Ziggy had bank. Nicky had come through for sure this time. Fuck yeah, them and Fifty working together to swipe those cameras had been brilliant. He wanted to celebrate.
He wandered uptown. It didn't matter if he flashed cash here, no one knew him in this fucking reject section of Baltimore. Fuck Nicky and his caution, Ziggy was going to use what he had rightfully earned. He wasn't sure on what yet.
He pulled his arms tight against the cold. The wind here wasn’t as cold as on the docks, but damn it still froze him something solid. A coat! See, that would be practical. No way Nicky could complain about that.
Ziggy spotted a store with mannequins in the window. Score! See, this was all coming together perfectly. Inside, he wasn’t so sure. Lots of pimps around. Not that he was a racist! No, but these brothers were totally pimping with braids and leather. Like White Mike would be if he were actually black.
But Ziggy wasn’t scared. No, he was a hardened criminal himself now, wasn’t he. He started whistling to himself as he rustled through the racks. He pulled out a couple things out, holding them up to his body. He was looking at this bad-ass gold puffy coat when he felt someone come up behind him.
“Nah, man. That thing would swallow you whole.”
Like that dude should talk. He was wearing a fucking trench coat. “Like you should talk, you’re wearing a fucking trench coat.”
Dude was getting closer. Maybe he shouldn’t have sassed him. He had this huge fucking scar on his face. Ziggy wondered if he could pull it off. Pictured himself looking all bad-ass. He would tell everyone he got it fighting off some huge dude. No! Or maybe in a fight with ninjas.
“Indeed. But I be styling, don’t I?”
Okay, that was friendly enough. “Actually, you kinda are. You are working that whole bad-ass thing.”
“True.” He was rifling through the racks himself now, before pulling out this wicked leather trench thing. It was something like what Neo would wear.
“Oh, awesome coat.” Ziggy stopped himself from making grabby hands at it. See, he had fucking self restraint, no matter what his father said.
“What can I say, I know what will make a man look good.” Okay, see, that looked like a leer. Not like the fake kind he gave Maryanne when he wanted to butter her up, but an actual hungry type look.
But it really was an awesome coat. “I think you do, for that coat is baller, you know what I mean?”
“I do. I am a fan of a well made coat. Practical.”
“See, that was just what I was thinking. My cousin Nicky, see, he doesn’t want me spending my money on anything, even though I totally earned it fair and square. But the way I see it, this coat is exactly what you said, practical. So no matter what, he can’t complain. Because who doesn’t need a coat?” Ziggy stopped. “I realize I am rambling, normally someone would have cut me off by this point."
“Nah, it cool. You’re like a little fountain of words.” The dude with the scar handed him the coat. Fuck it. Ziggy was just going to call him Scarface. Hopefully he wouldn’t forget himself and say it out loud, because he looked like a tough mofo.
“Now that was some poetic shit.” He shrugged on the coat and looked in the dingy mirror. Damn, if he did say so himself. He was pimping.
“True that.” Scarface made a little twirling gesture with his finger. Fuck, he might actually be a faggot.
But who gave a fuck. Ziggy really wanted to spin. So he did. The edge of the coat fluttered and swirled around his legs in an awesome way. Fuck yeah. This coat was going to be his. Scarface was laughing at his enthusiasm, and Ziggy could never resist the opportunity to put on a mother fucking show.
He started waltzing it around the store with an imaginary partner. What the fuck, not like anyone here knew him. Scarface was still laughing, and nobody else was looking. Which, huh, was kinda weird. Ziggy would totally be staring at some fuckhead dancing around with a coat. Maybe it was magic. “I think this coat was meant to be mine. This was totally like, serendipitous and shit.”
Shit. he had lost Scarface’s attention. Apparently he was Omar, because he was turning around to face the newcomer. When he spun around Ziggy could see an honest to fucking goodness shot gun under the trench. “Motherfucker.”
“Seems like I gotta head out now. You know how it be.Things to do, people to see,” said Omar over his shoulder. “See you around, dancing boy.”
Ziggy saluted. No way was he messing with someone with that sorta firepower. Even if he did call Ziggy a dancing boy. Whatever, he now had a fine new coat.
He also a fuckload less cash, Ziggy thought as he left the store. Apparently looking this fine came at a cost. He could handle it though. Get a few more containers through the system and he could buy ten of these coats and not feel any pinch.
Ziggy still was cold, though. He kept his hands in his pocket as he rounded the corner.
Holy shit, something was going down! People were ducking out of the way. There were some little kids kinda hovering behind a stoop. Ziggy figured he could take them.
“What the fuck, my little men? Something going down out here, maybe some police rolling up?” Ziggy had asked so nicely, but none of the little fuckers were answering him. No fucking respect, these people. Plus, the smallest one reeked like Delores’ bar the morning after a ship came in, only with way more BO.
He glared at the four of them. The one with the curls was about to step to him. Ziggy could tell, he thought. He was totally a bad ass in this coat. So he stepped forward first.
But then the big one said calmly, “Step off, motherfucker. Omar coming.”
Wait, had he heard that shit head right? “Omar? The guy with the huge scar?” Ziggy gestured at his face where the scar would be.
“Yeah, motherfucker. Don’t you know anything?” Yeah, curls was mouthy alright. “Omar is legend. He rips dealers harder than anyone.”
Not bothering to respond, Ziggy started walking again. He could hear an occasional whisper of “Omar coming” as he worked his way down the street. This would show Nicky.
His coat was totally practical, and it came with a story. No, it came with a legend. Fuck yeah.