THE ARRIVAL 2

SMOKE'S POV

The bell over the store door jingled again, and out came a short, skinny guy with glasses too big for his face. He looked like he belonged in a college library, not running a weed shop. He had on a wrinkled Green Haven hoodie and khakis that were two sizes too big.

He rubbed his eyes like he’d just woken up from a nap. “What the hell is all this noise?” he barked, voice cracking like a 16-year-old. He looked at the kid behind the counter, face bloody, and his eyes went wide. “Yo, what happened to you?”

I tilted my head at him. “You Jimmy?”

He blinked, eyes bouncing from me to the kid. “Uh… yeah. Who’s askin’?”

I frowned. This is the guy running things? Scrawny, jumpy, and looking like he’d fold if someone raised their voice too loud. I was expecting a shark, but this guy looked more like bait.

Jimmy stepped forward, hands raised like he was calming a wild dog. "Look, if this is about the kid, I can comp your next purchase or something—"

"Shut up," I cut him off, taking a step forward. “Take me to your office.”

His eyes darted to the door, then to me. “Man, I don’t know you. You a cop or somethin’?”

“Do I look like a cop?” I said, voice low but firm.He hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Fine... follow me."

He led me through a hallway to a small, cluttered back room. A desk, a chair, and a computer that looked like it ran on prayers and hope. The smell of weed was stronger back here. Posters of reggae bands and old rappers lined the walls like he was trying too hard to fit the vibe.

“Sit,” he said, pointing to the chair like he was the one in control.

I stayed standing. Let me see your book

Books? what for jimmy asked confused by who I might actually be

Stop playin’ with me, Jimmy,” I said quietly, but every word felt like it weighed a ton. “Open. Your. Books.”

He swallowed hard, and opened his computer, his hands moving faster . A few more clicks and a spreadsheet popped up. Numbers everywhere—sales, expenses, inventory. But one column stood out. The deposits.

I whistled low. “You makin’ this kinda money from gummies and pre-rolls?”

He looked over his shoulder at me, eyes wide like he knew what was coming. “It’s legit, man. All legal. State-approved.”

I leaned in close, so close he could probably feel my breath on his neck. “Where do you keep it?”

“Keep what?” His voice cracked.

“The money, Jimmy. Where do you keep the money?”

“It’s in the bank,” he said too fast, spinning in his chair to face me. “All of it’s in the bank, man. I swear.”

I stared at him, eyes squinting like I was reading fine print on a bad contract. “You mean to tell me you put all this money in the bank? All these states legalizing the stuff, and you really think the Feds won’t sniff around your deposits?

His eyes darted left, then right. “I’m legit, man. Ain’t nothing shady about it.”

I stepped back, rubbing my chin. “Alright, let me ask you again.” I pointed to the desk. “Is it in the desk?”

His lips pressed tight.

I pointed at the microwave on the shelf. “Is it in the microwave?”

He shook his head.

I pointed at a crooked Bob Marley painting on the wall. “Or maybe… behind that lovely painting over there?”

His eyes flicked to the painting, just for a second. But a second was all I needed.

I smirked. “You’re makin’ this too easy, Jimmy.”

He ran his hands through his hair. “Look, man, I don’t want no problems, alright? We can work somethin’ out.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” I said, voice calm like I was talking to a friend. “I want us to work something out. I want to be your friend, Jimmy. And I want you to be mine.” I took a step forward. He leaned back in his chair.

“Now, I don’t wanna hurt you,” I continued, hands in my pockets. “But you’re makin’ it real hard to be friends. So here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re gonna open that safe behind that lovely painting. Nice and slow.”

His breathing got loud, chest rising and falling too fast. He glanced at me, then at the painting. “Ain’t no safe back there,” he mumbled.

I tilted my head. “Jimmy.”

He sighed, shaking his head like he knew this was the end of something. He stood up slow, walked to the painting, and pulled it off the wall.

There it was. Steel box. Keypad. Scratches around the edges where somebody had tried to pry it open once before.

“Don’t make me wait,” I said.

His fingers hovered over the keypad like he was thinking of hitting the wrong code just to stall. I raised my eyebrows, and his hands moved quicker. Beep. Beep. Beep. The lock clicked, and he pulled it open.

Stacks of cash. Not ones. Not fives. These were blues and browns—hundreds and fifties. Fresh, crisp bills stacked so high they looked like little bricks. My eyes scanned the box. Half a million easy.

“How much you got in here, Jimmy?” I asked, stepping forward.

He sighed, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Over half a mil.”

I nodded, impressed. “Look at you.” I reached in, grabbed a stack, flipped through it like I was checking for counterfeit bills. All real. Nice.

“So this is how it’s gonna work,” I said, still flipping through the stack. “From now on, I’m takin’ 20% of your weekly cut.” I stuffed the cash back in the box, pulling out just enough to match 20%. “For that, you get me. I protect you from the gangs—”

“Gangs?” Jimmy cut in, face twisted in confusion.

“Yeah, gangs,” I said, stuffing the money in my coat pocket. “And the law.”

He waved his hands. “It’s legal, man. What law?”

I stepped up to him, face inches from his. “Jimmy, don’t make me be an asshole. You keep the money, you keep the shop, and you keep your teeth. All you gotta do is pay me commission.”

He stared at me, lips tight, eyes shifting like he was doing the math in his head. His shoulders slumped. “Man… you serious?”

“Dead serious.” I turned to the safe, took 20% off the top. Smooth, quick, and clean. Stacked it up, counted it once, and stuffed it in my coat.

Jimmy watched, eyes wide like he was waiting for me to grab the whole thing. When I didn’t, he blinked, confused.

“That’s all you takin’?” he asked, like it didn’t make sense to him. “You coulda took it all.”

I smiled, folding the stack into my coat pocket. “What’d I say, Jimmy? We’re business partners now. You make the money, and I make sure you keep it.” I patted him on the back like an old friend. “Do we have a deal?”

He stared at me for a second too long, then nodded slow. “Yeah… yeah, we got a deal.”

“Smart man,” I said, walking toward the door.

“Hey,” Jimmy called after me, still standing by the safe. “You got a name, or do I just call you trouble?”

I glanced back, hands in my pockets. “Call me Smoke.”

Then I wa

lked out, leaving him to count the money I let him keep.