Carey is shaking his head, probably because there is no end in sight to Loot’s trash talk. I glance at the TV and see they are playing some combat video game. Next to the couch, on the floor, my friend Ray is spread out on the carpet, passed out next to a nearly empty bottle of Paco Tequila. Most of the other friends I have at Albany State are a little put off by Loot and Carey and their less-than-suburban demeanor, but Ray just likes to get wasted. Carey sees me and shrugs.
I look at Carey and say, “What’s up with Loot?”
Carey answers, “Damnedest thing. We were playing since four in the morning when all of last night’s action was over. I was up $2000, but he wouldn’t let me quit. Finally I get him to agree to a time limit. We agreed to play until 10 this morning so that we can get at least some sleep. He thinks he just won the Super Bowl.”
I glance over at Loot and he’s still dancing, singing, “Biatch, pay me my 200 bucks.”
I turn down the music and face Loot and Carey. “Fellas, I got no zzzz’s last night. We burnt it hard but we put up good numbers. We’ll do a full accounting later, but I gotta sleep now.”
Loot stops dancing, and the place is suddenly peaceful. “Not a problem,” he says.
“Hey, can you guys throw Ray on the couch before you go to bed?” I ask.
Carey shrugs. “Yeah, we always do.”
I don’t bother washing up and plop down in bed. I mush around and try to find the comfortable position that will ease the burden of joints that are throbbing from a lack of sleep. Just as I start drifting off to sleep, my cell phone rings. Fuck, I forgot to shut the damn thing off. There’s no way I’m gonna answer this, but when I recognize the number I take the call. “Yeah,” I say into the phone.
“Hey, man, I’m ready for more,” Barry says. He’s one of my best customers. “I need eight boxes of shirts.” For some reason, we have developed a code where eight boxes of shirts means eight pounds of pot. I say okay, I’ll call him later.
I shut the power off on the phone, flip it closed and then find that comfortable position in bed almost immediately, probably because that last call is helping me ring the register again. As I start to float off toward sleep, somehow I get nostalgic and think of Speed Dial Pizza. How are pot and pizza connected, and not just through the munchies? Well, it wasn’t that long ago that I was struggling to get by, and one of the several jobs I had was delivering pizza for Speed Dial Pizza. Yup, Speed Dial Pizza, of all places, got me my first real weed customers.
Speed Dial guaranteed your pizza delivered in 30 minutes from the time you ordered or the customer gets the pizza free. So I’m practically running sprints all night. I’m driving 80-miles-an-hour in an asinine purple pizza uniform that’s soaked through with perspiration for shit wages and sometimes the only tips I got were bong hits. Which combined with the next 80-mile-an-hour delivery was not a brilliant combination. I did get a good view of the stoner landscape, so I came up with a plan to earn bigger bucks and get that much closer to creaming Balducci. See, I knew a dealer in Arizona who had great quality and his price blew away what was here. Locally, I was able to either supply shit to them at a better price and quality or put them out of business. The guys on the pizza circuit were just the start of my clientele. Once I got in, it was easy to carve out my own niche, especially at Spring Valley Lakes. The lobbyists, lawyers and NY State privileged students in this asshole factory make the greatest customers.
At some point I drift off to sleep. I wake up startled by the sight of Zog the Cellophane King standing above me, covered in dirt from the Camp Fondle You baseball field. I’m relieved to realize that it’s only a dream. I wake up but then I’m pissed because it’s almost four in the afternoon. Then I remember, Carey did wake me, but I rolled back over. Fuck, I’m behind now.
I do some reading for my advertising and marketing class and head out to HQ around 5 p.m. I’ll spend a couple of hours at the office and head back to The Lakes for a party that could be productive.
I enter the apartment with a couple of guys I don’t recognize. The music is blasting and the air is so thick with the sweet scent of pot you can practically eat it. I’m not even sure who is hosting this party. It’s a nice enough apartment and the music is kind of cool. An eclectic new-wave beat is pounding through the room like a train.
There’s an interesting tone starting to develop at these parties at The Lakes. A new set of “haves” and “have-nots” are forming. The “haves” include those who are sitting on a job offer or an ugly girl’s family business, those heading to law school or lobbyist training grounds. The “have-nots” are those who want that situation. There is a swagger in one group and a feeling of heaviness in the other. With the final semester around the corner, the conversation always moves in that direction when there is a room full of upperclassmen. Me, I don’t give a fuck, because I’m the only person in this room who knows where my future is and where I will be when school winds down, and there’s a fair chance I won’t even be breathing.
Whoever our gracious host is, he has set up a bar in the furthest corner of the room. Nothing too elaborate, it offers a few different brands of vodka, some tequila, some 12-year-old Scotch, a few bottles of wine and some bottles of beer. I drop some ice into a cup and start pouring in some vodka. I can use a couple of Absolutes to help me loosen up a bit. I don’t really want to be here tonight. I’ve got a big, big shipment coming in from my friend Al in Arizona, and I’m getting a little antsy about it.
I start scoping the room and take inventory of who is here, but I don’t see many fresh faces. Pretty funny how you walk into school as a freshman and get lost in a flood of 50,000 students. Then each year the cliques develop and grab their members. The stoners down this river, frats and sororities down that stream, real academics follow this trickle and jocks down that brook until everyone has made the school smaller with their own sub-groups. So here I am at a party with practically the same people from the last party. Where are the other 49,900 students? What else can we say to each other at this party that’s different from the last?
As expected, I notice a ton of familiar faces. On the unusual-to-see-here-side, I see Rocky Campbell standing by the other wall and talking to some people. This party at The Lakes is probably an experiment for her. Rocky is wearing brown cowboy boots and a tight pair of blue jeans. The pants are on a long winding road that continues up her lengthy, tight figure. The horizon of her low-cut jeans is met by a tight tan tank top. The tan shirt complements her wavy auburn hair, which tumbles sensuously down her back.
I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve asked out Rocky Campbell. To no avail, I might add. We share a lot of classes, so I see her practically every day. Talk about tantalizing. Sometimes I feel I’d rather not be around her at all if it means she’s going to reject me, even in a nice way.
Ray and his girlfriend Cindy are here, sitting on the sofa and holding court. I lock eyes with Cindy and she breaks away from Ray and moves toward me. Cindy’s wearing jeans, expensive black shoes and a tight grey shirt showing a decent amount of belly, but perhaps she shouldn’t be showing so much skin. She’s been doing a fair amount of partying these past four years and she’s gotten noticeably thicker. Both in the stomach and the head. Four years in college and I think she went backwards. She comes up so close to me I can smell her perfume over the stink of the pot. For Cindy, she actually looks fairly serious. Dispensing with a normal greeting, she launches right into her main topic. “Kevin, what are you doing to Ray?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“I think he’s hanging out at your place a bit too much,” she says, with a sort of affected sigh that fucking irritates me. “I mean, he’s wasted way more than usual, and that’s saying something. Are you looking out for him?”
“Cindy, I’m trying, but I have to admit, I got my concerns. We should talk more about this some time.”
“Right.” She looks at me for a few seconds, as if she has noticed something distasteful. “I’ll give you a call. And don’
t be so mean to Ray.” She sashays away, only she’s bombed and her sash is out of sync with her ay. Two years ago, I used to think she was worth stealing from Ray, but now, not so much.
At this point, I see Rocky Campbell being cornered by a particularly pompous looking guy. No doubt he is explaining how he will be a managing director of Blow Me & Blow Me. It’s been a while since Rocky last shot me down, so while this guy is spewing and Rocky is tapping her foot with boredom, I might as well give it another try.
I move closer to her and we briefly make eye contact. Rocky smiles the smile that puts her over the top. Rocky has a smile that stops time. Not because her teeth are bleached white or perfectly straight because frankly, it’s neither of those. Her teeth are naturally pretty, and her smile is playful and sharp. Even when she shoots me down when I ask her out, her smile mitigates the damage of rejection.
I casually approach her, but the schmuck she’s talking to is really on a roll. I want to get in there, but that would mean breaking the imaginary force-field of the existing conversation. If I barge through this force-field and then go unacknowledged, I’ll feel as welcome as the Dali Lama at an NRA meeting; I’ll have no idea what to do with myself while I’m standing there. Luckily, even though the schmuck has Rocky cornered, I am able to make eye contact with her again. Before I hit the conversation circumference, Rocky calls out to me, “Kevin, how are things going?”
“Doing okay. How ‘bout you?” Before she answers, I slink in and practically put my back into the schmuck’s face.
“Kevin, are you going to ask me out again?” She’s smiling that killer smile.
“Let’s see,” I say, pretending to concentrate. “When Dave Mathews was playing at the Pearle Street Arena, you said, ‘No thanks.’ When the new George Clooney-Kira Knightly movie opened, you couldn’t make it. When the Gorillas were playing our archrivals the Syracuse Orange you said, ‘Not sure if I’m going to be able to go, but if I do, maybe I’ll see you over there.’ You know, Rocky, I just might be running out of ammo. Do you think I can handle any more rejection?” I ask.
“I’m a little concerned about your well-being. Maybe you shouldn’t have to deal with any more rejection issues,” she says.
“Well, doctor, what would you recommend?” I ask.
“Can I see your cell phone?” I give her a confused look. “Cell phone please,” she sternly states. So what the fuck, I hand her my cell phone.
Then much to my surprise — and I’ve got to believe to the surprise of the schmuck — Rocky Campbell begins inputting her contact information into my phone directory. Then she hands back my phone. She smiles again and says, “If you can, give me a call this week. I bet we can figure something out that works.”
I take the phone back and glance at the schmuck, who has no idea what to do. It’s hard to leave a conversation you were just in when you weren’t really in the conversation. It’s hard to say goodbye when you haven’t been introduced.
I look at Rocky and I say, “Okay, what gives? Not that I’m complaining, but why now? Is this, some sort of sympathy thing? Like, oh poor frustrated Kevin. I’ll-do-him-a-favor-out-of-pity kind of thing?”
“No, nothing like that,” she replies with half a smile. “I kinda like the way you asked me again. You know, persisted. I’m not saying I was testing you. I just find your persistence sort of...brave. You know, you must have asked me out 10 times, and I always said no, but I bit my lip every time I did it.” She grins in a friendly way and says, “I know it sounds weird, but that’s it.” She loses the smile and says, “I’m up for coffee some time or maybe a few drinks, if you still are.”
“Hell, yeah,” I say. “I’ll call you this week.”
“Sounds good. I’m checking out of here now, so I’ll speak to you then.” With that, Rocky heads toward the closet to grab her coat and just like that she’s gone. Except not totally gone because she left her number with me.
I nod to the schmuck and he nods back to me. “Kind of a weird party,” he says.
Yeah, I think, smiling. But weird in a good way.
CHAPTER 14
It’s a Tuesday night and that’s an important night for us because we do all our accounting then. Tuesdays, during the day, is when we collect; so by nighttime, we know what we actually have in hand. Before we can do anything, I have to send my old friend Ray on his way. He is getting pretty sloppy. That’s what he does when he’s not around Cindy. Ray and Cindy used to get wasted together, but Cindy is getting pretty spooked. At least that’s what she tells me. As much as Cindy used to like getting smashed, she sees school ending soon, and Ray isn’t getting that real world joke. So Cindy wants me to reel him in a bit. Like I have the time or the ability to take on that project.
Loot and Carey get a kick out of Ray. In general, the privileged Spring Valley Lakes crowd doesn’t really appreciate Loot and Carey. Every person in their elite world has to serve a purpose, and what purpose could two black dudes from Hempstead that aren’t even students serve the Spring Valley Lakes’ ecosystem? I’ve got to give Ray credit; he doesn’t act that way with me and he doesn’t act that way with Loot and Carey. Ray just likes to get baked and he is an equal opportunity partier. But I need to take care of business today and Ray can be a distraction. So we graciously point out where there is a party in the Lakes tonight and kick his wasted-ass out.
Carey, Loot and I finish the Tuesday night math. The sports marketing business is lame this week, but the bookie business is strong. Between college football and the NFL, we crush it. Pro basketball is slightly ahead, but the gravy is a huge shipment of sensimilla weed from Arizona that we turn over very nicely. Our best week yet; we are looking at $18,000. I’m glad the numbers are good. I suspected this week was better than most, but I’m surprised by how much. You never know until it’s all in and counted.
After we do the numbers for the week, I call Sev. To the outsider it might sound weird, but I call Sev about once a week. I admit we don’t have a ton to talk about, but the truth is, it feels good. It’s hard to explain, but for years I have been a bystander as my roommates and friends called home once or twice a week to check in and bullshit with their folks. I could never have an ongoing long-distance conversation with my mother. When I’m there in person with Mom, sometimes we can connect, but our phone conversations are fragmented and short.
I always envied my friends for that continuous update with home and wondered what it was like; I guess Sev is as close as I get. He doesn’t get a ton of calls, other than Kosher World stuff, so I’m pretty sure he appreciates the call as well. We speak about what’s going on at Kosher World, the action at Locomotive Breath and every now and then some current events.
But today’s call is rough. Sev is really bummed. It’s difficult for me to get him talking about what’s bothering him, but when I get him going, it just flows. “You remember Hector Pinto?” Sev asks.
“Sure. If it weren’t for him, I never would’ve been able to fight in the Industrial Road bouts.”
“That’s right.” Sev chuckles for the first time tonight. “When he cut off his finger, you made me put you in the fight. Man, you were a crazy motha-fucka.”
I laugh and say, “I know, but I needed that fight. That one night of work got me off everyone’s shit list. So what’s going on with Hector?”
“Nothing’s going on. He disappeared.”
That hit me hard. “What? Do you have any idea what happened to him?”
“Yeah, unfortunately I do. I saw it coming from a mile away. Hector had a chance to go back to the Dominican Republic and work with his family in some business, but Balducci won’t let him quit. There ain’t a ton of work down there in the Dominican Republic, but now he has this great opportunity and wants to bring his whole family back home. That was his intention all along, make enough money here or wait till something opened in the Dominican Republic.”
“Sounds reasonable,” I say. “How can Balducci stop him from going?”
“Balducci’s more f
ucked up than ever. He’s trying to get more and more things under his control, but at the same time he feels he lost control. He can’t lose control of Kosher World; he’s got too much wrapped up here. Reason he made Pinto disappear was to send a message to everyone that Kosher World is your job and don’t focus on anything else.”
“How do you know Pinto didn’t just skip town?”
“His wife and kids are a mess right now. They know something happened and they ain’t that good at acting.”
I take a deep breath, imagining the worst. “You think he’ll do something dramatic, like when he chopped up Georgie?”
“Yup, something creative like that,” Sev says, steaming.
“That cock Balducci is turning this place into a slave farm. If a guy is not allowed to go work somewhere else, what the fuck do you call it? When does this shit stop?”
“Fuck, Sev, that’s unbelievable,” I say.
Sev sighs. “That’s your mentor. Great fuckin’ guy. You still speaking to him?”
“Naw, Sev, I haven’t spoken to him in awhile.” Which was kind of true. Every now and then around the holidays or when I know his son is in town, I make a point to go out with Richie. We get liquored up somewhere and I crash at his house. Just like in the old days when we were in high school together. The only difference now is that when Richie goes to sleep, I snoop around the house and find information and records about Balducci’s businesses. Balducci is definitely more edgy these days. He doesn’t shoot the shit with me like he did in the past. But one time he said, “You stay loose, kid, I’m gonna need you soon.” I told him I’d be there for him, but I’m really thinking, You have no idea what you’re gonna need when I get through with you, asshole.
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