Solid ||Bryson Tiller||

Nineteen

Bryson's POV

The government let people buy junk food that's gonna rot their teeth. The government let's people buy booze and cigarettes- both can kill you. But when it comes to drugs, the government don't trust the public to choose for themselves.

That forced hustlers like me and Que to go underground. Even though we had the dough to rent an office, Que and me had to meet suppliers and customers in secret places.

That night we were meeting Jones and Menendez. We'd use this place- an empty warehouse under the bridge a few times before. When we pulled around the back of the warehouse, Que's high-beams lit up Menendez's dark blue Jag. Jones and Menendez had a thing about getting there first.

As we got out into the dark parking lot, Que said," Hope they aint freaked out by the short notice." He switched on his flashlight.

Que had the jitter in his voice that he always had at night meetings. As for me, I liked the dark. It could be dangerous, but it could also be protection.

We went in through a side door and saw Jones and Menendez. From the looks of the place, it was being renovated. Scaffolding was up, and paint cans and two-by-two fours were piled everywhere. This would have to be the last time we met here.

We went up to them and knocked knuckles. Menendez was a fat Hispanic with an acne-scarred face and a thin mouth. Jones wore a wife-beater under his leather jacket to show off his tattoos. Jones and Menendez grew up in the same project in Opa Locka, and after a few years of competition hooked up as partners. Now, twenty years later, they was kingpins, living in Long Island mansions.

"Thanks for going out of your way," I said. "We got us some trouble. Figured you should get the heads up."

They looked at each other and Menendez said, "Go on."

"Some guy, calls himself Dollasign, is trying to take over our business." Que explained.

I added quick, "We got no holes in our team. Our employees and customers are loyal, so that aint a problem. But Dollasign will find out who's supplying us."

"Will your employees tell him?" Jones asked.

Trick question. "None of our employees know who you are. Dollasign won't find out shit from them. But Dollasign was in the business down in Georgia, and I know you said your Columbian friends land their planes near there."

"The Columbians is always talking to each other." Menendez gritted his teeth. "So if this motherfucker Dollasign find out who we are, what he gonna do?"

Que answered, "Probably nothing. But there's a chance he might wanna cut a deal with you- bribe you into cutting off our supply."

"Tough shit for him," Jones said. "We don't play games. We'll tell him we aint changing buyers."

"Good," I said. "If he contacts you, let me know."

Menendez's laugh was like a dog's bark. "We got ways of dealing with trouble makers. You just make sure you hang on to your customers."

"Our customers' aint going nowhere." Que promised.

Jones looked at me. "Why aren't you having him knocked off?"

I didn't miss a beat. "We might have to, but I was informed about Dollasign's family. They big and got money. Plus, I'm worried that if we knock him off, the cops will start asking questions on the street."