It didn’t help that the streetlights had been shot out. Boarded-up buildings. A botanica shut down for the night. The sign for a long-gone gypsy cab service hanging at a crazy angle. A steel-shuttered fried chicken take-out joint. The corner bodega was the only retail operation that appeared to be functioning. What little light there was came from burning garbage cans over which the dealers warmed their hands. Beacons in the night for hypes to steer their ships by. The temperature had dipped into the low teens, and a light snow dusted everything white. Despite the weather, business was brisk. By foot and by car, dopers descended on the street like it was bargain day at Walmart. And Curtis’s crew, mostly young teenagers, was raking in the cash. The four of us sat in the comfortable warmth of Dave’s Mercedes—Nick and Curtis in front, and Dave and me in back—and waited for Ennis to appear. “What makes you think he’s coming, Curtis?” I said. “Know my customers,” he said.
