The scar on Omar's cheek was healing, but the line of bright, thin red looked like a knife cut across my guilt. Mama Sofia had kept Omar at our walk-up for two weeks, fussing over the cut with hydrogen peroxide and a sadness she couldn't hide. Every time I looked at Omar, I saw the price of my strategy. The money was getting clean in Prop Joe's wash, but my soul was getting dirtier every day.
The Bronx didn't care about scars, though. The whole city had stopped breathing for the Yankees.
It was late October, and the World Series was on. The Yankees were playing the Cincinnati Reds, and the noise was everywhere. Radios hung out of tenement windows like tongues, and every car passing by sounded like a parade. For a few hours, nobody worried about the fires, the debt crisis, or Robert "Bob" Lucci hunting dope dealers. They just cared about baseball.
I found Cutty Wise (17) leaning against a lamppost a few blocks from Yankee Stadium, listening to a transistor radio. Cutty was one of Nicky Barnes' quiet soldiers. He always looked like he was thinking about quitting the game, but the money kept him stuck.
"You should be watching, shorty," Cutty said, without looking at me. "Thurman Munson's up. This is history."
I sat next to him, picking the label off a cheap can of soda. The distraction was perfect for me. I needed to move a small amount of laundered cash—about a hundred bucks—to acquire a clean, legitimate asset for my portfolio.
"This game is boring, Cutty," I said, using my simple, Gump voice. "It's too slow. And the Bronx is already down on the score."
"We ain't down on the score, we're up!" Cutty snapped. "It's the bottom of the ninth!"
"No, the whole city's down," I explained, simply. I had seen a Divine Revelation just that morning—a clip of a major news program later in the decade discussing the NYC Fiscal Crisis and Mayor Beame's budget cuts. The title flashed: The City is Bankrupt(1977 Archival Footage). "The Yankees ain't paying the bills, yo. This game is just noise."
Cutty looked at me then, his eyes troubled. He knew I was right, but he didn't want to hear it.
I used the noise of the crowd to slip away toward a small bodega. I bought a cheap pack of baseball cards and a single, crisp $100 bill—clean from Joe's wash—went into the till. My clean portfolio was growing.
I was heading back when I saw a frenzy near a fancy car. Out popped Reggie Jackson, the famous slugger. He was huge, looking shiny and powerful. He was signing autographs quickly before getting whisked away.
I marched right up to him. I didn't care about his signature; I cared about his card. I held out my new 1969 Topps Reggie Jackson card—a cheap piece of cardboard I knew would be worth something later.
Reggie Jackson looked down at the tiny two-year-old demanding his time.
"What's your name, kid?" he asked, impatient.
"Eli. And you hit homers, but I'm hittin' deals," I told him, using my best Chris Rock quip. I pointed to the card. "Sign it here. This card's the real money, not the home run."
Reggie Jackson laughed, a loud, booming sound that was all show. He scribbled his name and handed the card back.
Just then, I saw a second Divine Revelation. A clip, fast and vibrant, showing Reggie Jackson giving a famous interview years later, talking about his own genius and his massive contract. The clip was titled: Reggie's Million Dollar Deal(1982 Sports Interview). The message was clear: If you're going to bet on a player, bet on the contract, not the game.
The clip vanished. I looked at the card and then back at the stadium. The city was screaming its lungs out for a win, distracted by the flash and the sound.
I looked down at Omar's scar.
The Bronx didn't need a sports hero. It needed a financial escape hatch. I tucked the card inside my coat. The cube was my contract, and the $30,000 was my ticket. I didn't care about the game. I was only playing the long-term deal.