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  “This ain't gambling, baby girl. Gambling is when you can lose. This here is a sure thing. I know somebody as pretty as you got some money. C'mon and double your money, sweet thing.”

  “Okay, man, but this bet not be no scam. I got twenty dollars to blow.”

  “That's good. Not too eager. Okay, take your pick, sweetheart. Now once you place your bet you got to watch my face. If I look to the left it's on the left. Straight at you then it's in the middle. To the right and it's on my right. This is important because I can't put it in the same place every time or watchers will get suspicious.”

  “What I'm sposed to do after I win?”

  “Once other players get in then I want you to fade back instantly. Once I take off a decent piece of cash I'll signal you and that means get off the train on the next stop. I'll get off on the stop after you and link back up with you.”

  “That's a lot to remember, Don. When is we gone start doing this shit?”

  “Tomorrow, so you better pay attention and get it right.”

  “Alright, alright.”

  “Alright, my ass. Let's go over it again.”

  They practiced for the rest of the evening and the next morning. By afternoon, Don was confident that they were ready to try the scam for real. They hopped the El train on 63rd Street heading downtown. Don brought out the makeshift cardboard table and the three playing cards. Juanita was just a microsecond off on her cues, but all in all she wasn't bad for her first time. By the time they reached the Loop, Don had fleeced several passengers of about 140 bucks. He gave Juanita the signal for the fadeaway and she got off the train. It was pretty crowded so he took a chance and got off with her.

  “I told you this shit was gone be sweet,” he said as they crossed over to the other side of the El station to go back the opposite way. “We ain't gone be greedy. Duff this money. We gone ride this boy back the other way and see what we make.”

  On the way home Don was in high spirits. They had cleared close to $250. Elated, he waved the money in the air. “We just made a couple hundred for taking a motherfucking train ride. I told you this shit was gone work. You did good too, girl. At first you was a little shaky, but in a couple of days you'll be a pro.”

  “In a couple of days? I thought we was just doing this shit today. I ain't know that you was talking 'bout doing this shit all the time.”

  “Girl, is you crazy? Look at the money we just made. I'm doing this shit every motherfuckin’ day. I'm finta get my paper.”

  The next two days went about the same, but by the fourth day the daily commuters began to warn the unsuspecting riders against playing Don's rigged shell game. Their last few days out they made only enough to cover their traveling expenses, and after a close call with the transit authority police, Don decided to pack it in.

  Disgusted, Don sat on the side of his bed with his shirt off and his pipe in his hand. “Damn, all these motherfuckers hating and shit. They just mad 'cause we been taking they damn money. Pigeons need to mind they own damn business. They done fucked up a nice little hustle with all that damn hating. It ain't like we was robbing no motherfuckers or shit. Shit, if you don't want to lose yo money then don't play. Do you want to find another train to get down on? I hate missing that Loop train though. That's where all the pigeons be. We ain't make no cash on no other train but that one. We finta leave this shit alone. What you think, baby?”

  “It's cool with me,” Juanita agreed readily. She was still thinking about a heavyset woman that drew her index finger across her throat at her. “What you want to do now though, baby? You know that we got to keep hustling.”

  Don was pensive. “I don't know. I was thinking about bouncing out to O'Hare airport. I heard some cats talking. They was saying that motherfuckers out there be sweet as hell. Out of town motherfuckers sightseeing and shit. Thinking they still at home in them small-ass towns. Heads be in the clouds and shit. The cats that was talking 'bout the shit was some cannons.”

  “Cannons?” Juanita repeated.

  “Pickpockets, girl. Damn, where the fuck you been? Cannons is them studs that be beating motherfuckas for they wallets and purses and shit. Stealing vics checkbooks and writing bogus paper. Then they use the credit cards to buy merch, fill-up niggas at the gas station, all that shit. Them niggas be clean, too. Suits and dresses and shit. I know a little bit about dipping.”

  “What's dipping, baby?”

  “Girl, you dumb as hell. Dipping is going in a nigga pocket. I think I know how to dip regular wallets and shit. I mean, how hard can that shit be? I ain't fucking with them checkbooks and shit, though. We gone catch the train out to the airport tomorrow and Imma see how sweet that shit really is.”

  It was his second day at the airport before Don had the nerve to pick someone's pocket. His clumsy attempt netted him three days in the county on a petty theft charge. He used an alias and was released on an I-bond.

  At home, he had a long-overdue reunion with his crack-pipe. He was glad that he had taken a few moments to hide the cash and crack they had on hand before they left for O'Hare. He didn't believe that Juanita would steal from him again, but he decided against tempting her. Miraculously, Juanita showed up on his doorstep the second day after he was released. When he opened the door she jumped into his arms.

  “Damn, baby, I missed you so much,” she said, hugging his neck. “I damn near shitted on myself when them security guards grabbed you. I didn't know what to do.”

  Don detached her from his neck and held her at arm's length. “What the fuck you been doing while I was locked up?”

  “I ain't been doing shit, baby,” she replied. “You can ask yo sister. I been over here every day to see if you got out. I wanted to stay, but yo sister wouldn't let me in. Shit, what we gone do now, baby? The airport dead and I needs me a bump.”

  Don grabbed her hand, led her into the house, and up to his room. They spent the afternoon smoking crack and having wild sex. Afterward Don sat on the edge of the bed smoking a cigarette and thinking about his next move.

  Three-card monte was out of the question and so was pickpocketing. He had about $812 saved and an eightball of crack. While he was locked up he thought about selling crack. It was a logical move. Lots of people loved to smoke crack—his neighborhood was full of cluckers. Why couldn't he cop a piece and slang a little himself? He had the money and the know-how, plus he could cop from the cats at Harper Court. He stubbed out his cigarette and lay back on the bed.

  Even though he hadn't served a bag yet, Don had visions of getting rich. He could see himself driving expensive cars and dressing fly from head to toe. He knew that some of the ghettos’ biggest dealers had started off from meager beginnings.

  Don would find out there was only one problem with a crackhead selling crack: They smoked up most of the product before they could sell it.

  He purchased a quarter ounce from Diego to start. Juanita helped him bag it up and Don hit the block with ten bags in his sock. He walked up and down the block for two hours before he finally landed the first customer. A short, schoolteacher-looking lady bought four dime bags from him. Feeling triumphant from his first sale he ran home to tell his girl the good news. He found her with the pipe to her lips preparing to take a blast.

  With fear on her face she sat frozen, scared to put the torch to the pipe bowl. Her voice was shaking when she spoke. “Don, don't hit me, baby. I ain't steal nothing, boo. You said you wasn't gone hit me no more. Please don't start tripping.”

  Don closed the room door and stood looking at her. She looked a mess. Her hair was undone and standing all over her head. Her womanly curves had a lot less curve to them. As he stood there, he realized that he wasn't even angry. To keep her off balance, he said, “Bitch, I'm out there hustling and you up here smoking the shit. How much of the shit you done smoked?”

  Carefully Juanita sat the pipe on the bed. “Just a couple of bags, Don. You was taking so long and wadn't nothing on tv, so I took me a few bumps.” She braced herself for the p
unch she knew was coming.

  Instead of hitting her, Don stripped off his T-shirt and picked up the pipe. Using the torch he took a long hit. “Bitch, what the fuck is you balling up like that for? I ain't finta hit you. I'm finta go back out, but I just wanted to take me couple of bumps first.”

  He pulled the remaining bags from his sock and opened one. He dumped it in the bowl and held the torch to it.

  The first bag started a chain reaction. A day and a half later, they had smoked them all. Though he still had close to six hundred dollars and an eightball in the stash, Don decided against pursuing a career as a drug dealer.

  While they smoked the eightball, the couple racked their brains for a way to make money—fast money.

  “I got it, baby, I could hit the streets and turn a few tricks with some of these balling-ass niggas,” Juanita suggested.

  The next thing she knew she was picking herself up off the floor. She held her jaw where Don's slap had left a handprint.

  “Did I ask you to sell pussy, bitch?” he snarled.

  Juanita just shook her head and held her jaw.

  “Bitch, I don't ever want to hear you say no shit like that ever again. As long as I'm your man ain't no woman of mine gone be hooking with these funky-ass niggas.”

  “I wasn't talking about the regular niggas, baby,” she croaked out. “I was talking about hitting up some of these paper-getting dudes.”

  “Bitch, I wouldn't give a fuck if it was Oprah Winfrey wanted you to suck her pussy. I catch you turning tricks and you gone be eating dinner with a straw 'cause Imma break yo gotdamn jaw.”

  “Well, what you want me to do, boo?”

  “Nothing right now. We ain't hurting too bad. I'll figure some shit out and let you know if I need you to do something.”

  Not wanting to see their bankroll disappear, Don hit the streets. He snatched a few purses, stuck up a few small dice games, and snatched a couple of gold chains—nothing very lucrative.

  During the weeks that passed Don learned through the ghetto grapevine that his old clique was getting rich on the streets. Dre's brother Zack had put them in the game with a vengeance. The report was that Zack had fronted them ten grams of heroin apiece. The dope was real good, and they were able to put a five on it. Don knew that anytime you had some dope that could be cut five times it had to be a bomb. Zack taught them how to mix the potent synthetic narcotic with milk-sugar and how to set up a successful heroin peddling operation. In the couple of months since they'd fallen out, his ex-friends had their own cars, money, and jewelry. They were serving in the Wells. The Wells was a mile-long stretch of housing development units on the Low End of Chicago's South Side. When it came to drugs, the Wells was a gold mine.

  After hearing the news, Don was salty. He knew that he should have been right there beside his friends, getting rich. It was depressing, thinking about the money his friends were raking in, so he dismissed their good fortune from his thoughts. Right now he needed a new hustle—one that would bring in some gees. Sitting on his ass daydreaming wasn't paying shit, so he grabbed his pistol and left the house.

  On his way to the pool hall he ran into Monkeyhead sitting at a stop sign in his bloodred two-door Chevy Caprice about to make a turn. The large boy was one of Diego's main flunkies. His name fit his face with its huge, purplish lips, wide, flat nose, and close-cropped kinky hair.

  Don greeted the man-sized teenager. “Monkeyhead, what the deal, yo?”

  “Nothing much, Don-Don,” Monkeyhead said. “What's up with you?”

  “I'm chilling, joe. I was finta go to Deon's. Where you headed?”

  Monkeyhead wiped his dark face with the back of his hand. “Was on my way to Harper's Court. I just came from the rim shop. I was trying to buy some thirties and Vogues for my Chevy, but them studs want too much goddamn money. Cheapest I was looking at was about twenty-two hundred.”

  From the look on Monkeyhead's face, Don could tell that he really wanted those tires and rims. Thirties and Vogues seemed to be the rage with all the street dealers. Don knew that the boy could afford it, but who wanted to pay all that money? He had to admit that the shiny-spoked rims and Vogues with their gold stripe seemed to bring out the hidden beauty of a big-body automobile like the Chevy Caprice. It had never crossed Don's mind to steal and sell the expensive auto accessories. The average dealer in the market for rims and tires would jump at the chance to buy the stuff at street value—half of the retail price.

  “Yeah, some clean-ass thirties with the gold caps and some meaty Vogues would look right on this boy,” Don asked, testing the waters.

  “I know that's shit.”

  “What if I can get you some shoes for yo Chevy at half the store price?”

  The ape-faced boy smiled. He had always liked Don and still liked him even though he was a hype. His smile was one of doubt because he knew crackheads always made promises they never kept. Halfheartedly, Monkeyhead said, “Nigga, if you bring me some decent thirties I'll put the money in yo hand with no problem. Long as it ain't no slum shit. Or no Mexican-ass, gold-dipped shit. I want chrome with gold caps. None of them bald-ass Vogues neither.”

  A sly smile crossed Don's lips. “Alright, give me yo math. As soon as I get hold of what you was looking for I'll hit you. I hope you gone have that paper.”

  On a little notepad mounted on the dashboard Monkey-head wrote his number and handed it to Don. Then he peeled off.

  Don stood on the corner looking down at the scrap of paper in his hand. This shit is right on time, he thought. Monkeyhead had opened up his eyes. The young dealers were always buying cars and decking them out. They almost always wanted rims, tires, and sound systems. That was right up his alley. He already knew how to steal cars.

  He had stolen plenty of cars with his friends when he was younger to learn how to drive. Usually some unlucky working stiff's car, but that was the way things were around here. The only things he would need were a strong flathead screwdriver and a driver. The driver's job would be to take him out cruising for a vehicle to purloin. Finding a driver wouldn't prove too much of a task. He knew quite a few hypes who owned cars and would jump at the chance to make some easy money.

  After purchasing a screwdriver, Don walked two blocks over to St. Lawrence. He was looking for a clucker that went by the name of Weed-Eyes. The older man usually hung out on the corner in front of the liquor store there. Weed-Eyes was always on the lookout for any kind of hustle, plus he owned a car. Don knew that for a small fee, it would be easy to convince him to chauffeur him around until he found something suitable to fill Monkeyhead's order.

  The middle-aged crackhead was right where Don had guessed he would be—standing on the corner. Following his daily routine, Weed-Eyes was drinking wine, talking shit with his cronies, and keeping his green eyes peeled for his next opportunity to make a little dough.

  Don hailed the tall, light-skinned hype. “Weedy, what's up, my man? Check it out. Let me put this bug in your ear.”

  Pausing with the paper-bag-sheathed wine bottle halfway to his lips, Weed-Eyes considered Don's request. “Hold tight, little brother. Imma dig on what you got to say, but first let me knock the corners off this vino, you dig.”

  Not to be brushed off, Don said, “Man, fuck that vino. Nigga, I'm talkin 'bout lining yo pocket. I'll buy you a liter of Rosé, you just got to go in there and get it.”

  Weed-Eyes handed the bottle to one of the winos standing with him. He accepted the two dollars from Don and went in the store to buy the drink. He returned, drink in hand. He followed Don as they retreated to the middle of the block and took a seat on the abandoned carcass of a stripped car. Weed-Eyes broke the seal on the wine bottle and poured out a small amount. “For the cats that ain't here, you dig,” he said, before taking a long swallow. He offered the bottle to Don, but he declined.

  Don waited until Weed-Eyes got himself situated, then he started his pitch. “Imma get right down to business. I got pigeons lined up that want tires and sounds and shit lik
e that, but they don't want to pay no store prices. I can get the merch. My only problem is that I don't got no kind of transportation. That's where you come in.”

  Weed-Eyes squinted at the sun. “So what you saying, little brother, is that you want ole Weed to fire up the heavy Chevy and take you out looking for a vic?”

  “Yep, that's all there is to it,” Don said. “I'll do the peeling, the stealing, and the wheeling.”

  Weed-Eyes asked, “So what the pay looking like?”

  “Every night that we come up I'll hit you with a bill,” Don answered.

  Weed-Eyes choked on the wine he was swallowing when he heard Don's offer. “You got to be bullshitting. You mean to tell me that all I got to do is take you out, then make sure you get home alright, and I get a hundred bones for my troubles.”

  “Yep.”

  “That's righteous, little brother,” Weed-Eyes commented. “When do we start?”

  “Pick me up tonight at my crib at two in the morning.”

  In his room, Don gave Juanita instructions to wake him at two in the morning. Fully dressed he crawled into bed and went to sleep.

  Promptly at two, Juanita shook him until he woke. Don cleared the cobwebs of sleep from his head with a hastily smoked rock. He grabbed his screwdriver and left the room. He sat on the front porch, smoking cigarettes and waiting for Weed-Eyes to arrive.

  Fifteen minutes late, Weed-Eyes pulled to the curb in front of Don's house. The old, blue Chevy Citation was one headlight short, but other than that it seemed to be in good running condition. Don climbed into the passenger seat and Weed-Eyes pulled off. The more distance they put between themselves and home, the better the neighborhoods looked.

  They had been driving around in various neighborhoods for over forty-five minutes when Don put his hand on Weed-Eyes’ arm. “Slow down,” he ordered. Weed-Eyes complied. Excitement crept into Don's voice as he pointed. “Check that motherfucka out, right there! That cream-colored Bonneville right there! It's some fresh-looking thirties on that bitch, damn! Go 'round the block. Ain't even see no alarm light on it—just a fucking Club!”