CHAPTER NINE
1999- The Edge
Wedged between the fetid remains of a toxic landfill to the north and the murky waters of Jamaica Bay to the south, Edgemere Houses was home to a myriad of crewed up drug operations, beefing gangs and a grip of future failed rappers. It was also a crack rock mecca, so it was interesting that we were on a mission to get heroin there. I was sure both the quality and price would make it worth our time if it was coming from one of Mundo’s uncle’s old connects from back when he lived in the States.
From the little Mundo had told me, it seems as if Tío Bolo had ridden out the crazy 80s out in Queens. His solid connections back home in Panana had made it easy for him to act as a wholesale coke and dope broker here in the States. Bolo returned to Panama once things started settling down.
I loved it whenever our errands involved nice bulk weight of dope. As a consumer, crack (and cocaine in general) was something I was very “take it or leave it” about. Mundo never touched hard drugs except to sell them and he was much more comfortable handling weed. But at the end of the day, it didn’t matter what we walked away with since he viewed it all as commodity. As long as it could be flipped quietly, Doe would make it happen. He was good like that.
On the practical tip, my chances for a potentially romantic night with Doe were looking up. The machinations of parceling out heroin was something I was very familiar with. With a mild assist from Doe, I’d be able to steady bag it up until we had enough to pass off to the kids manning the trap and then see where the night took us. Regardless, I was looking forward to getting in, getting out and getting my ass back to Brooklyn. The Edge lived up to its name- I always left from there feeling shook.
The Regulators were the main gang holding The Edge in a death grip. They ran a tight ship, scrutinized every single person coming and going, no matter if they thought you looked familiar or if you were vouched for by a resident. And I was not looking forward to trying to “pass.”
It was always weird when I rolled into the projects with the crew. Side-eye number one: I was white.
With my pulled back hair and make-up free face, I was always first mistaken as a dude. But the second I opened my mouth to speak, or if someone was able to get a good look at my rack, it was so obvious I was a chick. That was side-eye number two.
Boy or girl, I was constantly accused of being Jump Street. I haaaaaated it. So, I took to a uniform of semi-baggy jeans, dark blue Carhartt jacket (the zip up one with the hood), Mets hat, Timberlands and mirrored Calvin Klein sunglasses. That way I could be passed off as Cabrón’s blanquito kid cousin from Long Island, as long as I kept my mouth shut.
This time out I was definitely planning on not saying shit, even if spoken to directly. These were Mundo’s uncle’s peoples from the early 80s, so hopefully my role would be limited to background extra.
