Rex

I pulled up in an Audi to a house, where in the front yard stood a group of gangsters - or I should say, gangbangers - drinking 40s, straight out of a movie. Rex walked out of the crowd - he looked the fiercest of them all - got into my car, and we drove off. I gave him a ride to the courthouse, then we drove back.

One night, he called me into his garage. There was no one around. "What are you doing?" I asked. He looked at me dead in the eye: "I want to see if you're undercover." I was as as paranoid as I usually was, but this time had immediate reason to be. He made out a long white line on a flat surface. I said, somewhat worked-up, "And I don't have to pay for this?" Afterwards, he smiled and changed his tone. "From now on, I'll really hook you up."

We had a good business relationship. He had well-to-do neighbors, so late nights he'd leave my supply in his mailbox. I'd leave the cash, and the next day he would open his mail. On one visit, he said to me, "Listen, my friend, I have to go away to jail for a while. But you can still call the same number, tell my wife that you know Rex. She'll take care of you."

Every so often, from then on, when such adventures became infrequent and regretful, I'd call the number. But after he left, his wife didn't follow through. And Rex never heard from me again.