The Dirt Merchants

By Henning Morales

Based on a true story, 'The Dirt Merchants' is a powerful coming of age story set in the world of the most extreme form of sales. The main character, Spencer Corales, a troubled suburban teenager, comes to a cross roads and speedily heads down a path where he unknowingly gets flung into a fascinating world of achievement, goal setting and intense m

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bed of Angels, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9780990975120

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

RIDE THE LIGHTNING

Friday, April 20th, 1990

American Airlines flight 218 came to a stop at Terminal 3 of Newark International Airport. The ‘ding’ sounded, indicating that it was OK to unbuckle and move about the cabin. A polished businessman in his twenties stood up and headed for the garment closet. His dark brown eyes were penetrating and focused. His fresh haircut was short and gelled back with slight spikes meticulously positioned. He wore a flawlessly tailored and pressed gray pin-striped suit with a crocodile belt and brand new matching black wingtips. He pulled a leather garment bag out of the closet and threw it over his shoulder, grabbed his briefcase and headed off the plane. He moved his slender and athletically built body swiftly through the airport toward the rental car area. After making pleasantries at the counter with the sunny, attractive Avis representative, the young man was handed the keys to a 1989 Grand Marquis and he walked out toward the parking lot. His face was stamped with a look of confidence and satisfaction combined with a slight smile. He found the black sedan, threw his things in the trunk, got in and started her up. He reached into his top left pocket and pulled out a cassette of Metallica’s Ride the Lightning, popped it in, and, turning it up to an ear-piercing level, headed for the Garden State Parkway.

CHAPTER 2

JOYRIDE

Monday, January 10th, 1982

The three boys, fifteen years old, were traveling west on Route 4 in Englewood, New Jersey. Ronnie Gaffe and Brandon Davis were black. Spencer Corales was brown, part Hispanic, part Italian, popular, good-looking kids with all the potential in the world, with a zest for being kids, getting away with whatever possible, thrills, being admired and of course being cool.

Ronnie and Brandon wore their Afros short; Spencer wore his brown waves long around his shoulders. Ronnie was in the driver’s seat, Brandon was in the front passenger seat and Spencer was in the back. They were heading back from New York City, back home to the suburbs in northern New Jersey. It was Monday morning at three. Ronnie had taken the keys of his sister’s rent-a-car while she was sleeping at about midnight. The black kids had picked up the brown one at about one.

Corales, man, that De Vero fucked you up, man. How long you was in the hospital? said Ronnie. Ronnie and Brandon both spoke with heavy street accents. They had grown up in the Bronx, both families had recently moved to the suburbs.

Yeah man, fractured my back, was in the hospital for ten days. Doc says can’t wrestle, never. Baseball tryouts were too painful also, sucks, replied Spencer.

Man, I don’t know how you white boys get out there and do that crazy fuckin’ wrestlin’, man, shit is crazy, ‘ay Brandon. Ronnie was talking and driving pretending he knew how. The black kids always called Spencer white, probably because of how he talked, where he lived and his long mane. Or maybe the kids just needed him to go in one category or the other. For kids in Teaneck it was black and white, no in-between.

My boy Corales is ill, Gaffe. He never went to camp, never was in a league and still whips those white boys’ asses. He fuck you up too!

They all laughed.

Fuck that, man. I play hoops and thas’ it, boy. Safer, and I’m gonna get paid. Man, ain’t no money in wrestlin’ neither. Corales, you should have stayed with basketball. When you was my point guard we fucked it up.

Ronnie was the best basketball player in his age bracket in the town—by far. No one was even close. Spencer was good at multiple sports but Ronnie was in another league. He and Spencer had played on the same team the previous year in Little League basketball. The kid was tall, fast, could jump out of the building—and he could shoot. He dominated the league. He was already being recruited by Villanova and Duke and definitely going pro, if he stayed straight.

Fuck this, man. I’m going to your crib, Brandon. You guys take the car. Ronnie was going out with Brandon’s sister, Loretta. It never seemed awkward with Loretta having been Spencer’s summer girlfriend the year before.

This crazy white boy from the other side of the tracks had the nerve to go out with a black girl and hang out at her house, with her family, their friends, as if he belonged. Spencer and Brandon met that summer and became fast friends. This didn’t happen in Teaneck. Blacks and whites were literally separated by train tracks. The cool black kids and cool white kids just didn’t hang out together, period.

Spencer developed a reputation for his indifference about what anyone said about him. In fact, he did a wide variety of things to get attention, any kind of attention, especially recently. He liked that people thought he was a badass, even though he was just a skinny, long-haired kid with an attitude.

Ronnie got out of the car, Brandon got behind the wheel and Spencer took the passenger side. He hit the gas and immediately the car’s wheels skidded and the car spun out. Ronnie came running over and whispered, What the fuck are you doing, boy?! You making all kinds of noise! No one noticed that with all the ruckus a neighbor’s light went on. Corales, you drive, man—Davis, you a psychopath, man.

Spencer had never driven a car before either, but knew he could do better. Move over, Den, I’ll drive, he said with false confidence. Their buzz (from sitting in that bar sucking down Buds at a sleazy bar on 175th Street along with eight old black guys and a beat-up jukebox) was gone.

Where were they going? It didn’t matter.

As Spencer pulled the car onto Teaneck Road, toward Bogota, it all seemed quite normal. The usually busy street was abandoned; the duo went carefully through a flashing traffic light. Every time I see De Vero he tells me how sorry he is—it’s weird," Spencer said.

You should fuck that white boy up, man; he did that shit on purpose! Brandon was always instigating, trying to get Spencer worked up.

It wasn’t his fault, man—he’s…oh shit! Spencer screeched, looking in the rearview mirror. What the…? Five-O, man, right behind us!

The Teaneck police car with Officer Mary Di Mencio was trailing the Ford Escort driven and copiloted by suspicious-looking boys. She’d responded to an anonymous call from Mrs. Agnes Brown of possible criminal activity involving three boys and a red subcompact outside her house on Tryon Avenue.

Play it cool, man, they ain’t after us, Brandon whispered.

Shut up, man, you’re making me nervous. You know I don’t even know how to drive. Why are you whispering? What the fuck do we do? Spencer said in a high-pitched nervous tone.

Just keep driving, Brandon said, looking straight ahead.

They continued south on Teaneck Road looking straight ahead, hands stiff on the wheel, one at two o’clock, the other at ten. He put his turn signal on and turned right on State Street, slowly passing Queen Anne Road. The cruiser trailed the Escort for about a mile as they crossed the tracks back to Spencer’s side of town, the white side. Both kids began perspiring.

As they pulled onto tree-lined Winthrop Road, Officer Di Mencio turned the first set of lights on, then the short siren for a few seconds. A moment later the lights came on full force, red and blue with the added spotlight into the side view mirror piercing Spencer’s eyes.

Spence, what’re we gonna do, man!? Brandon asked. Spencer noticed that for the first time Brandon was actually scared about something. Brandon was panicked—his eyes became real big. He kept repeating, What are we gonna do, homeboy?!!!!!!

Spencer just kept driving, trying to block Brandon out. He just kept driving, faster and faster. Di Mencio now was trying to pass the boys on the driver’s side. Spencer noticed with horror that behind the first police car was a second and a third.

Apparently the Teaneck police had received a stolen car report for a red Ford Escort, rented by Ofelia Gaffe of Teaneck. As Spencer maneuvered down the residential street fending off Di Mencio, he was screaming at Brandon.

Where the fuck did you get this car?!!

I told you, man, Gaffe let us drive it! It’s the truth, man.

Bullshit, Brandon. Why are there three cops chasing us trying to run us off the road? How the fuck are there three cops?!!! Spencer was screaming. Brandon was frantic.

I don’t know!!

The two boys and the three squad cars approached River Road. Spencer managed to keep the three cars from passing him and made a sharp right turn.

We’re going to New Milford. They won’t follow us into another town. They gotta stay in Teaneck, Spencer said. He had heard that from some juvenile delinquent, or a TV show, or somewhere.

Within a minute it turned into a high-speed chase. Spencer drove the Escort through a red light at an intersection that divided the towns, River Road and New Bridge Road, at around sixty miles an hour. Brandon was stunned. The three cruisers filled with five pissed-off cops didn’t hesitate and ran the lights as well, right into New Milford. Now they turned on the sirens, three of them blaring all at once in the silence of three thirty in the morning in suburbia. It was deafening. Brandon put both hands over his ears.

After another minute and a half the cruisers were right behind the kids and still trying to pass the Escort to cut it off. Spencer kept his foot on the gas and continued swerving left to prevent the police from passing him.

By now Brandon was maniacal—he screamed, as if trying to get Spencer out of a trance, We need to ditch the car! Let’s head to Englewood, I know where. It’s the only way. These cops are not gonna give up. Make a right up ahead!

Not knowing what else to do, Spencer began to make a sharp right turn onto Madison Avenue headed toward Englewood, but in his inexperience he neglected to slow down. The two buddies were screaming at the top of their lungs as the car skidded out of control onto Madison head on into a traffic light pole.

The sound of thick glass breaking, metal crunching and the skidding tires of the police cars combined with the sirens felt like a Dolby 5.1 surround sound theater. A split second later, after they both realized they were not dead, the kids looked at each other square in the face and both yelled almost simultaneously,

RUN!!!

Spencer popped the door open, closed his eyes and began to run as fast as he could, knowing he could be shot or grabbed any moment. He opened his eyes and noticed a clear path between two houses and ran toward it into the darkness, away from the sirens. As he ran he felt someone chasing him. All he could hear were sirens. It was Di Mencio. She turned on a flashlight, but couldn’t catch the boy. She was 102 pounds carrying thirty pounds of equipment, including the twenty ounce flashlight, standard issue, pointed at the back of the kid’s head. He turned and kept running but as he turned around his right foot hit a large rock and he fell onto a concrete sidewalk, ripping his pants and tearing an inch of skin off.

The cop now was within ten feet of Spencer as the blood poured down his leg. He got up quickly and began to run again, hoping that she’d not gotten a good look at him. After about five minutes of running top speed, he lost Di Mencio. He finally stopped running as he approached a street. By now there were police cars everywhere from three different towns. There was a helicopter in the air with a spotlight for good measure. The sirens subsided. He heard a car approaching and saw it was a Teaneck police car. He waited in a flower garden on the side of a house for the car to pass. The car slowly passed shining a bright spotlight into the backyards and side yards.

The car passed him by. He oriented himself and realized that he was still in New Milford and all he had to do was keep running, heading in the direction of Teaneck, not be spotted until he got to the Teaneck border, and head into the woods in Tokaloka Park. He knew those woods like the back of his hand. He grew up playing in that forest. He could get home from there.

Just as the cruiser was leaving his peripheral vision he heard a soft voice of an older woman coming from the house next door. Officer, he’s back here. A flashlight came on from around the corner, held by another cop—this one was much bigger than the first one and came running toward Spencer and got within two feet of being able to grab him. As Spencer turned to run, he immediately tripped on a small garden fence piercing the skin on his shin. His body slammed to the ground and bounced back up just as fast. Before the cop could get any closer he was at full speed again. He ran as fast as he could for a solid fifteen minutes. He didn’t feel the minor concussion he’d received on impact with the light pole. He didn’t feel the pain in his bloody shin. He didn’t feel the burn on his skinned knee. He didn’t feel the pain in his fragile back. He just wanted this to be over. He just wanted to be home. He wanted to go to sleep. It was four thirty a.m.

As Spencer approached the area just east of the intersection of New Bridge Road and River Road, he noticed more cruisers and flashing lights. The woods were right across the street. He moved further east where it was a bit darker and carefully jogged across the usually busy street. He ran full-speed again all the way through the dark woods through the paths that he and his friends practically created through the years, not missing a beat. He could finally think. He knew he could get through the woods safely, so felt somewhat relieved.

What happened to Brandon? Did he give me up? Are the police waiting for me at my house? My brother! My sister! My mom! They’re probably up talking to the cops right now being questioned about Public Enemy Number One! Damn it! If I get there before the cops do, I can deny it. Gotta hurry!

He had run full speed for over thirty minutes, over five miles, but wasn’t out of breath; he wasn’t even tired. He was still terrified.

He finally approached the back of the Cranes’ house that backed up against the woods, the house diagonally across from his. He jumped the brook and stopped short in the side yard of the Cranes. He slowly peered around the corner of the house.

A miracle!

No cops. No sirens. No handcuffs waiting. No mother crying in shame. No sister shaking her head with arms crossed. No news reporters, nothing at all—just 624 Maitland Avenue, just as he’d left it at midnight, where he was eating cornflakes, watching television, minding his own damned business when Brandon knocked on his window to grab him to accompany him on a trip to the city.

He looked up and down the block to make sure the coast was clear and dashed toward the house. He made it to the back door that he’d left open; went down to the cellar; put his bloody, filthy clothes into the washing machine and washed off the blood and dirt from his arms and legs in the sink next to the washing machine. He went back upstairs to the living room and waited for either the cops to come—in which case he would either tell them he’d been here the whole time and that he hardly knew Brandon Davis, and that not only was Brandon a bona fide juvenile delinquent, but a pathological liar—or for time to get up for school, whichever came first.

One hour earlier.

The sound of thick glass breaking and metal crunching, the skidding tires of the police cars combined with the sirens felt like a Dolby 5.1 surround sound theater.

Run!!!!!

Brandon watched as Spencer squeezed out of the car on the driver’s side and somehow miraculously outran two cops. He tried to get out on the passenger side, but noticed a third cop at the passenger door. He panicked and lunged toward the driver side door and was met with a fourth cop and a .38 pointed at his face.

Freeze prick!! Freeze or I’ll blow your teeth out of the back of your fucking head! Brandon froze and was pulled slowly out of the car on the passenger side. He noticed the glass and twisted metal and the silence. His eyes were open big. The whites of his eyes made his eyes look extra big against his glistening dark brown skin. He was bewildered. He had suffered a fractured rib and there was a noticable bruise on his forehead. Small amounts of blood dripped from his elbow and chin. Within seconds the car was surrounded by four other cops, all with their guns pointed at the kid with his hands up.

Teaneck, River Edge and New Milford police were all in attendance. It was like the NATO allied forces of Bergen County suburbia. The biggest of all of the cops, a Teaneck breed, walked up as Brandon was being cuffed. They made eye contact. It was obvious they knew each other.

Who the fuck was it? snapped the officer.

Who, man? Brandon asked meekly, trembling and stumbling a bit.

You know who, Davis, you know damn well.

Officer David Woods was a typical suburban cop with the mustache, buzz-cut haircut and military attitude, a white guy, but he was using his best Ebonics to get through to the kid. Now it was Woods’s gun that was back in Brandon’s face and the reality of the situation dawned on him. Four cops plus his old buddy Woods, all with guns.

This is no joke.

We already know you vicked the car. We want the name of the driver, bitch, now!

We didn’t jack the car, man. Gaffe an’me…w-w-we was out for a ride, thas’ all. He t-t-t-t took the keys while his sista’ was s-s-s-sleep, man. We picked up Corales an’ went to the city, thas’ all. W-w-w we ain’t do nothin’ but that, man. Tears were flowing from his face. He wasn’t even trying to hide it. It didn’t matter now.

You expect us to feel sorry for you, Davis? Well we don’t. Woods slowly put his gun away and walked Brandon back to the police car. Look at this fuckin’ mess, crazy ass. Could’ve killed someone. We got a report says the Escort was stolen, that means it’s stolen unless we can determine otherwise. If you’ll stop stuttering and tell me where this Corales kid lives and where Gaffe is right now, you might save your ass.

Brandon tried to stop crying, and caught his breath. He told Woods everything as they pulled away in the cop car headed for the Teaneck police station. He gave them Spencer’s address, even the cross streets and his phone number. If he had a snapshot of him and geographic longitude and latitude he would have given that to the police as well. He also told Woods that Ronnie was back at his house boning his sister. Woods already had that address. He took Brandon to the police station and sent two other mustached cops over to the Davis residence.

Ten minutes later the cops were at Brandon’s house. The officers even knew the layout of the house; they had been there so often, between Brandon and his brother. There was a knock at the door. A stunning fifteen-year-old black girl opened the door slowly. It was Loretta, Ronnie’s girlfriend, Spencer’s summer fling. She looked right at the cop and opened the door. She tightened her bathrobe and stepped aside, knowing the drill. She didn’t smile nor did she scowl, she didn’t say a word.

The two officers went right to Loretta’s room, pulled Ronnie out of the bed wearing just his skivvies and a wife beater, and proceeded to drag him out of the house.

What the hell is going on?? Ronnie asked, still half asleep, trying to corral his clothes.

Neither cop answered. He was cuffed, thrown into the back of the squad car and heading to the station, before anyone else in the house woke up.

What the fuck is going on, Pearson!? asked Gaffe.

We’ll tell you at the station,