Pain wanted to knock Paco on his ass, but he was sure the bodyguards would cut him down for it. He had to play it cool until he got what he needed. “Paco, you know me and you too cool to be beefing over some short paper. I’ll tell you what, hook a nigga up and when I get paid for this show I’m doing tonight, I’ll come drop that bread off to you.”

Paco was still breathing heavily in Pain’s face, but some of the anger in his eyes had drained away. He motioned to one of the bodyguards, who tossed him a large Baggie. “Pain,” he said, holding the Baggie between his fingers, “I’m gonna do this for you, but I want my money tomorrow. Not the day after, not when you get your royalties. I want it tomorrow.”

“I got you.” Pain reached for the bag, but Paco snatched it away.

“I’m not fucking around with you, man. You’re deep enough in debt to me as it is, and I’m not comfortable with it. Pretty soon everyone is gonna think they can shit on me.” Paco extended the bag and snatched it back again. “You take this package and the clock starts ticking, we clear on that?”

Pain looked at the bag hungrily and could almost feel the icy burn of the cocaine in his nostrils and throat. His rational mind told him not to take it, but the runny nose and hot flashes were telling him otherwise. Thinking of nothing but getting the monkey off his back, Pain took the package. “Yeah, we’re clear.”

“Dawg, you gotta roll,” Larry urged Paul.

“I don’t think so, man. I might just chill with Marlene tonight,” Paul said.

“Come on with that shit, Paul, you can chill with Marlene tomorrow night. You need to be at this spot.”

“Larry, you know I really don’t do the club like that. All it’s gonna be is a bunch of niggaz trying to holla at these chickenhead-ass broads. I don’t feel like getting caught up in that.”

Larry looked at Paul as if he didn’t have a clue. “See, any other night you might be right, but tonight is different. Bad Blood is performing at the joint, kid. You know how many bitches is gonna be piled up in that joint?”

“Bad Blood? You mean them li’l niggaz that hang on Forty-second?” Paul asked. Paul knew of the group, but couldn’t profess to know them very well. He had seen Jah with True a few times, but his own relationship with the young cat didn’t go any deeper than an occasional “what’s up.” From what he remembered of them, the whole clique was composed of young knuckleheads throwing stones at the penitentiary.

“Baby boy, them little niggaz done came up. They got a single out right now that got the streets crazy.”