As I’d told Mano I would, I spent a lot of time going back and forth to Panama that summer. It was the easiest way to keep Bolo’s feet to the fire- I refused to let his old school businessman’s sense of market-share entitlement keep us from finalizing our pivot pipeline plan.
I didn't really mind working out of Panama so frequently, because it was better than having Bolo calling me long-distance every other day, micromanaging me without offering any useful solutions. All of the restless sprawl that I’d had to contend with in the formative years of our relationship was behind us. Mundo had been exiled to the legal side of his tío’s world. I had free runway to manage Brooklyn as I chose. And now that Pierre was officially under me, I could really start concentrating on developing my true end game.
Panama was Panama. I was never going to love it there, but if managed properly, it would be another way for me to make my money. As long as I was beholden to Bolo, I was determined to get paid in two countries.
Late August found me back in Brooklyn for a week or so. I gave Prentiss a call on a Wednesday and asked if he was planning on firing up the jerk grill later that afternoon.
“I could do,” he said. “Grab a loaf of hard dough on your way over. Maybe something to drink. White rum.”
I showed up at around five p.m. The sun was still blazing. Sean Paul was booming out of the stereo. “Deport Dem.” Prentiss was just getting the chicken on, and a set of dominoes was resting on the picnic table. I pulled out a bottle of Wray & Nephew from its brown paper bag, tapped the top and handed it to Prentiss to do the same. It was going to be one of those long, summer evenings.
Bellies full, rum in the system, Prentiss and I kept up a steady stream of dominoes. Some of the kids working late would filter into the back, grab some chicken, maybe stop to play a few hands, then drift back into the garage. By nine o’clock it was just Prentiss and me. The music had been changed to an old soundclash cassette. Downbeat versus Jaro.
“I’m thinking we need to bring in someone to help out with these flips,” I said. “It’s a lot of work.”
Prentiss and I had started to gain traction with the off-books real estate market in South Brooklyn. He was the silent partner and I was the co-financier and front man. PanStar’s downtime had given me more than enough freedom to spend on my outside interests, but I really needed a junior partner to help manage the day-to-day tasks. Someone who could put in sweat equity and maybe kick in some of their own financing once they got to that level.
“You getting tired of running clean-up crews out in Canarsie?” Prentiss laughed.
“You don’t know the half,” I replied. “I’m sick of Home Depot. They know my name there now.”
“That’s fine by me if you want to bring in a youngster to manage things,” Prentiss said. “I just want to watch my investments grow.”
“They are,” I told him. “And they will.”
“As long as it’s not that jack-ass wannabe pretty boy you have working for you,” Prentiss warned.
“Ha, no,” I said and shook my head. “We sent that kid down to Panama a while ago. He’s done here.”
“Good,” Prentiss replied. “That kid needed to be removed.”
“I’m thinking about his buddy, Pierre. You know, the one I sent over to sell you that garage. He’s like us, but soft.”
