Coke, and an apple turnover for dessert.
“I need to find my woman. Her name’s Eve. It’s been seven years, but I love her like it was the night we met.”
“What exactly did you do, Ride?”
“I hit someone. A few times. They said it was assault. I’m back. But things done changed.”
“Don’t you have any friends who know her and where she is now?”
“I thought I had homeys but it turned out I didn’t,” Ride said.
He had been the muscle for Tim Tim Mosley, a salty Jamaican with a connect in Miami and a taste for rocking Clarks Wallabees back when selling crack was wack (and extremely lucrative). Tim Tim was a character. If he wore brown Clarks the laces would be red, or if the pair were black the laces were blue. Ride met him one afternoon at a basketball tournament at the Tilden projects. Ride had once been a promising high school athlete, but too much McDonald’s and a bad left knee cost him a career.
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