Tin City (23 page)
“Harry …”
“Okay, okay. A small favor. What is it?”
“Meet me at home plate of Metropolitan Stadium.”
He thought about that for a moment before asking, “When?”
I gave him a time. “Do I have to tell you to come alone?” I added.
“I’ll be alone.”
“You won’t be sorry.”
“Hell, McKenzie, I’m already sorry.”
After saying good-bye to Harry, I drove to an audio-video store and had a dozen copies made of the two cassettes I had recorded. Afterward, I
found a sporting goods store. I bought a pair of Bushnell binoculars that were on sale and a set of palm-sized two-way radios. I also purchased a box of shells and a spare magazine for my Beretta.
found a sporting goods store. I bought a pair of Bushnell binoculars that were on sale and a set of palm-sized two-way radios. I also purchased a box of shells and a spare magazine for my Beretta.
A middle-aged white man in his fifties—my definition of middle age is considerably more conservative than Ruth Schramm’s—stood on the corner of First Avenue and Sixth Street in downtown Minneapolis, across the street from the Target Center. He was dressed in the colors of the Minnesota Timberwolves and holding up a handmade sign: I NEED 4.
I watched Chopper roll up to him.
“My man,” he said. “You want four? I got four. Where you want to sit?”
The man put down his sign and leaned over Chopper, examining the seating chart of Target Center that Chopper rested on the arm of his wheelchair.
“I can get you into blue, my man. You want four right here?”
“What do you want for those?”
“One and a half.”
“For all four?”
Chopper started laughing. So did the buyer.
“I know, I know,” said the buyer. He reached into his jeans and pulled out a roll of bills. He peeled off the correct amount of cash while Chopper reached into the saddlebag of his wheelchair and produced the four tickets.
“Listen,” said the buyer. “If the T-Wolves win, they get the Lakers next week. Can you help me out?”
“Tough series,” said Chopper. “All I got left, I got two. You want two? I can get you two in the upper deck.”
“How high?”
“Second row midcourt.” Chopper produced his chart again. “No way you’re gonna get better seats this late.”
“I don’t have the cash on hand,” said the buyer. Apparently he knew the rules. “You going to be around?”
“I be here, my man. I be here. But don’t you wait too long. First come, first serve.”
“I hear you.”
The white buyer and the black scalper shook hands in that funky way hip guys do—I was never able to master it myself—and parted company. A moment later, Chopper was gliding down the avenue asking each and every stationary individual he passed, “You lookin’ for tickets?”
It’s a misdemeanor to scalp tickets in Minnesota, but mostly the law goes unenforced. As for building security, if you conduct your business off arena and stadium property, they usually leave you alone. Chopper had never been arrested or rousted; I doubt anyone wanted to be seen hassling a thin black man in a wheelchair. On the other hand, this was still a new enterprise for Chopper, the latest in a long list of profitmaking ventures, and he hadn’t been at it long enough to get busted.
Game time was 2:00 P.M., but Chopper continued to sell until nearly 2:30. Once the sidewalks around Target Center became empty, Chopper spun his chair around and started wheeling north on First Avenue. I waited for him. He was only a few yards away when he saw me.
“Fuckinay, McKenzie. How you doin’, man?”
“Hanging in, hanging in,” I told him and shook his hand.
“I was just talkin’ ’bout you.”
“I know. Lantry told me. What are you doing, telling people I saved your life? I didn’t save your life.”
“You did.” He seemed distressed that I would deny it.
“All I did was call the paramedics. They saved your life.”
“That ain’t the way I ’member it.”
“Chopper …”
“You way too modest, McKenzie. That’s one of your problems. You don’t never take credit.”
“Have it your own way.”
Chopper had never been what fashion magazines might called “full bodied,” even during his days running girls in Frogtown, but up close he seemed distressingly thin. I had to ask him, “You’re not on the pipe, are you?”
“Fuck. You know I don’t do that shit.”
“You look awfully skinny, Chopper. Have you been eating regularly?”
“We talkin’ food or pussy?” Chopper laughed at his own joke. When he finished, he said, “This is the new me. Mean and lean, baby.”
“Maybe so, but you should come over one of these days. I’ll give you a meal, fix you right up.”
“You gonna make that Texas chili you had that one time?”
“It’s possible.”
“Cuz that was the best shit I ever had.”
“Compliments are always appreciated, Chopper. In the meantime, you’re making me nervous. I’ve seen anorexic models with more meat on their bones. Let’s get something to eat.”
“I ain’t hungry, man. You hungry?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
The hostess at the Loon Cafe sat us at a table by a window, giving us a good view of the traffic on Fifth Street. Chopper decided to order a little something. Just to be polite, he said. He ate quickly, devouring an order of calamari in jalapeño tartar sauce, a Chinese chicken salad, a ten-ounce rib-eye, coleslaw, a sixteen-ounce Leinenkugel Honey Weiss,
and half my fries like famine was imminent and the old axiom “He who eats the fastest eats the mostest” was now the first law of survival.
and half my fries like famine was imminent and the old axiom “He who eats the fastest eats the mostest” was now the first law of survival.
Again I worried about him. He saw it in my eyes and laughed out loud.
“Man, you like the Chinese. Think you save a brother’s life, you’re responsible for ‘im. I’m fine. Lost a little weight is all, rollin’ up and down the avenues, engagin’ in free trade. Man, I’m a free trader.”
“How is business?” I asked.
“Now that I’m online, man, it’s like printin’ Washingtons.”
“Online?”
“Got’s my own Web site—
ticketchopper.com
. I sell through eBay sometimes, too. You lookin’ for Dixie Chicks in Vancouver, the Boss in Chi-town, Mavericks in Dallas, I’m your man.”
ticketchopper.com
. I sell through eBay sometimes, too. You lookin’ for Dixie Chicks in Vancouver, the Boss in Chi-town, Mavericks in Dallas, I’m your man.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m global. Got brothers all over waitin’ in line at ticket offices, pay ’em fifty dollars, whatever, for a couple hours of work buyin’ for me—that’s where I get most of my tickets. Also get from TicketMaster, get from a pool of brokers I’m tight with—I resell ’em. Serious money, man. Got three-fifty for a pair to see the Stones last week cost me sixty-six-fifty each.”
“What are you doing outside Target Center, then?”
“Same-day tickets, man, Internet ain’t worth shit. You gotta be out there with the people. Gotta have the product in hand. Team like the Minnesota Wild in the playoffs, man, wait ’til thirty minutes before game time, I get one-eighty for a sixty-two-fifty ticket. More if they playin’ good.”
Chopper carelessly took a long pull of beer.
“Fillin’ a need,” he added, beer dribbling down his chin. “Givin’ the people what they want.”
“Chopper, you’re a true entrepreneur. Bill Gates would be proud.”
“Damn straight. Hey, man, you lookin’ for tickets? I’ll take care of
you. You like them jazz guys, like that Wynton Marsalis, like that Harry Connor—”
you. You like them jazz guys, like that Wynton Marsalis, like that Harry Connor—”
“Connick. Harry Connick.”
“They come to town, I’ll get ya tickets. Best seats in the house. Face value, man. Give ’em to ya for face value.”
“You’re my hero, Chopper.”
“You know it.”
Chopper finished his meal and shoved the plate away.
“Dessert?” I asked.
“Nah. Spoil my dinner. So, you workin’?”
“What do you mean, working?”
“Doin’ one of your Robin Hood things, you know.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I figured. Only, you gotta say, man. If you workin’, you gotta speak up. Otherwise, a brother think you’re just shootin’ the shit to be polite, just trying to be, whatchacallit, politically correct—see a cripple and figure you gotta feed ’im a meal.”
“Don’t you mean ‘differently abled’? And when have you ever known me to be politically correct just for the sake of being politically correct about anything?”
“What I’m sayin’ is, you wanna know shit, just ask.”
“Okay. What I want to know is this—what’s new?”
Chopper looked at me like I had just asked him if it was raining outside.
“Fuck, McKenzie, whaddaya mean, what’s new? I got Queen Latifah on DVD yesterday. That’s what’s new.”
“I mean, is there anything happening out there that’s disrupting the status quo?”
Chopper stared out the window as if he were searching for something.
“Gangs fighting over turf, but that is status quo.”
“I heard a big shipment is coming in.”
“A big shipment of what?”
“Hell, Chopper, I don’t know.”
“Drugs?”
“Could be.”
“There’s always pharmaceuticals changin’ hands, but nothin’ big. Nothin’ bigger than usual, anyway. You’re lookin’ for what’s unusual, right?”
“Yes.”
“I ain’t heard of nothin’ that’s unusual.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Only thing I heard about that’s different is cigarettes.”
“Cigarettes?”
“Guys bringin’ in a load of cigarettes. Supposed to be a big load of name brands.”
“That can’t be right,” I said.
“Only big shipment I know of.”
“Smuggling cigarettes?”
“Big business in cigarettes,” Chopper said. “Gettin’ bigger. ’Specially with cigarette taxes goin’ up to pay for all them state deficits. Buy smokes in Kentucky where it’s three cents a pack, sell ’em in New York where it’s a buck-fifty, pocket the difference.”
“What is the cigarette tax in Minnesota?”
“Forty-eight cents a pack.”
“Doesn’t seem worth it. All that trouble to make a lousy half buck.”
“Do the math, man. Four-eighty a carton multiplied by say, a hundred thousand cartons. Maybe three days work drivin’ ’em up here. I’d like a taste of that. And if you do it, like, say, every week …”
“I see your point. Tell me more.”
“I don’t know any more, man. I ain’t in that line of work.”
“What about the guys bring them in?”
“I heard wiseguys from New York.”
I must have looked like an idiot, sitting there with my mouth hanging open. Chopper waved his hand in front of my eyes and called my name.
“Okay, Chopper,” I said. “Just so you know, ‘wiseguys from New York’ is what you call a significant detail. Do you have any more? Details, I mean.”
Chopper laughed out loud.
“I think the cupboard is bare, man.”
“You don’t know when they’re coming in or where?”
“No. But I know a guy.”
“And this guy is who?”
Chopper reached into his saddlebag and retrieved a cell phone.
“Chill, man,” he said. “I’ll take care of your ass.”
Chopper punched in a series of numbers, put the phone to his ear, and waited while it rang.
“Yo, my man … Yeah, it’s me. Hey, you get those tickets, man? Were them good seats? Wha’ did I tell ya? … Fuck yeah, man. Anytime. You know my number … Hey, listen, listen. What you were talkin’ about the other day, about them smokes … Yeah, man, but I was thinkin’, I wouldn’t mind a taste of that … Whaddaya mean, do I have a store? … That’s just wrong, man. I can move volume. You don’t need no fuckin’ store to move volume … I got my own Web site. I could use the Internet … Fuckin’ wiseguys, they ain’t never heard of the new economy, man? … Let me negotiate with ’em … No, no, no, no, no man, no, no, man, that ain’t … Fuck, like I’m gonna put you on the spot over fuckin’ cigarettes? … I don’t give a fuck if they’re name brands … No, you’re right, you’re right, when you’re right you’re right, man … Where? Where we … Yeah, I know it … No, I ain’t never
been there, I mean, fuck … You got a location but no time … I hear that, I hear that … Yeah, yeah … No shit, man. You call me now. You gonna call me? … All right, my man. Yeah … Be cool.”
been there, I mean, fuck … You got a location but no time … I hear that, I hear that … Yeah, yeah … No shit, man. You call me now. You gonna call me? … All right, my man. Yeah … Be cool.”
Chopper packed his cell phone away and took a last sip of beer, draining his glass.
He said, “He don’t know when the shipment is comin’ in. Guess it depends on traffic or some shit. This is like the first trip, okay, and everyone is still workin’ out the whaddaya call it, logistics.”
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