by Zach Tate
Yoda cracked a smile. “John wants to hustle, huh? John-Hustle? Johnny Hustle. Boy oh boy, you young ones like throwing your lives away.”
He grabbed onto my shoulders and stared into my eyes again. I turned to look at Dave, but he had disappeared. I looked all around, but he couldn’t be found. Yoda shook his head in frustration.
“He blending, Boy. You’re wasting your time trying to see him and he right in front of your face. He’s invisible to you, cuz. You still wet behind the ears, and your eyes ain’t trained to see him. So stop wasting your time and come on here.”
$$$
Yoda led me down Seventh Avenue into the half souvenir and jewelry shop. It must have been a strange sight to see me walking in one direction with my neck bent in the other trying to find Dave. Yoda walking next to me in his pajamas and his slippers made it more bizarre. When we got to the jewelry counter in the back of the store, Yoda walked up to the Yao Ming look-a-like and asked, “Proverb. What’s the word?”
“Whoever has no rule over his own spirit is like a city broken down, without walls,” the gold-toothed Asian responded.
“Yeah, whatever,” Yoda replied in annoyance. He pointed over to me with his long thumb. “This here is Johnny Hustle. He wants to open an account.” He then turned to me. “Empty your pockets. Turn over all the cash and the money clip.”
I wasn’t even about to ask how he knew I had the money clip in my pocket. I dropped the $800 and the money clip on the glass counter.
Yoda counted out the cash and said to Proverb, “That’s eight small. With the clip, that’s a grand.”
Proverb put in his jeweler’s loupe and picked up the diamond studded money clip. “That ain’t necessary. I gave it to him,” Yoda said. Proverb put the loupe away immediately. He called his whole family over to introduce them to me. They studied my face, and then Yoda explained in detail what was going on.
“This here is our bank. We put the cash in, and take cash out for a transaction fee. This ain’t no F-D-I-C either. No paper trail on your paper’s tail. When you reach fifty large, Proverb here is gonna hand you a solid gold plate and you start all over from scratch. If you ever survive to make that kind of cash down here, you’ll know what to do with the plate by then. In the mean time, the phone number here is 202-555-6217. It’s a scramble line that gets rolled over from D.C. and then back to this shop. If you locked up, ain’t a rat, and need to get a bail bondsman, call Proverb for your cash. But his services ain’t cheap. If you get in a jam and can’t hustle your way out, go to anyone of his family members. They’ll spot you, or give you your cash with a twenty-percent withdrawal fee. Now come on, I got something I need help with.”
Proverb was the loan shark, the bank, a bail bondsman, a Hip-hop junkie, and the spiritual motivator for the hustlers on the square. His hustle was selling all his jewelry as 14-karat gold when it was really 10 karat. With the cash we gave him, he bought the gold, made beautiful pieces of jewelry, and then sold them at a lower price than his competition. His store was always crowded, so the turnover was almost immediate. His bank accounts made all the interest off of all our cash.
Yoda turned the corner on 43rd Street and led me to the theater district. We reached Mama Leone’s restaurant and walked around to the side entrance. Yoda banged on the door. After a few minutes of waiting, an old, Italian man wearing a white apron opened the door. He stood there, looking up and down the street to make sure no one saw what he was about to do.
Yoda sarcastically asked, “What? You think I like standing around in my pajamas?” The man closed the door in our faces. A few minutes later he returned with a big garbage bag that had two boxes inside. “Grab that and be real careful, it’s fragile,” Yoda ordered.
I picked up the bag. It sounded, and felt like, two cases of empty wine bottles. Of course I wondered what type of hustle Yoda was up to. Collecting cans and bottles had to be below his style.
After walking on the bustling street of Broadway, we stopped at a stationary store. Yoda picked up a receipt book, a stack of quart-size spirit sacks, and a stack of slim white plastic bags. The next stop was the liquor store for a case of Thunderbird, and then we stopped at a bodega.
At the bodega he picked up stacks of grape & cherry Koolaide. Yoda didn’t spend a dime at any of the stores. Everywhere we went the storeowners acted as if they were serving a king. When all of our items were loosely stacked up to my chin, we headed in the direction of 43rd Street.
Together we slid around the New York Times trucks, making a beeline to a hotel. A young, handsome, White man in a business suit walked up to Yoda as soon as we cut the corner.
“Hey you—hey!” When he caught Yoda’s attention he said, “This is not my style, but I heard you had ‘em eight and under? I need a Black boy for about an hour.”
Yoda’s eyes flashed at its corners, and his palm went up like a crossing guard. He sighed, then with a New England accent he said, “Buddy, it’s early in the morning. You want to give me a break for Christsakes?” He stepped down and then looked the man over suspiciously. After glancing in both directions of the street, he looked at the man again. “As a matter of fact, let me see your ID so I know you’re not a copper.”
“Look, buddy, my guy on Fourth Street is out of business, if you know what I mean?” His eyes darted up the block suspiciously before he continued. “I was sent here by Guido to the see the guy from Play Land. I paid good money to find you. Look, I don’t even do this lower level street service, but I gotta do what I gotta do. Can we do business or not?”
Yoda smirked. “After I see some I.D.”
“Whattaya need my ID for?” The blond man, with oval eyes and a sinister smirk asked.
“You want to do business? Let’s make sure you’re not the heat.”
I was sure the man was leaving, but after looking over his shoulder, he reached into his wallet and handed Yoda his driver’s license.
“Randolph Christopher. Boy, you have two first names?” Yoda handed him back his license. “Look Randy, I got the cops crawling all over me, too. Hold your urges till day after tomorrow, and bring five hundred. Make sure you’re well dressed like you are today.” Yoda’s eyes scanned 43rd Street and then he said, “Now beat it. Randolph Christopher,” Yoda grumbled as he turned his back on the man and walked into the Carter Hotel.
As we walked through the brightly lit hotel lobby, I tried to do a balancing act with the items Yoda bought. Both of his hands were stuck in his robe. The expansive gold, accented glass entrance way, along with the thick red carpet, the mirrors in the lobby, and the long mahogany check-in counter, which stretched from one side of the wall to the other—told me that the Carter was indeed a classy joint.
“What’s up with the kiddy porn thing?” I asked while walking beside him. If he was peddling kids, I was dropping those boxes on his head.
“I can show you better than I can tell you. Now be careful with them boxes and come on,” he replied while walking me through the lobby.
We stopped at a service elevator. The fragile, wooden, elevator car didn’t stop until we hit the top floor. When we exited into a dimly lit hallway, I looked from side-to-side. I expected to see more rooms, but there was only one door in the middle of the cramped hallway. Penthouse was written above it. Yoda walked through the unlocked door.
“Drop the boxes on the table over there,” he instructed.
The glare from two, large square windows across the room blinded me. I hesitated. Directly in front of me was a large, antique-furnished living room. To the right was a long mahogany table and more windows that faced Eighth Avenue. The small kitchen hugged the table. A bathroom and another hall in the opposite direction, led to an open bedroom door in the back. The blue carpet under my soles provided a nest for my feet. I sat the boxes on the table and had a seat on the soft, worn leather sofa.
“Look. I don’t even know you, but I understand you better than you understand yourself,” Yoda stated. “You the fourth man that ever stepped foot
in this pad. Besides my old student, Brave Dave, the other two were queers. I don’t owe you no explanation, but since you still thinking like a two eyes, and we may hook up to make a drag team, I’ma let you watch how the best flat-footed hustler on the square lives. Only cause my spirit tells me you a good one.”
“So that means you gonna teach me,” I said too happy for my own good.
Yoda’s face turned into a sad frown. “The first rule of learning is observation.” He opened his robe and continued. “Just do us both a favor and understand two amongst the many things I’m gonna show you. One, the hustle never stops, the rules only change. Two, everybody is a mark, vic, trick, or pigeon that got something you want. So when you see somebody asking me for a little boy, know that I’m robbing his perverted ass blind. Where you think you get that money clip from?”
After the thorough reprimand I kept my mouth shut. I liked the fact that he called me a hustler, but I had a seat while watching Yoda pull the boxes out of the garbage bags. The sides of the boxes read 1986 Chateau Latour. I sat in wonder as he pulled out a hammer and a small, cushioned, chisel. He tapped the bottles lightly, making miniature cracks at the bottom without braking them.
He poured a little Thunderbird and Koolaide into each bottle. Next, he filled all 24 bottles with hot water. He grabbed a dozen screw caps from one of the garbage bags. He sealed the bottles, and then tapped the bottle with the chisel again.
“You only use screw caps for the reds. If this were a real bottle of fine wine, a multi-layer wad of soft plastic would seal the bottle when you use a screw cap. A foil acts like a thin barrier to stop the air from spoiling the taste. Some say corks are better, but if the wine company knows what they doing, the wine won’t be hard. For this hustle, you need screw caps to make it work.”
I was itching to know what he was up to, but after his reprimand earlier, my lips were sealed. Yoda put each bottle in a spirit bag and filled out a receipt for them. He cautiously slid the bottles into individual plastic bags, and then placed them back in the box. When everything was neatly stacked, he asked, “How much you think I can make off of all that?”
I didn’t have a clue what he was up to; a million options raced through my mind. “I don’t know, two hundred?”
He went to the phone, placed a call, and ordered, “Send Lee up,” before hanging up. He strolled back to the sofa and sat down. “Two hundred, huh?” he asked me. “I wonder who would buy a bunch a broken bottles of fake wine for two small?” Before I could start my interrogation, a knock at the door revealed a five-foot tall, oriental, Jet Li look-a-like with barber tools in his hands. He walked over to where we sat.
Yoda adjusted his seat. While Lee cut his hair, he schooled me. “Those bottles should give me five grand easy. Never—count your cash before you make it. I’m taking you to the bottom of the hustling pool so you can see things differently. I would invite you to—” he snapped his fingers and said, “Nah, never mind.”
It sounded like he was about to teach me something. I didn’t like the way he stopped short so I said, “I wouldn’t expect you to be the type of man that bites his tongue.”
He cracked a smile. “Sure you right. I was just going to invite you to the bash tonight, but it’s getting late and I ain’t got all day to help you raise two grand so you can get right.”
“Two grand?”
“Sure. One to show your appreciation to the king, and the other for your outfit and spending money. You got petty hustlers that been saving every dime to get in tonight. You heard of the Player’s Ball, where them chili pimps entertain them young folks, right?” I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but every word that left his mouth was a lesson. I didn’t want it to stop, so I nodded. “Well, we hustlers on the square have an echelon we follow. Right now Money Russ is on top. Been that way for the past couple years. We all meet up for his party, the who’s who of the hustlers will be there. No drug dealing scramblers, chili pimps, or wannabes—a straight up hustlers convention. If your boy Brave had some finesse and patience, he would be the king. Instead, he want to get high and give his hustle money to another hustler. Hustling backwards if you ask me, so I had to cut him loose. I guess you gonna miss this one, but if you make it till next year you can see for yourself.”
“So why aren’t you the king? And hey, why they call you Yoda anyway.” I asked filled with excitement.
“They call me Yoda ‘cause I taught all the top hustlers their skills. I’m a natural. Never been a student, but many came through my school. Been down here thirty years and I’m in my forties. You do the math. I was the king once, but I don’t like mingling with White folks. That holds my paper back; I’m content right here.”
The humming of the clippers was the only noise left in the room. I wracked my brain, wondering if I should run down to the bank and close out my account. My last $2,500, but I get the opportunity of a lifetime—meeting all the main hustlers of New York. For once in my life, I felt like a winner. Again, Yoda read my mind.
“Don’t hurt your family, or blow a nest egg just to hang out. Think like a hustler; feel out who else’s money you can use to buy what you need. Sleep the day off youngster, you always got next year. Don’t sit there and drive yourself crazy.”
Drive, drive, I said to myself when the light bulb went off in my head. “If I get the money will you take me with you and teach me how to hustle?”
Yoda raised a brow, rolled his eyes, and then smirked. “Maybe.”
I shot out of my seat and said, “Ill be right back.”
$$$
I raced around the corner and down the block to the parking lot. When I stepped to the sweltering cage, I saw Frenchy with his teethe(?) partner, sweating up a storm.
“Mr. Peugeot? Leaving so soon?” Frenchy asked.
“You still want to buy my car?” I asked impatiently.
“What?” both men simultaneously asked while standing.
I started thinking like a hustler. In a happy voice I said, “Yes, Frenchy, now you can be Mr. Peugeot. You like my car? You can ride for the ladies. Vrooom vrooom. It’s only a few years old, and I’ll sell it to you for a steal.”
“What? You want to buy Crack? How much you want for car?” came from his cellmate in the sweatbox.
I had to aim high. “Five thousand.”
Again the duo yelled, “What?”
Frenchy was animated when he asked, “Five thousand what? Doll-ars? I feed whole village in Haiti wit’ five thousand doll-ars.” He pointed to the bank across the street. “Look over deer. I have twenty-five hon-dred, in bank over deer mister. You give me car, I give you money home slice.”
“Three thousand and we have a deal,” I said, not wanting to blow the opportunity in front of me.
“One minute,” the voice in the small prison said while the two inmates talked over the deal in Creole. I didn’t understand what they were saying, all I caught was Frenchy pointing at his cellmate and saying, “You—play-er—hate-er.” He then turned to me. “You call me Mr. Peugeot now, let’s go to bank.”
I pulled the title to the car out of my glove compartment. Together, we strolled over to the bank like two kids on the way to the candy store. While I waited for Frenchy to get the money, thoughts of my appearance at the birthday bash danced through my mind. When he finally handed over the money, I signed the title, handed him the keys, and kissed my car and the things in it goodbye.
With a pocket full of cash, I raced back over to the Carter Hotel. Lee was on his way out of Yoda’s penthouse when I stepped out of the elevator—which I needed approval to get on. I pushed Lee back in and raced to place the cash on the table in front of Yoda. Instead of being impressed, or ready to congratulate me, Yoda asked, “You didn’t bring any heat to my penthouse did you?”
I exhaled with relief. “I just sold my car.”
Yoda smiled again. “Damn, cuz, you really want this life, huh? That was some quick hustler’s thinking. Johnny Hustle going to the bash after all. Come on and let Lee ge
t you all pretty.”
I sat for my hair and face to be groomed into a low-fade hairstyle with a goatee trim. The fresh cut and shave transformed me into a new man. I wanted prestige and meaning and I was on my way.
After my grooming was done, I felt like a million bucks. I was dressed to the nines in my best outfit. Yoda laid out his outfit for the party—a silk and linen outfit that put mine to shame. Once he was fully dressed he said, “We got to get you some decent clothes. Let’s go to the Minnesota Strip.”
I trailed Yoda until we reached the Port Authority bus terminal. The busy space was bustling with travelers. The hanging departure board was above me and three shiny escalators were right in front of my face. Yoda and I took the escalator to the second floor. When the moving steel stairs dumped us off, it seemed like every homosexual in the city was standing there. Banks of telephones, stores, and bathrooms circled us. Yoda said his greetings and many of the males approached him with familiar endearment. Instantly, I wondered if Yoda was a Homo. My suspicions increased when Marcy and Elexus appeared. Yoda stopped to talk to them. I didn’t mind talking to them if they could get me an outfit like the one I saw in Yoda’s room.
“Hi, John,” the feminine voice soared from Marcy.
Yoda put his hands up. “You make him sound like a square when you call him that. Call him Hustle, or Johnny Hustle. He might be my student one day.”
In a raspy feminine voice, Elexus bent his wrist and said, “Oh magosh, another hustler to share my money with? Like we ain’t got enough competition down here already, Girl.”
Yoda waved them off. “Listen, get all his sizes and get him ready for Money Russ’ party tonight. I would put him in a four-piece summer suit, but he ain’t even get his feet wet. I don’t want him to embarrass himself, but I do want all eyes on him when he walks in with me. So what you think?”
“Oh girrrrl, it’s getting late, but I think if you put him in all white, with a dash of shrimp, he’ll be explosive,” came from Elexus.