Free Street Pharm by Allison van Diepen Page B

bus to the subway station.
    Sonny was sitting in his Caddy waiting for me, music pumping.
    He got out and gave Alyse a once-over. “Who this?”
    Alyse stiffened. “Who you ?”
    Sonny burst out laughing.
    “Sonny, Alyse. Alyse, Sonny.”
    “Ty’s my partner in crime.” Sonny nudged me. “Ain’t that right?”
    “Word.” I said to Alyse, “I’ll call you tonight, okay?”
    “Okay.” She looked a bit confused at my fast good-bye, but I’d say sorry later. I wished I could offer her a ride, but every second Sonny was around her was like a ticking time bomb.
    Sonny and me got in the car.
    “Be more fucking careful next time,” I said.
    “Huh? What I do?”
    “The way you looked at her, for a start.”
    “She cute, that’s all.”
    “Not every chick likes to be looked at that way.”
    Sonny raised his eyebrows. “I get it. You haven’t balled her yet. You wanna make a good impression.”
    “Something like that. And she don’t know I’m a hustler, so you got no business running your mouth like that. ‘Partner in crime,’ my ass!”
    “Wait wait wait, hold up. She don’t know what you do? C’mon, man, it’ll help you ball her!”
    “Not this girl. Enough of this, Sonny. Why you waiting for me?”
    “I wanted to tell you we got a meeting tonight with Jones and Menendez.”
    “Good. You could’ve just called.”
    “Yeah, but I thought we should talk about your visit with Orlando before we see them. You told him about Darkman?”
    “He already knew. Drive, I’ll tell you everything.”
    But I didn’t tell him everything.

SUPPLY AND DEMAND
    T he government lets people buy junk food that’s gonna rot their teeth and make them fat. The government lets people buy booze and cigarettes—both can kill you. But when it comes to drugs, the government don’t trust the public to choose for themselves.
    That forced hustlers like me and Sonny to go underground. Even though we had the dough to rent an office, Sonny and me had to meet suppliers and customers in secret places.
    That night we were meeting Jones and Menendez. We’d used this place—an empty warehouse under the Manhattan Bridge—a few times before. When we pulled around the back of the warehouse,Sonny’s high-beams lit up Menendez’s dark blue Jag. Jones and Menendez had a thing about getting there first.
    As we got out into the dark parking lot, Sonny said, “Hope they ain’t freaked by the short notice.” He switched on his flashlight.
    Sonny had the jitter in his voice that he always had at night meetings. As for me, I liked the dark. It could be dangerous, but it could also be protection.
    We went in through a side door and saw Jones and Menendez. From the looks of the place, it was being renovated. Scaffolding was up, and paint cans and two-by-fours were piled everywhere. This would have to be the last time we met here.
    We went up to them and knocked knuckles. Menendez was a fat Dominican with an acne-scarred face and a thin mouth that didn’t smile much. Jones wore a wife-beater under his leather jacket to show off his tattoos. Jones and Menendez grew up in the same project in Queens, and after a few years of competition hooked up as partners. Now, twenty years later, they was kingpins, living in Long Island mansions.
    “Thanks for going outta your way,” I said. “We got us some trouble. Figured you should get the heads-up.”
    They looked at each other, and Menendez said, “Go on.”
    “Some guy, calls himself Darkman, is trying to take over our business,” Sonny explained.
    I added quick, “We got no holes in our team. Our employees and customers are loyal, so that ain’t a problem. But Darkman will try to find out who’s supplying us.”
    “Will your employees tell him?” Jones asked.
    Trick question. “ None of our employees know who you are. Darkman won’t find out shit from them. But Darkman was in the business down in Miami, and I know you said your Colombian friends land their planes near there.”
    “The