lookout … you never know. So if he had to stand for a pat-down, he’d be clean. But once he got back to his car …
Besides, all he needed was to make certain she saw him. That alone might be enough to scare her into giving him back his things.
All
his things.
One thing he knew for sure: Taylor had a friend. A friend with enough money to hire that moving crew. So she might not scare that easily. It might come down to something else.
He’d been ready to take that big step-up once. And he was ready if it came to that again.
AS A rule, J.B. never touched powder. But every once in a while, he used it for what he called “boost.” Sometimes, to work his game, he had to go without sleep for a couple of straight twenty-fours, and there was nothing like a hit of what the old pimp had called Girl to keep a man sharp and alert.
When the old man had first confided this, J.B. was less than eager to embrace it. He knew Girl was cocaine, just as Boy was heroin. And he knew the old man’s core belief: women were both the most loyal and the most treacherous of all God’s creations; to the pimp once known throughout certain parts of Chicago as “True Blue,” it was just a matter of picking those from the first group. And it took more than knowledge to do that—you had to have that special instinct. Not something you could learn, no matter how well schooled you might be. This ability was a gift, like having an ear for music. Either you were born with it, or you weren’t.
After the old man passed, J.B. moved slowly and with great care. But as the years went by, he came to believe that this gift had been implanted in him, as if the old man was schooling him from the grave.
So how could I have been so wrong about Taylor?
If she’d taken just her own things—especially that miserable, mangy cat—he would have chalked her up to The Life’s Unwritten Law: They come, they go. The circle never breaks. But
his
stuff! The custom-tailored suits, the handmade shoes, his jewelry … Not irreplaceable, of course, but certainly a big hit on his wallet. Now, that was just plain evil.
In the past, women had cut up his clothes, or thrown bleach on them. And left some kind of note, too. Girls who did that, he knew he could expect them to come crawlingback. And he knew they wouldn’t even
try
that unless they came with enough cash to replace everything they’d ruined, and then some.
Yeah, this was different.
So it had to be dealt with. The word would get out, and his prestige—far more important than any wardrobe or car—would be damaged beyond repair.
Not going to happen.
Not to him.
Not ever!
he thought to himself, not realizing that he was giving up the protective coloration the old man had warned him was a cloak of safety. The need to send a message to that bitch had overpowered the old man’s warnings in a finger-snap.
Coke
might
kill you, if you didn’t handle it correctly. But ego, no doubt about it, that
would
kill you. And the worst ego of all was the one you didn’t know you had. The one that was sitting inside you, calling all the shots.
J.B. WENT through five of his one-time-use burner cells before he gave it up. Some of Chicago’s
truly
bad men wouldn’t accompany him to the Double-X no matter how much he offered. He couldn’t even get the Motley brothers, twin gunmen who were reputed to have kept one undertaker in business for a decade, to come into the club by themselves and just watch his back.
“You know whose club that is?”
“What diff—?”
“The Double-X, even damn
winos
know it’s run by the Cross crew.”
“Never heard of them.”
“Guess you never heard of Red 71, either.”
“What’s that, another club?”
“Yeah, man. Just another club. See if you can get a cabbie to take you there.”
“I don’t need a cab, man. I’ll just go—”
“You know, me and my brother, we charge for what we do. But I’m givin’ you this one for free: don’t go near that place. You walk
Besides, all he needed was to make certain she saw him. That alone might be enough to scare her into giving him back his things.
All
his things.
One thing he knew for sure: Taylor had a friend. A friend with enough money to hire that moving crew. So she might not scare that easily. It might come down to something else.
He’d been ready to take that big step-up once. And he was ready if it came to that again.
AS A rule, J.B. never touched powder. But every once in a while, he used it for what he called “boost.” Sometimes, to work his game, he had to go without sleep for a couple of straight twenty-fours, and there was nothing like a hit of what the old pimp had called Girl to keep a man sharp and alert.
When the old man had first confided this, J.B. was less than eager to embrace it. He knew Girl was cocaine, just as Boy was heroin. And he knew the old man’s core belief: women were both the most loyal and the most treacherous of all God’s creations; to the pimp once known throughout certain parts of Chicago as “True Blue,” it was just a matter of picking those from the first group. And it took more than knowledge to do that—you had to have that special instinct. Not something you could learn, no matter how well schooled you might be. This ability was a gift, like having an ear for music. Either you were born with it, or you weren’t.
After the old man passed, J.B. moved slowly and with great care. But as the years went by, he came to believe that this gift had been implanted in him, as if the old man was schooling him from the grave.
So how could I have been so wrong about Taylor?
If she’d taken just her own things—especially that miserable, mangy cat—he would have chalked her up to The Life’s Unwritten Law: They come, they go. The circle never breaks. But
his
stuff! The custom-tailored suits, the handmade shoes, his jewelry … Not irreplaceable, of course, but certainly a big hit on his wallet. Now, that was just plain evil.
In the past, women had cut up his clothes, or thrown bleach on them. And left some kind of note, too. Girls who did that, he knew he could expect them to come crawlingback. And he knew they wouldn’t even
try
that unless they came with enough cash to replace everything they’d ruined, and then some.
Yeah, this was different.
So it had to be dealt with. The word would get out, and his prestige—far more important than any wardrobe or car—would be damaged beyond repair.
Not going to happen.
Not to him.
Not ever!
he thought to himself, not realizing that he was giving up the protective coloration the old man had warned him was a cloak of safety. The need to send a message to that bitch had overpowered the old man’s warnings in a finger-snap.
Coke
might
kill you, if you didn’t handle it correctly. But ego, no doubt about it, that
would
kill you. And the worst ego of all was the one you didn’t know you had. The one that was sitting inside you, calling all the shots.
J.B. WENT through five of his one-time-use burner cells before he gave it up. Some of Chicago’s
truly
bad men wouldn’t accompany him to the Double-X no matter how much he offered. He couldn’t even get the Motley brothers, twin gunmen who were reputed to have kept one undertaker in business for a decade, to come into the club by themselves and just watch his back.
“You know whose club that is?”
“What diff—?”
“The Double-X, even damn
winos
know it’s run by the Cross crew.”
“Never heard of them.”
“Guess you never heard of Red 71, either.”
“What’s that, another club?”
“Yeah, man. Just another club. See if you can get a cabbie to take you there.”
“I don’t need a cab, man. I’ll just go—”
“You know, me and my brother, we charge for what we do. But I’m givin’ you this one for free: don’t go near that place. You walk
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