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just someone who believes in equal rights for men and women. Don’t you believe in equal rights?”
    Those eyes were so pretty but so damn serious.
    “I ain’t gonna sit here and say men and women are the same.”
    “It’s not about being the same. It’s about having the same rights. Shouldn’t women get paid the same as men if they’re doing the same work?”
    “Yeah, I got no problem with that.”
    “Then you’re a feminist too.”
    I laughed. “ Shit. And I been walking around thinking all feminists were lesbians.”
    “That’s B.S. Most lesbians are feminists, but most feminists aren’t lesbians.”
    “Now I’m getting confused. Are you a lesbian or a feminist or both?”
    “Would you like me less if I were a lesbian?”
    “Depends. Could I join the action?”
    “Ty!” She giggled.
    “I’d still wanna be your partner for this project if you was a lesbian, don’t worry. But . . . you ain’t, right?”
    She smiled. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
    I was looking forward to finding out.

A MEETING WITH THE PRINCE OF PAKISTAN
    O ne of my hustlers was a Pakistani kid named Mo. He sold weed from the counter of the family deli, right under the nose of his clueless daddy. I wasn’t sure if Mohammed was his first or last name, but I didn’t really care.
    Most of the time, I recruited peeps after watching them for a while, figuring out who they knew and how I could use them. Other times peeps came to me, wanting to get connected to my supply, or offering to work as a runner. Usually I turned them down. Put a few dollars in their pocket, they got cocky and started showing off. Po-po comes sniffing, and the trail leads back to me.
    There were always exceptions. When Mo approached me acouple years back, I could tell the kid was the real deal. He wasn’t looking to be big-time, he was just looking for a little cash. I had Monfrey watch him, make sure he wasn’t a narc or a heavy user, before I agreed.
    Mo worked the deli alone in the late afternoons. A little bell above the doorway rang as I walked in. Behind the counter, a slick Pakistani guy served a couple of kids. I didn’t know him.
    I went to the back of the store, pretending to look at drinks, hoping I’d see Mo. I figured I could do a few minutes of hanging around before the guy at the counter got suspicious.
    A minute later, Mo came out of a back room carrying some boxes. He saw me, then turned his back and started shelving the stuff.
    I grabbed a soda, bought it at the counter, and went outside.
    Mo kept me waiting ten minutes. We walked a block and turned a corner before he stopped. “Shit, that wasn’t easy.”
    “Who’s the guy?” I asked.
    “My brother. He and his wife are down from Toronto.”
    That explained his Blue Jays jersey. I knew Mo wouldn’t drop the cash for it himself. The kid never bought new clothes.
    “Waqas’s totally overdoing it,” Mo said. “Whenever he comes to town he’s breathing down my throat.”
    “Your neck.”
    “Whatever. He wants me to live and breathe that fucking store.”
    “Don’t you?”
    “Yeah, but he thinks I can always do more for the store, fix it up, work longer hours. Dad is an old man now, he always says. You must do everything you can to help him. Easy for him to say, living thousands of miles away.” He looked up at me, realizing he was ranting about personal stuff that had nothing to do with me. “So, you got the stuff?”
    We did the deal.
    “A’ight, Mo. Call me with the next order. You gonna be able to hustle with your brother watching you so close?”
    “Waqas has to go back to med school next week, so he’ll be outta my hair.”
    “Your brother’s in med school?”
    “Uh-huh. He finishes this year. My father paid for the whole fucking thing.”
    “He can send your bro to med school with what he makes from that store?”
    Mo nodded. “He’s been saving since the day my brother was born. Too bad he can’t afford to send me, too.”
    “You, in