Black Buck(117)

“So, what, you were dealin’ to someone in Chelsea? How long you been doin’ this for? How many clients you have, man?”

Jason sat up, laughing. “I thought you taught us to only ask one question at a time, nigga. Look atchu.”

I clenched my jaw.

“Aight.” He took in a lungful of air. “It was jus’ one client. Some rich guy who would only hit me up every coupla weeks for some serious weight. Must’ve been supplyin’ all of lower Manhattan or maybe steppin’ on it and flippin’ it himself. But I’ve only been doin’ it for about a month. Matter fact, I was done dealin’, bro. Trey’s the one who said he knew someone that wanted, and when he told me how much, I’m sayin’ like ten stacks’ worth, I said hell yeah I could do it. So I hit up Malcolm, he hit me with the weight, and I made the money easy.”

“Why didn’ you stop then? Ten Gs mus’ be enough to clear your moms’s debt.”

“Nah, bro. It’s some killer debt, and not the kind you pay the government, you feel me? So when homie called me for this flip, I was like, ‘Bet. This is the last time Imma do this. After this, plus my savin’s, her debts will be cleared, and we’ll be set.’ So when those niggas jumped me, I texted the guy and said I’d have to bring it in a coupla days, but he said he didn’ have a coupla days, that it was now or never. And I’m not about to be on the hook with Malcolm for ten Gs, so I gotta get it to the guy tonight.”

He reached over the side of his bed, grabbed a black backpack, and threw it at me.

“I can’t trust anyone else,” he said. “This guy is straight, bro. I promise. All you gotta do is ring the buzzer, take the elevator up, drop it on the floor, grab the money from a little table, count it, and be out. You never see him; he never sees you. I don’ even know what this nigga looks like.”

Fuck! I knew the night was going too perfectly. I wanted to say no, but I didn’t because, if the tables were turned, Jason would have done it for me without a question. Plus, he didn’t seem too worried about it, so I didn’t either. It’ll be quick and easy.

“Text me the address,” I said.



* * *





“If I don’t come out in fifteen minutes, Chauncey,” I said, slinging the backpack over my shoulder as I leaned into his window, “leave and don’t look back. Okay?”

He laughed. “What are you talking about, Buck?” He shook his index finger at me. “Are you trying to get out of dinner tonight? We can always do it another time.”

“No. There’s nothing I want more than some of Fatou’s food, but seriously, if I’m not out in fifteen minutes, leave. Okay?”

The light in his face went out. He bit his lower lip and shook his head. “I do not understand, Buck.”

I extended my hand through the window. “Promise me, Chauncey. Promise me that you’ll leave.”

He looked at my hand for a minute, as if he didn’t know what to do, then shook it. “I promise, Buck.”

The building, on Twenty-Third and Tenth, was like others in the area: tall as hell, made out of brick, and sitting in front of trees with low black fences that dogs love to piss on. I buzzed 818 and the door clicked open.

I found the elevator and entered the room number on some high-tech digital display. The doors opened directly into the apartment, like at my place. I stepped out into an empty hallway and saw the little table Jason mentioned, with a white envelope on top. I picked it up, counted the bills inside, then put the bag down.

So far, so good. Sweat poured down my brow. I quickly turned and pressed the elevator button, wondering if the guy was in the house or if he was somehow watching me from a hidden camera. A bell rang, the elevator doors opened, and as I stepped in, something heavy crashed into my head.

“Fuck,” I whispered.

Everything went black.

When I woke up, I was in what I guessed was the living room, tied to a chair with dried blood sticking to my head, hands, and clothes.

“Yo!” I shouted, struggling with the ropes on my wrists and ankles. “What the fuck!”

“Calm down,” a voice said from behind me.

“Who the fuck are you?” I tried to turn around. “What do you want?”

“That’s a good question,” the voice said. “What will you give me?”

“Money, you want money?”

The voice laughed and punched me in the back of my head. My wrists and ankles burned against the fibrous ropes. The voice forced a plastic bag over my head. As I coughed, the bag became tighter to the point where I was only sucking in plastic. No air. My mind went blank. I was certain that I was going to die.

By the time this had begun to sink in, the voice yanked the bag off, and I was left gasping like I’d been brought back to life. The voice just laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

“Please,” I said, my throat feeling like someone poured hot gravel down it. “Please stop.” I hated the desperation in my voice, how I was begging whomever, whatever, this was, but I had no choice. I didn’t even know where I was. There was just a nondescript hardwood floor beneath me and a white wall in front of me.

“Fine,” the voice said. “As you wish.” A white hand dangled a knife in front of me.

“FUCK!” I shouted, twisting in the chair, trying to break free.