CHAPTER TWENTY
2000 – Let’s Go Mets!
I was so fuckin’ proud of that $50,000 check.
It wasn’t the amount.
It wasn’t that I got fifty grand out of lackadaisical-ass Mundo without a hassle.
It was that I earned it doing something necessary, above-board and not likely to cause harm to anyone. Like a civilian would.
When we first signed on with Bolo, Mundo and I always used to joke about “civilians,” and how far out of that loop we’d dropped.
All it took for Mundo to slide back in was a plane ticket from Tío.
I had no clue what it would take for me to achieve the same, but the second I deposited that check into my bank account, I knew for sure- I wanted to re-enter the mainstream.
One day in early September, I punched in Hopeton’s digits and asked if he was busy- it was a Sunday and PanStar was closed for the day. I heard noise in the background- people laughing and yelling, the sound of a ball cracking against a bat.
“No man, I’m over in Prospect Park playing cricket,” he said. “Why don’t you swing over? Meet me here in an hour.” He told me the closest entrance and I said I’d be by soon.
The game was winding down by the time I got there. When he was ready to roll, I asked Hopeton if he wanted to grab a few beers at the Westbury Inn over on Flatbush. It took a minute for me to find a parking spot to fit the SUV- by the time I got to the bar, Hopeton was standing outside waiting for me. It was a small, non-descript spot but pretty quiet inside, so we were able to get beers at the bar, then grab a little table.
Hopeton and I made small talk as we savored our first round of Guinness- cricket, futból and whether or not the Mets would be able to nail down a wild card spot in the playoffs. “To be a Mets fan is to understand the heartbreak of repeated disappointment,” I sighed. Hopeton laughed. I know he didn’t really give a fuck about baseball the way a real New Yorker would, but he always kept half an eye on standings throughout the season.
I offered to buy a second round and decided it’d be a good idea to order a basket of onion rings to go along with the alcohol. When I got back to the table, I let Hopeton in on the reason I’d asked to link with him.
I pulled an envelope out of my back pants pocket and handed it to him.
“What’s this?” he asked, looking surprised. He placed the envelope on the table.
“It’s a five percent finder’s fee for putting me onto the buyer for the Brownsville property,” I replied.
“No, man,” Hopeton said, as he pushed the unopened envelop back towards me. “You keep it. Just buy me a nice professional league dartboard for the PanStar back room. Yunno, the one that has those cupboard doors, like in pubs in England.”
I laughed. “You got it,” I told him.
The bartender signaled that our onion rings were ready. I went to grab them.
When I returned with the food, I could tell Hopeton was thinking about something of consequence.
“I’m glad you brought up the real estate deal, Pierre,” Hopeton said, before reaching for the basket.
I prayed this conversation would help guide me back towards civilian stability.
