I decided to take it down a notch, now that all of my concerns had been laid out on the table for Bolo and Téo to see. I’d gotten Mundo out of my hair and Cabrón was developing into quite a useful junior associate. There was no need to be on constant high alert. I had to start thinking of my life outside of PanStar. Lincoln Road was on the horizon.
Sometime in August, I got a call from my main contact at Port Newark. There was a paperwork problem and he needed me to take a midnight run out there to straighten things out. I told him he could expect to see me later, then I went to go help Pierre organize a large shipment of barrels that had just been dollied into the back room.
Pierre was dressed for a day of heavy manual labor- grey sweatpants, black t-shirt and work boots, a Dominican flag bandana tied low over his forehead to keep the sweat out of his eyes. My back room did not have air conditioning. I walked over to where he was wrestling with an especially heavy barrel.
“Need some help?” I asked.
He looked up and nodded.
It took the two of us several minutes to wrangle the overloaded barrel onto a pallet.
“What the hell is in that fucking thing?” Cabrón asked, winded.
“A bunch of car batteries,” I replied. “The guy shipping them has a connect at an AutoZone out in Long Island who can miraculously make a gross of them disappear off the loading dock, like magic. There are ten more barrels like that, so let’s get a move on.”
It was almost six o’clock by the time we’d gotten everything situated. Both of us were drenched in sweat.
I walked over to the mini fridge and grabbed two bottles of Guinness.
“What are you getting into tonight?” I asked Pierre as I handed him one.
“Nothing,” Pierre replied. “Why?”
“I have to make a run out to New Jersey tonight and wanted to see if you’d be able to go with me.”
“Yeah, I guess I could,” Pierre said, slightly dubious. “If you need me.”
“It would be helpful,” I said, offering nothing more by way of explanation. “Give me your address.”
Pierre lived in Bed-Stuy, right by the border of Williamsburg. That did not surprise me at all.
“I’ll pick you up at 10:30.” I told him. “Meet me outside your house. I’ll page you when I’m on my way.”
Once Pierre had left, I decided I’d rather spend a few hours over at my house than sit around my depressing top floor studio, so I locked up PanStar, went upstairs to grab a few items, then made my way over to Prospect Lefferts Gardens. It would take extra time to backtrack from there to grab Pierre, but it was worth it. I was more than tired of Crown Heights.
Making that detour to PLG wound up being a very good idea- it was encouraging to see how much progress the contractor had made since my last visit, a week or so earlier. The brand-new shower in my main bathroom was a revelation, compared to the cramped and mildewed compartment over on Nostrand Avenue. I’d forgotten what a difference steady water pressure could make.
I left Lincoln Road well-scrubbed and significantly refreshed. When I pulled up to Hart Street, Pierre was waiting on his stoop.
I rolled down the passenger window, leaned over and called out, “Get in!”
Pierre got in. We took off, heading towards the BQE.
I didn’t turn on the radio. We were going to ride in silence.
At a stoplight I took the opportunity to glance over at Pierre. He was wearing a pair of dark jeans and a plain white t-shirt. I guessed he’d decided to play it down the middle.
“Did you get a haircut after work?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he replied. “It’s Thursday!”
I had to work to hold in my smile.
After that, we rode in silence.
I asked my next question as we approached the on ramp to the Verrazzano.
“What do you know about New Jersey?”
Pierre, who’d been staring straight ahead the entire ride, turned to look at me.
“It’s right after Staten Island,” he replied.
Okay, Cabrón,” I said patiently. “How much time have you spent in New Jersey? What do you know about it?”
“Not much,” he admitted. “One of my cousins married a Portuguese guy from Newark, so I go out to eat with them around there every once in a while.”
“That’s probably the only reason to bother with New Jersey,” I remarked. “I’m not particularly fond of it out here.”
We lapsed into silence again.
Half an hour later I pulled up to the Port Newark security checkpoint.
Pierre kept his mouth shut, but I felt his eyes boring into the side of my neck.
I rolled down the window and handed over my driver’s license.
The guard waved us in.
It was minutes to three by the time I dropped Pierre off on Hart Street.
“You can come in to work at noon, if you want,” I told him, as he prepared to exit my vehicle.
“Sounds good,” he replied as he shut the door, careful not to slam it.
Pierre showed up at PanStar six hours later, at 9:30 a.m., ready to work.
