Street Pharm (7 page)

Alyse said, “I guess they thought that since they were going to die, anyway, they might as well do it bravely, and take down as many enemies as they could.”

“But what’s the point in being a hero if you dead?” Kristina asked. “Sorry, but that don’t make sense.”

“Maybe they promised the samurais forty virgins when they die,” Todd said. “Like those terrorists.”

Mr. Guzman said, “It could be they were promised rewards in the afterlife. Or perhaps death itself was their honor.”

“It’s like those kamikaze pilots during World War Two,” Alyse said. “Or the 9/11 hijackers.”

“This is wack, if you ask me,” I said. “Those samurais should’ve stood up for themselves. It’s stupid to give up your life just because your leader tells you to. Most leaders stay safe while they send their men to die.”

Alyse nodded. “Like President Bush sending soldiers into Iraq.”

“Maybe that’s why it’s called
Bush
-ido,” I said.

Everybody laughed, even Mr. Guzman.

From there, the class went on about life in early Japan, feudalism, and all that. Mr. Guzman always hooked us in with something interesting, then switched over to what he really wanted to teach.

I couldn’t concentrate on the rest of the lesson because my mind kept going back to Bushido, the way of the warrior. That whole thing was ass-backward. I knew that a great warrior wasn’t supposed to be scared of death. But asking for death as part of the warrior’s path? That was overdoing it.

I
gave props to Jimmy Pennington. He was a Wall Street broker who sold coke as easy as he sold stocks. For the past year he been dropping fifty Gs a month—a hot deal for both of us.

Tonight he wanted seventy-five. I carried it in a briefcase as I walked into his favorite TriBeCa after-work lounge.

Jimmy sprawled in a cushy chair near the front of the lounge, staring out the window at passing people. He wasn’t into making deals at shady places like piers or parking lots. He liked to meet in upscale places. All I had to do was throw on some dress shoes and pants, a white button-down shirt, a leather jacket, and I was good to go.

“Hi, Jimmy.”

“Johnson!” He got up, shook my hand, and clapped my back. “Great to see you. How’s law school?”

He was always saying things like that. “Top of my class.” I sat down and put the briefcase under the table.

“That’s some achievement, Johnson. Drinks on me.” He flagged down the waitress. “Two martinis, extra olives.”

Jimmy dragged the briefcase close to him. “All here?”

“You got it.”

“Excellent.” He leaned back in his chair like a young Donald Trump—with better hair. Jimmy dropped thousands on threads: Armani suits and loafers, engraved cufflinks. For a guy in his mid-twenties he had it all, but Jimmy always wanted more.

“Got some new connections, do you?” I asked.

“Sure have, Johnson. Give it a little time, and I’ll be asking you for a hundred every month.”

“Whatever you need. Just call.”

Jimmy laughed. “Like the goddamned Visiting Nurse Service of New York!”

I took my martini from the waitress. The service was fast, but I wasn’t surprised that Jimmy got special service. He gave out phat tips.

I sipped the martini. It was so damn sour. Jimmy put them down like Gatorade.

“You still with that lawyer?” I asked.

He smiled. “Woman of my dreams. Just moved in with me.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Sure is. I’m sick of the bar scene. I’ve got a gorgeous woman who’s great in bed and makes almost as much as I do. Plus, she works late, so we don’t get on each other’s nerves.”

“Does she know about . . . ”

“She’s a practicing Catholic, for Christ’s sake. The other week she dragged me to Mass. I told her next week I’d go to confession. I’m going to enjoy spilling my guts.”

“Maybe you taking the joke a little far, man.”

He waved it off. “Priests can’t do anything with what we tell them, trust me. I’m sure the priest’ll just tell me to stop selling, say a few Hail Marys, and move on.” He flashed a smile, then gulped more martini. “You should go sometime, eh, Johnson? I bet you have a few sins to confess.”

“It don’t matter. I’m Presbyterian.”

“Amen.” We clanked glasses.

I blinked at the text that popped up on my phone. I’d spent the last hour surfing for sports news and porn, and now I suddenly woke up.

I sat there for a while, staring at my phone.

Something was starting between me and Alyse. Something real.

I
knocked on her door at 8 p.m. sharp, rocking phat gear with everything—jersey, pants, socks, watch, and do-rag—matching perfect. I topped it off with an expensive diamond and sapphire earring I bought last week.

No way she wouldn’t think I was fly.

The door swung open.

The air whooshed out of my lungs. Lord, I never seen anything so fine in my life.

This wasn’t the jeans-and-T-shirt Alyse I was used to. She just cranked herself up from pretty to gorgeous. She wore a tight pink tank top under a black jacket, and a matching miniskirt showing off
two of the finest legs I ever seen. On her feet she wore black heels. Her jewelry was dangly and gold. Her lips were shiny and pink. I was gonna kiss those sweet lips if it was the last thing I did.

“Alyse, you sooo fine.”

She smiled. “Thanks. Come in.”

I followed her in, almost dropping to my knees and begging for mercy when I saw how good she was looking round back in that skirt.

We went into the kitchen, where she poured me some orange soda.

“I know I promised to make you dinner, but I thought we could go out instead. Gavin’s sleeping over at a friend’s.”

“Two-year-olds is going to sleepovers now?”

“His mom’s my neighbor and a good friend. Maria’s always offering to take him for a night, you know, so I can have a life.”

“Nice lady.”

“Yeah. So”—she looked down at the books and papers on the kitchen table—“we’ll do this another time?”

“Sure.”

She grabbed her coat and handbag, and we left the apartment. In the elevator, she said, “I’ve got a two-for-one coupon for an Italian place on Court Street.”

“Save the coupon for another time. I got somewhere in mind. You got your MetroCard with you?”

“Yeah, why?”

“ ’Cause I’m taking you into the city.”

Her mouth opened like she was gonna ask where, but then she closed it. I think she liked surprises. I was hyped to see the look on her face when she saw where I was taking her.

We hopped the 2 train into Manhattan, riding it for half an hour to Columbus Circle. After walking three blocks, we were at Chez Gigi.

She stayed back. “This place looks expensive. Maybe we should go somewhere else.”

“I been here before. The food is the best. It’s on me, Alyse.”

“But—”

“Come on. I promise you ain’t gonna regret it.”

“Well . . . okay.”

I opened the door for her.

She looked around at the classy place. “You sure about this?”

“Don’t I look sure?” I turned to the slick-haired maître d’. “For two, please.”

“Follow me, monsieur, madame.”

I had to tug Alyse’s hand to make her follow the maître d’ to the table. When we sat down, the maître d’ handed us a wine list and two menus. “Your waiter will be with you momentarily.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“This is the most beautiful restaurant I’ve ever seen, Ty!”

“Trust me, once you taste the food, you’ll know why this restaurant is so famous.”

“It’s famous? Wait till I tell Maria. She won’t believe it!” Opening the menu, I saw her excitement die. “This is way too much. I can’t let you do this. We can still leave, since we haven’t ordered anything.”

I took her hand. “I told you before that I work part-time at the gym. I wanna make the most of my money. Don’t you think everybody should live the good life sometimes?”

“I guess so, if you’re sure. . . . ” She squeezed my hand.

“What do you say we order some wine?” I put the wine list in front of her. “Your choice, shorty.”

She leaned forward and whispered, “You think they’ll let us order wine?”

“Hell, yeah. Places like this don’t ask for I.D., and they don’t give you the check until you ask for it.”

“Sounds like you have a lot of experience with places like this.”

“Nah. Now choose us a wine, will ya?”

She looked down at the wine list. “I don’t know much about wine, but I think I like red best. I had some at my grandparents’ last Christmas, and it was great. It might’ve been . . . merlot?”

“Merlot, you got it. Which merlot?”

“Hmmm . . . There are a million here. French, Australian, Californian . . . I want something exotic. How about South African?”

“I hear that. For Mother Africa.”

The waiter came, and I ordered the wine. When the waiter said, “Excellent choice,” I winked at Alyse.

We took our time, studying the menu like we were cramming for an exam.

“What’s foie gras, Ty?”

“It’s good stuff. We’ll get some.”

“But what does it mean?”

“Duck fat.”

“You serious?”

“Don’t I look serious?”

“I don’t know. You always say, ‘Don’t I look serious?’ But deep down, I think you’re laughing.”

“You think I’m laughing at you?”

“No, not at me. At everything. It’s like you know the punch line to a joke and you’re not telling. You’ve got this—this mystery about you.”

The side of my mouth went up. “I do?”

“Am I right or am I right?”

“Are you ever wrong?”

“That’s you being mysterious again!”

“You like it when I’m mysterious?”

“It’s not the mystery I like, it’s you.” She looked away, embarrassed. “What I mean is, you’re a cool guy, you know?”

“I better be if I’m here with you.”

We looked at each other. Whoa.

The waiter came back, pouring each of us a glass of wine. We picked them up for a toast.

“What should we toast?” she asked.

“To making more money than we could ever spend.”

She laughed. “Be serious!”

I
was
serious. But, instead, I said, “To a happy life.”

She clinked my glass. “To a happy life.”

*  *  *

The meal was da bomb. I never had so much fun with a girl. Our conversation flowed like the wine we were drinking. And her beauty blew a brother away. Most ghetto girls didn’t have the class for a place like Chez Gigi. But Alyse was Park Avenue all the way.

Feeling full and a little drunk, we headed back to Brooklyn. Back at her place, we sat on the couch and put on MTV.

Sliding an arm around her, I leaned back into the couch, smiling to myself. A well-trained athlete knew his game, and when it was time to shoot from the three-point line, a real playa couldn’t miss.