by Ritz, David
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 we
nt 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.
Whatever You Like
When 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.”