A Tale of Two Black Books

Pete Rios turns his sub-woofer all the way up so he can feel the Swishahouse bass deep in his chest. He drives methodically through the streets of the low-income neighborhood where he grew up, able to dodge the large potholes with his eyes closed. He sees a Prius in the rearview nearly lose a wheel after driving straight into the pothole he just avoided. Pete couldn’t help but chuckle. “Damn gentrifiers – no street sense” he says aloud to himself before chuckling at his own pun.

A rare fog falls over east Austin, and Pete turns on the wipers to clear the windshield from a light mist. After a right turn, a stoplight, and a left, he arrives at the dilapidated two-story apartment he affectionately refers to as “the lab.” Pete grew up in the lab, but he bought a house a few years ago up the street. He got his mom and little sister an upscale condo across town. Pete was never supposed to be here. He had a scholarship to an ivy league school, but days after Pete graduated, a rival dealer shot Pete’s older brother. Pete stayed back to help earn money and protect his mom and sister, since the rival dealer put a greenlight on all of them. Nobody thought Pete was cut out for the work, but within a few years, he had gained more territory than his brother ever had.

Pete walks up the concrete steps and knocks three times on the door. He deeply inhales the ambient smells of diesel, cigarette smoke and weed – a neighborhood concoction that always helps him feel grounded during anxious times like these. A pair of eyes appear on the other side of the peephole. Big Sam immediately opens the door. Pete walks into a two-bedroom apartment full of people diligently working, weighing various substances, jotting down notes, and bagging and sorting what they weigh.

“What’s good, Boss?” Big Sam says in a deep, low voice.

“I’m good. How we looking?”

“Everything is on schedule. Clockwork.”

Pete nods approvingly before inspecting a table of young men sorting and weighing a large amount of white powder.

“Keep it up,” Pete said. “We need that White on point.” He took out a small black notebook and scribbled several notes in a sophisticated chart of weights, inventory, and deadlines. He motioned for Big Sam to take a look. After a minute of chatting quietly, Pete quickly went back down to his car.

A few blocks away, Detective Martinez sat jotting notes in his black journal, hunched over his desk, since his hangover prevented him sitting up straight. The large cup of black coffee did little to calm his merciless headache. I’ve got elves using hammers to build a treehouse in my brain, he thought to himself. Smoke from his ashtray slithered up toward the fluorescent lights that reflected off his head, resembling the sheen from a bowling ball.

“What the hell, Martinez. How many times I gotta tell you?”

Sergeant DuBois, a thirty-something tall and thin Black man, picked up the cigarette and quickly put it out. “This stuff will kill you, Martinez.”

“You and I both know I ain’t that lucky,” Martinez replied.

Sergeant DuBois sighed heavily. “You can feel sorry for yourself after getting off undercover if you want, but at least think of your fellow officers. Secondhand smoke kills. I’m not gonna tell you again. Clean up, or I’ll put your ass on leave.”

Detective Martinez nodded and flashed a thumbs up sign. “You got it, Sarge.”

Sergeant DuBois began waving his finger as he walked away, “Good, Martinez. Good. Because you better.”

Detective Smith, sitting just a few feet away at her desk, let out a laugh once the sergeant was out of earshot. “You’re going to give him a heart attack before you kill us with secondhand smoke.”

Detective Martinez smiled back. “I feel bad for you young’uns. How can you do cop work without a cig? You need something to keep the stress at bay. What do all you millennials do now? Yoga?”

Detective Smith laughed again. “Don’t knock wellness affirmations and juice cleanses until you’ve tried them.” Detective Martinez covered his ears. “You’re gonna make my ears bleed. I can’t wait to retire before they institute mandatory spa days and mental health retreats.”

“You’re speaking my love language, Martinez.”

Detective Martinez smirked. “I gotta get out of here before I lose my mind and get some real coffee. This stuff will make you go bald. You want anything?”

“Could I get a grande, no-frap, extra-whip, macchiato with cinnamon dust?”

“Holy sh—”

“I’m just messing with you, Martinez. I’m good. Thanks though.”

Detective Martinez smiled as he put on his jacket and headed toward the door. “I’m gonna bring back a black coffee and a donut with loads of saturated fat and you’re gonna learn to love it.”

Pete waited in the long and varied line of caffeine-dependent walks of life. The small coffee shop left a lot to be desired when it came to personal space, but the customers weren’t there for ambience. They came for a century-long tradition of smooth roasts, a rapidly dying art in an area of town that saw a new-age coffee shop offering three different cashew milk pop up every week. Pete ordered a cold brew.

While he waited, he opened his journal to review the details of the next dropoff. It was the biggest he had ever done, and there were a lot of details he didn’t like. Big Sam was on track with the volume, he silently repeated to himself as he tried to calm his nerves. But he hated working with a new large volume buyer – too many risks, but he tried to focus on the positive. If all goes well, he thought, it would be enough to stop trappin’ and retire somewhere far away with his mom and sister.

Detective Martinez was also waiting to the side for his two black coffees and two donuts.

“Pete!” the barista called out. “Cold brew for Pete!”

Pete walked to the counter with his eyes glued to his journal. He bumped into an elderly woman and a couple of others huddled around the counter waiting for their drinks.

“Watch it!” a grumpy woman wearing a knitted scarf and hat said.

“So sorry, mam” Pete replied as he bent over to help pick up the items the old woman dropped. Martinez bent down to help as well, as did a few others waiting for their orders.

“Just be careful next time,” the elderly woman said; “you nearly knocked me down!”

“Yes mam – apologies again, very sorry,” Pete said.

Pete, embarrassed, grabbed his coffee and quickly left. The last thing he wanted was to make a scene. He always tried to keep a low profile.

Detective Martinez walked back to his unmarked cruiser after getting his order. Almost immediately, dispatch asked him to investigate a robbery at a nearby jewelry shop. He drove over and talked to the owners, asked about security cameras, and began walking up and down the block to see if he could find any witnesses.

Suddenly, a large black SUV drove up to Martinez. “Ey Leon, I didn’t realize you were the connect! Damn, boy you everywhere!”

Detective Martinez dropped his coffee, forgetting to breathe. Tommy, one of the members of the crew he ran with undercover, was just a few feet away. My cover is blown he thought to himself.

“Why so jumpy, man? You good?” Tommy slowly reached for his gun behind the door. He wondered if Leon was jumpy because this was a setup.

Detective Martinez tried to calm himself. “Ah yeah, man you know – my girl is tryin’ to get me to cut back on the squares so I’ve been hammering coffees. Wired, man.”

Tommy smiled and loosened the grip on his piece. “That’s cool, man. The only thing better than being an OG is being an old OG, right?”

Detective Martinez smiled and nodded.

“Anyway, you wanna just do the drop here?”

Detective Martinez had no clue which drop Tommy was talking about, but petrified of blowing his cover, he replied, “here works.”

Tommy tossed a black gym back to Detective Martinez. He looked inside and saw what had to be at least $20,000. “Count it if you want.”

Martinez nodded. “You’re good,” he said.

Tommy replied, “Cool. Greenlight the other side of the dropoff and I’ll be out.”

Martinez pretended to text on his phone. “Done,” he said.

“Pleasure as always, Leon,” Tommy said as he drove off into the night.

Martinez hurried to his cruiser and locked the doors. He grabbed his black journal to jot down the amount, the street corner, Tommy’s name and the numbers on the license plate he managed to remember. But the black book was full of charts of weights and drug inventory he didn’t recognize. He shuffled through it furiously, cussing as quickly as he could turn the pages. His heart neatly burst out of his chest when he got to the final page. “Text Big Sam to confirm drop. $20k. Comal St.”

He desperately searched for his own black journal but couldn’t find it. “Coffee shop!” he blurted aloud to himself. He raced back.

There were no other cars in the parking lot except for one. The coffee shop had been closed for a few hours. Martinez parked and stared at the lone car.

Pete stared at the car that pulled in. He realized hours ago that his journal got swapped for another, but he could not understand why. Are they trying to flip me? Or was it a stupid mistake? He grabbed his gun, then put it back down. Pete nervously flashed his lights.

Detective Martinez grabbed his gun from the glove compartment and flashed his lights in response.

Pete let out several quick deep breaths. “This is it,” he said aloud. “Take control. Take control.” Pete drove slowly toward Detective Martinez and cracked the window just enough to speak.

“You got something that belongs to me?” Pete asked in the deepest voice he could muster.

“You got something that belongs to me?” Martinez asked back.

“I ain’t playin this game with you, 5-0. I got dates, snitches’ names, all kinds of shit in here. You want this back, then you give me my money and my book. Now!”

“How do I know you didn’t already look at all those names and memorize them? My informants are as good as dead aren’t they. I’m as good as dead too, right?”

“The only way this works is if neither of us looks at the other’s book. Because if I look at your journal and memorize it, you ain’t gonna want it back are you? Vice versa is true for me too. So I didn’t. And you better be smart enough to not look either. Otherwise, I might as well kill you here and speed out of town forever, because I’m as good as dead too.”

“And what if you’re lying that you didn’t look?” Detective Martinez asked.

“Well there’s our predicament, cop. We each gotta trust the untrustworthy. It’s like Zeno’s paradox.”

“Who is Zeno?” Detective Martinez asked.

“Oh they don’t teach you that in detective school, college boy? We can’t ever finish this race, 5-0. We can trade journals tonight, but that’s not the end – that’s just the half of it. There’s always another half of the race to finish. And then half of that. And half of that, forever – but no matter how little remains – there will be half of that left. This is forever.”

“So what should we do?”

“I know you got heat. So put your gun in your right hand and my journal in your left. I’ll do the same. Then we’ll trade. Good?”

“Trust the barrel? Works for me?”

Detective Martinez and Pete each pointed a gun at each other with a journal in their free hand.

Pete began to count. “One…Two….”