The Reason Why (9 page)

Chino whipped his rented Corvette around into the newly vacated parking spot. He and Joe Bub climbed out of the Vette and made their way across the street, heads tucked down and hands in their pockets, protecting themselves from the frosty air. A group of Puerto Ricans were standing outside a deli.

“Yo, you know where I can get a good cheese steak sandwich?” Chino spoke, giving them the code that Fabian had told him. “A nigga hungry.”

“Cheese steaks are in Philly,” one of them replied, hunched over from the cold.

“Well, what do you have here in New York?”

“Coneys,” another one answered correctly.

A slim Puerto Rican dude with a long mustache and slicked-back hair stepped forward. He wore a black leather jacket, some black jeans, and some black boots. He looked like a cross between the Terminator and Fonzie from
Happy Days,
but something about him was intimidating. Maybe even dangerous. Perhaps it was his unassuming manner, or the way he held his cigarette in his mouth, or the way he talked so slow and steady and sure but everyone could see that he wasn't one to be fucked with.

“I am Dragos.” The slim man extended his hand.

“Chino.” He took and shook Dragos's hand.

Dragos nodded toward the interior of the deli. “Let's step inside and talk.”

Dragos led the way and Chino followed. The men stepped in front of the entry, letting Joe Bub know that he wasn't going inside with them.

“Shit, it's colder than a muthafucker out here!” Joe Bub said to himself as he turned around and bounced up and down slightly, trying to keep warm.

Dragos seated himself at a table in the corner, and Chino took the opposite seat.

“I've heard a lot about you, Chino.” Dragos looked closely at him.

“I hope it's all good.”

“It has been,” Dragos told him, nodding his head in approval. “The family speaks highly of you and my uncle received some reports . . . impressive. Our family values loyalty, and a man who can take a beating and keep his mouth closed is thought of in highest regard.”

“Man,” Chino said, rubbing his hand across his chin, “there's no way I'll ever be a snitch.”

Rubbing his hands together, Dragos stared long and hard at Chino. “You have proven yourself.”

“Have you heard anything from Fabian?”

“Nothing since the last time we talked. The lawyers say that he is going to be fine.”

“That's good.”

“I thought it was important that we meet, so I could get a good gauge of your character since we are going to be dealing with each another from here on out. Fabian thinks of you like a brother.”

“As far as I'm concerned, he is my brother.” Chino and Fabian were as thick as thieves and their friendship was true.

“I don't know what kind of deal you and Fabian had, but I'm looking for someone who can move some serious merchandise for me in Columbus.”

“How much?” Chino asked, never losing eye contact with Dragos.

“A lot. Basically, I'm looking for someone who can take Fabian's place. All of the people he was working with are going to need a new supplier.”

“And you think I'm ready to move that much product?”

“Only you can answer that question, Chino. Are you ready?”

Chino looked out of the window and thought about what Dragos was asking. Was he ready to move that much weight in Columbus? Could he move that much weight? At least twenty birds a week. And depending on the ticket, he might be getting two or three thousand off each bird. Did he know enough niggas that moved at least a key? Could he depend on twenty niggas to each get a key each week, or ten niggas to get two keys a week? His crew would definitely have to step up their game. Money would be flowing like water, if they could find the customers. Could he do it? If Fabian could, then he could too. Fabian was from out of state, whereas Columbus was his. He was from Ohio, and nobody knew those streets or the players like he did. Yeah, he was ready.

“What kind of ticket are we talking?” Chino asked.

“We'll start off small,” Dragos explained. “How about twenty keys a week?”

Chino nodded in agreement.

“The first month, I'm only going to send ten a week. I
want you to build up your clientele and get used to moving that kind of weight.”

“You can go ahead and send the whole twenty,” Chino told him confidently.

He was ready to ball and rake in all of life's rewards. The streets had not been kind to him as of yet. In fact, the streets had been a real bitch. But now, the bitch had just opened her legs up to him, and he was definitely going to fuck.

C
hino walked to his closet, pulled open the door, and kneeled down. He turned the knob on his metal safe, entering the combination. After correctly entering the four-digit number, he turned the lever and pulled open the heavy metal door. Inside the safe were his life savings. He had amassed roughly one hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars. Not enough for him to quit hustling for the rest of his life. Not enough for him to pack up and leave Columbus and go somewhere else and start over. Definitely not enough for him to buy a nice house out in the suburbs, furnish it, buy two cars, settle down, and raise a family; it was just enough for him to keep going. But with this new connect, things were definitely going to change.

Dragos was shipping him twenty kilos a week. If he made two thousand dollars a key, just by playing the middleman, he could definitely live with that. Forty thousand dollars a week meant that his dreams were within reach. In a year, he would
be a millionaire. In a year, he could afford to quit. In a year, he could pack up, leave Columbus, leave the heartless and cold streets, leave behind all the death, destruction, and hard memories that seemed to plague him. In one year, he would be able to afford that life in the suburbs. In one year, he would be able to marry Pooh, start a family, have two nice whips in the driveway and a nice family dog in the backyard. He wanted it all. He wanted the American Dream.

The thought of waking up in the morning, taking the trash can to the street, and waving at his neighbors made him laugh. Hard-core Chino, gangsta from the hood, wanting to live the
Leave It to Beaver
lifestyle; but then again, wasn't that what it was all about? Getting out of the ghetto? White kids wanted to sag, listen to hip hop, talk black, dress black, and become a part of the hood. Real niggas from the hood wanted out of the hood. They would trade anytime. Give me Beverly Hills, you muthafuckas can have Compton. Deal. No backs, no jacks, no penny tax.

Chino counted out fifty thousand dollars and put the rest of his money back inside his safe. He gave the combination lock a few twists and pulled on the lever to make sure that his safe was secure. The worst thing in the world would be to get peeled by a fucking burglar.
Man, that would be so fucked up,
he thought.

Chino placed his fifty grand inside a large manila envelope and headed out the door. He was about to ball like crazy, but only if he could move that much yayo. How did one move that much product on a regular? By building up a customer base. How did a business build up its customer base? By advertisement. And in this game, how did one advertise, or let others
know that you had product to move? By looking like you did. Nobody in the game would say two words to a scrub. The big-timers that he had just overshot wouldn't give him the time of day. Chino had always been known as one of Fabian's boys; now he wanted to be their supplier. He wanted to sell keys to niggas who had once been his peers, his competition, and even his suppliers when Fabian's supply had gone dry. But he had to let them know that he was open for business, and if it was any flack, he had to let them know that this was a new day and that he was the man now. First things first; he needed a whip that said he was the man. What better way than to go foreign?

Chino pulled into the Porsche dealership in his bucket and headed inside to the showroom. He was met with some strange glances, snares, smirks, but mostly the salesmen simply ignored him. They thought him just another kid from the hood with Porsche dreams with a lot of questions and a big waste of their time. One salesman didn't see him that way, though. He figured that the dreamers that walked into the dealership today were his customers of tomorrow.

“Hello,” the salesman said, extending his hand toward Chino. “My name is Tom, what can I do for you today?” At least this guy was giving him some respect.

Chino pointed toward a Porsche 944 Turbo convertible on the showroom floor. The 944 Turbo had an almost butter smooth gray leather interior, a Blaupunkt stereo system, and a gorgeous candy red paint job. “Man, I like this one.”

“Ahh, this is nice. The convertible nine forty-four Turbo,” Tom confirmed. “We just got her in two days ago. She's a real
beauty. Actually, the nine forty-four is our biggest seller, then the nine eleven, and our top of the line is the nine twenty-eight GT.”

“Yeah, I know.” Chino nodded. “My homeboy had a nine twenty-eight GT, a black one. It was nice.”

“The nine twenty-eight is a helluva vehicle,” Tom told him. “Expensive though.”

“How much is this one?”

“This particular vehicle is fully loaded. It stickers out at forty-eight thousand. You can buy a 944 in the thirties; same thing with a turbo model. You can get a nicely equipped turbo for about forty to forty-two.”

“How does it drive?” Chino asked.

“Like a beauty.” Tom smiled. “Have you ever driven a turbo before?”

“Naw, man.” Chino shook his head.

“Man, there is nothing like driving a turbo, especially one of these. This thing takes off like a fighter jet.” Tom looked around the dealership. “If you brought your driver's license, I can take you for a test drive.”

Chino nodded. “I got my license.”

“I just need to make a copy of it for insurance purposes, and find us some keys to one of the demos, and we're outta here,” Tom told him.

Tom returned and tossed Chino the keys to a demo. Eagerly Chino waved his hand to the other salesmen, opened the door, and climbed inside. He inhaled deeply. The new car smell, the smell of leather, and its soft, glovelike feel was a combination that Chino loved. Taking the car on the freeway and getting the feel of it, he was even more sure this was the
car he wanted. Chino turned up the stereo system and found a hip hop station bumpin' MC Breed's “Ain't No Future in Yo Frontin.”

“What kind of stereo in this?”

“Blaupunkt,” Tom told him, trying to look cool but praying for a sale. “Blaupunkt, Alpine, and Nakamichi are the stereos they put in high-dollar foreign cars now.”

“I see.” Chino's mind was made up. He got off the highway and made his way back to the dealership.

This was the car that would tell the ballers that he was a serious player. That they could come and score from him, and that he would always be the man.

“I'll take it,” Chino said, once he came to a complete stop on the parking lot.

Tom laughed. “Wow, I like a man who knows what he wants. I don't mean to pry, but you must have a heck of a job.”

“Yup.”

“You look a little young, though. Are you a lawyer or something?”

“I'll give you forty-eight for it, but that's with tax, title, and license.”

Tom shook his head slowly. “I don't know if my general manager is going to go for that.”

“It's the end of the month, you want to close out your sales month strong,” Chino told him knowingly with a smile. “He'll take it.”

Tom grinned at the slick-tongued youngster. “So, you're a car salesman, huh?”

“I'm a salesman.”

“I knew it!” Tom beamed. “No wonder you knew exactly
what you wanted. Most customers have to be shown a couple of different models before settling on one.”

“Forty-eight, cash.”