I stared at the text for a while.
Yo this JC?
Dre gave me your number.
Need a ride later. Got $ for you.
I read all three messages again even though they hadn’t changed.
There was something about a stranger having my number that bothered me more than what Dre had asked me to do that morning.
Dre was different.
I knew Dre.
Or at least I thought I did.
If Dre showed up and asked for a ride, I could decide whether I wanted to give him one. But this felt different.
This felt like Dre had advertised me.
I typed:
Who is this?
The response came almost immediately.
Smoke.
I knew the name.
Smoke had been at my house with Tone. They were the two guys Dre had brought over who were only supposed to stay one day.
One day had turned into long enough for Crystal to hate seeing either of them.
I typed:
Where you need to go?
Three dots appeared.
Couple stops.
I laughed to myself.
Everybody suddenly needed a couple stops.
How much?
This time there was a pause.
200
I looked at the five hundred dollars still sitting on the coffee table.
Seven hundred dollars.
Before noon.
I hated how quickly I did that math.
What time?
Like 12
I looked at the clock.
10:11.
Crystal wasn’t coming until around three.
Plenty of time.
That was how I thought back then.
It's still how I think today actually.
Everything is about whether I have enough time.
Not whether I should do something.
Just whether I can fit it into the day.
Aight.
Smoke sent me an address.
Then another message.
Good look
I put the phone down.
That should have been it.
Instead, I picked it back up and texted Dre.
You giving my number out now?
He called immediately.
“What’s wrong with you?” he said when I answered.
“What’s wrong with me?”
“You text like somebody’s girlfriend.”
“Why does Smoke have my number?”
“Because he needed a ride.”
“So?”
“So you got a car.”
“That doesn’t mean give people my fucking number.”
Dre laughed.
“I told him to pay you.”
“That ain’t the point.”
“What’s the point then?”
I didn’t really have an answer.
Or maybe I did and didn’t know how to explain it.
The point was that something felt different.
Yesterday I was helping Dre.
Today people were contacting me directly.
The distance between me and everything they were doing was getting smaller.
“You could’ve asked me first.”
“All right, JC. Next time I’ll submit the paperwork.”
“Fuck you.”
“How much he paying you?”
“Two.”
“For driving?”
“Yeah.”
“And you mad?”
“I didn’t say I was mad.”
“You called me bitching at ten in the morning.”
“I’m not bitching.”
“Then we good.”
I could hear people talking behind him.
“Where you at?” I asked.
“Handling something.”
“What?”
Dre laughed.
“See, there you go again.”
“Whatever.”
“JC.”
“What?”
“Smoke cool.”
“I know.”
“He ain’t gonna put you in nothing crazy.”
“That supposed to make me feel better?”
“It should.”
“It doesn’t.”
Dre laughed again.
“I’ll holler at you.”
He hung up.
I sat there holding the phone.
Smoke cool.
That was apparently all the information I needed.
At 11:45, I got dressed.
Before leaving, I took the five hundred from the coffee table and put it in the bedroom.
I don’t know why.
Maybe because Crystal was coming over.
Maybe because I didn’t want her seeing it.
Maybe because I didn’t want to explain where it came from.
That should have told me something too.
If there was nothing wrong with what I was doing, why was I hiding the money?
I left anyway.
Smoke was standing outside when I pulled up.
He had on jeans, a white T-shirt and a Cincinnati Reds hat pulled low over his eyes.
I found that strange considering everyone wore blue and white so much even I did now without realizing.
No bag.
No box.
Nothing in his hands.
That made me feel better.
He climbed into the passenger seat.
“Good look, JC.”
“Where we going?”
He gave me an address.
I put it into my phone.
Twenty-three minutes away.
“That's stop one?” I asked.
Smoke smiled.
“Dre told me you ask a lot of questions.”
“Dre talks too much.”
“He said that too.”
I pulled away.
Smoke was different when he wasn’t around Tone.
Quieter.
At my house, the two of them had fed off each other. Always talking. Always laughing. Always disappearing into the kitchen or bathroom together.
Alone, Smoke mostly looked out the window.
About halfway there, he asked, “You and your girl good?”
I glanced at him.
“Why?”
“Just asking.”
“She’s at her mom’s.”
“Because of us?”
“Partly.”
He nodded.
“My bad.”
I wasn’t expecting that.
“It is what it is.”
“Nah. Dre said one night.”
“Yeah.”
Smoke smiled.
“Dre say a lot of shit.”
“That he does.”
For a minute, he almost seemed normal.
That was another thing I learned later.
People can be doing things you’d never imagine and still talk about girlfriends, bills, football, food and everything else like anybody you work with.
Nobody walks around announcing that they’re the bad guy.
Most of the time, they don’t think they are.
We pulled into an apartment complex.
Smoke pointed toward one of the buildings.
“Park over there.”
I parked.
“You coming in?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He looked at me.
“Good?”
“I’m getting paid to drive.”
Smoke laughed.
“Man, Dre wasn’t lying about you.”
“About what?”
“You really don't wanna know shit.”
“Exactly.”
Smoke got out.
He was gone maybe six minutes.
When he came back, he had a grocery bag.
Plastic.
White.
Tied at the top.
He opened the passenger door.
I looked at the bag.
He noticed.
“Relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“You looking at this bag like it got a bomb in it.”
“I don’t care what’s in it.”
“Then quit looking at it.”
“Put it on the floor.”
He laughed and did.
“Where now?”
Smoke gave me another address.
I typed it in.
Fourteen minutes.
We drove.
No music.
No conversation.
Every few minutes my eyes drifted toward that grocery bag.
I told myself it could be anything.
Clothes.
Food.
Money.
Anything.
But I knew it wasn’t groceries.
I also knew I didn’t want to know what it actually was.
That was the game I had started playing with myself.
Don’t ask.
Don’t touch.
Don’t look.
Then somehow none of it belonged to me.
We reached the second stop.
This one was a house.
Smoke grabbed the bag.
“I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time.”
He stopped before closing the door.
“You got somewhere to be?”
“Yeah.”
“What time?”
“Three.”
He looked at the clock.
12:46.
“We good.”
I watched him walk toward the house.
A guy opened the door before Smoke knocked.
Smoke went inside.
The door closed.
I leaned back.
Then I noticed the police car.
It was parked about half a block behind me.
I froze.
The car wasn’t running.
Nobody was inside.
At least I didn’t think anybody was.
Still, my heart started beating faster.
I looked toward the house.
No Smoke.
Back toward the police car.
Nothing.
I thought about starting my car.
It was already running.
I thought about leaving.
Then I imagined Smoke coming outside and finding me gone.
I imagined explaining that to Dre.
Then another thought hit me.
Why the fuck did I care what Dre thought?
That bothered me more than the police car.
Five minutes passed.
Then seven.
At nine minutes, a uniformed cop walked out of a house across the street.
I sat up.
He wasn’t looking at me.
He walked toward the cruiser carrying a travel mug.
Probably lived there.
Probably getting ready for work.
Probably had absolutely nothing to do with me.
Didn’t matter.
My hands tightened around the steering wheel.
He reached his car.
Then looked down the street.
Toward me.
For half a second, our eyes met.
I looked away.
Immediately I realized looking away probably looked suspicious.
So I looked back.
That probably looked worse.
The cop opened his door.
Smoke came out of the house.
I wanted to yell at him to hurry the fuck up.
Instead, I sat there.
He walked to the car like he had nowhere else to be.
Opened the passenger door.
Got in.
“No more stops,” I said.
Smoke looked at me.
“What?”
“I gotta be home.”
“One more.”
“You said a couple.”
“This is the last one.”
I glanced in the mirror.
The police cruiser was pulling away from the curb.
“Where?”
Smoke gave me another address.
I drove.
For the first few minutes, I kept watching the mirror.
The police car turned at the end of the street.
We went straight.
Nothing happened.
Again.
That was becoming the most dangerous part.
Nothing kept happening.
Every time I expected something bad, nothing happened.
Every time my stomach told me to leave, nothing happened.
Every time I thought police were coming, they weren’t.
Fear has a purpose.
But if you're scared enough times and nothing happens, eventually you stop listening to it.
The third stop was a convenience store.
Smoke told me to park around the side.
“I thought you were going inside.”
“Nah.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Waiting on somebody.”
I looked at the clock.
1:18.
“Smoke.”
“Five minutes.”
“You got five.”
He pulled out his phone.
Seven minutes later, a silver Nissan pulled beside us.
The passenger window came down.
Smoke got out.
He walked over to the Nissan.
I couldn’t hear what they were saying.
Then the driver handed him something.
Smoke put it in his pocket.
He came back.
“Done.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Where am I taking you?”
“Back where you got me.”
I pulled away.
This time, Smoke talked most of the ride.
Football.
Cars.
Women.
Nothing important.
By the time we got back, the nervous feeling had disappeared.
He pulled two hundred-dollar bills from his pocket.
“Appreciate you.”
I took them.
Then he held out another fifty.
“What’s that?”
“Extra stop.”
I stared at it.
“Take it.”
I did.
Two hundred fifty dollars.
I put it in my pocket.
Smoke opened the door.
“Probably hit you tomorrow.”
I looked at him.
“For what?”
He smiled.
“You know.”
“No, I don’t.”
“A ride.”
He got out.
I drove away.
Seven hundred fifty dollars.
That was what I had made that day.
Seven hundred fifty dollars for driving around.
Nobody got arrested.
Nobody got hurt.
Nobody even raised their voice.
I hadn’t sold drugs.
I hadn’t bought drugs.
I hadn’t cooked anything.
I hadn’t carried anything into anybody’s house.
I drove.
That was it.
I kept repeating that sentence.
I just drive.
By the time I got home, I almost believed it.
Crystal pulled up a little after three.
I watched her car through the window.
She sat inside for a minute before getting out.
When she came through the door, she didn’t kiss me.
Didn’t hug me.
She walked straight toward the bedroom.
“You good?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
I followed her.
She pulled a bag from the closet and started putting clothes into it.
“How long you staying over there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Crystal.”
“What?”
“Can we talk?”
“About what?”
“Us.”
She stopped folding a shirt.
“What about us?”
“I don’t want you staying at your mom’s.”
“Then maybe you should’ve thought about that.”
“Thought about what?”
She laughed, but there was nothing funny about it.
“This.”
She waved her hand around the room.
“What is ‘this’?”
“Your life right now.”
“My life?”
“Yes, Jay. Your life.”
“What am I doing?”
She stared at me.
That question sounded ridiculous the second it left my mouth.
“You really want me to answer that?”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“There are drug dealers sleeping in our house.”
“Not anymore.”
“You got pulled over with weed.”
“That was mine.”
“That's supposed to make it better?”
“I’m saying nobody put anything on me.”
She zipped the bag.
“And where were you today?”
I hesitated.
Barely.
Maybe half a second.
But she caught it.
“Exactly.”
“I gave somebody a ride.”
“Who?”
“Smoke.”
Her face changed.
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
“It was a ride.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
She stared at me.
“What do you mean you don't know?”
“I mean I drove him a few places.”
“And you have no idea what he was doing?”
“No.”
“Bullshit.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t know.”
I felt myself getting defensive.
“I didn't do anything.”
Crystal shook her head.
“That’s what you keep saying.”
“Because I didn’t.”
“You think because you don't touch it, it doesn't count?”
“I’m driving a car.”
“For them.”
“I’m not one of them.”
“I know.”
The way she said it stopped me.
Not angry.
Not sarcastic.
Almost sad.
“I know you're not,” she said.
“Then what are we arguing about?”
“Because you don't have to be one of them to go down with them.”
I didn’t answer.
She picked up her bag.
“You think they're paying you because they like you?”
“I never said that.”
“They're paying you because you're useful.”
That word again.
Useful.
“And when something goes wrong,” she continued, “whose car is it?”
I looked at her.
“Yours.”
She walked past me.
“Whose license plate?”
I followed her into the hallway.
“Crystal.”
“Whose name comes back when the police run it?”
“I get it.”
“No, you don’t.”
She turned around.
“If you got it, you wouldn’t have been out driving Smoke around today.”
“I made two hundred fifty dollars.”
I regretted saying it immediately.
Her expression changed.
Not because of the amount.
Because I had just proved her point.
“Wow.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She walked toward the door.
“Crystal.”
She stopped.
I wanted to tell her about the five hundred too.
Seven hundred fifty dollars in one morning.
I wanted her to understand why it was hard to say no.
Instead, I realized telling her would only make it worse.
So I said nothing.
She opened the door.
“Are you coming back?”
She looked at me.
“I don't know.”
Then she left.
I stood in the doorway and watched her drive away.
My phone buzzed.
For half a second, I hoped it was her.
It wasn't.
Another number I didn't recognize.
This JC?
I stared at the screen.
Then another message appeared.
Stack gave me your number.
I looked toward the road where Crystal’s car had disappeared.
Then back at the phone.
Dre had my number.
Smoke had my number.
Stackhouse had my number.
Now somebody else had it.
Crystal was right about one thing.
They weren't paying me because they liked me.
They were paying me because I was useful.
What neither of us understood yet was how quickly useful could become necessary.
And how much harder it becomes to walk away once people start depending on you.