American Gangster
“Praise Praise Praise Huey Lucas’s driver, Jimmy Zee, had been given a rare reprieve by his cousin Frank, after Huey vouched for him, and after that Jimmy had really tried to straighten up and fly right.
And what happened to screw it all up, in Jimmy’s view, wasn’t his fault at all. It was that damn Darlynn. A man should never get involved with a goddamn junkie. A goddamn junkie will use up a man’s dope her own self.
The TV was on, Kung Fu interrupted ’cause them damn hippies was protesting in Washington again or some shit, and Jimmy could not care the fuck less, all he wanted was his goddamn dope, and Darlynn wouldn’t give it to him.
“Where is it, I said!” He was following her past the TV into the kitchen. They were both walking around with their shoes off.
“Fuck you,” she said, waving her hands like she was praising Jesus. “I ain’t tellin’ you.”
The kitchen table had all kinds of dope paraphernalia spread out on it, like a junkie’s banquet except for there being no junk.
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