Part 2 (1/2)

”s.h.i.+t!” she said, angry with herself for letting it happen.

”What?” Jake asked, looking concerned; it was not normal for the crew to see Wally caught off guard, which she obviously had been.

”My ID is gone, and most of the emergency money.”

”How?” asked Tevin. ”When's the last time you went in there?”

Wally tried to remember. ”Two weeks?”

No one had to say it: two weeks ago was right around the time they had sent Sophie away.

For Wally, the ID was the bigger loss. The expensive fake was like a visa to the young adult attractions in the city-bars, mainly, or maybe the occasional rave if she could sc.r.a.pe the cover charge together-and the times when she hadn't had a good ID she had often felt confined, even claustrophobic. Of course, there were plenty of places where underage kids could talk or sneak their way in, but to Wally that felt too much like asking permission. And she hated that. Hated.

”s.h.i.+t,” said Jake. ”f.u.c.kin' Sophie.”

Tevin opened his mouth as if to object, but changed his mind. There was no defense for the girl.

The crew moved on. Another ten minutes and they were within shouting distance of the 131st Street Smoke Shop, on the corner of Fredrick Dougla.s.s Boulevard, where by chance they met up with Panama himself; he was lumbering his way back to the shop, carrying a big greasy bag from the Harlem Papaya, containing at least three hot dogs piled high with onions and peppers and dripping with mustard.

”Little sister,” Panama greeted Wally in his low growl, ignoring the others in the crew but taking notice of the two large boxes in their shopping cart.

The man called Panama was large-wide and tall with enormous, powerful hands-and wore short-sleeved Hawaiian-themed s.h.i.+rts year-round, today with a layer of gray, long-sleeved thermals underneath, his long hair woven in a thick braid that ran halfway down the length of his back. Panama stepped toward the shopping cart and, glancing around first in case anyone might be observing him, looked inside both of the cardboard boxes.

”Espresso machines?” he asked Wally.

”Brand new,” she confirmed. ”Swiss. A complete station, two servers, molded copper casing-that's an upgrade. Retail is seven thousand.”

”Retail.” Panama snorted, as if offended by the very concept.

”We'll take fifteen hundred,” said Wally.

Another snort from Panama.

”Ha. We gonna see,” he said. ”They can take 'em round back.”

The group walked together the final distance to the smoke shop, where Jake, Ella, and Tevin peeled off, wheeling the shopping cart toward an open garage door at the west end of the shop where two of Panama's men waited, ready to take delivery of the machines.

Wally followed Panama into the small smoke shop and all the way through to a back room office, where a.s.sorted stolen goods crowded the s.p.a.ce in stacks that reached nearly to the ceiling. Panama sat down at a cluttered desk and opened his greasy bag, purring at the sight of the unwrapped hot dogs. Wally sat down on a small folding chair opposite the desk. A second chair, empty beside her, reminded Wally that Sophie had sat beside Wally during most of these meetings. It was Sophie, with three years on the street and all the experience that came with that, who first introduced Wally to Panama.

The big man set his food aside for the moment, picked up his cell phone, and began calling. He carried on brief discussions with several unnamed parties, then set down the phone and picked up his first hot dog.

”Three hundred,” he said.

”h.e.l.l no,” said Wally. ”Looks like I'll have to shop 'em around.”

”Yeah, guess so,” Panama said, speaking through a full mouth. ”If you don't mind walkin'. Course, they already in my garage.”

”You go to six hundred, that's fair,” said Wally, feeling the pressure of having the cash and ID stolen, needing to make up for that loss for both herself and the crew.

Panama didn't reply to the offer. ”Where you jack 'em, anyways?”

Wally just shrugged. A restaurant on Columbus Avenue had shut its doors after only a few months in business; Wally and the others had cased the place as a possible crash site and found the espresso machines still sitting inside the gutted shop, unopened. Panama didn't need to know any of that, but this was a chance for Wally to use a strategy she had learned from Nick, a way to avoid getting ripped off by sc.u.m like Panama: always dangle the next deal, even if it was total bulls.h.i.+t.

”I can't tell you where I got them,” she said, ”but there might be more, if you can move these.”

”Oh, Panama can move 'em. ...”

”Something else,” Wally said, changing the subject. ”I lost my good ID, the one your guy Train cut for me last summer.”

Panama set down his hot dog, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and shook his head. ”My man Train is unavailable for the next twelve to eighteen months. I got a few good places I use. There a place up in Queens, an old Russian shop in Brighton Beach is pretty good, or these Nigerians in Jersey City ...”

”Brighton is good.”

From memory, Panama dictated an address in Brighton Beach, and Wally jotted it down. She would need to skim at least two hundred dollars off the sale of the espresso machines to pay for a new ID.

”I can't go lower than five hundred on the machines,” Wally finally said. ”I'd look bad to my crew.”

Panama considered this with a skeptical look on his face.

”You take some cards in trade?” he suggested. Panama had a connection for cards that added minutes to prepaid cell phones, something about scamming FEMA disaster relief. Whenever there was a natural disaster in the country, the relief agency pa.s.sed out prepaid cell phones to victims, plus cards to recharge the minutes. Within days, Panama would have a new s.h.i.+pment of the phones and cards off the black market. He would sell or trade them to Wally and the crew for twenty cents on the dollar, which they could turn around for double on the street.

”Yeah, cards could be part of it ...” Wally tentatively agreed, already starting to feel the buzz of closing a profitable deal.

”Tell you what ...” Panama reached inside his desk drawer and pulled a small box with the logo of a cell phone manufacturer on the side. He opened the box and pulled out a s.h.i.+ny new smart phone with a large touch screen in front. He pa.s.sed the phone to Wally, along with its small portable charger.

”I can be generous, go three hundred on the 'spresso machines,” Panama said. ”Plus some phone cards that you can b.u.mp to two hundred on the street, if you hustle. And you keep that smart phone, thrown in. That a clone, got a thousand minutes on it. You can sell that, get a hundred easy. If you want to keep it, though, I maybe got some business opportunities comin' up in the next few weeks, might be right for you. This way we can be in touch.”

”What kind of opportunities are we talking about?”

”Don't worry 'bout it. Good money. I gonna call you when we ready to go.”

When Wally emerged from the smoke shop, she found the others waiting on a stoop two doors up.

”We got three hundred cash,” Wally said to the group.

”What?” Jake protested. ”That's bulls.h.i.+t.”

”Take it easy,” Wally said. ”That's plus phone cards that we can sell for maybe two hundred downtown. All together that's a good score.”

They nodded in agreement, though Jake still looked a little ticked off.

”Here's the thing, though,” Wally said. ”I gotta replace my ID. So that's two hundred of the cash, right there.”

The others didn't question Wally's need to replace the lost ID, and they knew the turnover on the cards would be pretty easy. Wally dug into her pockets and pulled out the wad of tens and twenties that Panama had paid her. She kept two hundred and pa.s.sed the rest to the others, along with the packet of phone cards.

”You guys get started on selling the cards, okay?” Wally said.