Benefit of the Doubt: A Novel by Neal Griffin Page A

work out? You know, the one where you and I got together?”
    Tyrone made a click with his tongue and looked off into the distance.
    “Tell me something, Tyrone. Do you have any idea the ramifications of getting caught holding that kind of weight?”
    Still looking away, the dealer’s response was mumbled anger. “I know how to jail, motherfucker.”
    “Oh, yeah?” McKenzie took a step forward. “Tell me this, do you know how to jail for fifteen to twenty? Or if I take it federal, you’d be jailin’ for life, bitch. How’s that sound?”
    “Man, I’ve paid my way outta that shit and then some,” Tyrone argued back. “None of you crooked-ass pigs has cut me a damn bit of slack.” The man held McKenzie’s eye, making it clear he was reaching his limit.
    “That’s the truth, Tyrone. I’ve made a pretty penny exploitin’ your ass. But now tell me something. How long you figure you’d stay out here, rollin’ around in that pimped-out ride of yours, blastin’ that ghetto bullshit, if you didn’t have me watchin’ out for you? I mean, let’s face it, it ain’t exactly Chocolate City in this neck of the woods, and you ain’t all that good when it comes to blendin’ in. So tell me, what’s gonna happen when you get your ass in a jam with Johnny Law and I ain’t there to smooth things out?”
    “Listen, McKenzie,” Tyrone answered, “I know the score, all right? But you ain’t gotta go all slave master on my ass, tryin’ to turn me into your own Kunta-fuckin-Kinte or some bullshit, humiliatin’ me in front of my boys. You gotta show me some respect, dog.”
    “Slave master? Kunta Kinte?” It was McKenzie’s turn to yuck it up. “Now I hadn’t thought about it like that till you said something, but I kind of like the sound of that. My own Kunta Kinte.” McKenzie pulled hard on his cigarette and kicked his head back to exhale, enjoying the moment.
    McKenzie flicked his lit cigarette and bounced it off Tyrone’s nylon warmup in a quick burst of orange sparks. Tyrone jumped back in a moment of panic, banging his hands against his jacket. McKenzie closed in and Tyrone flinched. McKenzie thrust two fingers against the man’s chest.
    “Fact is, I do own your ass. You’re bought and paid for. Without me looking out for your black ass, you’d be doing one hell of a hard stretch. You’re out here because it works for me. No other reason. And truth be told, Tyrone, I find a little humiliation good for the soul. Helps a man like you remember your place in this world. Your place in my world. You’re nothing more than a walking convict, boy. Your kingpin days are over. You live under my thumb, and you need to get your big old melon head around that. You hearin’ me?”
    McKenzie took the silence as a confirmation, but he went on to strengthen his point.
    “And know this, brother. One more improvisation on your part, and I will personally ship your ass off to some shit hole of a prison in the middle of nowhere that specializes in attitude adjustments for smart-ass black folk. I know you’re a man who loves his pussy, but you won’t be seein’ none of that. Shit, by the time you walk out, it won’t be women who make your dick hard; you’ll be all about that prison shit. You hear what I’m sayin’, homeboy?”
    Still nothing but a hard look. McKenzie laughed as he spoke. “So, whaddya say, Kunta? You gonna play ball?”
    There was a long pause, and Tyrone’s voice was filled with resignation when he eventually answered. “It’s cool, McKenzie. Just fuckin’ ease up on me, all right? You gotta let me build a rep if you want me to deal your shit.”
    McKenzie swiped the bag from his hand, aroused by the weight of it. He looked inside. “Whaddya know? Used twenties and tens. Least you got that right. It better add up.”
    “It’s all there.”
    McKenzie clicked his remote and popped the trunk. “The green bag is yours. Get it.”
    Tyrone did as told, then stood before McKenzie, bag in hand,