It was a late Thursday afternoon in a Florida panhandle locale when two young off-duty detectives in plain clothes were approached by a local drug dealer as they sat and talked over a cup of coffee. Not only were they off the clock; they were also out of their jurisdiction, just on the other side of the county line.
“S’up dudes?” the dealer bantered.
“Not much, man. What’s up with you?”
“Ain’t no thang. Y’all looking for a little somethin’ for tonight?”
“Might be,” the detectives answered. “Depends on what we find.”
“Well, look no further—the Candy Man’s here,” he announced with pride of title on his face. “How’s two hundred dollars sound for an eight ball?” (An eight ball is 3.5 grams of cocaine.)
“That sounds real good if it’s the right thing.”
“Oh, it’s the right thing all right. That’s why they call me the Candy Man, ’cause my deals are so sweet!”
“Sounds good,” one of the officers repeated. “In fact, we’d probably want to do a couple of eight balls right now, only at the moment we don’t have that much cash with us. But if we could take a little ride over to our office, I could get some money out of the safe.”
“Not a problem,” the Candy Man offered. “I need to go and see my boy to pick up some more anyway. Y’all can ride with me.” So the two officers got into the Candy Man’s car and rode with him to secure the drugs. After the pickup, the officers started giving Candy Man directions to their office.
After a half-dozen lefts and rights, the three arrived in front of their “office.”
“Well, here we are, Candy Man.” The officers smiled.
“This ain’t no office building, man. This is the police station.”
“That’s right,” they assured him. “We’re cops.”
“Aw, man . . . you guys are the law?”
“’Fraid so,” the officers answered. “And you’re under arrest for sale of a controlled substance.”
“Damn.” The Candy Man just hung his head and sighed. “And I was beginning to like you guys.”
It’s like your mother always told you. It doesn’t pay to talk to strangers.