The Murph was the last of a dying breed. An old-school, fur-coat, cane-walkin’, gold-chain-swingin’ pimp straight outta central casting — picture Willie Dynamite (above) but on a tight budget, operating out of a peeling two-story on Grant Ave in Schenectady. He had an old lady who sold crack and a stable of hoes who kept the lights on. His whip? A big-body Lincoln Continental with tinted windows and fur on the dash, naturally.

My cousin was one of his old lady’s regulars — hooked on that rock, chasing ghosts like it was a paying job.

One night, I get a call from a payphone — for you Zoomers, that’s a thing we used before cell phones, kind of like a public toilet for your voice. My cousin’s on the other end, frantic:
“Philly, come get me at The Murph’s. Right now.”
“What happened?”
“Just get here. I’ll explain.”

So I jacked my old man’s car and raced over, thinking he got beat up again or couldn’t pay his dealer. I pull up and the street’s a goddamn riot — girls running out of the house with TVs, microwaves, VCRs, anything not nailed down. It was like Black Friday at the Brothel. My cousin flags me down.
“What the fuck’s going on?”
“The Murph is dead.”
“So?”
“So?! His old lady said take what you want before she calls 911.”

“Oh, shit. Get the keys to the Lincoln!”

He bolted inside and I followed. The place was bedlam — women screaming, grabbing bags of clothes, electronics, jewelry. I found the old lady in the bedroom, cracking The Murph’s dead knuckles to pop the gold rings off like she was cashing in at a pawn shop in hell. He was stiff as a board, lying there like Weekend at Bernie Mack’s.

She looked up, calm as Sunday morning:
“Hey boy, help me lift this mattress.”

I grabbed one end, dead Murph still on top, and we hoisted it. Turns out the box spring was gutted and stuffed with bricks of cash. She started filling up black trash bags, fast and focused. I begged for a slice of the pie.

She tossed me two stacks of hundreds — $20K just like that.

Once the loot was bagged, she dropped the mattress and yelled:
“FIVE MINUTES!”
That was the timer. After that, the scene had to go back to “normal” so she could call it in.

She made me leave while she said a prayer over The Murph’s body — a bizarre little moment of grace between felonies. I dipped out and met my cousin out front. He already had the Lincoln running, wearing one of Murph’s fur hats like he just got promoted. We peeled out and headed straight for NYC.

Three days in the city. Gone. Just like that. Booze. Blow. Crack (for him). Whores. Hotel suites. Ribeye steaks. Leather jackets. Fake Rolexes. Twenty pounds of pastrami from Carnegie Deli. We blew through twenty grand like we were allergic to savings. I remember buying bottles of Mad Dog 20/20 off homeless guys for a hundred bucks apiece because we weren’t old enough to buy it ourselves. Then we bought 200 hot dogs from Gray’s Papaya and just gave them away. Later, we were slipping hundos into the coats of sleeping homeless people like it was a scavenger hunt for dignity.

The car, the money — it all felt magic. Until it wasn’t.

We rolled back into Schenectady and got off at Brandywine Ave. Immediately, red-and-blues in the rearview. Local cop. Knew the car. Everybody knew The Murph’s Lincoln. He cracks a joke like he’s seen a ghost.

“Y’all know Murph died?”
We played dumb.
“What? No! He loaned us the car a few days ago!”

Backup showed up. They made us step out and started tearing the car apart. Flashback to earlier that day: we couldn’t get the trunk open when we were leaving the hotel, so we chucked all our shit in the backseat. Problem was, we didn’t know The Murph’s trunk was The Bank of Schenectady.

The cop hit the button. Trunk popped open.

Ten shoeboxes.

All full of cash. Neatly stacked hundreds. I’d guess at least a quarter million.

We looked at each other like: fuck. We really should’ve opened the trunk.

(At least it wasn’t a body or a kilo. Small wins.)

Cops took the car. Told us to grab our shit and walk. Said the cash was being “logged as evidence.” Yeah. Sure it was.

We never heard from them again.

No charges. No questions. No nothing. I’m guessing a few officers got new boats and girlfriends out of that trunk money. Hopefully they made smarter decisions than we did.

And me? I got home and my dad beat my ass for ditching his car in the hood for three days.

But hey — that’s how The Murph went out: one last blowout for the streets. A deathbed clearance sale. And for three glorious days, we lived like kings.

Cracked-out, underaged kings.

—P.