– Shit. Holy shit.

Paul drops the Buck knife and comes over. He picks up one of the bags.

– Man. Oh, man. Fucking A.

Andy picks up a bag.

– How much is this?

George grabs the bag and puts it back in the fridge.

– It’s a fucking lot. C’mon, let’s go.

Paul opens his bag.

– I don’t know, man. A quarter gram is like this much.

He holds his thumb and index finger about an inch apart.

– That costs twenty.

He hefts the bag.

– This is like, man, gotta be a pound. How many grams in a pound?

Andy blinks once while his brain arranges the numbers and they appear on the inside of his eyelids. He reads them off.

– Four hundred fifty three and a half. Well, a little more than a half. Like point five nine and change.

– Four hundred fifty three, point five nine and change times four?

– Eighteen hundred fourteen, point three six.

Paul licks his lips.

– And that times twenty?

– Thirty six thousand two hundred eighty seven, point two.

Paul squeezes the bag, it rustles, and the crystals crunch.

– That’s a car, man. That’s the most bitchin’ car ever. Fuck, man, that’s four decent cars.

George takes the big bag from Paul and hands it to Andy.

– Put everything back like it was, man. This is not a car. It’s fucking crank and you have to sell it to get the money to buy the car and you don’t know how to sell it and you get busted and end up in Santa Rita playing bitch to some fuckstick like Ramon.

– Fuck you, man. What’s easier than selling drugs? Your aunt deals pills. She does OK.

Andy finishes arranging the bags and steps back.

– That’s it.

George looks.

– You sure? It looks different.

– Maybe move that one on the end to the right a little.