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“Whatever, they just better act like they got some sense while they up in my crib.”

Juanita made a brief telephone call and fifteen minutes later there was a female voice calling her name in the backyard. She went downstairs and escorted the couple upstairs to Don's attic bedroom.

Juanita gave a brief introduction. “Don, this is my girl, Wanda. She my motherfucking girl,” Juanita said happily as she slapped hands with Wanda. Her voice was dry as she said, “And this is her man, Raoul.”

Raoul stuck out his hand. For a moment it seemed that Don wouldn't show him any love, but finally he shook the older man's hand. As they took a seat Don surveyed the pair with disdain. Wanda was about average height with ninety-degree-angle hips and shriveled breasts that were all too visible in a halter top several times her size. Raoul was a beanpole of a man. Something about his ferretlike countenance made Don distrust him right away. The way Raoul's eyes scanned the room made Don feel like Raoul was doing a mental inventory of things to steal. When he was sure that they weren't paying attention, Don slid over to his dresser and stuffed his pistol in his waistband.

The more he thought about it, the more he didn't want the two hypes in his bedroom. Calmly but firmly he insisted that they move the festivities to the garage.

In the garage, Juanita and Wanda chitchatted while Don cleaned off an old card table to put the pipe and mirror on.
When he dumped some crack on a mirror from the quarter ounce, all conversation stopped. Wanda and Raoul had hoped to smoke only a dime bag or two, but the amount of crack on the mirror challenged their crack-hungering minds. As if by magic, Wanda's pipe appeared in her hand, but Don ignored her.

They all watched Don take a long, leisurely hit, then pass the pipe to Juanita. Don took a razor blade and slid about a twenty-dollar-bag worth from the big pile for Wanda and Raoul.

“Y'all two gone get down with that there,” Don told them.

For a few seconds it appeared as if the couple would come to blows over which one of them would get the first hit when Wanda sat forward and put a few chips of crack in her pipe.

Raoul said, “Damn, why you always get to take the first bust?”

“Fuck you, Raoul,” Wanda hissed. “Don't be starting up in here. Shit, we got a motherfucking dub of yay right here and you crying about who get the first bump. That's some petty shit if I ever heard it.”

Don watched both of them with an amused look on his face.

Raoul was doing his best to control his temper. “I know the fuck you ain't trying to front me off in front of this nigga in his motherfucking garage. I ain't petty. I'm just saying is
all. This here is sposed to be a party that we was both invited to. Being that we was both invited, I want to know why the fuck you gots to be the one that get the first hit?”

Before Wanda put the pipe to her lips, she said, “See, now you always got to show people just how stupid you is. Since you is not getting the shit, I'm gone break it down for you like you two years old: Because it's my gotdamn pipe. Not ours, or yours. Mine. Then the second reason is that Juanita invited us over here and she is my friend, not yours. So now that I done had to explain some shit to you that you shoulda knew, can I take my hit now?”

Wanda didn't wait for Raoul's answer. She put the pipe to her lips and flicked a torch. The good crack made her swoon a little bit. On purpose she took her time before handing the pipe to Raoul.

Don made a mental promise that he and Juanita would never turn out to be like the couple sitting across from them.

Wanda and Raoul smoked the piece Don had given them in about ten minutes. While Juanita and Don continued to smoke, Raoul and Wanda pretended to clean their pipe, but spent more time watching the younger couple than anything.

“Don,” Wanda said.

He looked up, blowing crack smoke toward the ceiling. “What's up?”

Raoul pushed her shoulder. “Gone head and ask him, girl.”

Wanda turned on Raoul. “Why don't you shut the fuck up!” she told Raoul.

“Bitch, just gone head and ask, shit,” Raoul grumbled.

Wanda turned back to Don with a phony smile on her face. “Sorry 'bout that, Don. I just wanted to ask, you know, if we could get a little more.”

“No,” Don said casually. “I done already gave you motherfuckas a twinkie. Y'all didn't even say thank you for that shit. Matter of fact, why don't y'all get the fuck out of my house.”

Raoul jumped to his feet. “Nigga, you ain't got to talk to my woman like that! Who the fuck you think you is, you young-ass punk!”

Nonchalantly, Don raised his T-shirt to show the butt of his pistol. “Man, you better calm yo thin ass down in my motherfucking house, dude. Now like I was saying before, get the fuck out of my damn house before I have yo skinny ass wearing a shit bag. Juanita, show them out.”

Wanda and Raoul grumbled all the while as they followed Juanita out of the garage door and out into the alley.

“I'll call you, girl,” Juanita whispered to Wanda as she closed the back gate behind the vexed couple. She had heard Don leaving the garage.

“You ain't have to put them out like that,” she said when they were face-to-face.

“Girl, fuck them!” Don said. “Them motherfuckas just want to sit up and smoke up a nigga yams. They got to be
crazy thinking Imma set out all my yay. Shit, when we struggling them motherfuckas ain't gone call us and have a smoke-out. Now bring yo ass on. I want some head.”

“Un-uh, nigga. It's yo turn to lick my pussy while I take me a bump.”

“I just might do that, shorty.”

Don took her hand and led her upstairs to his bedroom.

DON DECIDED TO TAKE JUANITA SHOPPING—SOMETHING
he hadn't considered doing in a long time. He could use some new shoes and Juanita was long overdue for some new clothes. He took care to put on some clean socks before they left, something his father had taught him he was always supposed to do if he was going to buy some new shoes. It was funny how something his father had taught him so long ago remained with him.

They found Weed-Eyes on his favorite corner.

“Weedy, what's happening with you, dog?” Don said by way of greeting.

“Nothing much, youngblood. Just trying to put a couple of dollars in the same pocket as always.”

“Problem solved,” Don announced as he started heading
toward Weed-Eyes’ car. “We need a ride out to Evergreen Plaza so we can grab some stomps and a few outfits and shit. If you ain't too busy I'll give you some gas money and put a couple in yo pocket for a ride.”

“Let's ride,” Weed-Eyes said.

At the Plaza, Don and Juanita looked like a normal couple as they shopped. Weed-Eyes chose to remain in his car, reading his newspaper and drinking his wine. Two hours passed and the teenagers returned to the car, carrying a gang of bags and smiling.

Starting up the car, Weed-Eyes asked, “Where to, young-blood?”

Don had eaten a steak sandwich in the mall's food court and was feeling full and tired. “Run us by the crib. I got to get me a few hours, of sleep 'cause I want to go out tonight and take care of business. You gone be ready for tonight?”

“If I ain't then my eyes ain't green.”

Weed-Eyes dropped them off at the house. Don hit him twenty-five dollars and they went inside as he pulled off.

Don stripped down to his boxer shorts and was almost asleep when the doorbell rang. He tried to ignore it, but whoever it was insisted that someone answer the door.

Don pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. Downstairs he looked out the window to see who was on the porch. Monkeyhead was pressing the doorbell again. Alongside him stood a boy Don recognized as Sajak.

Don unlocked the door and held open the screen door.
“Monkeyhead, Sajak. I was just about to knock some zs. What's up?”

Monkeyhead said, “Don, my fault, bruh. I told this nigga Sajak about that shit you got and he wanted me to bring him through yo crib.”

“Alright, give me a minute to get the shit.”

Don let the screen door slam and bounded up the stairs to his room. He stacked the stereo components on top of the kicker box. Before leaving his room, he grabbed his pistol and stuck it in his pocket. Better to be safe than sorry.

On the porch he let Sajak inspect the equipment. Almost immediately Sajak offered him four hundred dollars for the sounds. Not one to haggle over price, Don accepted the money.

Speaking in a voice cracking under the strain of puberty, Sajak said, “Monkeyhead showed me them thirties you got him. I got a Regal, a clean one. I want some racing rims for it. Some Billets or something. My shit in the pipe shop right now. When I get it out, I want to take it to the sound shop to put this shit in there. Now all I got to buy is a CD player. Man, do you think you could get them rims for me?”

Don chuckled self-confidently. “Nigga, if you wanted wagon wheels I could get them. You just make sure that you have that scratch ready 'cause I'll be to see you. And don't worry about no CD player neither. I'll track one down for you.”

“I ain't tripping on the money. I don't give a fuck long as the rims is clean. And please make sure that they got some
nice meat on the tires. Oh yeah, and if you can try to make sure that you get all the rim caps.”

Don yawned and stretched his tired limbs. “Alright, shorty, I got it. Thanks for shopping at Don-Don's discount auto parts, but like I said before, I was about to knock some zs.”

That night Don hit the streets with Weed-Eyes in search of some racing rims for Sajak. In the middle of the block on 78th and Hermitage, Weed-Eyes spotted a navy-blue Cutlass sitting on Billets.

“Little brother,” Weed-Eyes said, “check out that Cutlass right there.”

Don agreed he had found what they needed. After cruising the block twice to make sure that everything was quiet, Weed-Eyes dropped Don on the corner.

When Don got close to the car he saw the red warning light mounted above the dashboard that meant the car had an alarm. That didn't deter him—it was a simple matter to bypass them. Using his screwdriver, Don broke the driver's side taillight. He stuck the rubber-handled tool into the remainder of the broken bulb in the socket to complete the circuit and make the alarm short itself out. The alarm system gave two halfhearted chirps and the dashboard warning light indicator faded. He popped the door lock out and had the car started in under two minutes. Following the same routine
as the night before, Don was nosing the steamer in the vacant lot twenty minutes later. He parked it alongside the Bonneville that had donated Monkeyhead's rims. With Weed-Eyes’ help the four rims were off the Cutlass twenty minutes later. The custom steering wheel had the same design as the rims, so Don stole that too. While Weed-Eyes was arranging the rims in his trunk, Don popped the trunk of the steamer.

Inside was a huge kickerbox with two twelve-inch subwoofers, four six-by-nines, two amplifiers, and a crossover. Don speedily severed the wires of the components and snatched them out. Inside the car he found the snatch-out radio under the driver's seat and an equalizer mounted under the dashboard.

Don was so frantic with their haul that he didn't go home to call Monkeyhead. They headed straight for Harper Court. It was an easy task to find Sajak. The boy was waiting, hoping that Don was coming that night. He was overjoyed with the rims, matching steering wheel, and CD player.

Sajak paid him for the rims and Don had Weed-Eyes drop him off at home.

At home, after taking a generous hit of crack, Don relaxed while Juanita tinkered with the car stereo components he had brought home. She was examining the speakers when she discovered something.

“Don, baby, come look at this. There's something in there.”

Cut into the side of the kickerbox were holes that let the speakers “breathe.” Don put his eye to the hole and could just make out some type of package.

“Damn, girl, you ain't lying. There is something in this motherfucka. Reach in that drawer and hand me that Phillips screwdriver.”

Don unscrewed and removed the speaker cover and the woofer. He reached into the box and pulled out the package. It was wrapped in brown paper and secured with masking tape. As if it were a Christmas present he tore the wrapper open. The next layer was a balloonlike substance. He ripped a hole in it. Another layer of thick packaging was underneath the rubber. He ripped through the plastic using the screwdriver's tip.

Juanita had taken a seat on the bed and was hitting the pipe.

“Juanita, come here,” Don whispered in awe.

With the pipe still in her hand, Juanita crossed the room and stood by Don's shoulder. Curiously she looked at him as he looked at the package.

“Baby,” he said, his voice still barely above a whisper. “This is a motherfucking kilo of cocaine.”

Using the fingernail of his baby finger Don scraped some powder off the brick and tasted it.

“Baby, this is cocaine. Taste this shit.”

She obeyed and came to the same conclusion—cocaine.

On instinct Don stuck his hand back inside the yawning hole in the speaker box and felt around. His hand rubbed
against another package and he pulled it out. It was another package wrapped exactly the same as the first.

Don took a seat on the floor beside the kickerbox. He had to think. This was too good to be true. He knew that there was a drug dealer somewhere kicking himself in the ass for hiding two kilos in his car.
Fuck you very much for the two keys,
he said to himself.

To Juanita's astonishment, Don broke out into wild laughter and continued laughing until tears were rolling down his cheeks.

TEMPTATION TO TRY AND SMOKE THE BETTER PORTION OF
the kilos was great, but Don resisted the urge; fear of a massive coronary prevented him from indulging too heavily. The cocaine was the best he had consumed in his short career as a clucker. It gave him the feeling of being superhuman— smarter, stronger, and cooler than everyone else.

Still, he had problems.

Not the ordinary problems that most crackheads are faced with, like the lack of money or crack. Don's problems stemmed from having too much cocaine. Never in his young life did he realize just how much cocaine a kilo actually was. It was way too much cocaine for personal use. The only logical thing to do was sell it. That led to another problem. Don didn't have the clientele to try and sell weight, plus he knew
from experience that he didn't have the patience it took to build a clientele list.