Sweating every nickel
This joint is called Bill's now. My fifth dealing job and And number nine overall at that time. This is a fresh story. I just wrote it.
After ten or twelve months at the Union Plaza, my first middle-level job downtown I got fired; fired on the spot after an altercation with a dealer that was sitting on the box.
They got me out of there in a hurry. I had about eighty bucks in my pocket from tokes and the tokes from the shift before. I had about a half weeks rent paid; I had very little margin. I had to get moving. I was already in dealers clothes, black and white and I drove down to the Nevada Palace.
“Why weren’t you here yesterday?” “I didn’t need the job yesterday.” They didn’t ask or care why I was finished at the Union Plaza.
Next, I go to Bourbon Street, a thirty-five dollar envelope job. This little bottom feeder was shoehorned between Maxims and the Barbary Coast. Maxims was a hardcore sleeper, a hot job, a joint that locals favored.
I audition at Bourbon Street and its late afternoon. I had one player and a bad attitude. I needed a job but I was hoping I didn’t get that job, and I didn’t. The shift boss picked up on my attitude.
“You didn’t talk it