The freeze from Brianna Barksdale had been a cold problem. She hadn't just frozen my funds; she had put a lock on the entire exit door. Stringer had tried to play the tough guy, but he was scared. He knew if I didn't justify that $1,000 loss, Brianna would call the whole thing a bad debt and hold my $35,000 hostage.
But I was too close to the end for that. I was two days from turning three, and two days from securing the final total: the $35,000 Net Fund needed for George M. Hamlin.
I found Prop Joe at the car wash, wiping down a Cadillac like it was a museum piece. The breakbeats were blasting from the speakers, a mix that sounded like a promise and a threat at the same time. Joe was greedy, but he was predictable.
I walked up to his elbow, where he kept his money clip.
"Joe," I said, my voice simple, cutting through the music. "Brianna says the fund is frozen. She says I owe her a thousand."
Joe froze, the rag stopping mid-swipe. He looked down at me, his eyes shifty and concerned. He hated conflict, especially with the Barksdale family.
"Now, shorty, I don't know nothin' about that Barksdale family business," Joe lied, his voice slick. "My books are clean. That twenty-five percent I skim? That's the price of my silence and my paperwork."
"You skimmed $12,500 already," I countered, looking him right in the eye. "That's your price. Brianna's price is a threat. I'm paying your price, but I can't pay hers."
I knew Prop Joe had laundered his own skim by running it through the car wash as legitimate income. I knew exactly where he kept the duplicate, clean receipts.
I didn't give him a Divine Revelation. I gave him an ultimatum, based on the cold logic of his own greed.
"That fund is secured on paper," I continued, pointing vaguely toward the cash register where his books were. "You have the clean assets. You cash me out now, Joe. Traveler's checks, clean ones. You transfer the whole $35,000 into my name, or I tell Brianna that your receipts for the last six months have a fatal flaw: you double-counted the car washes for every major transaction to cover your skim."
Prop Joe dropped the rag. He blinked, the smooth confidence draining out of his face. He knew his skim was aggressive, and if Brianna Barksdale audited his books with that specific tip, he'd be cut out of the Barksdale operation entirely. The loss of Eli's small, clean account wasn't a problem, but losing the Barksdale franchise was catastrophic.
"You can't know that," Joe whispered, leaning down.
"I know the price of silence, Joe," I said, using my best Chris Rock inflection. "Yo, you think I'm small? I'm just compact dynamite, yo! Cash me out."
Joe sighed. The numbers always won. He walked inside, pulled a large envelope from a safe, and came back with a stack of American Express traveler's checks and a handful of small silver coins (clean assets he used to diversify). The paper was crisp, the metal was bright.
"The books are clean, shorty," Joe muttered, handing them over. "You never been here. The money is out of my sight. Don't come back."
"Deal," I said, tucking the assets safely inside my jacket.
I walked away from the car wash. The cash was gone, replaced by legally secured, clean assets. The $35,000 Net Fund was secured. I had faced the internal antagonist of the hustle—Prop Joe—and won. My exit was secured.
As I walked, I saw a headline flapping on a discarded newspaper: "NYC Debt Crisis Deepens." I looked down at the clean traveler's checks. The system was failing, but my system was sound.