She was me.

I dropped the picture and tried to play it off when G walked out the bathroom.

“What?” he said. “What you hollering about when you supposed to be getting on the road?”

“I-I-I just wanted to come tell you good-bye.”

G came around the desk and patted my back twice. “Well, bye then. You got the directions, right?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Remember,” he warned. “Do exactly like I told you and don’t stop for nobody on them roads.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

G straightened his jacket, then put his hand on my back and led me out the door. “Later,” he said, then closed the door in my face.

As I stood there shaking and trembling I understood my situation as clear as day. The only choice I had was to take my little ass back outside, jump in the whip, and get ready to roll.

The Z drove like a dream, but I still stayed at least five miles under the speed limit, hogging the right lane all the way. To say I was scared wouldn’t come close to explaining it. I was shaking so bad that every now and then my foot would jerk on the gas pedal and the car would lurch forward, whipping my neck.

G had told me to drive up to the Bronx first and park on the corner of 167th and Jerome, killing my headlights but keeping the engine running once I stopped the car. He said for me to keep all the doors locked, and when I heard somebody tap three times on the tiny trunk I was supposed to pop the trunk release without turning around, and when I heard it slam shut again, I should drive off without looking back.

I followed his instructions to a tee. I wouldn’t even let my eyes go near that rearview mirror as I sat there scared as hell. Fuck turning around. It just wasn’t going to happen. Still, I almost hit the gas when I heard the three taps on the trunk, and I jabbed the trunk release so hard I broke one of my nails.

As soon as I heard the trunk slam closed I pulled off and headed toward the George Washington Bridge, just like G had said. Traffic was light this time of night, but I still stayed in the right lane and drove slightly under the speed limit.

I got to the New Jersey Turnpike and almost had a fit when the toll collector wouldn’t take my money. G had E-ZPass for the Z, but he told me not to use it. He’d given me a ten-dollar bill to pay for the tolls and told me to go through the cash-only lane. And here this chick with thirty gold teeth and ten-inch nails was waving my money away and telling me to keep it moving.

“Why?” I shouted, about to panic. This wasn’t going according to the plan. G had said not to use the damn E-ZPass. What part of that didn’t this wench understand?

“Your E-ZPass already picked it up,” she said, waving those damn nails at me.

“But this is cash only. I don’t even have that E-ZPass thing on the windshield.”

She had the nerve to suck on all that slum in her mouth. “Then maybe it’s in the glove box or in the trunk or under your seat. All I know is I can’t take your money, miss. E-ZPass already charged you.”

I was steaming as I drove on, heading south toward exit 4. I was so scared my mouth was dry and I felt like I had to pee, even though I had gone to the bathroom not an hour earlier. My eyes were on autopilot as I drove, darting from mirror to mirror, checking for the police car I just knew was gonna pull me over and take my black ass straight to jail.

Who knew what kind of shit G had me walking into. It could have been a test. It could have been a setup, too, but for my brother’s sake I had to see it through. I kept wondering, did somebody stick some dope or some money in the trunk when I made that stop in the Boogey-Down, or did they take something out? What was gonna happen when I got to the house in Jersey that G was sending me to? Damn! Plenty of stupid bitches were locked up in the joint for transporting dope for they man. G had put my picture facedown on his desk. Was he setting me up to take a bid, or would I just disappear like Salida did?

My head was buzzing as I followed G’s directions off the turnpike and into a neighborhood that made Brooklyn look clean and Harlem look glamorous. This was Camden, New Jersey, the murder capital of the nation, and the hard-looking faces I passed on the streets made me check to make sure my doors were locked. Shit, I ain’t fronting. I was scared. True, I came straight from the ghetto and was proud of it, but at least I knew the thugs who roamed my streets. These Camden people were strangers to me, and for all I knew I was carrying something they wanted in my trunk.

It took me about thirty minutes to find the street I was looking for. I had messed around and took a wrong turn, and then couldn’t make a left to double back until I found one of those stupid jug-handles that Jersey is famous for. I finally found the right street and as soon as I turned in to it I knew shit was flaky.

Most of the streetlights were out and there were niggahs everywhere like it was two in the afternoon instead of two in the morning. Lounging on the stoops, sitting on cars, shooting cee-low on the curb, and hanging off fire escapes. Every one of them turned to stare into the Z and check out the rims as I drove down looking for the right house number, and one or two of them had the balls to step up to my window and motion for me to stop, like I was stupid enough to do it and my damn head screwed off and on.

Even with my windows up I could hear the music blasting outside, the bass making my windshield vibrate. I got really scared when I drove in further and realized that the street was a dead end. That meant I would have to drive out again, right back past the same niggahs I had almost run over coming in.

The house I was looking for was at the bottom of the street, right at the dead end. G had told me just to do whatever the connect told me to, so I had no idea what to expect. I saw a buffed-up brother with a wild afro sitting on a crate with a whole crew of niggahs, and as soon as I stopped the car he jumped up and came over to me.

He had on jail clothes. A big-ass white T-shirt and some baggy pants. A thick silver cross was hanging around his neck and I could see he was strapped.

He tapped twice on the window. “Roll it down,” he ordered.

I hit the button just enough to drop the window about an inch.

“What?”

I had my finger next to the trunk release button, ready to pop that bad boy open and let him get his package of whatever was back there.

“Nothing,” he said. “We changed the plan. You can go on back now.”

“What?” I gave him a dirty look. I wasn’t riding all the way back to Harlem with no hot package in my trunk. “Nah, G sent me-”

“I know who sent you. Now take your ass on back.”

“But I got stuff-”

He slapped my window so hard I covered my face, expecting the glass to shatter. When it didn’t, I put it up in a hurry, scared he’d somehow get his hand through that tiny crack and get to me.

“You got too much fuckin mouth! That’s what the fuck you got. Now get your ass up outta here.” He nodded up the street. “Before I get them niggers up there to strip this little toy car and then start on you.”

I know damn well I left some tires on that pavement. I put the Z in reverse, then whipped around so fast I hit two garbage cans and almost hit a parked car, too. I came up out of that dead end so hasty them niggers at the top of the street weren’t brave enough to run out at me this time. I didn’t even stop at the corner, instead I took my chances with a glance, then turned right into traffic not knowing if I was going in the right direction or not.

I was mad enough to kick G’s ass. Bad enough I drove all the way to Jersey in a drug dealer’s car with no damn license. He had me riding around with who knows what in the trunk, swearing the cops were gonna stop me and take me to jail, and in a strange city where I didn’t know nobody and the only thing I had for protection was my knife.