Part LV - The Machine and the Music
The alarm's digital shriek tore through the pre-dawn black. 5:30 AM. December 21st.
Marcus didn't hit snooze. Though sore from the day spent hunched over an engine block, he rose with the same stiff, economical movements. His knuckles were scabbed, the smell of industrial soap failing to mask the scent of oil ingrained in his skin. This was the day.
Coffee was skipped; he was running on a cold, nervous energy that was better than caffeine. Reaching the warehouse just as the sky turned a dark, bruised purple, he felt the frigid air and saw his breath plume. A walk past the neatly prepped pallets—a testament to the crew's work two days prior—led him to the van. He slid into the driver's seat, the old vinyl cracking in protest. His hand hesitated for just a second as he put the key in the ignition.
He turned the key.
A groan and a low, painful sputter were followed by a sudden, violent ROAR as the engine caught, thundering to life.
Marcus didn't cheer. He just leaned his forehead against the vibrating steering wheel, the sound of the running engine filling the vast, cold space. It wasn't just an engine. It was the sound of victory. It was the sound of the machine, and it was running.
At 8:00 AM, the crew arrived. Elena was first, holding a box of donuts and a thermos of fresh coffee.
"Morning, Marcus," she said, her voice steady and professional, the panic from the 19th gone. "Heard that engine from the corner. Sounds like you got it".
"It'll hold," Marcus said, taking a donut. Arturo followed, just nodding a curt, respectful "Boss" as he passed. The mood was completely different. The fear was gone, replaced by a quiet, professional determination. They had a working van and a clear plan.
With a clipboard in hand, Marcus didn't need to raise his voice. "Alright, listen up. The machine is running. Elena, you're on the manifest. Check off each bundle as it is received. Arturo, you and the team take the van. You have the route map. Hit the small shops first. Radio silence unless it's an emergency. Stick to the plan".
Arturo took the clipboard. "Got it, boss".
The word "boss" landed with a solid, new weight. Led by Elena, the crew loaded the prepped pallets. What would have been an all-morning scramble was done in twenty minutes. It was efficient.
As the van rumbled out of the warehouse, Marcus turned to Rico, who was nervously waiting. "You're with me. We're taking the rest of the TCG decks to Gary on foot".
The remaining 2,030 decks were stacked high on two borrowed hand-trucks. The trek down Figueroa was a long one, the hand-trucks rattling over cracks in the pavement. That clack-clack-clack of the rugged wheels was a loud, jarring sound in the cold morning air.
Rico, his face set in concentration, didn't speak, focusing only on keeping his high, precarious stack from toppling.
Marcus broke the silence once, his voice gruff. "You good with the weight?"
"I got it," Rico grunted, his eyes never leaving the pavement. This wasn't the resentful kid from a few weeks ago; he was just a man doing a job.
They arrived at The Collector's Vault to find Gary fumbling with the keys to his metal gate. His eyes went wide when he saw them.
"That's all of 'em?" Gary grunted, his voice a mix of greed and profound relief. "Thank Christ. I've had kids banging on the glass since the tournament. You're a lifesaver, Marcus".
"It's the last of the unallocated stock," Marcus confirmed. "You get it all, like we discussed".
"Fine, fine. Bring 'em in," Gary said, finally getting the lock open. "I'll get the cash".
Ten minutes later, Marcus walked out of the store, leaving Rico inside to help Gary stack the product. In his hand, Marcus held a heavy, thick bank bag, stuffed with cash. It was the first real capital he had generated entirely on his own. The machine was running.
After sending Rico back to the warehouse to help Elena with the manifests, Marcus spent the rest of his day in the field. His work involved checking in on Arturo's route, securing two new bodega accounts, and troubleshooting a box-count error with a shop owner in Compton. It was the real, grinding work of a general, not a strategist, and he found a quiet satisfaction in it.
The day ended as it began: in the cold, dark warehouse. Marcus was alone, sitting at his small desk under the single bare bulb, the rest of the warehouse in shadow. On the desk in front of him were two piles of money. One was the crisp, thick stack of bills from Gary's bank bag. The other was a smaller, more crumpled pile of ones, fives, and tens—Arturo's cash-on-delivery earnings from the first route.
It was a tangible, logical, cold victory. He counted it all, logged it in his ledger, and locked the heavy bank bag in the steel safe.
While Marcus was closing the safe on his logical victory, Maria was managing her own front. It was midday, and Isaiah was trapped in a warmer, softer prison. Confined to the house in the Charmander onesie, his fever was gone, but Maria's "Iron Law" was absolute: all "work" was forbidden. This left Isaiah feeling dangerously and profoundly bored.
He had stared at the ceiling for an hour. Now, only one "approved" activity remained.
Isaiah sat on the floor with the acoustic guitar, staring at the instrument with pure frustration. His 4-year-old fingers were too small; the strings, too resistant. An attempt to apply his intellect had littered the floor with scraps of paper—crude, 4-year-old scrawls attempting to map out musical scales, though the logic clearly wouldn't translate to the physical world.
He tried to form a G-chord, his small fingers straining and trembling with the effort.
Bzzzt.
A grimace, teeth grinding. He repositioned his fingers, applying precise, calculated pressure.
Thwack.
Letting out an exasperated sigh, his shoulders slumped as he pushed the guitar away. This was pointless.
His gaze lifted, finding Maria in the kitchen washing dishes. A 4-year-old's profound, agonizing boredom finally overrode whatever pride was keeping him silent.
"Mama," he whined, his voice high and petulant.
Maria paused, smiling to herself, before turning around and drying her hands on a towel. "What is it, mijo?"
"I'm bored," he complained. "This is stupid." He kicked the guitar lightly with his foot. "Is there anything else I can do? Can't I... review the inventory sheets?"
Maria's smile was gentle and unbreakable. "No inventory sheets." She walked over and, to his surprise, sat down on the floor with him.
"It's not stupid," she said softly, taking the guitar into her own lap. "You're just trying to fight it. It's not a spreadsheet. It's not a war".
"It's inefficient," Isaiah grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest, the orange onesie crinkling.
"It's not about that." Maria took his small left hand. "You're trying to do too much". Placing one of his fingers on the high E string, on a single fret, she instructed, "Just press. Not hard. Just... there".
She used her other hand to pluck the string for him.
A single, clear note rang out. Twinggg.
Isaiah stopped, his head tilting. The pure, analog frequency seemed to fascinate him. It was the first time he'd made a sound that wasn't a failure.
"Do it again," he commanded, his voice suddenly sharp with interest, not frustration.
Maria smiled, placed his finger back, and plucked it again. Twinggg.
"Now you," she said.
His first attempt to press and pluck with his thumb resulted in a Thwack.
"No, mijo. Press here," she corrected, adjusting his fingertip a millimeter. "Now".
The next pluck was a clean Twinggg.
A slow, non-strategic smile of pure, 4-year-old satisfaction spread across his face. He'd isolated and solved the first variable. A final pluck—Twinggg—confirmed it.
Maria just sat with him on the floor, her arm around his small shoulders. The child was engaged.
As the evening settled, Maria moved from the floor to the old rocking chair in the corner of his bedroom, sipping a cup of hot coffee. The house was quiet, but not silent.
She watched Isaiah, who remained on the floor, completely absorbed in his new task. A deep, quiet concentration had replaced his earlier frustration.
His thumb plucked the string.
Twinggg.
A pause as he repositioned his small finger.
Twinggg.
A longer pause.
Twinggg.
Maria closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the chair, and took a slow, satisfied sip of her coffee. The Iron Law was working.