PTown187: Pimpin’ it up in Club Chub, yo!

Ron deleted the text and dropped the phone in his jacket pocket. He hit the gas and jerked the old van into the right lane, then took the entrance onto eastbound I-74 and barreled down the ramp.

It had been years since he drove the highway this time of night, but it was as empty as he’d remembered. One of the wheels hit a nasty vibration when he broke eighty miles per, but at this speed he’d be at Club Cabaret in minutes.

Twitter. It sounded so ridiculous when Trey’s homeboy explained it, but after a few moments it made perfect sense: Trey could broadcast his location to move his product, yet blend in with millions of inane jackasses on the Internet. Unless you knew his moniker — distributed to trusted buyers like a phone number yet shed with ease — and knew the exact reply codes, he didn’t respond. Drug deals in obfuscation in plain sight.

Trey’s homeboy was happy to cough up the codes as he bled out in a crumbling barn way out in the middle of nowhere. Three minutes on his mobile and Ron had a Twitter account had all Trey’s tweets delivered straight to his phone. A couple hours of bullshit — Trey playlist, his pickup basketball game, even his fucking dinner — then finally a location.

Go time.

Ron pulled into the Club Cabaret parking lot and backed the van into a space facing the door, then thumbed out his first tweet.

@PTown187 Word. My man Frankie and I would love to see Crystal dance, but we’re on wheels. Translation: I’ve got money for meth and I’m in the parking lot.

The response came a moment later. @LittleSisLost I’ll take pix. What’re you rollin’?

Ron considered that one. @PTown187 My brother’s rusted out party van.

No response. After a minute, Ron started to wonder if he’d blown it. Then a fat black kid came out the front door. He scanned the lot, locked on the van. He wobbled over, and Ron rolled the window down.

“‘Sup?” Sweat trickled down the kid’s brow. His breath rasped.

“Trey inside?”

“I got you covered. Where’s Frankie?”

“Long dead.” Ron lifted his silenced SIG and put three rounds into fatty’s chest. The kid let out a wet rattle and hit the car behind him, then rolled sideways and hit the ground with a dull splat.

Ron dragged fatty behind the van and stashed him beneath a jacked-up pick-up, then headed for the club.

He passed a ten to the doorman, kept on walking. A white kid sat at a table near the stage, ogling the dancer’s plastic tits. He wore a ball cap with a huge, flat brim, a baggy basketball jersey, and several gold chains. His pale skin and red hair glowed under the pink neon sign on the wall.

Trey.

Ron punched him behind the ear and slammed him face-first onto the table. The stripper screamed and scuttled away. The DJ stood up in his booth, and two bouncers headed his way.

Ron flashed a badge, shouted “This kid’s under arrest!” It was an old Chicago badge, but as expected, nobody gave it any scrutiny. The bouncers backed off.

“This is bullshit!” Trey shouted as Ron put the cuffs on him. “I know my rights! I’ll have your ass!”

That went on all the way to the parking lot. Then Trey realized there was no police car.

“Hey, what is this? Where the fuck is Gant?”

“Don’t you remember me, you little twat?”

“What? No, man.”

“I’m Liz’s brother.”

Trey went stark white. Hard to forget a girl you raped and tossed off McCluggage Bridge in the rain.

“Oh, hey man, I don’t–”

Ron clubbed him with his pistol, then tossed him in the van, taped his mouth and ankles. He climbed behind the wheel, started the engine, and headed for another old barn he’d picked out.

He tapped out one more message as he drove: @PTown187 It’s going to be a long night!

Seconds later, Trey’s phone issued a soft ping sound. Ron laughed long and hard.