The money was a problem.
For two months after the big score, the fifty thousand dollars—minus the fifteen hundred dollars I lost trying to invest in Apple stock, which was a chump move that taught me about time horizons—sat hidden in various places around our walk-up. It was clean money, legally speaking, because I hadn't spent it yet. But it was dirty money because it smelled like fear, and Mama Sofia was getting nervous about the fires.
The cash was an anchor, and I needed to exchange it for a clean future. That meant I had to start the six-month laundering process.
My Divine Revelations taught me that in America, the best place to hide a secret is in plain sight. And in 1976, there was no plain sight bigger than the Bicentennial.
July Fourth was a madhouse. Operation Sail had brought hundreds of tall ships up the Hudson River, and the whole city smelled like gunpowder and patriotic sweat. People were packed thirty deep just to see a bunch of old boats. This was my moment.
Stringer and I bought the biggest, cheapest Bicentennial commemorative drum we could find. It was painted red, white, and blue, with a picture of George Washington looking confused. We sealed the cash inside, wrapping the bundles in wax paper and plastic bags.
Stringer and I pushed the drum on a rusty handcart through the crushing crowds toward Hunts Point. It felt like we were hauling the city's entire debt crisis, not just $50,000 in cash.
"This is crazy, shorty," Stringer hissed, wiping sweat off his brow. "Lucci's probably got eyes on every corner today."
"Lucci's looking for danger, String," I said, using my simple voice. "He ain't looking for patriotism. Nobody looks at a drum on the Fourth of July."
The noise was deafening, but when we finally reached Hunts Point, the drum was silent. We pulled the handcart up to a brightly painted building that smelled of soap and pine cleaner. This was the front: Prop Joe's car wash.
Inside, the music was booming—not Herc's breaks, but fast, slick soul music. The whole place looked aggressively clean.
That's when I saw Joseph "Proposition Joe" Stewart. He was young, mid-twenties, and slicker than the wax he used on the customers' hoods. He moved with a smoothness that made me nervous.
"Stringer Bell," Joe purred, without looking up from the cash register. "And the mascot. Fifty grand in a drum. You boys are festive."
Joe was all smiles, but I caught a glimpse of his true motive in a flash of clarity. A Divine Revelation.
I saw a clip of a prestigious, immaculate law office, all polished wood and status. The title flashed: The Wire(S1, 2002). I saw Stringer Bell later in life, wearing a suit and using a legitimate business—real estate—to manage drug money. The clip was a lesson: The only way out is through the front door.
The clip snapped off. Joe was waiting for my answer.
"This cash has to come out smelling like a brand new penny, Joe," I said, looking him dead in the eye, my voice tiny but firm. "My mother can't smell the streets on it. We pay your price, but it has to be clean."
Joe laughed, a high, greedy sound. "My price is twenty-five percent, shorty. That's the cost of trust. But I guarantee you, when this money comes out, it'll be clean enough to buy a seat on the City Council."
He reached for the drum. Stringer looked relieved. I didn't feel relieved. I felt the sharp sting of the $12,500 fee, the cost of my strategic mistake. It was the price of getting caught up in the hustle in the first place.
I gave Joe a final piece of my mind, the sarcasm cutting through the patriotic music. "Yo, the fireworks are great, but that red, white, and blue cash better be clean like a whistle, Joe!"
Joe just smiled. The money was now out of my hands. It was in the system. The high-risk sales phase was over. The long, slow, dangerous six-month Laundering Phase had begun.