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“Motherfucking paranoid Leonard,” Ed said to himself, descending the inside stairs four at a time.

At the front door he pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his baseball cap and opened his umbrella, stepping warily into the wet street. The rain had let up to a meager drizzle under a cast-iron sky.

He scanned 116th Street from his front porch, which gave him a clear view all the way down to Riverside west and up to the gates of Columbia east.

He quickly made the ascent up to Broadway, huddling for a moment under the awning of the Chinese restaurant on the corner, blanketed in the smell of greasy wontons and wet newspaper.

With no sign of a maroon Impala, Ed crossed Broadway, walked through the Columbia gates and dodged the scatter of students offering an awkward ‘hello’ to the campus security guard on his way.

Along the brick path, halfway to the steps of the library, he felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. It was Leonard.

“Yeah what is it?”

“Come in Delta Five. This is Echo Seven. We have confirmation,” Leonard said.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Speak English.”

“Roger that, Delta. The bird has landed.”

“Fuck you Leonard!”

“Chill man. Shit.” Leonard said.

“I’m not an air traffic controller. What is it?”

“Fine dickhead. A maroon Impala just pulled up to the northeast corner, on 116th. I think it’s them.”

Ed spun on his heel and started for the intersection.

“Got it. I’m on my way,” Ed said.

“Wait. Hang on,” Leonard said.

“What?”

“Where are you?” Leonard said.

“At Columbia, approaching Broadway. Why?”

“Oh shit,” Leonard said. “Hold up.”

Back at the gates, Ed spotted a late model maroon Impala, rough around the edges, idling next to the Chinese restaurant.

“Another car just pulled up behind the Impala,” Leonard said.

“So what?”

“I don’t know. It’s some kind of official looking sedan. Could be an undercover. It has a big antenna on the back. I fucking told you man! It's a total set-up.”

“You’re being paranoid. I’m going,” Ed said.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Leonard said.

“You’re an asshole,” Ed said, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

***
Richie turned down the stereo of the Impala and scanned the street from deep in his plush bucket seat.

“Fucking college kids all look the same,” he said to himself, flipping the defrost to high to combat the moisture-clouded windows.

“Hurry up motherfuckers. Damn,” he said, nervously tapping a beat on the steering wheel. It was his first week on the job. In the rearview he watched a navy blue sedan pull up behind him.

“Shit,” he said, and recluctantly decided to call Mary, the all-knowing delivery service dispatcher, forever filing her nails on a throne-like couch in Fort Greene.

“Where you at rookie?” she said in her hard Brooklyn voice, snapping her bubble gum into the reciever.

“Sitting here, at 116th.”

“116th? We usually meet them on Claremont. Less traffic.”

“Shit. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Seems obvious.”

“Fucking college kids. So slow,” he said, zipping and unzipping his duffle bag.

Inside was roughly a quarter pound of high-grade hydroponic marijuana, broken into $100 dollar plastic boxes -- Green Kush, Diesel and White Rhino -- bathing the air in its wicked fragrance.

“How long you been there?” Mary said.

“I don’t know. Two, three minutes maybe,” he said, eyeing the sedan behind him.

“Give it five, then take a spin around the block,” she said, matter-of-factly. “If you don’t see him on the way around, then take off.”

“Yeah alright,” he said, the worry bleeding through his voice.

“Something wrong?”

“Nah. It’s nothing. Just some fucker. Pulled up behind me in a big sedan. The kind cops drive. It’s sketching me out, that’s all.”

“Relax rookie,” she said. “If you’re really worried, once the customer gets in, drop him around the corner. Nice and easy. Right?”

“Right.”

“Alright then, call me when you’re back on the road.”

“Wait, Mary?”

“Rich, honey, I got other calls,” she said.

“But like, hypothetically, what happens if I did get popped? Is there a plan or something?”

“Plan? No. There’s no plan because you’re not going to get busted,” she said. “Nobody ever gets busted.”

“But, I mean, what if I did? What am I supposed to do then?”

“It’s not going to happen. If it does, you just sit tight and keep you’re mouth shut. But, if you don’t think you can handle this, then-- ”

“I can handle it, fine.”

“Okay, then I’m going to pretend we never had this conversation,” she said.

“Fine whatever,” he said.

A silent moment passed between them.

“So is it still there?” she said.

“What?”

“The car, numb nuts.”

Richie scoped the sedan in his rearview.

“Yeah, still there.”

“Did anybody get out? Is it parked or what?”

“No, nobody got out.”

“Alright, you know what, fuck this. Richie, I’m hanging up now because you’re starting to bug me out. Don’t freak, okay?”

“Okay.”

He hung up and tried to drown his concern in some loud Biggie, but couldn’t take his eyes off the rearview and the ominous, idling sedan. He pressed the automatic locks.

“Sit tight? Fuck that,” he said, zipping and unzipping his duffle bag again. “Bitch is crazy if she thinks I’m going to jail for this bullshit. I knew I never should have quit Starbucks. At least I had benefits.”

The rain started falling hard again, forcing him to turn on the wipers so he could scan the street.

He was jarred out of his train of thought by a hard knock on the window a moment later.

“Fucking shit,” he said, seized with the impulse to throw the Impala into drive and take off.

Through the rain-blurred driver side window all he could tell for sure was that there was a white guy standing there, motioning for him to open up.

Cops are usually white, he reasoned. Then again, college potheads are also usually white. Fifty-fifty. He held his breath and unlocked the door.

The door swung open revealing a shifty-looking young guy with a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes.

Ed climbed into the passenger side and slammed the door, shaking off his wet umbrella all over the upholstery. Richie glared at him.

“Hey what’s up man,” Ed said.

“Yeah, nothing man. Same old,” Richie said, a little defensively.

“So. You got it?” Ed said, eyeing Richie suspiciously.

“You got the cash?” Richie shot back, eyeing Ed suspiciously.

“Yeah,” Ed said, rummaging in his pocket. “Hundred right?”

Richie nodded and put the car into gear.

“Whoa, hang on,” Ed said, gripping the dash. “Where we going?”

“Just taking a spin around the block,” Richie said, eyes still glued on the rearview.

“Why? What’s up?” Ed said, turning to look back at the sedan.

“What are you looking back there for?” Richie asked.

“Because you did,” Ed said.

“No I didn’t,” Richie said. “I’m just checking shit out, generally.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Ritchie edged the Impala onto Broadway, both of them watching the sedan as discreetly as possible. They both breathed a silent sigh of relief when it stayed put.

He eased the car to a stop at the red light.

“Look man,” Richie said, confidentially, meeting Ed’s eyes for the first time. “You're not a cop or something are you?”

“A cop?” Ed said, dumbfounded. “Why? Do I look like a cop?”

“Just answer the question man,” Ritchie said, instantly regretting asking.

“Why? Are you a cop?”

“Me? Fuck no,” Ritchie said, regarding his own tattooed arms.

Ed presented a wad of wrinkled twenties on the center console.

“Look, I’m in kind of a hurry, so if you don’t mind-- ” Ed said.

"Oh I see. Now you're in a hurry and shit. Pssh," Ritchie mumbled, eyes on the road.

"Sorry man," Ed said, trying not to look incredulous. "How long were you waiting? Like five minutes, tops?"

"Forget it. You sure you're not a cop?" Ritchie asked, his dark eyes drilling into Ed's goofy, unshaven mug, trying to decipher some hidden truth.

“No. What makes you think I'm a cop man? I buy from you guys like once a week.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know that? Plus if you are a cop, and I ask you, then legally you have to tell me.”

“I think that’s just an urban myth dude,” Ed said.

“Fuck it,” Ritchie said, whipping the car to a hard stop on 115th. "Shit is stressing me out."

"You want to smoke?" Ed asked.

Despite himself, Ritchie cracked a smile, his first and only. He removed a box of weed from the duffle bag.

"Nah man. I don't smoke that shit. Makes me paranoid."

They made the exchange, quick and low, and Ed hopped out, hustling back toward Broadway.

“Punk ass pothead,” Ritchie said, pulling away.

***
“So I take it you didn’t get busted then?” Mary said.

“No ma'am,” Richie said, cruising down Broadway solo.

“I told you, paranoid freak.”

“Sketchy ass college boys,” Richie said. “I hate that shit.”

He could hear Mary laughing on the other end.

“Well, get used to it. That’s most of our business,” she said.

Back in the apartment, Ed flung off his shoes and dropped his umbrella in the hallway. He could hear the Simpsons playing on the TV in the living room.

“So did you get busted or what?” Leonard asked from the living room.

“Yeah dumbass. I got busted. That’s why I’m standing here with a bag of weed.”

Ed plopped down on the couch and started packing a bowl. The rain had finally stopped and a thin ray of sunshine poked through the window.

“I swear that sedan looked like an undercover though,” Leonard said. “Didn’t it?”

“Whatever. Next time you’re doing the pick-up,” Ed said. He took a monster hit off the pipe, coughed heartily and passed it to Leonard.

“Fuck that,” Leonard said, flicking the lighter. “Sketchy ass drug dealers.”

“Get used to it dude. It’s the only service that delivers up here.”

“Damn. That sucks,” Leonard said, blowing smoke.

“Yeah, that guy was a freak,” Ed said, feeling better already. “It is tasty weed though.”

“True, true” Leonard said.