CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
2000- Port Of Newark
We locked the shipping barrel store up and hit the road. I still had no idea where we were going. I had a feeling this would become a recurring motif if this thing with me and Cabrón developed into what I felt it might.
The clock struck 12 a.m. while ‘Brón was in the midst of navigating a surprisingly crowded Eastern Parkway.
I asked him if he wanted to pull over and make out. He told me to shut the fuck up and go into the glove compartment to find his Cam’ron CD. Pooh. He was no fun.
Cabrón made a right onto Classon and I realized we were gonna pass right by Pacific.
“We stopping at HQ?”
‘Brón made the teensiest head swivel physically possible and said, “No. We’re heading to Newark. I gotta go deal with some shit at the port.”
I shrugged and said, “Nothing like starting out the new millennium with an unexpected visit to the Port of Newark, riding shotgun with an uncommunicative asshole.”
‘Brón wouldn’t bite. No info was forthcoming. I guessed it would take at least an hour to drive out to Newark- I had zero frame of reference. Jersey was a place I’d sworn to always avoid at all costs- the entire state. I decided my best course of action was to lay my head back and enjoy the sweet narcotic molasses coursing through my capillaries.
Once the euphoria abated, I decided to try again. I could tell it didn’t make sense to try and figure out the deal with PanStar- that would have to wait until after we completed our next mysterious errand, but now would be the perfect opportunity to ask this man about himself. I was curious about his background- where he really came from. How he knew Mundo. His dreams for the future. What his end game was. Yankees or Mets.
I yawned and stretched, to let ‘Brón know I was awake.
“Hey, ‘Brón,” I started in, “what’s your government name?”
He let a dry death rattle of a laugh pass his lips. I made a mental note to see if I could ever find time to sneak a look at his driver’s license.
“Okay,” I persisted. “Where are you from?”
“What do you mean? he asked. “You know I’m from Brooklyn.”
“No.” I turned in my seat to look at him. “I mean, like have you always been in Bed Stuy? Have you ever lived anywhere else? Were your parents from here? Like, what’s your deal?”
He gave me a brief side-eyed glance. I could tell he was trying to figure where I was coming from with all of this. Like, everything had to be a trap. It must be so tiring to live like that.
“Just making conversation, ‘Brón,” I said in what I hoped was a reassuring tone. “No hidden agenda. We have a long ride ahead of us.”
“A’ight,” he said with a sigh. “I’m from Bed Stuy, but closer to Williamsburg.”
“By the J train?”
“Yep.”
“And where’d you go to high school?” I asked.
You can take the girl out of the suburbs…
“Bishop Loughlin. In Fort Greene.”
“You went to Catholic school?”
Once again, I was shocked. All sorts of stuff was being revealed tonight.
“Yeah, but it was like the parochial school for educated thugs,” he said and laughed. “We got up to all kinds of dumb shit there. That’s where I met Mundo.”
Wow, he gave that one up on his own. I didn’t even have to pry!
“And you’re Dominican. That’s obvious.”
“Is it, though?” he asked. Like he was testing me.
“Well, I mean, you’re always repping the Dominican flag. You hablo Español. And you have those sharp ass waves in your hair,” I joked.
“My mom’s Haitian,” he replied. “I’m not telling you what it is, but my first name is French. And it’s ‘Tú hablas Español.’”
“Hmmm,” I mused. “You learn something new every day.”
We both lapsed back into silence.
After about an hour’s drive, the Volvo pulled up to the container port. It was desolate, with vast stretches of pitch dark broken up by intense flood-lights. Gigantic stilled cargo cranes were scattered around, adding a strong aura of menace. Classic low budget horror movie vibes.
Cabrón stopped at the security barrier and handed over his ID. The car was logged and we were waved in.
