* * *
They went back to the main road. Back to busy Portal Avenue with the cars and trucks and other kids—other walkers—lollygagging on their way home from school. “What’s the math, Francy?” John John asked as he pulled a wad of sandwich bags from his pocket.
Francy was the smartest Low Cut when it came to numbers. She could break it all down in her head in a way that would’ve taken Bit and John John a calculator to do, and Trista probably two pages of long division.
“Eighteen pieces. We do bundles of three. That’s six bundles. Sell them for a dollar a pop.”
“That’s only six bucks,” Bit said.
“Yeah, and that’s enough,” John John replied.
“No. We need more. We can get more.” Bit had turned around and was walking backward so he could look his friends in their faces. “I know these guys. I mean, I know these kinds of guys. They don’t carry change. Ever. So we charge them $1.50 and they’ll give us two. Matter of fact, because we don’t even have time for all these transactions, let’s just do three bundles of six. Two fifty a pop. They’ll all pay three, and—”
“We’ll walk with nine.” See, even though Francy was the best with math, Bit was the best with hustle. No doubt about it.
When they got to Placer Street—which they’d practically run to after figuring out the numbers—they stopped on the corner, out of breath, and organized the candy. Three Mary Janes and three Life Savers in three bags.
Trista slid her phone from her back pocket again. “It’s three forty-four. We got fifteen minutes.”
“Gotta make this quick,” Francy said, twisting the bags, tying knots at the tops of them.
A block down the street they came up to a building that looked like an old house but had a sign out front. PLACER POOL.
The Low Cuts stood outside, stared at the building for a moment, working up the nerve to go in. And whether the nerve was worked up or not, once Bit said, “Ready?” he took off for the door. It chimed when he pushed it open and stepped into the smoky building, John John, Trista, and Francy following close behind.
Silence, except for one pool ball smacking against another. Then total silence. Old men, like scraggly human cigarettes with non-human cigarettes dangling from their mouths, all turned and looked. And after a few awkward seconds, Bit ballooned his chest with bravery, rolled his shoulders back, and said, “Candy for sale.”
A man came from behind an old wooden bar. “Kid, you can’t be in here.” Bit knew he couldn’t be in there. He knew none of them could be in there. But he had been watching this place for a while. He’d been sitting across the street checking out who was going in and how long they stayed. The smoke that came screaming out every time the door opened. The cussing men who went on about losing money and the laughing men who bragged about winning some. This was a place for pool players, but more than that, Bit knew it was a place for hustlers.
“Don’t I know you?” another man said.
“Don’t matter if you know me,” Bit shot back. “Me and my friends selling candy. Say buy or say bye.” John John, Trista, and Francy were impressed by that line. They’d heard Bit talk like this before. This wasn’t the first time they’d done this. They’d walked into a bingo hall once and heard him tell an old lady he was her troll doll, the only good luck charm she’d ever need. But this time was different. There was a knife in his voice. Something sharp they’d never heard.
And the guy did know him. Knew him from the neighborhood. That guy had fixed his mother’s car once. And Bit had stood next to him, mean-mugging the whole time the guy was under the hood just in case he tried to cheat his mom.
“We don’t want no candy. So how about—”
“We got Mary Janes and Life Savers.” Francy joined in, held the bags up like they were full of gold coins.
“Yeah. We got Mary Janes and Life Savers,” Bit said, doubling down.
“Mary Janes?” a man wearing an eye patch called from the back of the room. He set his pool cue down on the table next to him and walked toward the Low Cuts. “What y’all know ’bout Mary Janes?”
“We know we got ’em. And Life Savers, too.”
“Individually wrapped,” John John added, just because it was a detail Ms. CeeCee kept adding.
The man chuckled. “I can’t remember the last time I had a Mary Jane.” He slapped the guy next to him. “You?”
“Been a long time. Used to go down south to visit my grandpappy and he’d always have that kind of stuff in his pocket. Be all melted and still be good. And Grandma used to give us strawberry candy, and when she ran out, she’d give us cherry Life Savers.”
“And them butterscotch.” Another man.
“Whew, and don’t get me started on them, uh… them Squirrel Nut Zippers.” This came from the guy who ran the place.
“All this is great, gentlemen…” Bit put a pothole in the middle of memory lane. “But like the man said, we ain’t allowed in here, so—”
“How much?” Eye Patch asked.
Bit turned and looked at his friends. Bounced his eyebrows just slightly. Just enough for them to see.
“Bundles of six. Three of each candy. Two fifty.”
“Two fifty! That’s penny candy! At least it was when I was coming up.” Eye Patch couldn’t believe it.
“My mother said gas was a dollar when she was a kid,” Bit shot back.
“And I heard Jordans cost, like, eighty bucks,” John John followed, again stealing Ms. CeeCee’s line. “Guess everything costs more over time.”
The Low Cuts, in what seemed like one fluid motion, all shrugged.
“I’ll tell you what ain’t never been cheap—kids,” Eye Patch said.
“And I’ll tell you what’s hard to find—Mary Janes,” one of the other men said, digging in his pocket. He clearly had no idea that there was a woman who sold them right around the corner. “You said two fifty?”
“Yeah,” Bit said, bouncing on his toes, anxious.
“You got change?”
Bit looked at his friends again. Bounced his eyebrows again. “Nope.”
The man pulled three bucks from his pocket. Handed it to Bit. Francy handed over the first bag.
Trista spoke up. “Thank you.”
“Hey, I took them dollars off him,” he replied to Trista, but pointed to a red-haired man, who just laughed and muttered something they couldn’t hear. “Eight ball, corner pocket. Cha-ching!” The buyer pumped his fist.
And that was it. The last two bags were snatched up immediately, because it turned out, the thing about men in pool halls is none of them want to be outdone. For John John, Francy, and Trista, it was like looking at a roomful of bigger Bits. In the future.
Nine dollars later, the Low Cuts were out the door and almost out of time. Trista didn’t bother checking her phone. They knew they were late because they saw the ice-cream truck pulling off from its usual post, in front of the fifth house on Placer Street. It hadn’t been there when they’d gone into the pool hall—it arrived at four every day—and never stayed if kids weren’t waiting there to buy anything—gone by 4:02.