Bronx Noir

I’ve been running for six months now. What from? you ask. The answer isn’t that simple. To find the right answer, you have to ask the right question. So let’s try that again. The question is, What am I chasing and who’s chasing me?

In certain circles, they call me Ice T, but my name, date of birth, and Social Security number change more often than songs on Hot 97. I’m a fugitive. I’m a tweaker. Today I’m lost, just holding on for dear life. My minutes are running low. Any day now the heat will come knocking with an all-expensepaid ticket to the not so far off Island—the carcarel hell that will soon be my home. Face it; there are only so many places the Bronx will let you hide. Nothing changes, the streets are still watching.

Here I am, spun out on crystal meth once more. I stink and I’m weak. I’m penniless and friendless. No more credit cards to squeeze dry, no more checks to wash. The spreads are all used up. What’s a spread? you ask. It’s basically everything you need to know about a person to rob them of everything they have. Cough up 250 bucks and I’ll get you everything you need to be John Smith today and Michael Phillips tomorrow.

I might look and feel like shit right now, but after taking a shower and putting on an Armani suit, I could talk a pretty bank teller into doing just about anything. Granted, of course, the vic’s got decent credit and hasn’t notified the bank. I sometimes wonder why they call my racket “victimless” crime. I’ve left hundreds of victims in my wake. But let me tell you, it takes balls to walk into a bank and cash a check that’s hotter than the surface of the sun. You gotta have heart, but you also need brains, wit, and charm. You have to know how to talk to people. Those stick-up kids I met the last time I was on Rikers Island would put a cap in your ass in a heartbeat, but they wouldn’t touch my racket if their lives depended on it.

It takes a good measure of intestinal fortitude to hustle banks, but I’m a bona fide addict. From the high-end hookers to the high-priced hotels, from the grams of ice to the pure ounces of MDMA, somehow I had to support this lifestyle. Ice, my drug of choice, is driving this bus. Hence the street moniker Ice T, bestowed upon me by my dealer.

Those days have lost their luster. Every bank and plush hotel in and around the five boroughs is on alert for this “multi-state offender” known to defraud innkeepers and bankers alike.

Life has taken that proverbial turn for the worse. I need a place to stay and a chance to stave off the creepy meth paranoia that’s quickly approaching. That’s what six straight sleepless nights will do to you.

The streets of the Bronx at 3, from Gun Hill Road to 161st Street, have morphed into a bizarre netherworld of voracious fiends, dealers, hookers, and the hungry. Tonight, I’m one of them.

Broke and scared, I call Heidi’s pad looking for Billy. He’s my “business partner.” Heidi is his girl and she’s a sweetheart. She spends her days smoking shards and her nights turning tricks. Sometimes I wonder if Billy is her man or her pimp. He’s my partner in crime, but hardly a friend. I’m always welcome in their home, but that comes with a cost. Any devious heist Billy has planned will now include me. Nothing in this life is free. They’re never without crystal meth, which they always share, without question. Once I hit that pipe, I will agree to whatever scam he has in mind, usually cashing some dirty check. At times like this I’ll pounce on any opportunity to line my pockets. Billy’s generous with his drugs and the loot we make. I usually get half. He’s also smart, never taking the chance of cashing checks himself.

I failed to mention that Billy is also my dealer. Whatever money I make with the check and credit card cons ends up going right into his pocket for a few grams of ice, and again I find myself at square one.

“I’m spun out and the warrant squad is on my ass,” I say with a shaky tone. Billy senses the desperation in my voice when I call him from Jerome Avenue. Visions of dollar signs dance in his head. The last thing I want is to be part of another heist. I soon would have no choice. He’s a viper with a clean face and he’s turning me into a monster like him. There’s some devil in me—he didn’t craft it, but he promised life to it if I would just ride with him.