The two policemen weren't just at his door; they were an infection in his space, their presence contaminating the thin veil of safety he tried to maintain for Shona. The one in the doorway, Corporal Munroe—a man with a thick neck and a sweat-stained shirt stretched over a gut that spoke of too many bribes spent on cheap rum—smiled. It was a predatory, knowing thing.
"Kyle Wilson?" Munroe repeated, his voice a lazy drawl that didn't match the sharpness in his eyes. "We hear yuh a big man now. Doing big tings."
Kyle's blood ran cold, but his face, through a sheer force of will he didn't know he possessed, remained still. The two hundred-dollar bills in his pocket felt like they were burning a hole through his shorts, screaming their origin. He saw Shona's wide, terrified eyes over the cop's shoulder. *Play dumb. Always play dumb.*
"Corporal Munroe," Kyle said, nodding with a respect that tasted like bile. "A just little odd jobs, suh. Sweep-up. Carry tings. Nutten big."
The other cop, a younger, leaner man with a constant nervous twitch in his jaw named Ramsey, pushed off the car and took a step closer. "Odd jobs pay in US dollars now? Interesting."
So they had been watching. They knew about the gas station. Maybe they'd even seen him with Dujuan. The cold fear in Kyle's gut solidified into a hard, sharp stone of dread. This wasn't a casual visit. This was a shakedown.
Munroe's smile didn't waver. He took a step into the shack, his bulk blocking the light. Kyle instinctively moved forward, putting himself between the cop and his mother's bed.
"Yuh mudda look sick," Munroe said, his voice dropping to a false, sympathetic tone. "Cancer, true? A terrible ting. Medicine expensive. Food expensive." He let the words hang in the stifling air, each one a carefully placed brick in the wall he was building around Kyle. "A good son provide fi him family. A respect dat. But inna dis community… everybody haffi contribute. Everybody pay dem dues."
He was standing right over Kyle's mother now. She was awake, her eyes wide with a fear that had nothing to do with her illness. She knew the sound of authority that meant trouble.
"Please," she whispered, her voice a dry rustle. "Him just a boy."
"Him a man now, Miss Wilson," Munroe said, not looking at her, his eyes locked on Kyle. "Men have responsibilities. To dem family. And to di community… and dem who protect it."
The message was clear. The protection he offered wasn't from rival gangs; it was from *him*. Pay, or life becomes impossibly difficult. Pay, or maybe we find something to charge you with. Pay, or perhaps your sick mother has an unfortunate accident when we come to ask more questions.
Kyle's mind raced. This was the other side of the coin Dujuan had shown him. Power wasn't just about instilling fear in rivals; it was about navigating the predators who already had the badge. This was the "connection" Dujuan mentioned. The tax for doing business.
"Wha' kind of contribution?" Kyle asked, his voice low, trying to keep it from shaking.
Munroe's smile finally reached his eyes. He liked a quick learner. "A show of good faith. Say… fifty percent."
Kyle almost choked. Half? Half of the two hundred was a hundred dollars. A fortune. For nothing.
Ramsey chuckled, a dry, unpleasant sound. "Think of it as an investment. In yuh future. And," he added, his gaze flicking to Shona, who flinched, "yuh family's safety."
The threat was as blatant as the midday sun. Kyle looked from Munroe's smug face to Ramsey's twitching jaw, to his terrified sister, to his mother's pleading eyes. He had no choice. There was no negotiating with a man who held all the power. He was the boy in the alley, and they were the Zionists with the knife.
His hand dipped into his pocket. He pulled out the two bills. He didn't look at them. He held one out to Munroe.
The Corporal took it, his fingers brushing against Kyle's palm. He didn't even look at it, just folded it and tucked it into his breast pocket. "Smart youth. Me know me could reason wid yuh. We will check in next week. Continue wi… partnership."
They left without another word, climbing into their white Toyota and driving off, leaving a cloud of dust and a profound silence in their wake.
The shack felt violated. The whirring of the small fan sounded like a mockery. Kyle stood rooted to the spot, his hand still tingling from the touch of the money, now gone. The triumph of providing, the heady lesson from Dujuan—it all crumbled to ash. He was just a mouse, and the cats had found him.
"Kyle?" Shona's voice was small. "Wha' dem want?"
"Nutten, Shona," he said, the lie ash in his mouth. He turned to his mother. Her eyes were closed, but a single tear traced a path through the sweat on her temple. She knew. She knew exactly what had happened. The shame was a physical weight on his chest, heavier than any bag of cocaine.
He had faced the danger of the streets and won. He had faced the brutality of the trade and survived. But this… this felt like a deeper loss. He had provided, and it had been taken from him in an instant. The power he craved was a distant joke. He was just a source of income for a corrupt cop.
The rest of the day passed in a numb haze. The food they ate for dinner tasted like nothing. The breeze from the fan felt cold. The hundred dollars left in his pocket felt like a taunt. It was enough for now, but next week? What happened when the deliveries got bigger and Munroe's tax grew? He'd be running in circles, risking his neck just to fill a policeman's pocket.
He couldn't sleep. The image of Munroe's smile, the feel of that bill leaving his hand, played on a loop behind his eyes. The feeling of powerlessness was worse than any hunger. He had gotten a taste of control, only to have it ripped away, proving he never had it in the first place.
The next morning, he went to see Biggsy. The shop was crowded with the usual morning crowd getting their breakfast and their numbers slips. Biggsy saw his face and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod toward the back room—the storeroom where Kyle had first seen the operation.
When the coast was clear, Kyle followed him in. The door closed, muffling the sounds of the street.
"Dem find yuh," Biggsy stated, not asked. He was counting a new stack of envelopes.
"Munroe and Ramsey," Kyle said, the names bitter on his tongue. "Dey tax me half. Half! A fi dem say dem will be back next week."
Biggsy grunted, unsurprised. "Welcome to di big league, youth. Politician tax is a cost of business. Like rent."
"How yuh manage it?" Kyle asked, desperation edging his voice. "How yuh mek it work if dem tek half of everything?"
A slow, cunning smile spread across Biggsy's face. "Who say dem tek half of *everything*?"
Kyle stared, confused.
"Yuh think me give dem a full account? A balance sheet?" Biggsy chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "No, man. Yuh pay dem enough fi mek dem feel powerful. Enough fi mek dem leave yuh alone. But yuh never, ever show dem di real books. Yuh understand? Yuh have fi be smarter dan di taxman. Yuh have fi have two sets of numbers. One fi dem. One fi yuhself."
It was another lesson. Deeper and more cynical than the one from Dujuan. This wasn't about fear; it was about deception. About playing the system that was trying to exploit you.
"But… how?" Kyle asked. "Dem watch me. Dem know wha' me deliver."
"Then yuh need a reason," Biggsy said, his voice dropping. "A reason why di pickney dem small. A reason why yuh have less fi give. Maybe di Zionists rob yuh." He leaned closer, his breath smelling of saltfish and mint. "Or maybe… yuh start tekking a little fi yuhself *before* dem tax yuh. A small piece. A commission. Yuh hide it. Yuh build it. So when dem come, yuh have something fi give dem, and yuh still have something fi keep."
Kyle's mind, already calculating, began to spin. Skim off the top. Lie. Cheat the cheaters. The risk was astronomical. If Munroe found out… The image of the boy in the alley flashed in his mind. But the alternative was eternal servitude.
It was a decision. A dangerous, terrifying decision that pulled him deeper into the game than any delivery ever could. It wasn't just about breaking the law anymore; it was about systematically betraying the corrupt law that enforced it.
He was no longer just a courier. He was now an embezzler. A player learning to hide his cards.
He left Biggsy's, the man's words echoing in his head. *Two sets of numbers.* He walked through the lanes, not seeing the people, his mind a whirlwind of schemes and risks. He needed a plan. A place to hide the money. A way to skim the product without Dujuan noticing.
He was so lost in thought he almost didn't see the car. It was the blue Datsun from the gas station. It was parked not on the main road, but tucked into the entrance of a narrow alley he used as a shortcut home.
The window was down. The driver, the same man with the sunglasses, was watching him. He didn't smile. He just gestured with two fingers for Kyle to come over.
Kyle's heart stuttered. This was it. They knew. Biggsy had tested him and was now going to punish him for even thinking about skimming. Or Munroe had talked to him. This was a trap.
Every instinct told him to run. But his feet carried him forward. He approached the passenger window.
The man didn't speak for a long moment, just looked him over. Finally, he said, "Munroe and Ramsey. Dey press yuh?"
Kyle, too startled to lie, just nodded.
The man's lip curled in a faint sneer. "Pigs. Feed dem enough slop, dey happy." He reached into his sun visor again. But this time, he didn't pull out an envelope. He pulled out a small, sleek, black pistol.
Kyle's breath caught in his throat. He took an involuntary step back.
The man placed the gun on the passenger seat, right in the open. It was a statement. A threat. An offer.
"Biggsy say yuh smart. Yuh have heart," the man said, his voice still a low, emotionless rumble. "Him say yuh might be ready fi a different kind of work. Di kind weh requires… persuasion."
He nodded toward the gun.
"Di next delivery. Is not a baggie. Is a message. Yuh think yuh can carry dat?"