Brash Blackberry #5
Ethan was losing blood fast. The wound on his lower left stomach didn’t look good, but we couldn’t stop driving. Jenn kept pressure on the monstrous bloody hole, but Ethan kept screaming out in pain. We had few options for where to go. The cops would find us if we went to a hospital.
My sister and I thought it was a good idea to include her boyfriend on our neighborhood cocaine operation. He seemed like a trustworthy guy – he didn’t sniff and was smart enough to hold a finance job at a cell phone company. That’s really all we could ask for.
His name was Ethan and Jenn had been with him three months before telling him the truth about how she could afford her loft. She was afraid that if she kept her secrets away from him for too long, they would build a relationship without truth. She was always the romantic one.
We drove back to our apartment building. One of the clients was a young doctor, so we took Ethan there. By the time we got there, Ethan had lost a lot of blood. Mid-day traffic can be killer sometimes.
We put him on a bed and the doctor doused the wound in hydrogen peroxide and pulled out the bullet with some kitchen tongs. Almost immediately after taking the bullet out, Ethan’s heart stopped beating. Jenn cried deafeningly on his shoulder, blaming herself for telling him about our business.
Our operation was simple – we’d sell one kilo of coke split in small doses every six months. It was the perfect way to supplement two broke twentysomethings with jobs taking them nowhere fast. I was a freelance journalist and she was a manager at a low-rate tanning salon. And to afford a decent apartment in Brooklyn, you have to have something extra on the side. We only supplied to people in our building and the one across the street. We figured keeping it small was the safest move.
An opportunity had come up to put my sister and I ahead for the year. We had to go outside of our area, 12 blocks south to be exact. I should have known it was a bad idea to begin with. One of our clients had told us about an old man who was willing to spend $60,000 on a kilo. He was having a party.
Jenn and I put Ethan’s body in a large brown garment bag we hadn’t used since a vacation four years prior. We drove to a sinkhole we’d heard about that was just south of New Brunswick late that night and dumped the body. As we cruised northeast on I-95 toward home, the sun was coming up through Manhattan’s skyscrapers. We knew things would never be the same.
We needed one person to scope the place out, someone who had never been in on our operation before. Jenn thought Ethan would work because he had an attraction to crime, but he had been too scared of jail time to ever engage in it alone.
I approved after I met him and we talked about the plan. All he had to do was dress like a pizza delivery man and knock on the prospective buyer’s door to get a look at the place. We didn’t want cops or gangs involved. After he gave me an okay, I’d go in and sell the product.
The plan was incredibly simple.
My sister and I thought it was a good idea to include her boyfriend on our neighborhood cocaine operation. He seemed like a trustworthy guy – he didn’t sniff and was smart enough to hold a finance job at a cell phone company. That’s really all we could ask for.
His name was Ethan and Jenn had been with him three months before telling him the truth about how she could afford her loft. She was afraid that if she kept her secrets away from him for too long, they would build a relationship without truth. She was always the romantic one.
We drove back to our apartment building. One of the clients was a young doctor, so we took Ethan there. By the time we got there, Ethan had lost a lot of blood. Mid-day traffic can be killer sometimes.
We put him on a bed and the doctor doused the wound in hydrogen peroxide and pulled out the bullet with some kitchen tongs. Almost immediately after taking the bullet out, Ethan’s heart stopped beating. Jenn cried deafeningly on his shoulder, blaming herself for telling him about our business.
Our operation was simple – we’d sell one kilo of coke split in small doses every six months. It was the perfect way to supplement two broke twentysomethings with jobs taking them nowhere fast. I was a freelance journalist and she was a manager at a low-rate tanning salon. And to afford a decent apartment in Brooklyn, you have to have something extra on the side. We only supplied to people in our building and the one across the street. We figured keeping it small was the safest move.
An opportunity had come up to put my sister and I ahead for the year. We had to go outside of our area, 12 blocks south to be exact. I should have known it was a bad idea to begin with. One of our clients had told us about an old man who was willing to spend $60,000 on a kilo. He was having a party.
Jenn and I put Ethan’s body in a large brown garment bag we hadn’t used since a vacation four years prior. We drove to a sinkhole we’d heard about that was just south of New Brunswick late that night and dumped the body. As we cruised northeast on I-95 toward home, the sun was coming up through Manhattan’s skyscrapers. We knew things would never be the same.
We needed one person to scope the place out, someone who had never been in on our operation before. Jenn thought Ethan would work because he had an attraction to crime, but he had been too scared of jail time to ever engage in it alone.
I approved after I met him and we talked about the plan. All he had to do was dress like a pizza delivery man and knock on the prospective buyer’s door to get a look at the place. We didn’t want cops or gangs involved. After he gave me an okay, I’d go in and sell the product.
The plan was incredibly simple.
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