Five days later, everything was finished. The final pieces were accounted for.
I was standing on the curb in Hunts Point with Mama Sofia. I was wearing my best, cleanest coat. We weren't taking the subway; we were getting into a taxi that was impossibly clean for the Bronx.
Mama Sofia looked at the tenements, which were still smoking in the distance. Her face was calm, finally free of the anxiety of her OCD. She didn't know about the $15,000 clean profit I'd just secured from the Ideal Toy deal, but she did know we were leaving.
"We did it, Eli," she whispered, looking at the faded graffiti on the walls.
I looked at the same wall. I saw Omar's scar in my mind, and I felt the weight of the $30,000 I spent to save myself. I pulled out my can of spray paint—the same one where I'd hidden my first $100 back in January 1976.
I walked over to the burnt-out wall and quickly sprayed my final tag, a simple, clean piece of graffiti that summarized my entire 18-month hustle.
"ESCAPE '77"
I dropped the can. The gesture was complete.
I walked back to Mama Sofia, holding her hand tight. The taxi driver loaded our two suitcases.
"Where are we going, mijo?" Sofia asked.
I looked at the street, which was already starting to fill with the chaos of a new day—new dealers, new music, and the same old fires. I looked at my mother, who had sacrificed her peace for my life.
I filtered my complex corporate, political, and financial victory into the simplest, most honest truth. I used my clear, child-like voice, the one that always spoke the bottom line.
"I wanna read, Ma. And then I want to buy a house that has a working sprinkler system."
The taxi pulled away from the curb. The Bronx became smaller in the rear window, a collection of broken buildings and loud breakbeats. The powder was gone, the pulse was thriving, and the future was clean.
The end of the book was the beginning of the story.