Sonny: Ty! What the fuck's going on? Why'd you turn off your cell? Ty: Mind your own business. What's going on? Sonny: I need your help, son. Tonight we got us some deliveries. Ty: Already got some. Sonny: Well, I got more for you Ty: Go on. * I wrote the stuff in my phone * Ty: Hold up, who's this Schultz guy? Sonny: A new customer E met last week. Told him we was getting a shipment with the hottest shit this side of Bogota. He gonna drop five Gs! Ty: You ain't kidding. How'd he find out about us? Sonny: In the fucking yellow pages? Ty: Seriously, Sonny, who told him? Sonny: Who? Shit, like he was gonna tell me! What, you think his friend wants a finder's fee or something? Ty: Listen, if you so confident about him, you make the delivery.
Sonny: Can't, I promised Desarae we'd see a late movie. Schultz wants the stuff at ten. Ty: I'm not making this delivery unless you gimme some reason to think he ain't a cop. Sonny: Ty, this guys ain't 5-0. Don't you think I can sniff out a cop by now? Ty: I ain't risking my neck on your sense of smell, Sonny. Tell Michael Brown to make the delivery. Sonny: A'ight, I'll tell Michael. He can drop some stuff off at the Wilkes place too.
Mom thought I worked at the Flatbush Sports Club on Atlantic Avenue. I ain't worked there a day in my life- but the manager owed me. He was one of my customer.
Time to get down to this brother's real bread-and-butter. I took out my cell and speed-dialed Sonny.
Michael Brown. That little brother'd win the award for the most eager young hustler in Flatbush. Quick, reliable. Fourteen years old. That was wast I liked about Sonny. He talked the shit, but when push came to shove, he always backed down. He knew the game was in my blood.