Dope Sick Read Free Page B

away from his first hit of the day to have his head straight but not pushing so close to the next hit that he would be dope sick, everything would be cool. I had seen Rico dope sick a bunch of times, licking his lips, acting all jumpy, his eyes darting around as if he was a wolf looking for some sick animal to jump on.
    Rico wasn’t somebody you could rely on and he had messed me up before. But just the way Ricogot dope sick, the way he turned into something that wasn’t good to see, I was getting broke sick. I was tired of walking the streets with nothing in my pockets, and nothing coming down the way. When Mama got her check, she gave me what she could and sometimes I got some pickup work, but that hardly paid enough to eat on. I could work a full day and come home with less than forty dollars. If I couldn’t find no pickup job and Mama didn’t have no money, then there wasn’t anything to do except stand on the corner wishing I was somewhere else or home staring at the stupid crap on television.
    Rico’s ten minutes stretched into a half hour. I was about to call him again when I saw him coming up out the subway.
    â€œYo, man, what’s happening?” Me and Rico bumped fists.
    â€œNothing, man,” I said. “What you got?”
    â€œI got a run for Dusty Phillips,” Rico said. “Three loads. That’s a hundred for each load.”
    â€œWhere we got to take it?”
    â€œAcross from Marcus Garvey Park,” Rico said. “No problem.”
    Yeah. No problem. I knew there was always a problem. Dusty wouldn’t be sending out runners and spreading his money if there wasn’t any room for some fuckery. We went up the street to Dusty’s place and I started talking about the Yankees. Rico was always tripping, and I needed to see how far gone he was already. He seemed sharp enough, so I started to chill a little.
    If everything went down right and I copped a full Benjamin and a half, I would split over to the Home Depot line. I’m good with some cash in my pocket, so I could go into the interview feeling righteous and looking confident. I could look the Man in the eye and say I wanted the job and could handle anything. And that was the truth when my life was on the money. I wouldn’t be just another broke-sick fool begging for a slave.
    I let my mind go free, even as I was talking to Rico about the Yankees. Rico was getting on the Yankee infielders for not hitting more home runs.
    â€œIf you making big bucks, you need to be getting big hits,” Rico was saying.
    Yeah, all that was good. But I didn’t dream about making big money. I just dreamed about getting a decent crib for me and Mama, a steady job, and, most of all, not being broke sick.
    Dusty Phillips had some hard-ass people working for him, some ugly mothers who look like they went to their first communion in them orange jumpsuits prisoners be wearing. He operated from the back of a ninety-nine-cent store. They hardly had anything in the store, and everybody in the neighborhood knew not to go in there. Once in a while they got a legitimate customer and were nasty enough and scary enough to discourage him from coming back.
    Dusty used to be called Blinky when he was a kid growing up on 116th Street because he had a nervous twitch and his eyes looked a little off. It was like he was trying to look at you, but his eyes kept moving away from where you were. When he got older and fought his way big-time into thegame, he told people to call him Dusty, and after he shot a guy who called him Blinky, everybody else got the picture.
    We got to his joint and Dusty looked me over like I was something that stunk bad. He asked Rico if I was all right, and Rico said I was.
    â€œY’all meet this white boy at two o’clock. Give him the dope and make damn sure the money you get from him is correct. Then you get that money to me by three this afternoon.” Dusty’s voice was high and he