by Tom Nelson
Biggie accepts the box and shakes it, like a kid about to open birthday presents. Satisfied there isn’t a gun in the box, Biggie hands it back to Tom and motions for him to follow. Biggie has been in on the conversations and happenings since Tom and Johnny showed up, so he has already determined that Tom is not an enemy. Tom thinks he hears the huge black man say something, but can’t be sure, so he just follows.
They return to the kitchen through the den that is now only lit by the two candles. The bulb was either extinguished or burned out. Tom can’t help thinking how eerie it looks and feels. Smoke floating through the air—a mix of coke, candle, weed, and tobacco—makes the den look almost like a haunted house scene. Emerging into the brighter lights of the kitchen, the world comes back into perfect view quickly.
~~~
Tom and King are sitting in the kitchen of the crack house. Only, this time, there is a cigar-box-sized tin sitting on the table between them.
Tom opens the tin box on the table, and King’s eyes immediately go wide. He is looking at a half-pound block of cocaine that looks like nothing he has ever seen before! It is white but has pink and blue shimmers running through it when looked at from different angles. It’s beautiful.
“Where da fuck did you get this?!” King asks in an incredulous voice.
“That’s my business,” Tom replies. The other man looks up at Tom quickly, and Tom continues, “All you need to know is that I can provide as much of this as you and your homies can sling.”
“No shit?!”
“No shit.”
Tom removes a Ziploc baggie of coke from the tin box. He looks up at King, then Biggie, and asks, “Do you have something to rock up some of this with?”
King motions to Biggie, who heads back to the top of the refrigerator for a small, capped bottle. Then he reaches inside the refrigerator and removes a box of Arm & Hammer baking soda. The big man sets both on the table.
Tom reaches out, picks up the bottle, and removes the cap. He proceeds to break a piece of cocaine off the half-pound brick in the tin. He drops the half-ounce piece into the bottle and hands it over to King, who takes the bottle with an amazed look on his face. King takes the box of baking soda and adds about one-third the amount of baking soda as cocaine. He stands and walks over to the sink. After adding a little water to the mix, King moves to the stove and turns on one of the gas burners, where he heats the mixture and swirls it inside the bottle. As King twirls the bottle slowly, the mixture becomes an oily looking blob inside the warm water. King removes the bottle from the heat and turns off the stove. He gives the bottle a couple of good shakes to swirl the oil together and the oily mixture quickly begins to solidify in the bottle.
“Fuck, man, I’ve never seen dope rock up so fast,” King says as he places the bottle on the table in front of Tom.
Tom doesn’t respond. He just picks up the bottle and turns it over on the table to dump its contents out. The remaining water spreads across the table as the solid rock of cocaine hits the table with a sound. Tom picks up the pipe, breaks a piece off the larger rock and puts it into the bowl. It fills the bowl. A copper Chore Boy scouring pad is being used as a screen. He hands the pipe over to King, who accepts it and fires it up.
After a long pull on the pipe, King sets it back on the table and settles down on his chair to feel the effects of the drug as it hits his bloodstream. His ears begin to ring and a feeling of euphoria begins to run up his spine, then his neck, and finally to his brain.
“Pretty good shit, huh?” Tom asks matter-of-factly.
King simply exhales the smoke and sits with his gaze set on nothing. Biggie steps forward with a look of concern on his face. He has never seen King react this way to smoking coke! King exhales again and a small amount of smoke trails out of his mouth.
“Fuck, dat’s good!” King exclaims.
Tom picks up the still warm pipe and adds another piece of the cocaine that has just been cooked. It sizzles a little bit. He hands the pipe over to Biggie, who quickly looks over at King, as though for permission. King nods and the big man fires up the blast Tom has prepared.
Tom breaks off another piece of the rocked-up coke and accepts the pipe from Biggie as he goes to set it back on the table. Biggie steps back and leans against the wall beside the refrigerator. He closes his eyes and goes to wherever Biggie goes during a good rush from cocaine. Tom turns the smoldering pipe upside down and uses the hot screen to grab the piece of dope he has just broken off. He sits up in his chair, flicks the lighter, and takes a long drag from the pipe.
After a moment for all three men to come to a state of near reality, King looks up and says, “Goddamn, Tom, that’s probably the best shit I’ve ever smoked.”
“Me too,” comes Biggie’s chime in.
“Yeah, it’s definitely good shit,” Tom agrees. It’s straight from the source, Tom is thinking, so, of course, it’s good shit! He remains cool.
“So, what’s on yo mind?” King asks.
“Hmmm,” Tom considers the price for King. This man will be able to help Tom move as much cocaine as he can bring him from this and other crack houses around the ’hood. “I’ll let you have it for thirty-five a key.”
“Thirty-five?!” King asks as though he has just been slapped. “Twenty-five thou, man,” he negotiates with the white man in front of him.
“Thirty-two,” Tom counters.
“Twenty-eight, man,” King counters back.
“Thirty is the best I can do.”
King considers Tom’s counteroffer for a second and says, “Okay, man, thirty thou a key.” He reaches his hand out for Tom to shake for the second time this evening, and Tom accepts it. They have just reached an agreement: $30,000 per kilo for some of the best coke in the city. Tom knows King will be able to cut this dope significantly and make a shitload of money on direct resale and as crack.
“When will you be ready?” Tom asks King.
“A couple of days,” King says.
“Okay,” Tom says, “I’ll be back in two days with a full bird. Make sure Biggie is here. I want that big motherfucker to have my back when I get here.”
“Don’t worry, Tom-Tom,” Biggie says in a playful, almost little-boyish voice, “I’ll be here for ya!” Tom looks at the big man and smiles, and Biggie smiles back. Tom-Tom, huh? He kinda likes it. Tom has just made a lifelong friend.
“He’ll be here,” King reiterates.
“Cool. Now we need to get rid of that car outside and somebody needs to give me a ride home.” All three men laugh about the latter part of that statement.
Johnny Dollar is still groaning in the bedroom. The doctor must not have found exactly where it hurts yet. Tom laughs. The doc is probably too cracked out to do much for the busted-up Johnny.
~~~
Tom is at King’s house again, two days after taking the banged-up Johnny to his homie’s house. Johnny is propped up in bed in a room down the hall from where Biggie dumped him and the doctor treated him.
“Nigga didn’t do shit but poke me in da ribs and wrap ’em up!” Johnny is raising hell to King about the quality of care he received from the crackhead doctor. “What da fuck did you give that nigga?!”
Tom walks into the room with Biggie following right behind, as promised. Johnny sees Tom and immediately breaks into a huge smile. That crazy-ass cracka’ is back! He can hardly believe the story King has been telling him since Tom and the doctor left two nights ago. He doesn’t remember much after his dive through the window and Biggie tossing him around like a sack of potatoes. Johnny slept almost twenty-four hours before waking to discover that he hadn’t been dreaming this shit.
“Hey, Tom!” Johnny shouts with enthusiasm. He is anxious to see this crazy motherfucker right here! He had never heard his homies talk about a white boy like this. They are actually talkin’ good about him.
“Hey, Johnny,” Tom says, “how ya feelin’?”
“Not too bad,” Johnny says in an almost bragging way, “not too bad!” He lo
oks around as if taking in his surroundings and says, “A helluvalot better than being in jail!”
“I reckon so,” Tom replies. He isn’t sure if the LA County jail is worse than busted ribs in a crack house or not. He probably would have taken the broken ribs and the crack house, Tom decided, if forced to make a choice between the two. “Glad you’re doing better.”
“Sit down,” King motions Tom to a chair against a wall beside Johnny’s bed. “I’ll get the cash.” He leaves the room and heads up the hall toward the kitchen.
All right, Tom thinks, this is it! The moment of truth. King will either show up with a stack of cash or a gun in his hands. Tom takes a deep breath as he hears the other man’s footsteps returning to the room. He noticed there was nobody in the living room of the house today. No crackheads on the couch. No candles burning. No dim light bulb.
“Here ya go, man,” King says as he comes back into the room. He is carrying an envelope overflowing with cash, not a pistol, and Tom feels relieved.
Tom, accompanied by Biggie, has brought the kilo of cocaine in with him, so he hands King the brick as he accepts the envelope of cash—$30,000 isn’t a huge stack of money, but it certainly fills the envelope it is in. Tom opens the envelope enough to peer inside and see that the stack is all one-hundred dollar bills. He doesn’t bother counting it. If they’re trying to cheat him and he discovers their plan while still in their house . . . well, that just makes things too easy for them! Tom tucks the envelope in an inside pocket of his hoodie.
“You ain’t gonna count it?” King asks with surprise.
“Nope.” Tom looks at King, Johnny, then Biggie, and says, “I figure if you’re tryin’ to cheat me, you wouldn’t give me any money at all. That looks like thirty thou to me.”
“Okay,” Johnny says from bed with a clap of his hands. He is also a little surprised that Tom didn’t look closer at the cash. “I guess dat’s dat!”
“When you gonna be ready for action?” Tom asks Johnny.
“Another week or so, man; my ribs are fucking sore. It hurts to laugh, cough, sneeze . . .”
“It obviously don’t hurt to talk!” All four men laugh and Johnny doubles over, holding his sore ribs.
“Man, stop dat shit, you sadistic fucker!” Johnny shouts back. “You can’t make me laugh!”
“Okay,” Tom says, still laughing. “Broken ribs aren’t any fun! I’ve been there!”
Tom pulls out a small baggie with a few doves in it and asks Biggie for a pipe. Tom fills the bowl several times as all four men pass the pipe around the room and sit back to feel the effects of the coke. Finally, he gets up and leaves with Biggie as his bodyguard. “You’ve got my number, guys, just let me know when you’re ready for more,” Tom says as he leaves.
Biggie escorts Tom back to his car, which is parked at the curb in front of the white fence surrounding the house. Tom is receiving a lot of attention right now. He can feel, as well as see, the people of that street checking him out. Until some of the other brothas in the ’hood get to know Tom’s cool, he’s just another white boy on the wrong side of town. And, of course, once some of them find out that Tom is supplying most of the crack houses in about a four-block area, he will become a target. Robbery. Murder, if necessary. Most of these guys have zero loyalty to their homies when there are kilos of cocaine to be had!
“Thanks, Tom-Tom,” Biggie says as they get to Tom’s car.
“For what, man?” Tom asks. He turns around to look at his enormous new friend.
“For treatin’ me equal.” The huge man just stands and looks at Tom for a moment.
“Thank you, Biggie.”
“For what?”
“For treatin’ me equal too,” Tom says and smiles as he gets into his car.
“You family now, Tom-Tom.” Biggie smiles as he turns to head back toward the house. He turns around at the door in time to see Tom drive away.
~~~
A couple of weeks after Johnny’s daring leap through the window, he is back into the swing of things. Johnny seems to be healing pretty good after his rib-crushing fall. Tom and Johnny are in a crack house very similar to the one King is slinging out of down the block. These days, there are half a dozen or more crack houses on each block in South-Central LA. It’s insane! It is an epidemic, after all.
“Shit, T!” Johnny says. “That is some gooood dope!” He is excited to be back on his feet, literally and figuratively. Tom has hooked Johnny up with a half-pound of coke to get him started again. Johnny will pay for the drugs, of course, but it’s being fronted to him. He will be required to pay off 20 percent of the cost for these drugs every time he orders more coke from Tom. Considering Tom is already giving the brothas a great price on the drugs because of the volume they are able to move, it works out favorably for both.
“Yeah, man, I ain’t never had any dis good before,” Biggie reiterates.
“Neither have I,” Tom agrees. The Peruvians that are bringing the drugs into the country definitely have the best cocaine in Los Angeles. Tom feels fortunate to have met them and to be getting such an incredible deal. He does have a coke habit to support, after all. Tom takes another hit off the pipe and hands it over to Johnny.
“All I can say is thanks, man.” Johnny takes the pipe from Tom and sets it down on the table. “You didn’t have to do any of dis shit!”
“I know,” Tom replies.
“I mean that shit, dude,” Johnny says as he stands up and put his hand out for Tom to shake. Tom takes his outstretched hand and the two men pull each other close for a brotherly hug. “You a different kinda motherfucker!”
“Thanks, Johnny, that means a lot to me.” Tom hesitates for a second and finishes with, “and don’t call me dude!” The four men laugh. Tom has already told Biggie and King about Johnny’s stop-calling-me-dude comment the first night he was in Tom’s car. They laugh at that one every time it’s retold.
This is Johnny’s crack house. He normally operates here when there is plenty of dope around. And, right now, there most certainly is! He was in Hollywood delivering to some hos and their cracked-out, high-dollar tricks when the narcs raided the whole fucking building a few weeks earlier. He feels damned lucky that Tom happened to be driving by at exactly the same time. It is a one-in-a-million chance that anyone will stop in that situation, especially to help, instead of holding Johnny for the cops.
A hot, young African American girl comes out of one of the rooms down the hall wearing only a shower cap and a bath towel wrapped around her body. Tom looks, of course, and is surprised to see such a beautiful young girl wandering around an LA crack house like nothing is going on. She has obviously just exited the shower and gone into what Tom knows is a bedroom.
“She’s waitin’ for you, T,” Johnny says with a huge grin.
“What?” Tom asks, a little surprised.
“She’s waitin’ for you,” Johnny repeats. “I know you got a taste for the chocolate!”
“Really?” Tom asks again. “Well, you’re right about that, my friend!”
“She’s all yours tonight!” Johnny says with a pleased look on his face.
“Nice!” Tom replies. “That’s just what the doctor ordered.” Tom thanks the other man, looks at Biggie who is grinning ear to ear, then heads down the hall to the bedroom the girl had gone into. Tom certainly enjoys the perks of his job!
1988
Tom is calling Brian’s apartment. He has given Brian two pounds of meth for his latest trip to New York. There have been no more issues with Brian or his doorman since the incident about eight months earlier. Apparently, Tom made his point that evening.
“Hello?” comes a shaky voice on the other end of the line.
“Yeah,” Tom says, “I’d like to speak with Brian.”
“Uh,” the voice really sounds scared to Tom, “Brian can’t come to the phone right now.”
“Tell him it’s Tom.”
“I’m sorry, Tom,” the voice on Brian’s phone says shakily, “I know who
you are. I was told to put you through no matter what.” He pauses a moment and says, “But he really can’t come to the phone.”
“Why?” Tom demands. “Is something wrong? Is someone else there?”
“No. It’s just me and Brian,” the frightened voice says. “Everyone else took off.”
“What the fuck’s goin’ on?” Tom asks in a more demanding tone.
“I didn’t know what to do,” the owner of the voice is crying now, “I didn’t know what to do.”
“I’m on my way!” Tom jumps up from the sofa and heads out his front door. He runs down the hall of his apartment building and down the back stairs, as opposed to waiting for the elevator. He jumps into his car and peels out of the parking lot, heading toward Brian’s condo, which is on the border of West Hollywood and Beverly Hills. It’s a five-minute drive.
Tom arrives at Brian’s condo to find a frightened little gay boy who is crying and keeps repeating, “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Where is he?” Tom asks. The other person points toward the bedroom, and Tom instantly goes inside. There is Brian lying on his side with a small amount of white foam at the corner of his mouth. He is unconscious and his breathing is labored, but he’s still alive. “How long ago did this happen?” Tom asks the frightened man.
“I don’t know,” he cries, “maybe an hour ago.”
“Okay,” Tom says. “Do you have a car?”
“Yes.”
“Then go get it and meet me in front of the building in two minutes!” Tom commands.
“Okay,” the gay boy says as he picks up a set of keys and heads for the door.
Tom grabs Brian and tosses the skinny little man over his shoulder. Brian doesn’t make a sound. He’s out! Tom makes his way to the elevator, which he waits for with Brian still over his shoulder. What will Brian’s neighbors say or do, if they see Tom carrying Brian out of the building like a bag of grain?
Tom makes it outside with Brian still over his shoulder, runs up to the car that is waiting, and tosses Brian in the back seat. He hops in front and says, “Get us to Cedars! Now!” Tom is referring to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles. It is the closest major hospital to their location and Brian’s best chance for survival.
