Lot by Bryan Washington;

Author:Bryan Washington;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Random House LLC
Published: 2019-03-18T16:00:00+00:00

SOUTH CONGRESS

The pretty ones always came looking for pills. Blonde and dazzling. Fresh from the Roxy. Glittered dresses and caramel lip gloss, and Raúl couldn’t help but drool, just a little, as they slumped through the Corolla’s open passenger window, poking the length of his seat belt. In the passenger seat, Avery was suave, or whatever passed for that at forty—all Yes ma’am, and Wouldn’t you know, beautiful, and Of course I saved my good shit for you—but it was Raúl who blushed when they howled his name, days past drunk, Hoe-la Rah-hool, Did you miss us Rah-hool, Give me a kiss over here Rah-hool, until Avery finally waved them away, twenties folded under his palms, yelling at the kid to drive and keep his eyes on the fucking street.

Raúl could usually tell which drugs they were looking for just by the corner they chose. He’d gotten good at that. They’d park on Congress for however long it took, until the pickups cruised under the streetlamps on McKinney—or the bimmers by Rusk, the purple minivans near the community garden—and he’d lean into the backseat for the little black JanSport, sifting through baggies sealed with rubber bands and tape. Everything had a label. It was Avery’s call who got what bag. Because everyone, according to Avery, had a type, some nasty little vice.

Kush was all the bums could afford. Spice for the Arabs bussing tables on Gray. The doctors asked for coke and the valets asked for coke and the oil and gas crowd wanted whatever cost the most. E for the housewives, hash for the doormen, and pot for anyone who didn’t know what they were looking for until Avery asked respectfully, demurely, if a little cannabis would do. The girls from the Roxy asked for their usual, a pack of poppers, and Raúl unearthed the baggies from his jacket like a budget magician.

Raúl didn’t deal, in the beginning, or ever. He just drove. At first the roads made no sense but eventually he figured them out. Fannin hooked into Dallas. La Branch sat across from Austin. Streets ran in conjunction, a tangle of dirty shoelaces. It wasn’t long before Avery stopped quarterbacking from the passenger seat, and Raúl didn’t mind the silence, he actually sort of welcomed it, until he looked over to find him snoring, dead to the world.

Some nights they just cruised and cruised. Stopping and turning. Breaking before the expressway.

But mostly they had business. A drop here, a sure thing there. They’d wait until the cops packed it in, creeping around the same avenues. Then one evening, early on, Raúl blew through a light, and a siren wailed a lone note before the flash went off behind him. He nearly shit himself. Months and months of riding dirty all over Houston, and here he was: about to be deported for missing a red.

Except Avery woke up. He rolled down his window, called the cop by name—Jeremiah! They done switched you up!—and Officer Jeremiah Stewart blinked, stuttering,

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