Early July was unbearably oppressive and I was trying to just go about my business.
I kept up with the handful of domming clients who were still left in the city- most of them had taken the wife and kids and bounced to somewhere cool.
I did a surprisingly good job keeping my dope habit at a “maintenance” level of consumption. I still thought about really kicking for good, but knew I’d have to take a week or two completely to myself- no one in or out of my apartment- and I just wasn’t in the position to make that happen yet. Achieving a total state of sobriety would have to wait.
I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to get Biz to keep all his laptops and paperwork locked away. Begging him to stop bringing random motherfuckers in and out of my crib. Asking him to stop throwing greasy fast-food wrappers on the floor.
And I tried to stay out of Cabrón’s way as much as possible. Unfortunately, we were still tethered via the cellphone he’d given me to replace Doe’s phone. I was still expected to answer it whenever it rang- nothing had changed on that front. And it was always Cabrón at the end of the line.
Ring.
Ring.
“Hello?” I asked, not even a hint of banter in my voice.
“Yo.”
“Yes?”
“I’m gonna stop over this afternoon and drop off the stuff I promised you.”
“I will be awaiting your arrival.”
Cabrón showed up a few hours later, a large Louis Vuitton duffle bag looped over his shoulder. The duffle bag held three big-ass Timberland boot boxes. And I knew that each box contained guns.
He went straight to my bedroom closet and reached towards the top shelf where I stored my collection of designer shoes, in their boxes. He moved my things around to make room for his boxes. Boxes full of fucking guns. Then he closed the door, handed me a knot of hundred dollar bills and made me promise I wouldn’t let anyone touch anything. “And when all of this is done, I’ll let you keep the duffle bag,” he added. What a consolation prize.
The routine that developed since our night at Patois was this:
Brón would show up with that duffle bag and an empty Timberland box.
He’d go into my closet and take out a bunch of guns. I didn’t want to know how many.
He’d put them into the empty boot box, then shove the box in the LV bag.
He’d hand me a little money, maybe a little dope.
He’d leave.
I hated guns, so I had no idea what type were being stashed in my crib. I just knew they were unregistered guns, illegal guns, and if I got caught with them, I’d be fucked. I was counting the days until the stash was gone and I prayed that this would be the last of it.
“Hey, you got a minute?” I asked once the gun shuffle had been completed.
“Yeah,” said Brón. “What’s up?”
We were standing at my breakfast bar. It almost felt like old times, back before I knew what I was dealing with.
“Biz keeps bringing all these people around. They’re, like, corner dealers who collect EBT cards and food stamps from their customers,” I explained. “I keep telling Biz to make those deals over at HQ and he just keeps ‘yessing’ me to death. It’s not good! Also, he keeps on coming over earlier and earlier to pack the drop bags each month. Go look in that front closet- the North Face is already stuffed with drop bags and I’m not even supposed to start my rounds until next week! It's annoying!”
Cabrón nodded. “I’ll talk to Biz tonight.”
He turned around right before he closed the front door and said, “We found another place to keep our inventory. You’ll have your place back to yourself soon. And then maybe we can be friends again.”
