Anything can be broken and then sold and shipped off. Pretty Boy had known this ten years ago when he first became a teenager. He knew it now. The sounds all around him—ripping and sawing and torching and banging—echoed in the nondescript commercial space that had been transformed into a makeshift garage. It wasn’t a huge space, and it was only temporary. They all knew that the best thing to do was to stay in a spot for a short amount of time—maybe a month at the max—before moving on to avoid detection from the cops.
Pretty Boy sat in an uncomfortable, ripped-up chair in the corner of the garage watching the others work. There were a couple of high-end cars already operated on. A Mercedes sedan and an Audi SUV. The latter had been quite the score. It was a day old and they needed to get it out of there fast. In between them was the white van from last night, looking like some lost suburban guy stuck in the middle of Englewood.
They weren’t taking apart the van, however. They were welding some steel I-beams to the front bumper and grill, along with adding support beams that extended inside the engine. Pretty Boy had helped with some of it moments ago but now he was just watching the guys work, watching Kriminal overseeing everything.
Kriminal had overseen this operation for several years.
The van was something unique. Most of the time when they took apart cars they started by removing personal items and license plates and destroying them. An acetylene torch helped cut the roof and the floor after the windshield and doors and seats had been removed. It was amazing how easy it was to take apart a car once you knew exactly how to do it.
Pretty Boy wasn’t sure how they sold all the parts. Kriminal often referred to the “VINs”—getting rid of the “VINs” and “re-VIN-ing.” Those were the vehicle identification numbers, and every car had them. The engine in the car, the transmission, and the frame were all tagged with VINs. Kriminal would replace the VIN completely if they wanted to sell the car intact, but it was easier and usually paid better if they simply sold the different parts.
“So you gonna finally learn how to do this?” Kriminal said to him as he approached.
“Maybe one day,” Pretty Boy said, not meaning a word of it.
“Man, you got that dreamin’ look again.”
Kriminal often talked about Pretty Boy and his dreams. Maybe when he looked distant and maybe when he talked about his songs or made up his rhymes.
Or maybe when I’m lookin’ at the corner of a dead end with fewer and fewer doors left to open.
A shout from 40 Ounce came across the shop. Pretty Boy looked over and saw him and Little B doing the usual: playing around and not working. They were standing over a foosball table yelling and laughing and being totally unproductive.
“Gettin’ your money’s worth with those two?” Pretty Boy asked.
“They’re not here for the cars. They’re for other things.”
He looked at his brother and knew what he was talking about. The van was just a tool, just like 40 Ounce and Little B. Just like the acetylene torch and the Sawzall. Just like the gun tucked away in Kriminal’s pants.
I’m nobody’s tool nobody’s ruling me I get to overrule.
The random nuggets blast like a shotgun. Kriminal continued staring down at him with questioning eyes.
“You sure you’re up for this?”
Pretty Boy jerked his head and then stood up. “I told you I was and that’s all you need.”
“They’re wonderin’, that’s all.”
“Who?”
“Little B and 40 Ounce.”
He couldn’t help letting out a laugh to Kriminal. “They know I’m hard-core.”
“I made it clear—they don’t get to ask that. I do. And I’m askin’ now.”
“I’m straight.”
Kriminal didn’t budge but kept facing him. “You still lettin’ that old man mess with your head?”
“Nah, I’m cool,” Pretty Boy said, acting like he didn’t know what his brother was talking about. “Look—I’m gonna split. Head home for a while. Check on G-Ma.”
His brother didn’t say anything and let him go. He didn’t want to face Kriminal and talk to him for too long. Pretty Boy would eventually show all his cards. He didn’t have a poker face, not around Kriminal.
Yeah, the old man was still messin’ with his head.
He couldn’t stop thinkin’. Like it was a sign from God that things were gonna get bad.
The end times comin’. That cross and that old dude and his face and his fearlessness.
He climbed into his car and started it up, a Kanye West song playing on the radio, already halfway finished.
“I’m lost in the world, been down my whole life.”
Already halfway finished . . .
Was he just starting up, or was he almost done?
Pretty Boy didn’t know, but he felt cold and afraid. Something bad was comin’ and something told him to not stop the car. To not stop driving for a long time.