warrior. That whole thing was ass-backward. I knew that a great warrior wasn’t supposed to be scared of death. But asking for death as part of the warrior’s path? That was overdoing it.
JIMMY PENNINGTON: THE WHITE, IVY LEAGUE VERSION OF ME
I gave props to Jimmy Pennington. He was a Wall Street broker who sold coke as easy as he sold stocks. For the past year he been dropping fifty Gs a month—a hot deal for both of us.
Tonight he wanted seventy-five. I carried it in a briefcase as I walked into his favorite TriBeCa after-work lounge.
Jimmy sprawled in a cushy chair near the front of the lounge, staring out the window at passing people. He wasn’t into making deals at shady places like piers or parking lots. He liked to meet in upscale places. All I had to do was throw on some dress shoes and pants, a white button-down shirt, a leather jacket, and I was good to go.
“Hi, Jimmy.”
“Johnson!” He got up, shook my hand, and clapped my back. “Great to see you. How’s law school?”
He was always saying things like that. “Top of my class.” I sat down and put the briefcase under the table.
“That’s some achievement, Johnson. Drinks on me.” He flagged down the waitress. “Two martinis, extra olives.”
Jimmy dragged the briefcase close to him. “All here?”
“You got it.”
“Excellent.” He leaned back in his chair like a young Donald Trump—with better hair. Jimmy dropped thousands on threads: Armani suits and loafers, engraved cufflinks. For a guy in his mid-twenties he had it all, but Jimmy always wanted more.
“Got some new connections, do you?” I asked.
“Sure have, Johnson. Give it a little time, and I’ll be asking you for a hundred every month.”
“Whatever you need. Just call.”
Jimmy laughed. “Like the goddamned Visiting Nurse Service of New York!”
I took my martini from the waitress. The service was fast, but I wasn’t surprised that Jimmy got special service. He gave out phat tips.
I sipped the martini. It was so damn sour. Jimmy put them down like Gatorade.
“You still with that lawyer?” I asked.
He smiled. “Woman of my dreams. Just moved in with me.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Sure is. I’m sick of the bar scene. I’ve got a gorgeous woman who’s great in bed and makes almost as much as I do. Plus, she works late, so we don’t get on each other’s nerves.”
“Does she know about . . . ”
“She’s a practicing Catholic, for Christ’s sake. The other week she dragged me to Mass. I told her next week I’d go to confession. I’m going to enjoy spilling my guts.”
“Maybe you taking the joke a little far, man.”
He waved it off. “Priests can’t do anything with what we tell them, trust me. I’m sure the priest’ll just tell me to stop selling, say a few Hail Marys, and move on.” He flashed a smile, then gulped more martini. “You should go sometime, eh, Johnson? I bet you have a few sins to confess.”
“It don’t matter. I’m Presbyterian.”
“Amen.” We clanked glasses.
SWEET DREAMS
Alyse:
Is that you, Ty?
I blinked at the text that popped up on my phone. I’d spent the last hour surfing for sports news and porn, and now I suddenly woke up.
Ty:
No doubt. What are you wearing, honey?
Alyse:
Ty! Stop playing.
Ty:
A man’s gotta have a little fun.
Alyse:
Oh, we’re a man now, are we?
Ty:
What, I ain’t old enough to be a man?
Alyse:
I wouldn’t say that. Being a man really isn’t about age. It’s about taking responsibility, isn’t it?
Ty:
I forgot I was talking to Oprah Winfrey.
Alyse:
Actually, this is Iyanla. She’s just as wise as Oprah.
Ty:
Never heard of her.
Alyse:
Pick up Essence magazine to find out, or go to a bookstore.
Ty:
Sorry, shorty. I got better things to do than read that stuff.
Alyse:
And I guess you read National Geographic?
Ty:
Damn straight. It’s got hot pictures of naked women in the Amazon and all that sh . . . stuff.
Alyse:
You just stopped yourself from cursing, didn’t
JIMMY PENNINGTON: THE WHITE, IVY LEAGUE VERSION OF ME
I gave props to Jimmy Pennington. He was a Wall Street broker who sold coke as easy as he sold stocks. For the past year he been dropping fifty Gs a month—a hot deal for both of us.
Tonight he wanted seventy-five. I carried it in a briefcase as I walked into his favorite TriBeCa after-work lounge.
Jimmy sprawled in a cushy chair near the front of the lounge, staring out the window at passing people. He wasn’t into making deals at shady places like piers or parking lots. He liked to meet in upscale places. All I had to do was throw on some dress shoes and pants, a white button-down shirt, a leather jacket, and I was good to go.
“Hi, Jimmy.”
“Johnson!” He got up, shook my hand, and clapped my back. “Great to see you. How’s law school?”
He was always saying things like that. “Top of my class.” I sat down and put the briefcase under the table.
“That’s some achievement, Johnson. Drinks on me.” He flagged down the waitress. “Two martinis, extra olives.”
Jimmy dragged the briefcase close to him. “All here?”
“You got it.”
“Excellent.” He leaned back in his chair like a young Donald Trump—with better hair. Jimmy dropped thousands on threads: Armani suits and loafers, engraved cufflinks. For a guy in his mid-twenties he had it all, but Jimmy always wanted more.
“Got some new connections, do you?” I asked.
“Sure have, Johnson. Give it a little time, and I’ll be asking you for a hundred every month.”
“Whatever you need. Just call.”
Jimmy laughed. “Like the goddamned Visiting Nurse Service of New York!”
I took my martini from the waitress. The service was fast, but I wasn’t surprised that Jimmy got special service. He gave out phat tips.
I sipped the martini. It was so damn sour. Jimmy put them down like Gatorade.
“You still with that lawyer?” I asked.
He smiled. “Woman of my dreams. Just moved in with me.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Sure is. I’m sick of the bar scene. I’ve got a gorgeous woman who’s great in bed and makes almost as much as I do. Plus, she works late, so we don’t get on each other’s nerves.”
“Does she know about . . . ”
“She’s a practicing Catholic, for Christ’s sake. The other week she dragged me to Mass. I told her next week I’d go to confession. I’m going to enjoy spilling my guts.”
“Maybe you taking the joke a little far, man.”
He waved it off. “Priests can’t do anything with what we tell them, trust me. I’m sure the priest’ll just tell me to stop selling, say a few Hail Marys, and move on.” He flashed a smile, then gulped more martini. “You should go sometime, eh, Johnson? I bet you have a few sins to confess.”
“It don’t matter. I’m Presbyterian.”
“Amen.” We clanked glasses.
SWEET DREAMS
Alyse:
Is that you, Ty?
I blinked at the text that popped up on my phone. I’d spent the last hour surfing for sports news and porn, and now I suddenly woke up.
Ty:
No doubt. What are you wearing, honey?
Alyse:
Ty! Stop playing.
Ty:
A man’s gotta have a little fun.
Alyse:
Oh, we’re a man now, are we?
Ty:
What, I ain’t old enough to be a man?
Alyse:
I wouldn’t say that. Being a man really isn’t about age. It’s about taking responsibility, isn’t it?
Ty:
I forgot I was talking to Oprah Winfrey.
Alyse:
Actually, this is Iyanla. She’s just as wise as Oprah.
Ty:
Never heard of her.
Alyse:
Pick up Essence magazine to find out, or go to a bookstore.
Ty:
Sorry, shorty. I got better things to do than read that stuff.
Alyse:
And I guess you read National Geographic?
Ty:
Damn straight. It’s got hot pictures of naked women in the Amazon and all that sh . . . stuff.
Alyse:
You just stopped yourself from cursing, didn’t
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