kids never get out of the South Ward. The Fourth is up in Central.”
“Oh, yeah, good point. You know anyone up that way who might be able to help me?”
Tee got a far-off look.
“What?” I asked.
“Well, I know these dudes up there. Trust me, if your cop was dirty, they’d know. They got that neighborhood wired. Hell, I think they got the whole city wired.”
“Okay. I’m not going to have to get stoned again, am I?”
Tee had once set me up with sources who felt the only way to ensure I was not a member of a law enforcement agency was for me to smoke pot with them. It was an experience that proved two things to them: one, I’m not a cop; and two, my tolerance for marijuana is not especially impressive.
“No, no, nothing like that this time,” he assured me. “But let me ask you something: You need a new pair of boots by any chance?”
“Huh?”
“Just say yes.”
“Yes?”
“Okay, let me make a call.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, I was out the door with an address scribbled on a piece of paper and instructions to stop at an ATM machine to pick up a hundred dollars in cash. I was also instructed not to get too attached to said money.
The address was on Irvine Turner Boulevard, which was one of Newark’s most notorious drug corridors for one reason: it offered a straight shot to Route 78, an east-west interstate that led rather quickly to some of the state’s nicest bedroom communities. All the suburbanites who came to Newark to get their drugs—and make no mistake, that was a big part of the clientele—knew they couldn’t get lost if they just stayed on Irvine Turner.
I relied on my GPS to guide me to the address Tee had written for me, which turned out to be around the corner from the Fourth Precinct headquarters. It was a cream-colored, two-story, warehouselike building that encompassed a good chunk of the block. The only apparent tenant, and it occupied perhaps one-tenth of the building, was a bodega that had a door onto the street. It had dark windows—behind bars, of course—made of one-way glass, the kind that would allow someone inside to see out, but not the other way around.
Where was Tee taking me, anyhow? I pushed through the bodega’s door to the sound of little bells chiming—a few had been tied to the door. The store was empty except for a turban-wearing cashier sitting in a bulletproof box.
I approached the man, who I guessed was Sikh, and said, “Tee sent me.”
He tilted his head and peered at me like I was speaking a soon-to-be-extinct Javanese dialect.
“I’m the guy Tee sent,” I said.
More peering.
“Is this one-sixty Irvine Turner Boulevard?” I asked.
“One-sixty A,” the guy said in a thick Indian accent. “You want one-sixty, you go around the corner.”
“Around … which corner?”
The guy pointed out the door and vaguely to the left, so that’s the direction I took. I reached the end of the building without seeing anything obvious, just a narrow alleyway. It was far cleaner than most Newark alleys—spotless, actually—which really got me suspicious. I hoped Tee remembered that I had a cat who depended on me as his sole means of support.
I turned and, midway down the alley, found a meshed steel door, the kind that served as a superstrength screen for another door inside it. I pulled on the screen, but it was bolted solid. A security camera, attached to the side of the building about fifteen feet up, looked down on me.
There was no knocking on a door like this. But I also couldn’t see any other way in. I studied the door frame, the door itself, and saw nothing obvious. Was I supposed to stand there until someone saw me on the camera?
Then I found it, just to the left of the frame: a small, recessed doorbell button, practically camouflaged because it had been painted the same cream color as the concrete around it.
I pressed the button and waited. Nothing happened. I pressed again. Still nothing. I was beginning to think
“Oh, yeah, good point. You know anyone up that way who might be able to help me?”
Tee got a far-off look.
“What?” I asked.
“Well, I know these dudes up there. Trust me, if your cop was dirty, they’d know. They got that neighborhood wired. Hell, I think they got the whole city wired.”
“Okay. I’m not going to have to get stoned again, am I?”
Tee had once set me up with sources who felt the only way to ensure I was not a member of a law enforcement agency was for me to smoke pot with them. It was an experience that proved two things to them: one, I’m not a cop; and two, my tolerance for marijuana is not especially impressive.
“No, no, nothing like that this time,” he assured me. “But let me ask you something: You need a new pair of boots by any chance?”
“Huh?”
“Just say yes.”
“Yes?”
“Okay, let me make a call.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, I was out the door with an address scribbled on a piece of paper and instructions to stop at an ATM machine to pick up a hundred dollars in cash. I was also instructed not to get too attached to said money.
The address was on Irvine Turner Boulevard, which was one of Newark’s most notorious drug corridors for one reason: it offered a straight shot to Route 78, an east-west interstate that led rather quickly to some of the state’s nicest bedroom communities. All the suburbanites who came to Newark to get their drugs—and make no mistake, that was a big part of the clientele—knew they couldn’t get lost if they just stayed on Irvine Turner.
I relied on my GPS to guide me to the address Tee had written for me, which turned out to be around the corner from the Fourth Precinct headquarters. It was a cream-colored, two-story, warehouselike building that encompassed a good chunk of the block. The only apparent tenant, and it occupied perhaps one-tenth of the building, was a bodega that had a door onto the street. It had dark windows—behind bars, of course—made of one-way glass, the kind that would allow someone inside to see out, but not the other way around.
Where was Tee taking me, anyhow? I pushed through the bodega’s door to the sound of little bells chiming—a few had been tied to the door. The store was empty except for a turban-wearing cashier sitting in a bulletproof box.
I approached the man, who I guessed was Sikh, and said, “Tee sent me.”
He tilted his head and peered at me like I was speaking a soon-to-be-extinct Javanese dialect.
“I’m the guy Tee sent,” I said.
More peering.
“Is this one-sixty Irvine Turner Boulevard?” I asked.
“One-sixty A,” the guy said in a thick Indian accent. “You want one-sixty, you go around the corner.”
“Around … which corner?”
The guy pointed out the door and vaguely to the left, so that’s the direction I took. I reached the end of the building without seeing anything obvious, just a narrow alleyway. It was far cleaner than most Newark alleys—spotless, actually—which really got me suspicious. I hoped Tee remembered that I had a cat who depended on me as his sole means of support.
I turned and, midway down the alley, found a meshed steel door, the kind that served as a superstrength screen for another door inside it. I pulled on the screen, but it was bolted solid. A security camera, attached to the side of the building about fifteen feet up, looked down on me.
There was no knocking on a door like this. But I also couldn’t see any other way in. I studied the door frame, the door itself, and saw nothing obvious. Was I supposed to stand there until someone saw me on the camera?
Then I found it, just to the left of the frame: a small, recessed doorbell button, practically camouflaged because it had been painted the same cream color as the concrete around it.
I pressed the button and waited. Nothing happened. I pressed again. Still nothing. I was beginning to think
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