Root (Book One of The Liminality)

  One guy with wire rim glasses slipped a phone from his pocket and thumbed the keypad.

  “Tonio! You texting them?” said the guy with the pimples. “Aw, shit. This poor kid don’t know any better. Why you bringing down the heat?”

  “I have to, George. It’s my civic duty.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “Bring ‘em on. It’s not you guys I want to sell to anyhow. I’ve got bulk goods. I’m looking to sell wholesale.”

  “Shee-it!”

  “Who you with?”

  “Nobody,” I said.

  “He lucky he ain’t wearing no red, no blue.”

  “They’re on their way,” said Tonio, tucking his phone back into his pocket.

  “Fuck it, I ain’t sticking around,” said George, all antsy and agitated. “Listen. Stay respectful and maybe you got a chance.” He and everybody but Tonio ambled off down a side street.

  Tonio was a short fellow, about my age, his hair neatly combed and gelled, with a checkered button-up dress shirt. He had no visible tattoos or piercings. He would have looked at home behind a desk in an H&R Block office.

  I was getting nervous, shifting my weight from foot to foot. Tonio stayed casual about the whole deal, maintaining a calm, flat visage. A message chimed into his phone. He glanced down.

  “You hang tight,” he said. “They’ll be here in a minute.”

  “So … are you a member or something?”

  “I got family,” he said, though I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, whether he was doing this because he was worried about his family, or because his cousin was a Crip.

  I leaned against a brick wall whose the mortar had been picked out by too many idle blades. The graffiti tags were ghosts of their former glory.

  “Here they are,” said Tonio, shuffling his feet.

  Chapter 24: Chinstrap

  A silver PT Cruiser rolled slowly down the hill. A busted suspension made it lean to one side. Its finish was scratched and dull, like it had been rubbed all over with fine steel wool—the work of too many Pittsburgh winters. Not exactly the kind of wheels I would expect from a drug lord.

  It pulled up alongside, the throbbing reggaeton going silent as an untinted window rolled down. Two Latinos in their late twenties glared out at me with a cultivated menace that almost seemed comical. The driver wore a soul patch so tight and dark it could have been a tattoo; his passenger had a pencil-thin chinstrap of a beard that stretched from ear to ear.

  “You the guy with the yayo?” said Chinstrap.

  “The what?”

  “Llello,” said Soul Patch, inflecting the word with its full pizzazz. “He means blow.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I got the yayo.”

  “Check him out.”

  Tonio came over and patted me down kind of haphazardly. “He’s clean. No hardware.”

  “Get in the back,” Chinstrap barked.

  I hopped in without hesitation. These guys looked agitated, but it was probably mostly bluster. Their eyes betrayed a diffidence that had been absent in those assholes from Cleveland.

  The doors slammed shut. Tonio squirmed around, pressing his back against the door, facing me. Was he actually worried I might attack him?

  The car pulled out and went cruising down the street, the back left suspension creaking with every bump, bottoming out in the potholes.

  “Tonio says you come to sell,” said Chinstrap. “That right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That’s right.”

  “Zángano!” said Soul Patch. “Where you come from? East End? Shadyside?”

  “Florida.”

  “Shit. What makes you think you can just stroll into our hood and do business with our customers?”

  “Didn’t Tonio tell you? I didn’t come to sell to them. I came to sell to you.”

  “Say what?”

  “So … are you guys Crips?”

  “Crips? Who told you we was Crips?”

  “Those guys on the corner.”

  “George,” said Tonio, rolling his eyes.

  “Them guys. They don’t know shit,” said Chinstrap. “We ain’t Crips. No disrespect. They some fine dudes, but we just some cacos. We got our own thing going. The Crips on the Hill got busted couple months ago. Big ass clampdown. FBI. ATF. Whole shebang. Since then, been kind of a vacuum here. We just trying to fill it. Taking advantage, you know, of the opportunity. Course, Crips want their turf back, they welcome. We just filling the void. Temporary-like.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I don’t really care about the details. I just want to unload my stuff as soon as possible.”

  Soul Patch made a turn onto the major street that formed one of the Hill’s ramparts.

  “That’s all nice, but the question I got is, who you wit?”

  “Nobody. I’m a free agent.”

  “Shit don’t work that way, man. Where you get your supply?”

  “Um. Out of state,” I said.

  “What cartel you work for?” said Soul Patch.

  “None of them,” I said.

  The guys looked at each other for a longish spell and then burst out laughing. Tonio pitched in his girlish giggle.

  “Is this guy for real?” said Soul Patch.

  I pulled out the strip of sealed packs and the laughing ceased as if someone had flipped a switch.

  “Ostia puta! Get a load of that! Holy crap!”

  “Looks like it was packed in a factory,” said Chinstrap. “It’s pure. Uncut. Straight from Colombia. If you stole this, you messing with some dangerous shit, dude.”

  “I don’t care,” I said, sliding the packets into the front seat. “Here. Take it. All yours. Free sample.”

  “Joder!” Chinstrap reacted to the packets falling into his lap as if he has been burnt. “What the fuck you doing?”

  “Take it. Sign of good faith. There’s nineteen more, at least, where that came from. And it’s all yours. I’ll get you a bargain price.”

  “That’s way more than three grams,” said Tonio. “Automatic Class C felony.”

  “What the fuck you do, jump their mule?” said Soul Patch.

  “I am their mule,” I said. “Was.”

  “Aaaah! Now we getting somewhere,” said Chinstrap.

  Soul Patch pulled the car into a parking space along a quiet residential stretch.

  “Pedro, why you stopping?” said Chinstrap.

  “We got contraband,” said Soul Patch. “I’m not getting pulled over in Julia’s car. She’d kill me.”

  “Don’t be a lo loco! What makes you think we’re better off stopped here? This is a bad neighborhood. Keep on driving, man!”

  The car surged back into traffic.

  “Now tell me, what’s with this free sample shit?” said Chinstrap. “This ain’t Costco. You want something from us.”

  “I just want to do business. Like I said, I got nineteen more of these.”

  Chinstrap squinted. “How much you got, total … by weight?”

  “Don’t know for sure. Maybe ten kilos.”

  “Mierda!”

  “Where’s the rest of it?” said Tonio.

  “You guys make me an offer … get me a down payment … and I’ll tell you where to find it.”

  “This is too strange,” said Soul Patch, shaking his head. “Shit like this just don’t happen. Not to cacos like us.”

  “Listen. I just want to go to Europe. That’s all. I need enough money for a one way ticket … to Rome … and some spending money … hotel … food.”

  “So how much? How much you expecting to get?”

  “Depends how much the ticket is. I don’t know … two thousand, maybe three.”

  Chinstrap breathed in deep, his eyes vacant and calculating. He let his breath out slow. “How soon you need it?”

  “Soon as possible,” I said. “I mean, tonight would be great.”

  Chinstrap looked me in the eye. “Okay. The thing is … we … we ain’t very liquid right now. We could use the inventory …
but it’s gonna take some doing to round up enough cash.” He turned to Soul Patch. “What do you think? Julia?”

  “No fucking way,” said Soul Patch. “Don’t you even think of asking her.”

  Chinstrap pulled out a knife and poked the tip into the corner of one packet. He pulled it out and licked the light coating of white dust clinging to the blade.

  “Oh yeah! This stuff’s the shit alright. Hundred percent pure, unprocessed. We talking upscale, way uptown.”

  “I’ll even throw in a truck to haul it,” I said.

  “Oh stop! You’re killing me. Who do you think you are, Santy Claus?”

  “This don’t smell right,” said Tonio. “I’m thinking … he might be a narc.”

  “He ain’t no narc, man. Look at him. He ain’t even old enough to drink.”

  “Still … we should check him … for a wire.”

  “You check him,” said Chinstrap. “You in the back with him.”

  I opened my jacket and lifted my shirt to show them I was clean. I started undoing my pants.

  “Okay dude, that’s enough,” said Chinstrap, waving me off. “We believe you.”

  “So?” I said, anxious. “We got a deal?”

  “We’ll see what we can do. Like I said, liquidity’s an issue … with the short notice and all. And, uh … we probably should check things out … make sure there’s no heat coming down. Understand?”

  That last bit worried me. I don’t know what kind of connections Jared’s cartel had in Pittsburgh, but if word had gotten out about my deeds in Cleveland, I would be sunk.

  “We can sit on it, Pedro.” said Soul Patch. “Warehouse it. Turn it into rock little by little.”

  “Yeah. Maybe so.”

  “Listen. Drop me off at a travel agent. Go do your thing, come back with the money and I’ll tell you where to find the rest. That strip I gave you is worth 2k easy. Like I said, there’s nineteen more if you hook me up. If you don’t … I’ll find someone else.”

  ***

  They circled around Hill and dropped me off at a place called Three Rivers Travel, just a block or two down from the parking garage where I had parked the pickup.

  Soul Patch reached back and handed the strip to Tonio.

  “What you want me do with this?”

  “Stuff it down your shirt and go take a walk. I don’t any trace of that crap in Julia’s car. We’re going back to the house.”

  “Bring it to Frank’s,” said Chinstrap. “But tell him, he takes any, he’s paying.”

  Tonio’s face went sour but he complied, exiting the car with odd lumps protruding from shirt. He shifted it around to try to hide it better.

  “Meet you back here in an hour, maybe two,” said Chinstrap.

  They drove off.

  “Be right back,” said Tonio. “I need to get rid of this.” He shuffled off down the street, looking antsy and suspicious as all heck.

  I entered the travel agency, savoring the air conditioning and the minty aroma in the air. There was nobody else waiting, but the lady behind the desk didn’t even look up at me. She clattered away at a keyboard, shuffled papers and took two calls before she finally glanced my way and smiled.

  “So … how can I help you?”

  “I want to go to Rome. Cheap.”

  “Departing?”

  “Soon as possible.”

  She peeked over the rim of her glasses. “You have to give me a date.”

  “Today. If … that works.”

  “Today?” She scrunched her mouth. “Returning?”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, ‘no?’ No return? You mean one way?”

  “That’s what no means.”

  “Don’t get smart with me kid. I’m just doing my job.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to … I just …”

  She took off her glasses and squinted. “How old are you?”

  “Old enough,” I said. “Eighteen.”

  She slipped her glasses back on and focused her attention on the screen. I listened to flurries of keystrokes, a pause, and then more frantic little clusters of clicking. “Believe it or not, there are some seats available on the red-eyes.”

  “How much?”

  “Well … this one here on Delta is fourteen hundred.”

  “Dollars?”

  “What did you think I meant? Rubles?”

  “It’s just that … that’s a lot … a lot more than I expected.”

  She sighed. “That’s how it is, booking travel at the last minute. If you could wait a couple weeks—”

  “No. I’m not waiting.”

  “Well, then let’s see if there’s something cheaper. Hmm, here’s one for eight, but you don’t want this one.”

  “Why not? Of course I want it. If that’s the cheapest.”

  “It’s … an African airline.”

  “So?”

  “Their safety record is not quite up to par … by industry standards.”

  “What’s the name of the airline?”

  “Ethiopian.”

  “I never heard of them crashing. Have you?”

  “Well, no. But …”

  “When does the flight leave?”

  “Eleven-ten p.m. But that price I quoted is just the Dulles to Rome leg. A connector from Pittsburgh on United … um … hang on.“ She clacked at her keyboard. “Would add another five hundred.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding!”

  “Nope. That’s just how it is with a last minute reservation.”

  I checked my watch. It wasn’t even one o’clock yet.

  “Book me that Ethiopian Air flight. I’ve got plenty of time to get to DC.”

  ***

  She reserved the flight with the promise that I would return within the hour with the cash to cover it. Now, I could only pray that Chinstrap and Soul Patch came through with the dough.

  There was no sign of Tonio, so I went up the street to the parking garage and climbed the stairs to the rooftop. Seeing Dad’s truck in its spot, secure in its space, felt like coming home. I went into the cab and just sat there a while, soaking in the vibes.

  I opened the glove box and fished out my passport and registration. There was an empty CVS bag on the floor. I took it, climbed in back and lifted the soggy mattress to winnow what remained of my belongings into their final essence. I was ready for the next degree of severing my physical connections to this world.

  There wasn’t much I absolutely needed to bring. One 1964 silver dollar from the year Mom and Dad had both been born. Two chunks of a broken boomerang I had made as a science project for Mom—the dang thing had worked! A few family photos picked out of frames and protected behind layers of Ziploc. My good luck rock from a beach in the Bahamas—smooth grey basalt with a line of white encircling. And lastly, the little plastic figure of Mr. Magoo, the mustachioed PlaySkool mechanic who had been my imaginary friend as a tyke. I couldn’t bear to leave Mr. Magoo behind.

  Everything else stayed. I would miss my books, my harmonica, my music, but they were all replaceable. I locked the truck and walked away.

  ***

  As I turned the corner from the garage, I found all three of my new friends pacing in front of the travel agency. It took them a minute to spot me, but once they did, they came storming up the sidewalk.

  “Where the fuck did you take off to?” said Chinstrap.

  “I went for a walk. You know, some fresh air, exercise. Did you get the cash?”

  Chinstrap and Soul Patch looked at each other sheepishly.

  “Not quite 2K,” said Chinstrap. “But we got most of it.”

  “How much?”

  “Thirteen … thirteen hundred.”

  “What? That’s unacceptable!” I said.

  “Hey man. On short notice … it’s the best we can do. You can hang on to some of the blow if you want.”

  “Fuck that. I’ll keep it all! That strip I gave you is all you get.”

  “Hey man … you said—”

&
nbsp; “I said 2K minimum, not thirteen hundred.”

  “That’s just the cash,” said Chinstrap. “We could … write a check … for your ticket … as long as it wasn’t too much.”

  “How much is too much?”

  Chinstrap shrugged. He could only hem and haw.

  “Can you swing eight hundred?”

  Soul Patch nudged him. “We make a quick sale, we make a deposit. Papi never has to know.”

  “I’m giving you guys a deal like you never dreamed of.”

  “He said he could write you a check,” said Soul Patch. “But you gotta show us the stuff.”

  “Write the check, then we’ll talk.”

  Chinstrap looked all sweaty and agitated. He kept looking down the street. “Let’s do it over here.” He turned the corner onto a side stoop that opened onto an alley, sat down on some concrete stairs and pulled out a checkbook. “How much?”

  “Eight hundred, thirty two bucks.”

  “Phew-ee! Just to go to Italy?” He wrote out the amount, signed it, but left it attached in the book.

  “Okay,” I said. “Here’s what I got to give.” I pulled out the truck keys, the registration, the parking garage ticket and a screwdriver.

  “What’s the screwdriver for?” said Soul Patch.

  “You’ll need it to get at the stuff. That’s all I’m gonna say. But there’s one other thing I need—a ride to the airport.”

  “Oh! No problem man,” said Chinstrap. “The airport’s just up the road.”

  “Not Pittsburgh,” I said. “Dulles.”

  ***

  They made Tonio drive me to Dulles in a little Ford Focus with pink seat covers and a cotton candy-scented air freshener. He had borrowed the car from his older sister. I had suggested that he drive me in my own truck, but Chinstrap and Soul Patch insisted on keeping it off the street.

  It felt weird being chauffeured. And it made my stomach all queasy, realizing I would never see Dad’s truck again, never mind drive it.

  Tonio didn’t say much at first. He just kept flipping through the radio stations, never satisfied with what he found. “Shoulda brought some fucking CDs,” he muttered, at one point.

  “Yeah? What kind of stuff do you like?”

  “Dubstep, believe it or not. The guys make fun of me for it, but what can I say? I like it. What about you?”

  “Me?” There was an awkward pause. I had to think pretty hard to realize that I had no preferences, really. “I’ll listen to anything. Country. Hip-hop. Gregorian chants. Some days it all sucks and I can only handle the songs I make up inside my head. Other days it all sounds good.”