma buy another car like next week. Let us take it.”
Seth paused for a minute, let out a deep breath, looked at his feet, and then tossed me the keys. He said I’d owe him a big one. I thanked him and told a now gleaming Nick to cash him out.
“Yo, you gotta new GS now, boy, it’s on!” yelled Nick with face pressed against the driver’s side window, admiring the interior and caressing the side of the car.
“Naw,” I said. “You have a new GS. I said this was for you. I wanna thank you for holding me down!”
Nick flipped, turned around and squeezed the wind out of my chest in one motion; he was so excited that he dropped the open bag of cash on the ground. We calmed him down and did the paperwork. Seth had a fictitious company set up with license numbers and a real insurance policy. We just had to endorse the documents and screw on the sixty-day cardboard temporary tag.
Fifteen minutes later and we were cruising on Route 40, headed back down the hill. Nick was at the wheel with a low Orioles brim. His seat leaned back far enough to touch the rear chair. I checked my phone. Thirty missed calls—a few random girls, five from Gee who wanted his work, and about twenty from Hope. I tried to call her back but got no answer.
“Yo, Nick, you got a strap, right?”
“Always, what’s wrong?” he replied.
“Okay, stop by Hope’s, Yo.”