"Let me guess. Sandra set it up for you?"

"Yeah, so?"

"So you need to stop dealing with that b.i.t.c.h." Sardul reached for the bong and filled its chamber with smoke.

"Watch it, man. I used to be married to that b.i.t.c.h."

Sardul extracted the bowl from the bong and cleared the chamber. Water gurgled, and a stream of smoke shot into his lungs. "She's not a bad person. She's just bad for you." Smoke escaped from his nostrils and lips as he uttered these words.

"She's trying to help me out. She's trying to do me a favor."

"You ever ask yourself why? She has a new man. She's pregnant. She just wants to be able to enjoy her co-op and her nanny without feeling guilty about your drunken a.s.s."

Shez sighed and shook his head. "I guess I'll have a small hit."

"It's good s.h.i.t," said Sardul. "From BC this time."

Shez smoked, then licked his lips. "It's like fruity or something."

"Exactly. It tastes like fruit, and it's got blue hairs. We're calling it Blueberry Bud."

"Yo," said Shez. "I need a little of this Blueberry Bud."

"Yeah, no kidding. You only come by when you need a re-up."

Shez giggled.

"What's so funny?" asked Sardul.

"Nothing," he lied. He was amused, though. Sardul was imitating the TV again. These days it was The Wire. It used to be Goodfellas or Scarface.

Sardul walked toward a door on the wall behind his television. "Whatever," he said. "You laugh like a little girl." He opened the door and, like a gentleman, motioned for Shez to pa.s.s through first. Sardul followed, closing the door behind him.

Sardul's office was more of a large closet. An imposing metal desk hulked against a wall and a filing cabinet stood next to it. The cabinet contained time sheets and invoices from his roofing business, which didn't function during winter. Sardul sat down on his Aeron chair and reached for the safe underneath his desk. Shez stared at a framed photograph of him and Sardul at the 1999 MTV Music Awards. Both of them were wearing tuxedos, and Sardul dangled an arm around Shez's neck. He was holding up two of his fingers, as if to say, Wa.s.sup, homie? not Peace.

Sardul had rung Shez's doorbell when the boys were nine, just a few weeks after Sardul's family had moved to America. He had on one of those little-kid turbans and asked if Shez wanted to play. Shez taught him how to play stickball, and they became best friends.

Shez took some distance in high school, when he wanted to cease being just another dorky Jersey dothead. His walls stayed up until he got his first whiff of success, when he realized he needed a friend he could trust. He needed someone who would be happy for him, not envious. Sardul didn't hold any grudges. He held Shez's hand through the divorce. He was in the hospital when Shez's dad was on a respirator, and when he died.

The safe door swung open, and Shez's heart started pounding. He admired Sardul's penchant for neatness. Wads of tens and twenties were neatly stacked at the bottom of the safe. Then came four large Tupperware containers of high-grade marijuana and a digital scale. Shez always flinched at the sight of Sardul's Glock, but Sardul promised him he didn't keep it loaded.

"So what you need?" asked Sardul. He took out the scale, and then the pot. The room began to smell skunky.

Shez was about to answer, but Sardul c.o.c.ked his head toward the door.

"What is it?" Shez asked.

"You hear that?"

"No. I don't hear anything. You're just stoned." Shez listened and did hear footsteps, though.

Sardul took his gun out of the safe. The doork.n.o.b began to rattle. The door opened.

Sardul's aunt was standing there, smiling.

Sardul sighed and shook his head. "Jesus, you scared the s.h.i.t out of me." He put his pistol in his pocket. "What is it?" he said, switching to Punjabi.

"I need money," the woman answered.

"For what?"

"To feed your big belly."

"How much?"

Aunty held her thumb and index finger a centimeter apart. Sardul opened his safe again and handed her a wad of twenties. She put them in her coat pocket and walked out the door.

"Knock next time!" Sardul screamed after her.

"I don't need to knock in my own house," she called back.

Sardul closed the door and locked it this time. "So, what do you need?" he said again.

"A quarter."

Sardul handed Shez a Tupperware container filled with a quarter-pound of pot.

"Not a QP," said Shez. "A quarter-ounce."

"I thought you said you were done, by the way."

"I am. I'm just doing someone a favor."

Sardul pushed his scale in front of Shez, and Shez placed marijuana on it until the number 7 appeared in red. He closed the Tupperware and handed it back to his friend, but Sardul began to scowl and shake his head.

"What?" said Shez.

"I always tell you-round up, not down. I've got a rep to maintain."

Shez threw on another bud, and 8.2 grams now rested on the scale.

Sardul nodded in approval. "You're a talented man," he said. "But business just isn't your thing."

Shez stood with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie at a bus stop near the corner of Newark and Central. The wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped. Two Filipino women in high heels emerged from the nearby probation office and lit up cigarettes next to him. They shivered and linked their arms together. A bus arrived and carried them away. He was waiting for the 86, but it never came. He looked at his watch: 4:45. s.h.i.t, he thought. He was cutting it close.

The reality of his day and decisions suddenly became clear to him. He wanted to play music again, but his simple life of pot and royalty checks was cozy. He wanted to change, but just thinking about change was draining. He had sabotaged himself. Again. He felt ashamed.

An 80 bus pulled up, and Shez asked the driver if something was wrong with the 86. The driver told him the 86 didn't stop here. Shez decided he would take the PATH to Grove Street and walk to Hamilton Park from there. He could deliver the bag and get right back on the train. He would make it to his meeting with time to spare. He took the marijuana out of his backpack and slipped it underneath the elastic of his boxers. They often searched Shez's bags on the train because of his beard and skin tone, but they never searched his body. The baggie chafed his p.e.n.i.s as he walked toward Journal Square.

He entered the terminal and waited on the platform amidst a crowd of tired brown and black faces. Everyone stared up at the TV screen streaming outdated weather reports and incorrect train times. Trains heading to Newark arrived and left on the other side of the tracks, but all trains to New York were behind schedule. Shez tensed up again. Time wasn't on his side.

A train bound for the World Trade Center finally arrived, and he got on board. It was one of those new trains, the ones with shiny blue interiors. A couple of seats were empty, but he stood by the doors. A man standing across from Shez stared at him. He was wearing a suit and had a silver stud in his left ear. He had wide shoulders and a leather briefcase. Shez put his backpack on the ground, and the man's eyes followed the bag.

Shez's phone began to buzz. He removed it from his cargo pants. Nicholas had sent him an SMS. You coming or what? it read.

The shame Shez had been feeling suddenly turned to anger. He was angry at himself, and p.i.s.sed at Nicholas. He looked at his watch. It was 5:12. Maybe he could do everything-drop off the bag and even pick up his tweed jacket. But what was the point? He didn't owe this customer-ex-customer-anything.

The train barreled toward Grove Street, and Shez started punching in a message. Sorry man, can't help you. No more hats ... Ever! He pressed the send b.u.t.ton, but the phone told him his message didn't go through. He noticed his signal strength was low-only one bar left, and even that bar began to flash. He held the phone up toward the ceiling of the train, hoping for a stronger signal. He noticed the businessman with the earring was still staring at him.

He tried sending again with his arm closer to the window, but the text refused to go through. His arm dropped to his side, and he sighed. He felt eyes bearing down on him. He looked up and saw the businessman glaring at him. The man's green eyes were wide. The man's face was clenched.

"Do you have a problem?" Shez asked him.

"Yeah, I do, actually," said the man. "What were you just doing?"

"Why?" Shez wanted to unleash his anger, but remembered the pot in his crotch.

"Because it looked a little suspicious."

"It's none of your business what I was doing."

"Yes it is. My safety is my business."

"What?" said Shez. "You've got to be kidding me."

"I'm not kidding, and I wouldn't mess around if I were you. What do you have in that bag?"

Shez began to sweat. The train pulled into Grove Street, and he was relieved. He disembarked, but the man followed him onto the platform. Shez saw the man walk toward a cop, and he headed for the staircase. He began to climb the stairs, the seven-no eight-grams of pot pressed against the skin near his groin. He was almost at the turnstiles. If he could make it through, he'd be free. He was on the last step when a voice called out.

"Excuse me!" it shouted. "Sir, hold up. Sir, stop where you are. Police!"

Shez froze. Then he slowly turned around.

"Get back here," the cop said.

Shez obeyed him.

The cop, a black guy, made Shez stand beside a door at the far end of the platform. The businessman waited a hundred feet away from him talking to another cop, a white guy. The black cop searched Shez's backpack. He pulled out the Nirvana CD, and then a couple of old issues of DownBeat. "A jazz fan," he said.

His words comforted Shez. Things might end up okay. They might not find the pot. If they let him go, he promised himself he would never sell a dime of pot again. He would get this job and move on with his life. His hopefulness vanished, however, when he saw a third cop walking a German shepherd down the stairs. The burning in his stomach made his moistening pits feel particularly cold.

The new cop and the canine walked toward Shez.

The black cop asked Shez to put his hands against the wall and widen his legs. He patted him down thoroughly but didn't touch his groin. The cop with the dog instructed the animal to give Shez a sniff.

I'm f.u.c.ked, Shez thought. If this f.u.c.king dog barks, I'm busted.

The dog sniffed his shoes, his pants, then his hoodie.

Shez tried to send it subliminal messages. Don't bark, doggie. I'm your friend, doggie.

The dog didn't bark.

"Looks like this one isn't carrying any bombs," said the black cop.

"Come on, boy, let's go," commanded the dog cop. Man and canine went back up the stairs.

"Does this mean I can leave?" asked Shez.

The black cop shook his head. "You're going to have to wait for just a few more minutes. It's your name. It's similar to one that's on a watch list."

"You think I'm a terrorist?"

"No, but I'm sure as h.e.l.l going to check." The cop took out a key and opened the nearby door, which led to an office with a c.r.a.ppy computer and an old phone.

Shez looked at the wall clock. It was six-thirty.

"Have a seat," said the cop.

Shez obeyed him again.

The cop started playing solitaire on his computer. Shez stared at his feet and thought. He thought about asking whether he should consult a lawyer. He thought about asking if he could use the phone to tell Sandra he was going to be late. His father wouldn't have been afraid to do one or both of these things, but Shez knew the best thing was to stay quiet.

The phone rang at 7:34, and the cop answered it. "Okay," he said, "that's what I figured." He put down the phone and looked at Shez. "You're okay; you can go. But I'd think about changing that name if I were you."

Shez surfaced in front of Grove Point. He walked toward the Dunkin' Donuts and pulled out his phone. His meeting should have started fifteen minutes ago. He dialed Sandra.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but I'm going to be a little late."

She asked him how late.

"I can get there in forty-five, an hour max. You're never going to guess what-"

"Forget it," she told him. "I don't want to know."

"Should we reschedule?" he asked, but he knew the answer before she responded.

"I'm done, Shez." She ended the call.

He walked down Newark Avenue and entered his bar. He held up a finger, and the bartender poured a Jameson. He called up Nicholas and told him he'd be there in a little while. Tomorrow he'd go back to Sardul's and get a full quarter-pound.