You got the shit?” I asked, which was shortly followed by a hand-to-hand exchange. “Aight, well if you talk to her say whatsup for me. “Yea, she all good, just had to handle somethin’ outta town, you know? Just call me when you need somethin’ until she come back.” he said dismissively. “Ok, sounds good, is she alright though? Everything ok?” I asked as I slipped the piece of paper in my pocket. The man came up to me and said, “Ay, you remember me? Shawntal gonna be gone for a while, but you can just call me from now on.” He handed me a piece of folded up paper that presumably had his number on it. I recognized him as Shawntal’s uncle, who I had met one time prior when we both helped her move to a new hotel after T-Bone had been arrested. I called him when I got to the meeting spot, and within a few minutes I saw a large heavyset Black man approach me from the east side of Howard. The unknown man told me to meet him at Seventh and Howard, which wasn’t anywhere near where Shawntal normally operated, but was easy enough to get to from the Civic Center on my stolen bicycle. It seemed odd, but I could really care less at the time I just wanted to purchase drugs and really didn’t care who or where they came from. He told me that Shawntal was out of town for a few days, and that he was “taking over business” for her while she was gone. To my surprise, it was a man who answered. A few days later, with the singer’s death still fresh on my mind, I called Shawntal with the expectation of my still-grieving drug dealer to pick up her own phone. She cried for what seemed like an entire hour as we sat together in her hotel room and passed the pipe back and forth. I remember the day Whitney Houston died quite vividly because I was the one to break the news to Shawntal personally.
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