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Maximilian. That there was just my friend, Darnell, and me and Darnell, we was just—”
    “Look, you don’t gotta bullshit me, all right?” Max said. “Truth is, I’ve got some dealing experience myself. In seventh grade, I dealt weed, shrooms, and speed. How do you think I got to be such a respected businessman? The drug business is just like any other business. You have a product, you have a customer, and you have margins. I was growing the shit in my closet. Had a tree up to the ceiling, and got some serious bud off it. So you don’t have to beat around the bush with me, kid—no pun intended.”
    Max laughed. Man, he was on fire tonight. Fuckin’ smoking. That old Bud, maybe it cleaned out the debris, let his razor-sharp mind get cooking.
    Kyle stared at Max for a while, then said, “Can I pat you down?”
    “Ah, Jesus Christ,” Max said. Then, realizing the kid wasn’t joking, went, “Go ’head, go ’head.”
    Kyle frisked Max, doing it so slow Max started to wonder, Is this kid from Brokeback Mountain or what?
    Finally, satisfied Max wasn’t a narc, Kyle said, “It was crack, sir.”
    Max went, “Crack? You’re shitting me. Didn’t that go out in the nineties?”
    “You’d be surprised,” the kid said. “There’s still a good market for it. A niche market, but still.”
    Listen to this kid, niche market . Like he was on goddamn CNBC.
    “You using or selling?” Max asked.
    Kyle hesitated, as if wondering, Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to divulge he was involved in crack deals to a total stranger, even if that total stranger wasn’t a narc. Then, looking like he was thinking Well, told him this much—mise well tell him the rest , Kyle said, “Selling.”
    Kyle a crack dealer! Max was beside himself, almost started laughing. He remembered Angela had had a whole other spin on crack —freaking mick-speak. Over there, they spelled it craic , which meant “party on” or some shit. But why was he thinking about that bitch now?
    The kid was asking, “You want to check some out?”
    Max had done coke mucho times before. Fuck, he’d spent half the eighties at Studio 54 and the Palladium, snorting mountains of blow. But he had enough trouble in his life. He didn’t need a goddamn crack habit.
    “What do I look like, some low-rent nigger?”
    God, had he said that out loud? Hello, filter, where are you? Thank God Darnell wasn’t around to hear that one.
    “I mean negro,” Max said. “I mean person of colored. What-the-fuck-ever.”
    “Actually,” Kyle said, “That attitude is a misperception.”
    “What is?” Max asked, surprised Kyle knew such a big word. Four syllables—Jesus.
    “That African-Americans make up the majority of crack users,” Kyle said. “My clientele is all races. Heck, I’m white and I smoke it.”
    Kyle on crack. This Max had to see.
    Max said, “This I have to see.”
    “You’re already seein’ it,” Kyle said. “I was basin’ with Darnell about ten minutes ago.”
    Max knew Kyle wasn’t fucking with him, but he didn’t get it. Weren’t crackheads supposed to talk fast? This kid sounded like Gomer Fucking Pyle. If this was the way he spoke on crack, Max couldn’t imagine how slow his brain worked normally.
    Maybe this crack wasn’t as powerful as they said it was. Maybe it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
    “Cook me up some of your shit,” Max said.
    Keeping his tone casual, like he was one cool dude. Like whatever you had, bring it on.
    Kyle hung the BE BACK IN FIVE MINUTES sign on the door and took Max to the back room. As Kyle prepared “the rock,” he was telling Max all about his dealing business, how he was taking in a grand a weekend and he only worked at the motel so his parents—“I was raised by good ol’ God-fearin’ Christians”—would think he was holding down a decent job. Max was feeling something he thought he’d forgotten, that elusive goddess—hope. If Kyle could pull down a grand a week as a crack dealer,