Back in Atlanta, Andre Gee had schooled me in the use of handguns. He’d given me long lessons on how to handle small arms. I liked Dre because, even though people were often impatient with his stutter, he showed patience with others. He said, “Power, y-y-y-y-y-you a youngblood with g-g-g-g-good aim and g-g-g-g-good eye-hand c-c-c-c-coordination. You ain’t afraid of n-n-n-n-n-n-no guns.”
I wasn’t. Dre took me into the woods, where I shot squirrels with a shotgun. I was quick and steady and liked the kickback and release that came with shooting. Squirrels were one thing, though. Gigante was another.
Gigante stayed on my mind as I drove up to Boca Raton. Sugar had arranged for a car—a plain-looking Ford Taurus—that couldn’t be traced. I was packing enough heat to take out Gigante and, if need be, his six closest friends. I drove carefully, obeying all the rules. The last thing I wanted was to be pulled over. I figured that, given Gigante’s agenda the night of the shooting, he hadn’t noticed me. I doubted if he could recognize me, but just to make sure I shaved my head and gave myself an entirely different look. Being bald helped give me a new attitude. I thought of Dre and his shaven head and how he must have handled many situations like the one facing me. Dre was tough, Dre was fearless; according to Slim, there was no one he trusted more than Dre to get the job done.
Getting the job done—that was my mantra, my focus, my only reason for being alive. That’s how I had to think. That’s how I had to be. I couldn’t look back, couldn’t be sentimental. I had to stuff all feelings except the one that said,
This motherfucker is history
.
This motherfucker is dead meat.
I checked into a Hilton Suites hotel. My room overlooked a parking lot. I unpacked my things and, first thing, went to the bathroom, where I shaved whatever stubble remained on my head. For some reason keeping my head shaved perfectly clean was important. I got a pair of cheap shades at Rite Aid and went to a sporting goods store to buy a Marlins baseball cap, just like the one Gigante had worn. Before locating the address that Sugar had given me, I decided to work out in the small hotel gym. I wanted that muscle burn that comes with lifting too much weight. I needed to feel pumped.
Just after the sun went down, I drove over to 1236 Marble Street. It was an apartment complex called the Floridian, not fancy, not slummy, just a plain two-story building. I walked into the lobby, where there was a wall of mailboxes and a painting of pink flamingos drinking out of a pool of blue-green water. Of course his name wasn’t on any of the mailboxes. I’d just have to stake out the place until he showed up. When I got back to the Taurus, the sky broke open and rain came down in sheets. The rain broke up the torrid August heat and felt good. But the heavy rain prevented me from seeing who was coming in and out of the building. The rain got worse. It wouldn’t let up. Two hours later, I knew that tonight wasn’t the night.
Back at the Hilton Suites, I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to sleep because I knew the dreams would come. Every night the dreams grew more violent. It was crazy—I felt more afraid of my dreams than the job I had to do. When I finally did drift off, I didn’t dream at all. Thank God.
I didn’t wake up till ten
A.M
. The sound of rain was even louder against the window. I got up and looked outside. The downpour was something to see. Felt like the whole world was being washed away. I went back to bed and felt this tremendous urge to call Beauty. I wanted to discuss the situation with her. I wanted to tell her what was going through my mind. But I didn’t have her number, and Wanda wouldn’t give it to me, and even if I asked Wanda to call her and ask her to call me, I knew that Beauty wouldn’t. She wanted to be left alone.
I wanted to get this over with, but the rain wouldn’t let me. It didn’t make any sense to try something while the storm was still raging. I could sit outside the Floridian, but even if he came out, the rain would get in my way. I took a shower and shaved my face and my head. I got dressed, grabbed an umbrella, walked to the car, and went looking for a place to have lunch. I stopped at a deli called Uncle Lou’s. When Irv took me to delis in Chicago, he told me the best things to order. At Uncle Lou’s, many of the customers looked like Irv—retired Jewish guys with tired eyes. I ordered a pastrami on rye. When it arrived I covered it with hot mustard. I hadn’t realized that I was famished. I wolfed it down. It tasted as good as anything I’ve ever eaten in my life. I had cherry cheesecake for dessert. My mouth was thanking my mind for ordering such great food. I looked outside to see if the rain had let up. It hadn’t.
Next to the deli was a video store. I stopped in. There was a porn section in the back, but porn was the last thing on my mind. I knew I needed something to kill time. I needed something to help me wait out this rain. I bought
Scarface
. I love
Scarface,
every single scene. I stopped at a Radio Shack and got a cheap DVD player so I could watch the movie. I loved it more than ever. I realized that I needed it more than ever. It showed me what I needed to see. I needed to hear Tony Montana tell Manny, “This is paradise . . . this town like a great big pussy jus’ waitin’ to get fucked.” I needed to hear Tony tell Mel, just before Mel is shot dead in cold blood, “Maybe you can hondle yourself one of them first-class tickets to the resurrection.” I needed to see him getting drunk in the fancy restaurant and screaming at the high-class people, “What you lookin’ at? You all a bunch of fuckin’ assholes. You know why? You don’t have the guts to be what you wanna be. You need people like me. You need people like me so you can point your fuckin’ fingers and say, ‘That’s the bad guy.’ ” And in the best scene of all, I needed to see him with his grenade launcher telling his attackers, “Say ’ello to my little friend!”
I watched the movie twice. It made me feel a lot stronger. It made me feel like I was living a movie. I was an actor, like Pacino, in the role of a lifetime. I could fuckin’ well do it.
Sometime during the night the rain finally stopped. By morning the sky had cleared and it looked like the most beautiful day in the history of the world. The world was sparkling. The world smelled fresh and new. I put on a new pair of black Air Jordan Fadeway basketball shorts, a black Billionaire Boys Club T-shirt with no lettering, fresh Adidas Heat Checks, the Marlins cap, and the Rite Aid shades. I drove by Uncle Lou’s and thought about stopping in for breakfast but decided against it. Fuck the delays. I had to get over to 1236 Marble Avenue.
I parked down the street from the Floridian where I could see the front door of the building. I waited for an hour, then drove around for a while and, when I came back, parked in another place. I got out of the car and walked up and down the street, never losing sight of the door. This became my routine. I did it all day. Lots of people came in and out, but no one who resembled Gigante. I figured he’d probably changed up his appearance in some way, but I’d recognize him by his built-up chest. He wasn’t going to get by me. Not now. Not ever.
Come seven o’clock I was starved. I drove to a nearby McDonald’s for a Big Mac and fries. I wanted to get a vanilla shake but sometimes too much milk and sugar make me sleepy. I had to be alert. I went back and this time parked two blocks away from the Floridian. A pair of small binoculars let me see what I needed to see.
At nine o’clock I saw him come out. It had to be him. It was his chest, his bulky size. He was wearing a stingy-brim hipster’s hat and a Miami Heat jersey. I got ready to follow him as he climbed into a black Audi sports car parked in front of the building and peeled off in a hurry. I stayed far enough behind so he wouldn’t know I was on his tail. My heart was racing like crazy. I started to sweat. He pulled into a strip mall and parked in front of a beauty salon. This place was called Boca Beauty Shoppe. I thought about Judy and her Hair Is Where It’s At. Gigante got out of his car and walked in. I parked the Taurus nearby and stayed behind the wheel, waiting. A few minutes later he walked out with a woman who was several inches taller than him. She was Asian—either Japanese or Chinese or maybe Vietnamese, maybe Korean, I couldn’t say for sure, but definitely Asian, definitely gorgeous, definitely the same tall elegant thin body shape as Mi and Beauty. As they walked to his car, they held hands.
As they took off, I stayed discreetly behind. My mind was reeling, my mind was a mess, my mind said,
Follow him, don’t get too close, don’t lose him, just follow him.
My mind also said,
Come back when he’s not with a woman, wait till later, wait till tomorrow, forget this whole crazy fuckin’ thing.
My eyes were on his Audi as he drove all the way to West Palm Beach, where he pulled up to the valet parking area of a nightclub called Attitude. The parking lot was filled with fancy cars, and the people going in were dressed in diamonds and denim. There were a lot of Hispanics, but whites and blacks as well. The crowd was young. As Gigante and the Asian chick walked through the door, I saw they had to pass a metal detector. I realized that if I were going in, I’d have to go without heat. It was another good excuse to turn around. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I had to see this goddamn thing through to the end.
I left the heat behind. I made a survey of the grounds outside the club and put a plan in place before going in. I paid a fifty-dollar cover charge. I looked around. Neon palm trees in white and gold. A long bar made of bamboo. A dance floor made of distressed white wood. Two chick DJs spinning Drake and Trey Songz. Lots of flash and cash, champagne popping, couples bumping to the jams, the jams getting louder in my ear, my eyes searching for Gigante and the girl. I lost them for a minute but caught a glimpse of them as they slipped into the VIP room on the back side of the club. I could have probably talked myself into VIP, but that didn’t seem like the move. The move was to be cool and wait. And watch. And catch my breath. And repeat the mantra—
It’s a job, it’s gotta get done, it will get done, nothing and no one can stop me from doing it
.
I went to the bar and ordered a Sprite. I sipped on it and surveyed the scene. One black shorty came my way, said a few nice things, and asked me to dance. I was about to politely refuse when I heard my jam—“Get Back Up.” It seemed like the cue to hit the floor. It seemed like a good idea to mingle with the crowd and not look like some gawking dude surveying the scene. I danced with shorty. She had nice moves, an easy smile, a willing way. I looked over and saw Gigante and his girl. He couldn’t dance worth a shit. His girl moved like a cat. Her eyes told me she was stoned. Gigante was probably fucked up too. Maybe it was champagne, or weed, or blow, or X. Maybe all that shit. Good. The more wasted he got, the better for me. I escorted shorty back to the bar. She wanted to talk. I made it clear that I didn’t. She got a little pissed. I apologized and said, “Sorry, baby, I’m just passing through.”
I took my time. Kept throwing back Sprites. Kept moving around the dance floor. Kept my eye on the VIP. Gigante and his babe would come out every four or five jams for a spin. Each time he hit the floor, I could tell he was more wasted. Adrenaline had taken over my body, my head, my heart, my arms, my legs. I felt more pumped than at any time in my life. More scared. More determined. More fuckin’ crazy. The club got more crowded, I could hardly move across the floor, the strobe lights putting everyone’s moves in slow motion, bodies on bodies, sweat on sweat, music sweat, sex sweat, danger sweat, Gigante sweating so hard, his eyes so fucked up that I knew he had hit his high. At one point, he fell on the dance floor. His girlfriend had to help him up. They both laughed. They both disappeared back into VIP.
A few minutes later I saw him stumbling across the club looking for the men’s room.
It was time.
I followed him in. The bathroom was crowded. He had to wait and then stood at a urinal taking a piss. Seemed like the piss lasted for an hour. He almost nodded off. When he was through, he didn’t wash his hands. He walked out the door. I was right behind. As we passed by an exit door, I put my full body weight into him and shoved him outside. We were in the alley behind the club. I knew where we were because I had cased out the geography earlier in the evening.
“What the fuck you want, asshole?” he asked, still staggering.
“You,” I said.
“You a fuckin’ faggot?”
I didn’t bother to answer. I reached into a garbage can where I had earlier taped a Golden Eagle German stiletto. Before I could dislodge it, though, Gigante lunged at me with his right fist. Even in his fucked-up condition, he got lucky and the blow landed on my right eye. My face radiated red-hot pain. I was furious. I reacted. By then I had the stiletto in my right hand and plunged it in his throat. He spit out blood. I pulled out the knife and plunged it in his throat a second and third time. Then I plunged it through his heart. He went down and out without a sound. I wiped off the bloody knife, put it in my pocket, and walked around the shadows of the parking lot until I found the Taurus. I was shaking, but I was steady enough to drive.
I’d done the job.
W
hen I got back from Boca Raton the day after I put down Gigante, I showed up at Sugar’s Shack wearing a black patch over my right eye. Sugar was up in the penthouse partying. He had a posse of pussy, one bitch finer than the next.
“Holy shit!” he said when he saw me. “We got ourselves a motherfuckin’ pirate! What the hell happened?”
“A little skirmish” was all I said. “My eye’s messed up.”
“And what about the other guy, homes?”
“Not to worry.”
“So it’s like that,” said Sugar.
“Just like that.”
“You sure?”
I didn’t bother to answer. I just nodded.
“Cool,” said Sugar. “I see you got your swag on. That’s what success will do to a man. Make him wanna rock a whole room of women. You ready, Power?”
I just nodded.
“Well, if what you say is true, you deserve all can you handle. Pick any two, baby. Pick any three.”
I walked around. Some girls were dancing alone. Some were reclining on the couch. Some were out on the balcony enjoying the view. I didn’t look at them the way I usually looked at women. Usually I wanted to know who they were, where they came from, what they did for a living. Usually I saw women as people. But that night I looked at them as bodies. I saw their faces, but I didn’t see their eyes. I didn’t want to see their eyes. I didn’t want to look deeply. I didn’t want to understand who they were and why they were there. I knew why they were. They were there for me. Sugar said so. Sugar confirmed a feeling that had been coming over me ever since I’d left Boca. I was returning a conquering hero. A fuckin’ conquering hero. And these beautiful luscious willing women were my rewards.
Nothing to think about. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to analyze. All pleasure. All good. All night long.
That night I had two. The next night I had two different ones. The night after that Sugar moved me out of the little apartment I’d been living in to a high floor with a view of the beach. That night I had a bitch from Brazil who was like three bitches in one. I’d never seen anything like her before. The more I had, the more I wanted, the more it made me feel like I could do anything, be anyone, get anywhere. And yet, if I were to tell anyone the truth, I’d have to admit that the longer I fucked, the harder it was for me to cum. I wanted to, but I didn’t want to think about Beauty, and yet, in spite of these amazing bodies on these amazing South Beach models and dancers and would-be actresses, I couldn’t cum without imagining being inside Beauty, Beauty beneath me, Beauty above me, Beauty all over me.
Slim was right. Because of what happened to Mi at Tropical Deco, the modeling agency suffered major losses. The girls didn’t want to be associated with Sugar—at least not professionally. Sensing the business was going down fast, Pat Vine quit. Without Pat Vine, Sugar was lost. So he quickly closed up the Renato Ruiz Agency to concentrate on his core business—drugs. His drug operation was divided down the middle. There were street drugs that he distributed through a network of dealers headed up by an old-school cat named Jordash Jackson. They called him Dash and he handled the down-and-dirty corner-by-corner, block-by-block dealings. Then there was what Sugar called his premium trade. Those were high-end customers who bought drugs like they bought Piaget watches. They didn’t give a shit what they cost, as long as they got the best. These were customers who Sugar catered to; he handled them personally, and because of my work with Gigante, I was awarded several of these customers myself.
Premium buyers didn’t only buy for themselves. They also bought for their friends. Sugar didn’t know whether the high-end buyer marked up the drugs when he or she sold them to a friend—and Sugar didn’t care. The profit on the initial sale was so huge it made no difference.
“Homes,” said Sugar, “these fuckin’ people are so filthy rich no one cares what anything costs—as long as they get off. And I make goddamn sure I got the shit that gets them off.”
I spent a lot of time with Sugar and could see why, at least in the world of drugs, he was so effective. He gave Dash B-quality product and left him alone to do his thing on the streets. He and I handled the good shit. Every night before we made our rounds—going to a customer’s party or a customer’s mansion—he’d tap out a line for himself. “Just to test it,” he said. “One line and that’s it.” He always offered me a quick toot, and now and then, I took Sugar’s lead. I took a small taste. A long line was too much for me. I’d just knock off a little, and a little was enough.
A little lifted me higher. For me, it was a high period in all respects. I often made deliveries to Jose Rojas, a dude who had moved to Miami from Panama, where he had inherited his father’s fleet of supertankers. Jose was a super-fan of Sugar’s high-priced shit. He was part of Sugar’s young-men-on-the-move millionaire’s club. He had a thing for French chicks. He’d fly to Paris and bring ’em back in his Gulfstream, three or four at a time. His parties usually didn’t start till three in the morning. When night turned to day, he pushed a button that automatically activated blackout curtains that darkened every window. That way night could go on until three in the afternoon. Jose presented me with a woman named Adrienne who came from Nice and had a thing for American black guys with Southern accents. Whatever accent I had naturally, I thickened up. Jose also invited me to a weekend trip to Vegas. But Sugar didn’t think it was a good idea for me to go. Sugar didn’t like the idea of me getting that cozy with a customer.
I couldn’t imagine anyone getting cozier with his customers than Sugar. There was a real estate mogul from Montreal who owned half of Miami Beach. He and Sugar went to Antigua for a weekend and wound up staying for nearly a month. I liked that because it left me on my own. Sugar trusted me with his best clients. I knew every single one, and I never failed to deliver the quantities and quality they demanded.
My favorite was Jason Riley, the Internet king who invented computer software that made him richer than the Pope. Jason was thirtysomething, a fast-talking speed demon who actually raced at NASCAR. He became a professional driver. He had blond hair that he wore to his waist, wild blue eyes, and a funny-shaped ski-jump nose. He lived in a loft. Compared to Jason’s loft, my loft in Chicago was a closet. This Miami Beach loft was actually a converted power plant with a TV screen that wrapped around the four corners of a room the size of a city block. Jason was also a chess player who liked a challenge. We had ferocious matches, and against Sugar’s advice, I never let him win if I could prevent it. Jason respected that. One night, after he was really loaded, he came on to me. I was surprised. Jason always surrounded himself with luscious ladies. I never suspected that he liked guys.
“I don’t,” he said. “I just like you.”
I made it real clear that nothing physical could ever happen between us. I left no room for doubt.
Jason respected my honesty. He accepted my statement at face value. He withdrew and then asked, “Well, will you at least go out with me for a pastrami sandwich? I have a thing for pastrami. And I got a place where they have the absolute best.”
“At this time of night?” I asked, looking at the clock, which said four
A.M
.
“They never close.”
It was the least I could do.
Eisenstock’s Deli was up on Collins Avenue. It smelled of pickles. It looked like it had been there for decades. The wooden tables and chairs were rickety. The plastic booths were torn and the stuffing was coming out. The menu was a mess of torn plastic. The place was empty except for a guy behind the deli counter. He didn’t look happy to be there.
Jason went up and ordered us pastrami sandwiches. The meat was delicious, spicy and lean. He started to tell me about his life. His father was a math genius who taught college in California. His mom was a shrink. He went to Stanford, where he drove his Harley off the road and broke both arms. It was in the hospital where he came up with this software for product distribution. It worked for practically all products, including Sugar’s. He told me, off the record, that he had developed a shadow software system for Sugar under another name in another country that could only be accessed by a complicated code. Only he and Sugar had the code. Who knew that Jason was actually a partner of Sugar’s and the main reason his product distribution ran so smoothly?
“I’m telling you this because I trust you, Power,” said Jason, talking in his bang-bang mile-a-minute manner. “I’ve trusted you from the first day we met. You got charisma. You know that, don’t you?”
“Thanks,” I said in a low-key kind of way. I didn’t want to do anything to encourage his interest in me.
“And you’re kicked-back and cool,” he added. “Nothing bothers you.”
“There’s definitely stuff that bothers me,” I admitted.
“Like what?”
I didn’t want to get personal. I wanted to keep this guy at a distance.
“Look, I understand that you’re straight, and I respect that. I’m straight myself. I’ve always had all the women I wanted.”
“That’s good,” I said.
“It was—for a while. And then I ran into this problem. It’s a problem I’ve never told anyone. But I’m telling you because, like I say, Power, I can trust you. This is a deep problem.”
Jason paused for a bite of pastrami.
“They call what I have premature ejaculation syndrome. Have you ever heard of it?” he asked me.
“I have. I have a . . . a good friend with the same problem.”
“So you know it’s devastating.”
“He doesn’t really talk about it. But I can imagine . . .”
Jason continued. “It’s hard to imagine how it fucks you up. You can’t perform. You just can’t. You close your eyes and try to imagine something that has nothing to do with sex, something like your aunt’s funeral, anything to keep you from getting too excited too quickly. You have foreplay for a half hour, an hour. You give her head forever. You work on your mind, you tell yourself,
Take it easy, go slow, give it time
. And then the second you go in, you explode. You cum before she can feel a thing.
“Do you have any idea what that does to a man, Power? It’s the most fuckin’ humiliating thing in the world. You beg the girl not to say anything to anyone. You pray to God she won’t because you don’t want your friends to know. You live in fear that this thing’s gonna haunt you your entire life. I’m telling you, man, there’s nothing good about it.
“I’ve read dozens of case studies on men with this syndrome. There have been instances when they’re so enraged with themselves they wind up beating women. Even killing them. Don’t get the wrong idea, Power. That’s not me. I’ve never done as much as screamed at a lady, much less hit one. But I can understand it. I can understand why men—men who can’t satisfy women—go crazy.”
“Does doing lines help or hurt?”
“I’ve tried it both ways. I started in tooting because, after years of struggling with this thing while I was dead sober, someone said toot helped. They said if you snort it or even put it on your cock you’ll last longer. Well, it didn’t work—not one fuckin’ bit. But the blow did do something—it washed away my bad feelings. Made me feel great. It became a substitute for sex. Maybe it’s even better than sex. Less complicated. But then I started to get a thing for you and started thinking,
Hell, maybe I’m not straight after all
. Maybe I cum quick because I don’t want a woman. Maybe I want a guy like you.”
Here we go again,
I thought.
“How do you know you’re not gay, Power, if you haven’t tried?”
“Jason,” I said firmly, “back the fuck off.”
“Oh, well, you can’t blame me for wanting to experiment, can you?”
I didn’t answer.
While Jason got lost in his sandwich, I kept thinking of Slim and the medical report I’d found in the garbage. Slim and Jason had the same problem. Jason was saying how cumming too soon could drive a man crazy, twist his mind into knots, and turn him violent. I didn’t know what to think about the problem. But I did know one thing—I needed to keep making it clear to Jason that, no matter how confused he might be about his sexuality, I wasn’t confused at all. I liked women.
While Jason went up to the deli counter to order another pastrami sandwich, I realized that I was about to fall out. I’d been up for nearly twenty straight hours. I needed to sleep. I needed Jason to finish his food so he could drive me back to his loft, where I’d left my car. Fact is, I was so exhausted that for a moment I closed my eyes and actually nodded out. When I opened my eyes I looked at a man who was walking through the front door of Eisenstock’s. I had to be dreaming. I squeezed my eyes closed and opened them again. I wasn’t dreaming. It was Irv, and he was walking right to me.
By then Jason had returned to the table, and I had gotten up to greet Irv. I was so shocked I could hardly speak. Had Irv been transferred to a hospital in Miami Beach? Had he wandered out of his room? Was he sleepwalking? Would he even recognize me?
“Power,” he said, “introduce me to your friend.”
I stumbled before I calmed enough to say, “Jason, this is Irv Wasserman.”
“Nice to meet you, sir,” said Jason. “Care to join us?”
“Oh, no,” said Irv. “I couldn’t sleep so I came for a little tea and maybe a piece of cheesecake. I don’t want to bother you boys. I’ll give you my number, Power. Call if you get a chance. No hurry. No worries.”
As Irv walked to the counter to order, Jason asked me, “Who’s that?”
“Just a guy,” I said.
Next day I slept past noon. My dreams—about tornados and earthquakes, fires and floods—were intense, though I couldn’t remember the details. It just felt like the world was coming to an end. When I opened my eyes, I forgot where I was. Atlanta? Chicago? No, I was in Miami Beach, in my apartment in Sugar’s Shack. I was working for Sugar. I was his most trusted customers’ man. He let me service his best clients. When he went to the celebrity parties where movie stars and athletes hung out, he took me along. He introduced me to the finest ladies on the planet. He gave me a crazy salary, he leased me a Jaguar, and he had me living in a luxury apartment rent-free. Even if he did call me his assistant, I couldn’t complain about the way he treated me any more than I could complain about the way Slim treated me or, for that matter, the way Irv treated me. I was a blessed man. But on this particular morning, after a long sleep filled with end-of-the-world dreams, I was a confused man. I didn’t know why in hell Irv had turned up. I didn’t know if he knew I was going to be at Eisenstock’s Deli or whether it was pure coincidence. I didn’t know if he was in his right mind—he had, after all, recognized me and sounded normal—or whether he had escaped from a nuthouse. I didn’t know anything except that he had given me his number, and before I did anything, I found myself reaching out to him. I had to know what was happening.