He also said that it’d be better if Slim didn’t know. I loved Dre and assured him that it would be strictly between us. I was curious to hear what he had to say—and why in secret? Because he did a lot of Slim’s dirty work, Dre stuck to himself. Because of his stutter, he didn’t say more than he had to. So he wasn’t all that social. But he was a sweet cat who always had my best interests at heart. And he was also a cat who took such abuse from Slim that you couldn’t help but feel for him. We met at a Buckhead steakhouse called Bones. We went to a private room and sat at a table in the back. “H-h-h-h-h-have whatever you l-l-l-l-l-like,” he said. Like me, Dre wasn’t much of a drinker. We ordered a couple of Cokes and two big steaks. “T-t-t-t-tell me about M-M-M-Miami, Power. How w-w-w-was it?” To get the words out, Dre squinted his eyes or hit the table with a fist. I’d known other people with stutters. Most of them had managed to get around their blocks, but Dre was different.
