Black Caesar

Khalil said I had a job to do. Nothing out of the ordinary. Get to the spot. Get the dope. Bring it back home. Cut it then sell it. Simple and plain. Up until that point, all my responsibilities added up to driving people around, selling reefa, and from time to time shelling out a couple bags of ye-yo. So, to Khalil, this was just another day in the neighborhood; for me, it was a test of my character.
I went over the pick up in my head over and over. Drive to the spot, ask for Big Steve. Remember, there is no Big Steve. Steve is but a metaphor for five kilos of crack cocaine. Stand your ground. At first, they may deny Steve exists. He does. Don't play their game. Get the product, give 'em the manila envelope from your back left pocket. Don't smile, don't make small talk. Just get the job done and leave. Drive the speed limit. Don't give the police any reason to stop you, 'cause if they do, you're on your own.
The drive there was long. I wasn't nervous, just anxious. This was the first job that stood between me and my first big payoff. No more dead end jobs, no more living under my mama's shitty ass roof, and damn sho no more being broke. I sat outside the spot for eight minutes going over everything in my head. Big Steve, I'm looking for Big Steve. I looked around. The night was quiet and the air was thick. If I smacked my lips, I could taste the dewy essence of coldness and drugs. I took a deep breath and made slow steps toward the door. Be cool, was the last thing Khalil told me. Make these niggas play yo game.
I ain't have no game to play. I was just another nigga trynna get a cut. I knocked on the door three times. Not loud knocks, not short knocks; just three steady knocks. I stood there, waiting. Two seconds later, the door swung open and a big shadow walked through the doorway. He stood there staring at me, breathing in my smell, reading my face. He didn't say anything.
"I'm lookin' fo Big Steve." I said.
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