eastern jungles of Colombia. Tomorrow, cash and drugs will change hands. The Maracones will transport their purchase to a safe house on the North Shore, where they will lock themselves inside a strong room, and after setting aside an ounce or two of pure for themselves, will use pastry scrapers to chop up the caked kilos on a large, glass worktable. They will then sweeten the product—most likely with mannitol, a baby laxative with anticaking properties—increasing their volume, in turn increasing their profit, growing two kilograms into three. Using electronic jewelry scales, they will repackage the new weight into half-kilo bricks for distribution by their lieutenants, who will further trample on the product, now with pure lactose or actual flour or ground plaster or whatever the fuck else they can get their hands on that’s white and granular. Much of it will be cut with baking soda, that mixture then heated to remove moisture, forming into small, crystal-like rocks known as crack. The end product will be out on the streets by noon Friday.” Royce unfolded his sunglasses and slid them on. “What do you think about that?”
“I think it sucks.”
Royce put a finger in Maven’s chest, as though injecting this idea straight into his heart. “What if somebody were to step in unexpectedly, say tomorrow, at this hotel, at this same time—and interrupt this transaction? Stop the flow of drugs into the community.”
Maven was starting to get it now. Royce radiated confidence like heat. Maven felt electricity in his own hands.
“I’m on a crusade here, Maven. There’s a war on in this town, only you can’t see it. Turf battles everywhere, victims dying slow-motion deaths every day. There’s blood in the streets—but you can’t fucking see it, and you know why? Because junkie blood is too thin to stick to the pavement. It hoses off too easily, washing right down into the gutter.”
Maven was nodding, even feeling that same old precombat testicular tingle.
“This is what you were trained for. Sneak-and-peeks. Hit squads and house raids. You know the drill. Now, what if you could do some good in this world—some real good, for a change—and at the same time profit handsomely from it? I mean, how often does a clear moral imperative come complete with a get-rich-quick scheme? The fucking win-win situation of all time. You feeling me now, Maven?”
Royce’s conviction was an intoxicant. “I think so,” Maven answered, feeling the edge of his bitten tongue against his teeth.
“‘Think so,’ nothing. You’re feeling me. I see it in your eyes.” The valet reappeared, Royce’s car pulled curbside. Royce tipped the kid and sent him on his way. As Royce climbed into the driver’s seat, he said to Maven, “I’m your ticket out of that parking lot and into one of these cars.”
O VERNIGHT
W HERE YOU AT TONIGHT ?” ASKED R ICKY, CHEWING S OUR P ATCH Kids.
“Huh?” said Maven, zoning out on a stool before the wall of cigarettes behind the counter, ruminatively working his deformed tongue against his gums. “Nowhere. Tired maybe.”
“Two a.m.” Ricky flipped on the small television between the cash register and the pump monitors, tuning in a re-airing of that afternoon’s The Tyra Banks Show. “Time for my girl.”
When Ricky was still stateside in Kentucky during the ramp-up to Iraq, Tyra Banks visited Fort Campbell as part of a post–9/11 USO thing. Ricky lucked out, drawing the assignment to escort her vehicle back to the airport. Before they left the base, Ricky was sneaking a Snapple out of the hospitality tent when Tyra and her entourage breezed past him, as close to him as Maven was now.
“And it wasn’t even her body, you know, which is, by the way, ka- pow ! No, it was her skin. No lie. She has this perfect, like, creamy cocoa complexion that you’ve never even seen in your life.And her hair—she had on a patrol cap with her name on the back, BANKS —her hair had a life all its
“I think it sucks.”
Royce put a finger in Maven’s chest, as though injecting this idea straight into his heart. “What if somebody were to step in unexpectedly, say tomorrow, at this hotel, at this same time—and interrupt this transaction? Stop the flow of drugs into the community.”
Maven was starting to get it now. Royce radiated confidence like heat. Maven felt electricity in his own hands.
“I’m on a crusade here, Maven. There’s a war on in this town, only you can’t see it. Turf battles everywhere, victims dying slow-motion deaths every day. There’s blood in the streets—but you can’t fucking see it, and you know why? Because junkie blood is too thin to stick to the pavement. It hoses off too easily, washing right down into the gutter.”
Maven was nodding, even feeling that same old precombat testicular tingle.
“This is what you were trained for. Sneak-and-peeks. Hit squads and house raids. You know the drill. Now, what if you could do some good in this world—some real good, for a change—and at the same time profit handsomely from it? I mean, how often does a clear moral imperative come complete with a get-rich-quick scheme? The fucking win-win situation of all time. You feeling me now, Maven?”
Royce’s conviction was an intoxicant. “I think so,” Maven answered, feeling the edge of his bitten tongue against his teeth.
“‘Think so,’ nothing. You’re feeling me. I see it in your eyes.” The valet reappeared, Royce’s car pulled curbside. Royce tipped the kid and sent him on his way. As Royce climbed into the driver’s seat, he said to Maven, “I’m your ticket out of that parking lot and into one of these cars.”
O VERNIGHT
W HERE YOU AT TONIGHT ?” ASKED R ICKY, CHEWING S OUR P ATCH Kids.
“Huh?” said Maven, zoning out on a stool before the wall of cigarettes behind the counter, ruminatively working his deformed tongue against his gums. “Nowhere. Tired maybe.”
“Two a.m.” Ricky flipped on the small television between the cash register and the pump monitors, tuning in a re-airing of that afternoon’s The Tyra Banks Show. “Time for my girl.”
When Ricky was still stateside in Kentucky during the ramp-up to Iraq, Tyra Banks visited Fort Campbell as part of a post–9/11 USO thing. Ricky lucked out, drawing the assignment to escort her vehicle back to the airport. Before they left the base, Ricky was sneaking a Snapple out of the hospitality tent when Tyra and her entourage breezed past him, as close to him as Maven was now.
“And it wasn’t even her body, you know, which is, by the way, ka- pow ! No, it was her skin. No lie. She has this perfect, like, creamy cocoa complexion that you’ve never even seen in your life.And her hair—she had on a patrol cap with her name on the back, BANKS —her hair had a life all its
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