The faint sound of a banjo echoes down North 7th Street—growing louder as Boone and The Young Mutt near the address. A multi-family apartment building looms ahead, its beige 1980s siding stained nicotine-yellow.
A lanky, scruffy man sits on the stoop—picking and grinning, chasing a melody.
The Young Mutt sits and watches. Boone puffs his cigarette and waits.
The musician knows he’s there but feigns ignorance. He rips into a flourish.
Once the tune has run its course, he hits the last note with a twang.
Sorry—
probably in your way.
You here to see someone?
Yes.
What apartment?
I’m not exactly sure.
Ah…
He stands up.
You’re probably here to see me then.
Am I?
Depends—
You Pittsburgh?
I am.
You must be…
Memphis?
Yessiree.
You’re at the right place…
Nice dog.
Thanks.
Follow me.
Memphis carries the banjo into the building—Boone and The Young Mutt trail behind.
The jaundiced walls of the corridor are lined with cracked frames of the Virgin Mary—the last, Our Lady of Czestochowa, her ebony face catching Boone’s eye.
You a musician?
Sometimes.
That’s cool.
Sometimes.
Past the trash area, he swings open a door to reveal a spacious yard with a small carriage house sitting in the middle.
He ushers them inside.
It’s a recording studio. Guitars on stands. An elaborate drum set. An old electric piano in the corner. An Ikea futon stained with debauchery. Vintage rugs layer the floor. Tangled wires and scattered amps feed chaos into an iMac with Pro Tools.
Memphis grabs a digital camera from the desk.
I need a photo of you.
So we can identify you in the system—
if you ever get picked up.
He senses Boone’s uneasiness—and is pleased.
Over there—
against that wall.
Boone complies while Memphis frames the shot.
Say: Bloomberg sucks dick.
The flash goes off. The Young Mutt barks.
Memphis hands Boone a piece of paper:
If you ever get picked up,
call this number.
Memorize that shit.
You get locked up—
they’ll confiscate it with your belongings.
You won’t have access to it.
You won’t know who to call.
Okay.
Memorize it now.
Boone repeats the number silently.
Memphis walks to an old cube freezer, pulls out a woven plastic duffel.
He drops it at Boone’s feet.
That’s 108 cubes.
That’s $4500—
less your pay at $250 a day.
I got you every day this week,
unless…
That’s perfect.
Great.
In seven days—
Tuesday—
I’ll see you with your cash—
plus whatever cubes are left—
less $1500.
Understand?
Yep…
Crouching, Boone unzips the Chinatown carry-all. Inside: a stack of clear plastic cubes, each like a tiny greenhouse stuffed with bright green weed, bound into nine-cube blocks. The odor hits him.
Goddamn.
Each cube has two labels: the strain type (Purple Kush, Trainwreck, NYC Diesel, Silver Haze) and a security seal with the text:
Our number has not changed! And remember to make sure your cube is sealed! Happy Toking!—Your friends at The Cartoon Network.
How do people get the number?
They need a referral.
We don’t send you anywhere unvetted…
Memphis smirks at the rookie:
Always count the cubes.
Nine to a block.
Twelve blocks.
108 units…
We good to go?
He counts the blocks—twelve.
We’re good.
Boone zips up the bag.
Memphis hands him a battered Nextel and a charger:
Here’s your walkie phone.
You know how to use these?
Push-to-talk, right?
Correct.
Memphis scrolls through the contacts until he arrives at a number:
This one’s your dispatcher.
Start your shift at Union Square—
it’s centrally located.
When you’re ready,
give her a chirp—
Then what?
She’ll let you know where to go.
We have the city divided into zones:
Upper West,
Upper East,
Midtown,
Downtown,
Brooklyn.
Mm-hmm.
You get a call…
Write down the address—
head that way.
Easy.
All right.
Be fast.
No fuckin’ around.
Okay.
If you have any problems,
hit your dispatcher up.
She’ll sort you out…
Any questions?
One.
Do we always meet here?
No.
Never.
This was an exception.
I guess ‘cause you know J or something.
It’s a different spot every week.
We’ll chirp you with the address the night before.
We always meet in the morning—
never at night.
Boone nods.
Memphis narrows his glare.
You good?
I’m good.
Neither man is convinced.