Thing is, he's getting more and more nervous by the minute. His foot's tapping. He keeps licking his lips and looking over his shoulder, and right then I have no idea why. First I think, it's just because that's how he is. But this is something else.

"Whatever," I say to myself, I don't care about Jimmy. He sells drugs to kids, and more power to him, but we're not talking sacred cow-tipping here. I decide to get into the scam.

Scam's not a real complex one, and it's something I pretty much make up on the spot. I figure, if I'm playing the Wall Street broker made good, I can pretend like I have some cool insider trading secret. Some tip about a pharmaceutical company about to release a new antidepressant, some new concept car coming out of Japan. Whatever. I could've told Jimmy that Wal-Mart was designing a new shock-absorbent anal tampon and he'd have bought it. I say to him, if he wants in, I can do him a solid like he did for me so many times way back when – and he did do me favors, free weed, lots of it – and I'd be happy to invest his cash without taking any cut for myself.

I have him interested, I can tell. But then he sees something out the corner of his eye, and he tells me he's gotta go meet some people, and he'll find me later. Then zoom, he's off like a bottle rocket. I trail him inside, and I lose him for a minute – some busty chick, busty because she's a little overweight but that's fine, she wants to do a shot with me, and that's okay, I'm good with shots. We slam back tequila shooters with the lime and the salt while the techno is doing its thump, thump, thump and the red Christmas lights are winking to the beat even though its summertime, and yay, whatever. She takes a picture of me with her cell phone. Everybody's having a good time, and for a second I forget why I'm even here.

Then I see Jimmy coming downstairs with a metal suitcase.

Yeah. This metal suitcase.

I hang back and trail him – he's out through the kitchen and into a dark two-car garage. I follow him out there, and I duck behind a Range Rover and then, boom, the lights come on.

"Damn, man," I hear Jimmy say. "My eyes, that's bright."

From where I'm at, all I can see is feet. I see three pairs. I see Jimmy's high-tops. I see a pair of scuffed black loafers. And then I see a pair of white sneakers on small, stubby feet.

Nobody says anything, so Jimmy has to fill the space: "It's cool, you just surprised me is all. Hey, what's up? I got your message, I brought the case. I don't know what the problem is, not like you guys do a recall on this product, right–" And he laughs, a nervous heh-heh-heh. "So, what's up? I'm good to go in case you were–"