Johan was out of his depth, but he wasn’t going to let these fucking cholos walk all over him. He didn’t think they’d kill him. He had a line on what they wanted. He was the hand that feeds.

“No,” he said to Francisco, knowing he had to stake his claim, take no shit. It’s what Gottfrid the Bird would do. “This is good ice, and they know it. Tell them fifteen and twenty-seven. I’ll consider a deeper discount if they buy in larger quantities.”

Francisco told them. They laughed. There was a rapid-fire exchange in Spanish, more laughter. Francisco’s grin was wide and ugly.

He said, “They want to know where you get this. You suck a big dick? Uh? A dick?”

Johan was green but not stupid. He’d done his homework. With a little footwork, selling in small quantities with the kind of profit margin good meth can fetch, they could turn fifteen K into thirty-five easily. Probably more.

“Tell them it doesn’t matter where I got it,” Johan said. “Only thing they need to know is that I can make them a lot of money.”

The negotiation continued. Johan spoke only to Francisco, shouldering the jibes and laughter. He was asked twice who his manufacturer was. At one point, Miguel threw a lit cigarette at him, but that was as hostile as it got. The Mexican thugs were enjoying themselves, playing with the rich güero. Johan had what they wanted, though. It didn’t feel like it, but he was in control.

They eventually agreed on a price. Benito, who’d done most of the talking, spat into his palm and held it out. Johan shook his head and made a fist. They bumped. Welcome to the USA.

Five months later, Francisco got arrested for drug possession and was deported back to Mexico. Johan started to make the drops alone—he knew the deal: two kilos of crystal flat-packed into three pizza boxes; $48,000 in twenties slotted into the insulated pizza bag. Easy money. See you in two weeks.

Johan gave Ramón thirty percent and kept the rest. He stashed most of it, but spent some on video games, computer systems, new tech, clothes, a neon kit for the ’Vette, bling, hookers, a big-ass TV, shit he didn’t even need. Nobody asked where he got the money, because he’d always had it.

It was perfect. But nothing perfect can last forever. On Johan’s fourth solo drop, he handed over the three pizza boxes, just like always, but the Mexicans didn’t hand anything back. Miguel was slouched across a dirty sofa with a .45 in his lap. Chico smoked weed, leaning against the wall. Benito just looked at him, his lips turned down beneath his pencil mustache.

“Problem?” Johan asked.

“No more with you,” Benito mumbled, and gestured toward the door. “We finished. You go.”

Johan frowned, spread his hands: What the fuck?

“Go,” Benito insisted.