Page 40 of Money Shot

I glanced around the house. Spongebob Squarepants played on the flat-screen television that was sitting on the floor beside the only couch in the small living room. The place was a disaster, and smelled like a combination of piss and pizza.

I shifted my eyes from the living room to where he was sitting. “And you understand thirteen grand is a lot of money?”

“Uh huh,” he said.

“You also understand it really doesn’t matter if it’s thirteen grand or thirteen cents, you made a promise. And you broke it. You understand that?” I asked.

“Yeah, I guess. We were gonna…I mean I…”

“Shut up. Jesus fucking Christ. You understand you broke a promise, right?” I asked.

He scratched his face and stared blankly in my direction.

“You’re never going to make it if you don’t change the way you’re doing things, kid. Show respect, get respect. Understand?” I asked.

He nodded his head.

“Where’s your phone?” I asked.

He narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his brow. “Huh?”

“Your fucking phone, dipshit. Where’s your phone? You’re expecting someone, and I need to see who. Where is it?” I asked.

“Think I knocked it on the floor,” he said as he pointed underneath the table.

I glanced down at the floor. A phone sat a few inches from the chair I was sitting in. I leaned down, picked it up, and attempted unsuccessfully to unlock the screen. Growing increasingly frustrated, and wondering when and if his friend or friends were going to show up, I stood from my seat and walked in his direction.

As I stepped to his side, I pointed the pistol at his head and held the phone in front of his face.

“Reach up, unlock the screen, and do it slowly. If you reach for this piece, I’ll blow what little brains you have all over this fucked up green carpet. Understand?” I asked.

“Yeah, Dude,” he said as he reached for the phone. “How’d you…uhhm…how’d you, oh fuck man…”

After he pressed a series of buttons on the screen and nodded his head, I raised the phone and opened the text screen.

After a quick study of his text messages, it appeared Lamar was on his way. I glanced at my watch, realized it was definitely not three o’clock like it depicted, and glanced at the screen of the phone. If Lamar was going to be on time, and most drug dealers never were, he was five minutes late.

“Lamar carry a gun?” I asked.

He stopped scratching his neck and glanced in my direction. “Huh?” he murmured.

“Does Lamar carry a fucking gun?” I asked as I walked to the table.

“Uhhm. No, Dude,” he said.

“If he walks in here strapped, I’m going to shoot you first, and then I’m going to shoot his dumb ass. Does he carry a gun? I asked again.

He widened his eyes and shook his head from side-to-side. “No, Dude, I swear.”

“When he gets here, you’re going to tell him just what you told me, understand? No more, no less. ‘It’s open’ is all you’re going to say, understand?” I asked.

“Uh huh,” he responded.

Some of the people I encountered through my day-to-day activities were more intelligent than others. A good portion of them were simply people who got caught up in trouble, and were incapable of meeting their commitments. Others were questionable, and some were just plain stupid. A quick study of the text messages on the phone provided enough information for me to believe the scab covered fool on the floor was the biggest idiot I had ever had the experience of encountering. It seemed every drug deal he made was detailed in the form of a text message on his phone for all to see.

“You know the government can read these messages without a search warrant, right?” I asked.

“Huh?”