spent their whole life jittery, on edge. His bald head shone under the soft lighting, and his goatee was trimmed to a fine layer of stubble. He was wearing a pair of dark blue track pants and a white, wife-beater undershirt. Thick gold chains that must have weighed in the neighborhood of five pounds were draped over the undershirt. He had a drink in one hand and a gun in the other.
The blond man wondered whether he thought the gun was really necessary, considering the half-dozen other men in the room, all armed with rifles and bulletproof vests. They all watched the two guests like they were gazelles wandering into a lion’s den. Easy meals on the surface, but they had to have something up their sleeves to enter such a dangerous place with such little regard for their own safety.
The gun in Li’l Leroy’s hand, the blond man thought, laughing to himself, was overkill.
Two large guards came over. Doughy said, “Spread ’em, hands behind your heads” with a little too much zeal.
Both spread their legs shoulder-width apart. They placed their hands behind their heads. The guards then spent several minutes patting the guests down, looking for weapons, large and small. The blond man noticed one guard was taking his time searching the dark-haired woman.
“Neither of us has any weapons,” the blond man said.
Doughy laughed and said, “Maybe, maybe not. But we also want to be sure this bitch’s snatch isn’t going to cut my boy’s fingers off. You ready to get a cavity search, honey?”
The woman did not move. The bodyguard searching her knelt down and put his hand on her inner thigh.
“That’s enough, Fatty!” Culvert shouted. The three guards whipped around. “These folks are our guests. Now move out the way before I stick my boot up your crevice.”
“Yes, sir,” Doughy said. He motioned for the other guards to move away.
“Sit down there,” Culvert said. He was pointing to another section of the couch. In front of the section was a small coffee table. On the table was a pitcher of water, several glasses, a liter of Grey Goose vodka, several carafes of mixers, a bowl of pretzels and a dish with what looked like several grams of cocaine. “I’m sorry for my idiot brigade there. At least I know how to entertain my guests properly,” Culvert said, smiling through gold-plated teeth.
The woman and the blond man sat down. The blond man took a pretzel and ate it. The woman poured herself a glass of water and sipped from it. Then they sat back.
The blond man was reasonably sure Culvert had told the guards to make a move on the woman. That way he could stop them himself before they got physical. Come off like he was the good guy, protecting them. The blond man was not fooled.
“That’s it?” Culvert said, holding up his gun hand, surprised. “Man, most people dive right for the nose candy, or at least wet their whistle with some of the Goose.”
“We’re here for business, Leroy,” the woman said. “Playtime happens when our deal is done.”
“I can respect that,” Culvert said. “See, I’m like you. I got me a drink here, but it’s a weak-ass one. Maybe one part gin, two parts tonic. Most nights I go half and half, but I want to keep my mind sharp.”
“We have something in common then,” the woman said.
Culvert sipped his drink. Then he held it out. One of the bodyguards came over and took the drink from him. It disappeared into the guard’s massive hand like a quarter.
“You’re here for business,” Culvert said. “So let’s talk business.”
“Absolutely,” the dark-haired woman said. She reached into her jacket and pulled out a small plastic bag. She looked at it briefly, then tossed it to Culvert. It landed on his lap, where he looked at it. He did not seem impressed.
“What the hell is this? Gravel? Shit you pave your driveway with?”
“That, Mr. Culvert, is our product,” the woman said. “And I think once you try it you’ll be absolutely certain that you will not want to line your driveway with it.”
Culvert picked up the plastic bag. It was filled with small black rocks. Culvert jiggled the bag, holding his ear to it.
“It does not play music, Mr. Culvert.”
“What do you call this shit again?”
“It’s called the Darkness, Mr. Culvert.”
“Why you call it that?”
The woman grinned. “Because when the world tries to beat you down, everyone could use the peace of Darkness.”
Culvert’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward,
“Yeah,” he said, nodding vigorously. “I can dig that. I can see consumers going for that. See, when it comes to the consumer, you need a tag line. Something to remember. Everyone got shit going on in their lives, and you’re right-everyone needs the peace of Darkness to make it all go away.”
“I think your consumers will agree that our product does just that.”
Culvert said nothing. Then he stood up, placed his gun on the table. The small bag filled with black rocks fell onto the floor.
He walked over to where the two guests sat. He knelt in front of them, placed one hand on each of their knees. Neither of them budged.
“The reason you’re here,” Culvert explained, his eyes wide and soft, “is because you’ve promised me a product that will increase my earnings. Your words. Increase my earnings. I don’t take shit like that lightly. I’m a businessman. You might have heard me on the radio, seen one of them kids playing my music on their iPods. That’s just part of what I do. The other part is moving product. People buy my product because they trust me, and ergo they trust my products. Like that word? Ergo?”
“Yes,” the woman said.
“So when somebody tells me they have a product that will increase my earnings, I think two things: first, this person is who they say they are. The second is that this person might be full of bull. And you know what happens when someone asks me to trust them and they turn out to be full of bull?”
Culvert stopped talking. It was clear he was waiting for one of them to reply. Finally the blond man said, “What happens?”
Barely waiting for him to finish the second word, Culvert blurted, “They get smoked. And not a quick two to the back of the head. I mean, I smoke them and they family. Do you have family?” Culvert asked the woman.
“Yes,” she said softly.
The blond man knew for a fact this was a lie. She was leading him on.
“Well, if your product is not what you say it is, they is getting smoked just like you.”
“Please, don’t hurt my son,” the woman said. The blond man did everything he could to keep from smiling.
“Your son is safe…depending on how you act. You act respectfully, your son lives and you make enough money to keep him in Armani the rest of his life. You act disrespectfully, I’m gonna bury you both in an ugly grave in the middle of nowhere.”
The woman looked down at her knees. Keeping up the game.
“What about you, cottontail? You got family?”
The blond man shook his head. He didn’t have family. Not anymore. And he wasn’t as good at playing this game as she was. If he tried to lie, he could give it away. Better to play it straight.
“Well, I’ll do doubly savage on her ass then.”
They both looked down. Fresh off their “scolding.”
“I’m gonna take your product, those freaky little black rocks, and I’m gonna test them out. Myself. And if I think it’s the kind of product that can boost my revenue, I’ll distribute it for you. What do you say to that?” Culvert asked.
“That sounds good,” the woman said. “We’ll give you thirty percent.”
Culvert launched himself back up and unleashed a belly laugh so loud it inspired Doughy and his brute companions to laugh, as well.
“Bitch, you think I’m gonna distribute for some thirty percent? I don’t do a dime lower than eighty-five. ”
“Fifty,” the woman said.
Culvert chuckled. “Bitch thinks she can negotiate with me. Tell you what, I like your moxie, girl. Seventy-
