His mood was not improved by the ghastly terrain south of Seven Mile Road. Abandoned crumbling houses, lawns overgrown, the stiff grass blowing in the wind off the lake. Now and then, the fluorescent, dead-bone illumination of a late-night mart or liquor store turning anyone caught in it into a zombie. Abandoned cars, broken toys, gardens that looked jungly and foreboding. About a tenth of the houses were occupied.

You didn’t want to be out here if you weren’t really good at the game. This was the big league. Predators or guppies, nothing in between. You could tell the whores from the dealers easily: the dealers looked better. They were everywhere, like specters, standing in the wind, oblivious to its chill. A hoodie over a T-shirt, baggy jeans, big white sneakers off some astronaut’s moonwalk, ball caps worn backwards.

“These guys?” he asked Juba. “They look uncooperative to me.”

They discussed strategy, Jared smiled and licked his dry lips, and, in time, they found their mark. Jared rolled out.

“Yo, little A-rab boy,” said the dealer. “Whatcha yo’ wanna be here fo’? You wanna score? If not, git yo’ ass outta here or some brothahs gonna turn yo’ shit to hurt.”

“Ah, actually,” said Jared, fighting a rise of phlegm in his throat, “I wanted to hook up with some stuff. Hard, you call it, right? Got some pals, we want to try it. That’s what I’m here for.”

The dealer sized him up. “Think yo’ know some shit cuz yo’ calls it hard, just like a bro wif two nines and a mouf-ful of gold and a shiny diamond? What yo’ know? Yo’ don’t know shit.”

Jared shrugged. “But the money is green. That should count for something.”

“Gots to try the ride? Yeah, man, dis shit give yo’ the ride. Yo’ show me the green—or is dis some bullshit fraternity test, see how long yo’ last on Seven Mile?”

“No, no, I have the money,” he said, pulling out his roll. The dealer looked at the thickness of the wad.

“Yo’ heavy, man.”

“Eight hundred, man. I want to buy that much.”

“Yo’ don’t know nuffin’! Yo’ think I got that much? I do nickel and dime bags, man. And it’s late, I done most of my business. Got two nickels and a dime left. My man be comin’ by soon. I got to put in a request, and he go load up. Then yo’ git yo’ eight dimes and go off to yo’ white-boy A-rab par-tay with all dem Beckys.”

“Shit,” said Jared. “How long do I have to stand here?”

“Yo’ come south of Seven Mile, that’s what happens, man. Okay, go ’way. Go back to that car wif yo’ friend. My man be by in a bit.”

“Do I give you money now?”