One evening in February, I received a text: “It’s the Milk Guy.”
A moment later, my phone rang. The man on the line — whom I’d found on a sketchy website recommended to me by an influencer in Tribeca — set up a time to meet. A few days later, I watched from my stoop in Williamsburg as a green van pulled up in front of the church across the street. The Milk Guy sported a skullcap and smelled faintly of cigarettes. He was not the frat boy I bought weed from in college; no, he looked like a dealer from the big leagues. He yanked open the van’s door: The back seats were gutted and replaced with coolers of different sizes, some as large as coffins.
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