Free Cigar Bar by Dion Perkins Page B

were flashing lights. Police and fire trucks were everywhere. There was also a mobile office and the FBI. He decided against stopping, but he didn’t know where to go.
    He merged onto I-80 and just drove. He had no idea where he was going, but he knew that the police were looking for him. When he saw the tipped-over blue barrels of flour, he knew that the Ukrainians wanted him too. Tony decided that he needed a gun.
    He asked himself, “Who the fuck can I holla at? Yes, Flaco!” He remembered one of the dudes that he had met in rehab.
    Flaco was a real skinny Puerto Rican kid who could fight well. He had always kept in touch with Tony, and now Tony needed him. He pulled out his cell phone and called Flaco’s number.
    “Hello?”
    “Flaco, my man! I need you, dude!”
    “Who dis? Tone?”
    “Yeah, what up?”
    Flaco was happy to hear from Tony, “Yo, what up, my nigga? What you need?”
    “Well, I got four hundred, and I need a little fire power, ya dig?”
    “You said four? Bet! Yo, come through. I got you!”
    Tony said, “All right. I’ll be there in a minute.” Tony found himself in the Bronx in less than 15 minutes, but then he thought about the briefcase. Shit! I can’t leave that shit in the car and get out. Damn! He decided to just take it with him.
    He parked about one block over and got out to walk. It was a pleasant evening, and the jacket he wore was making him hot, but he was going be quick. He lit a Marlboro as his stomach felt queasy. As he walked past some young boys, they called out.
    “Yo, white boy! I got that butter, baby.”
    He thought long and hard about his situation. Damn! Here I am, a white boy in the Bronx, carrying a lot of cash. He decided to keep it moving.
    Not so long ago, he would have gotten lost in the Bronx with some hooker, doing drugs until he got robbed, beat, or put in jail. Times had changed. No matter how much his body hurt, he would not disrespect his father’s dying wish.
    He spotted Flaco on the corner with two men. “Flaco, what up?”
    “Pretty Boy Tone! What up, nigga?” He hugged Tony as if he was a long-lost brother.
    “You been a’ight, my man?” Flaco asked.
    “Yeah, you know. Shit has changed, Flaco. Man, my pops died,” he said, his heart heavy.
    “Oh, word? Damn! I’m sorry to hear that shit, dawg,” he said as he reached in and gave his friend a hug. “Well here, check this out. Come on.”
    He followed Flaco into the hallway, up one flight of stairs, and into an apartment. “Wait here.” Flaco left him standing in a living room. On the wall were all sorts of saints, candles all over the place, and an old lady sat on a plastic-covered couch watching a Spanish soap opera. He looked at the girls on the TV screen and thought, Damn! Maybe I should go to Puerto Rico!
    “Yo, come here.” Tony walked down the hall, and as he entered the room, he was impressed. Flaco had everything from shotguns to Uzis. Tony said, “Cool, my man! Look at you!”
    “What you need, my nigga? This is on me. A present, fam! You my people and we always looked out for each other. I know if you calling me, something serious about to go down. So, what also comes with this gift from me is a guarantee that whenever you need me, I’ll be there in a fuckin’ heartbeat!”
    Tony was touched. He reached into the briefcase, grabbed a stack of hundred-dollar bills that were marked $5000. He handed the cash to his friend and said, “Buy your mom something nice, like a flat-screen.” Then he grabbed a Glock 45 along with three cartridges and said, “Thanks, man! I love you! Stay cool, Flaco.” With that, Tony left the building and headed back to his car.
    As he walked, he felt somewhat safer but not much. A bullet always seems to equalize a situation ,he thought. He pulled his keys out and hit the alarm. Beep-beep. Then….
    “Yo, white boy! What’s in the briefcase?”
    He turned around to see four men walking fast toward him.
    “Oh shit, fuck!” Tony tried to hurry up