But once they took a seat, the exchange had been painless and quick. Professional, even. As daunting and ruthless as Al had made this urban drug lord out to be, the man who joined them on the folding chairs was, in a word, ordinary. No jailhouse ink, battle scars, or gold-capped canines. Just another white guy in an oversized polo and flat-brimmed baseball cap. Might as well have been headed to the ballpark, where he’d order a hot dog, plain, with a Diet Coke.

While another guy counted the pills in a back room, the ordinary drug lord offered each of them a Corona, which he failed to open after a number of whacks against the pallet. Al got the bottle caps off with a lighter and began chitchatting about the weather, mutual acquaintances, gas prices. In no more than ten minutes, Al was handed a paper grocery bag that looked suspiciously light, but, sure enough, held the ten bands, all in Bennies, and so that was that. He clapped, chugged the beer, and said it was about time they got on their merry way, gentlemen, but it’d been a pleasure doing business with them. With that (and Henry cowering at his side), Al sashayed to the front door and wagged the still-empty snubnose in a wave good-bye.

The palm now on the steering was as slippery as the other tucked in Henry’s lap, squeezing his half of the cash and leaving a slimy patch on the bills’ edges. Al turned the radio on full blast, lolling his head as he dispatched cackles and whoops. Henry eased off the gas, coasting them back under the freeway’s speed limit. As he came to terms with this new reality, this abrupt prosperity, a strange urge rose inside him. Over the music’s blast, he asked Al if he could hold it.

“All of it,” Henry said. “Just to, you know, feel it.”

For the full religious effect, he pressed the other five bands tight against the cash already tucked in his crotch. Blood rushed to meet it. He was racked by tremors of pleasure, of power, and—as if catching a scent—Al drummed the truck cab’s ceiling and released a sorority-girl squeal.

It was still more than an hour’s drive back home, and so Henry accepted a white bump off Al’s house key. Little to no effect, since he was already gunning it in celebration mode. A night in wouldn’t do, so he flipped open his phone, texted Michelle, told her to put on something nice.