I left Clarendon Collision with a full belly and $125 in my pocket.
Next stop was East New York. A Dominican barbershop on Pitkin Avenue, where there would be a more substantial amount of money than usual to collect- an emergency bail situation. It was the owner of the barbershop who’d vouched for the borrower, so I was fairly confident that the payment would be forthcoming.
I figured I’d get a haircut while I was there. May as well look sharp for my meeting with my future boss. It pained me to even think that way, but I had to be honest with myself.
I could tell from outside that the shop was packed to capacity.
The owner, Osvald greeted me as soon as I stepped in. He was at his chair, cutting a design into the head of a teenaged boy.
“Hopeton. Siéntate tranquilo, te acomodo tan pronto pueda.”
“Take your time, man,” I replied. “Just do me a favor and give your nephew a call and let him know I’m here.”
Osvald nodded, stepped away from the boy for a minute and went to make the call.
“He’ll be here within the hour,” Osvald said upon his return.
There were three other people ahead of me, so I just eased back and enjoyed the camaraderie of the barbershop. It was so nice to listen to people talking in Spanish about everyday things. That was one thing I loved about living in Brooklyn- both the Cuban side and Jamaican side of my soul were fulfilled on a foundational level.
Osvald was ready for me right as his nephew showed up. I got into the chair and let Osvald know I need the full package- hot lather shave and haircut.
“How about a manicure? I can get Ana to squeeze you in,” he said, nodding towards a woman in the back who was tending to an older man’s cuticles.
“Sure, why not?” I agreed. May as well get everything tended to.
Osvald’s nephew handed me a manila envelope and gave me a warm, sincere thank you for my assistance.
“De nada, yute,” I said.
I didn’t bother counting the money. I knew it was all there.
The nephew turned to leave, but I held my hand up.
“Before you head out, I have a question for you,” I told him. “You, too Osvald.”
They both looked quizzically at me.
“Do either of you know anything about a crew of Panamanians?” I asked. “I think they’re running things out of Queens.”
Osvald’s nephew gave a small smirk and said, “Yeah, papá, I know who you’re talking about. I don’t know them personally but peoples of my people run with them. They’re doing a lot of wholesaling up and down Far Rock.”
“Really now,” I said, quietly. Not a question. A statement.
“Yeah, they’re legit,” the nephew confirmed. “Big business. Tight circle.”
With that, he dapped me up, gave his uncle a brief hug and left the shop.
It was late evening by the time I was finished at the barbershop. East New York was not the neighborhood to be walking around with that much cash in my pocket, so I called a gypsy cab driver I knew and had him come carry me back to Crown Heights.
