Mambo's Smoothie

I pushed through the smudged glass doors. It was just after midday and the sun was peeking through the clouds. I had worked up a good sweat playing hoops, and the L.A. breeze melded with my postgame endorphins to give me goosebumps on my walk home. I had walked this same mile hundreds of times, and today was no different. I popped my earbuds in and pumped up the new Cole World album Zeke had ripped onto my iPhone for me, a classic best friend move.

Arriving home, I grabbed the mail out of the box and freed the lanyard from my neck to unlock the door. I tossed my gym bag in front of the closet and headed for the kitchen. There was a note on the counter.

Jashad,

I’m working a double and won’t be home until midnight. DON’T LEAVE THE KITCHEN A MESS. Leftovers in the fridge. Please empty the dishwasher and take out the trash.

Love, Mom

My mom was a nurse practitioner at the Ronald Reagan UCLA Trauma Center, so it was typical for me to be home alone on a Saturday, especially since my father had skipped town when I was a baby. I pulled the leftover chicken and rice from the fridge, added a healthy amount of barbeque sauce, and tossed it in the microwave. I poured myself a tall glass of lemonade and downed the plate right there at the counter before sliding the dirty Tupperware into the sink and heading for my bedroom. The chores could wait.

I laid on my bed for a minute before I started to feel some type of way. I rolled over to my nightstand, opened the drawer, and pulled out my little black book. This is where I kept the names and numbers of just about every girl I had met since the night of the eighth-grade spring formal. Truth be told, this little baby was very special to me. Grandpop and I were on a fishing trip that day and it felt like a rite of passage as he explained how he had been given a little black book at my age too. It was from that book that he retrieved my grandmother’s childhood mailing address in order to write her letters while he served overseas.

It turned out I only got one number the night of that dance, but as a matter of habit I kept this little list going all the way through high school. I was in my senior year now, about to graduate, and the book was nearly full by now.

I flipped through the tiny pages and stopped about three-quarters of the way through. Katrina Hernandez, “Trina”, Zeke’s party, jeans, followed by her ten-digit cellphone number. I unlocked my phone, opened a text bubble, typed, “Hey,” and sent it.

About twenty minutes passed before I got a response. “hi, new phone.. who’s this?”

“It’s Jay, from Zeke’s spring break party. How’s it going?”

Another ten minutes passed before my phone chimed again. “oh hiii, im good. whats up?”

I read the message a couple of times and adjusted the pillow behind my head to get comfortable. “Chillin chillin, just wrapped up a game. Was thinking about grabbing a smoothie from Mambo’s Juice Truck. Care to join me?”

This time, she replied right away. “yeah, i could go for a smoothie. Mambo’s is like a block from the crib. you buying, right?”

“Of course, I’m buying. I’ll meet you there at 2. Sound good?”

“it’s a date ;) ”

I closed my phone and clenched my fist with excitement. I jumped up and plugged my phone in to charge before jumping into the shower. It was only 1:15 now, but Mambo’s was a solid two miles away, so I would need to figure my walk in.

In the interest of saving time, I brushed my teeth in the shower. When I stepped out, I realized I didn’t have a towel, a critical mistake. I made my way down the hall, dripping the whole way to my room, where I proceeded to dry off. I chose a pair of board shorts and a lightweight polo from my dresser. After lacing up my J’s, I gave myself a spritz of cologne and grabbed my phone. I flicked the screen on to check the time - 1:29. I was already running late. Making my way back through the kitchen, I grabbed my lanyard and headed out.

I made good time and arrived at the juice bar promptly at two o’clock. Trina showed up not five minutes later, looking fine.

“Hey, Trina,” I said.

“Jay! Long time, no see.” She leaned in to give me a hug. I should have made this call weeks ago, I thought.

A car with an obnoxiously loud muffler pulled up to Mambo’s, and some guy got out. He started yelling right away. “Trina! What the hell are you doin down here? And who is this pendejo?”

Trina freaked out. “Victor, get your estupido ass out of my face right now, you creeper.”

I was trying to size up the guy in case this thing got physical. He looked like he was in his twenties, but he was short and stout. If push came to shove, I would have to give him a whoopin’ right here.

“You better get your ass home before I call your brother down here,” Victor replied.

“You’re such an asshole,” Trina said. “I’m just meeting a friend.” She turned to me and whispered, “I don’t want to make a big scene right now, so I’m just going to head home. Raincheck on the smoothie?” And before I knew it, she kissed me on the cheek and walked away.

I didn’t know what to make of this, but I felt a fury burning in my chest as I turned to walk home. I knew Trina’s brother was affiliated with some unsavory people, and things could turn from bad to worse out here quick.

I made it to the first intersection when the loud car rolled up again. It was Victor, only now he lowered his tinted window to display a silver revolver. My heart was beating crazy fast and I gave my head a little shake. I didn’t want to go down like this, not today or any other day, and I started to run. It was in the middle of the intersection where Victor drove his car directly at me, throwing me to the ground before screeching to a stop.

He looked enraged as he burst from his car just as I was trying to stand up. He pointed the gun right in my face and started yelling, “You think you can just come down to this neighborhood and talk to anyone you want, Ese? How bout you get in my fucking trunk, and I’ll show you the price you’re going to pay.”

He grabbed me by the shirt and started dragging me to the back of his car, waving the gun in my face the whole time. My consciousness was waning and black lightning bolt flashes obscured my vision. This really is the way it’s going to end, I thought.

“Get in,” he barked.

I didn’t know what to do. My head was throbbing from bouncing against the pavement.

“Get in, or I’ll paint the back of this car with your brains.” He cocked the gun.

Anxiety filled my chest as I crawled into the trunk and it was abruptly slammed shut. The tires squealed as the car sped away. I reached up to what I knew was a contusion on my head and was immediately nauseated. The sticky feel of blood mixed with dirt and asphalt made my stomach flip. Victor made a few turns, then accelerated. I could feel every bump, every swerve in the road. Terrified, I braced my legs against the hatch just before my body was thrown forward. I knew we had done more than come to an abrupt halt. We had crashed.

I felt around for what I hoped would be a lever to push the back seat down. I was met with success and was relieved to breathe fresh air as I emerged into the main cabin. It was apparent that the front of the car was crunched, and I immediately noticed blood on the dashboard. My only thought was one of escape. I pulled the door handle and stepped out onto the pavement. A manila envelope landed between my feet. I picked it up with the intention of throwing it back into the car, but then it dawned on me. I stood, dumbfounded, as I peered into the driver’s side window. I was no doctor, but this man was dead. I looked around to get my bearings; we had crossed over onto the east side of the 110. Without further hesitation, I slipped the envelope into my shorts, and started running.

I ran until I couldn’t run anymore. Pausing next to a convenience store, I tried to act casual as I fumbled with my phone to call Zeke. “What’s good, friend?” he said.

“I just got jumped down at Mambo Juice,” I blurted. “I need a ride right now.”

“Where’re you at?” Zeke sounded confused.

“Outside of the Valero on the other side of the one-ten, the one on Rosecrans,” I said.

“Oh alright, off Figueroa, I know where that is. What were you doing at Mambo’s?”

“Meeting up with Trina for a smoothie,” I said.

“Trina? Jeans Trina? From my party?”

I let out a slight laugh. I guess Zeke had remembered her jeans too. “Yeah, that’s her,” I said.

“Nice,” Zeke replied. “Okay, I’m already in the car and on my way,” he finished, and we hung up.

I took a seat on the bench outside the bodega and waited for just the right time to open the envelope and find out exactly what I was dealing with.

Close to an hour passed before Zeke arrived. He pulled his classic Bimmer right up right next to me. and I got in. “Dude,” I said looking at him blankly, “what took you so long?”

“Bro, do you know what time it is? The traffic down the one-oh-five right now? But forget that,” he said. “What happened?”

I gave him the full run down, then showed him the envelope, thankful for his heavily tinted windows.

“Yo,” he exclaimed, “how much is that?”

“Twenty. Thousand. Dollars,” I replied in disbelief.

“What are you gonna do with it?”

“Burn it? I don’t know, you know where it came from.”

“Right, right. You know, I know this white boy in Malibu I used to ball with. He does some kinda banking bullshit with block chains or something. He has no connection to the streets and could probably wash that away for you. You know you can’t go drop any of that, right?” Zeke smiled. “No one would even know.”

“No one saw what happened with me and Victor, so no one knows shit,” I said. The wheels in my head were turning. I thought it would be best to bury the money for now, I wasn’t going to need it at the academy next year anyway.

“Let’s take a ride, I’ll give my boy a call,” Zeke said.

We arrived at some swanky Malibu pad about an hour later, where we were greeted by Brian, the money kid. He invited us into his parents’ beach house and offered us ice water on the patio, like he was about to broker a deal at the country club.

“So, what do you have for me?” Brian said.

“Twenty large, dirty bills,” said Zeke. “Looking to turn it into something useful.”

Brian looked calm as a cucumber. “Well, my cut is twenty percent, and I sell ten-year lockout accounts of this new cryptocurrency called Bitcoin. Basically, I hold it in an account for you for ten years, and it comes out clean and well vested at the end.”

“We’re in,” I said.