George Pelecanos Read Online Free PDF Page B

grandmas and kids and the P.G.
line just a few up the hill. All of this for Boyz II Men at
the Cap Centre. All of this because once again you
didn't know when to pull out.

    1.

    You
got up that morning Ferris Bueller style. Peered through the shades and there
wasn't a cloud in the sky. Your new girl was still on your fingers, the smell
of Claiborne all over everything else. You remembered the way her tongue felt
against your chest and the way she said good night before she went out through
the basement, knowing your moms always slept like a corpse.

    You
woke up with all of that on your mind and two dollars in your pocket. The
weekend was on the way and Boyz II Men was coming to the Cap Centre with a
bunch of other acts. Catalina loved those gump-ass niggas, and thus expected
you to foot the bill for two tickets, preceded by dinner and hopefully followed
by you getting some long-awaited ass. You'd been chipping away at that pussy
for weeks, first base all the way to the edge of third. Now home was definitely
in sight.

    Things
would've been simple if that coming Friday was a payday. But it wasn't. Add in
the fact that you already owed Dante twenty dollars from the last time you took
Catalina out and thirty to Sean for those tapes you were supposed to go in half
on, then taxes, your pager bill, and cake for gas, and that forthcoming check
was already spent. You needed some more dough and you needed it yesterday.

    So
you tried to come up with a plan in the shower, 'cuz that's where you do your
best thinking. Under water your thoughts flow evenly. In the stream you cut
through all the bullshit. So it was there, under the "massage" setting spray, that you thought about running game at the rec.

    It
was a Tuesday after all. Who the hell went to school on Tuesday, especially
when you could buy off the rec manager with an apple stick and two packs of Now
and Laters? What a pathetic price for a nigga as old as your father, whoever he
is.

    "You
tryin' to play for time?" you asked your first mark, some light-skinned dude
with a low-taper his barber shoulda got stabbed for.

    You
knew the kid had cake. He had that look in his eye, plus a Guess watch, the new
Jordans, and a sweet pair of Girbauds cuffed at the ankle. You'd seen him
around before, so you knew he wasn't some out-of-bounds hustler trying to move
in on your racket. Yeah, that's right, it was already
yours, even before the first shot.

    "I'm
tryin' to play for money," he said boldly, tapping a nervous finger against his
thigh, the biggest tell in the world that he didn't have what it took. You had
him on the rack six times in under an hour. The idea crossed your mind of
majoring in pool when you got to college.

    "My
game's off today," he confessed earnestly after handing you three twenties
without a flinch. "I guess my loss is your gain."

    There
was something about that phrase that didn't sit well with you. It wasn't the
kinda shit niggas say on Ridge Road. Or if it was, you'd never heard it before.
And that made you curious. You and your damn curiosity.

    "And
a nice little gain it is," you replied gloating, thinking of the words as a
perfect move to finish him off.

    "It
ain't shit to me," he replied. "But I can see you need the money."

    You
told him he needed to watch himself, that he didn't know you like that. You
turned open palms into fists, preparing yourself for battle. Yet all he did was
grin. And that little grin made you think he might have heat, which meant you
might be dead in the next few seconds. There you went again, acting before you
could think on it.

    He
told you to chill. He didn't mean any disrespect. He just thought that maybe
the two of you could help each other out. After all, he'd seen you around the
way and knew you were no joke. Truth be told, he even made it so he lost the
first game or two of the previous series just to make you feel comfortable,
just so you could feel like he was an easy mark. You took in all the words, but
you didn't