Vacant Shore

by Jack Hardin

  “The co-caine, man. It’s so crazy that we’re in the same business.”

  Quinton stared into the railing, unresponsive. Had they talked about that last night? Surely he hadn’t. He had been at this for a decade and had never told a soul. That would be the epitome of foolishness. He hadn’t drunk that much. Had he? Beer never made him forget. That was a job for tequila, and he hadn’t downed that much tequila since before he had a pregnancy stick thrown at his face. Quinton suddenly felt as if he were in a horror movie and he was the guy about to get eaten. “I can’t remember us talking about that,” he finally said.

  “Oh, well we did, man. Totally did. You were saying how you all—” Zeke stopped talking when he saw his newest friend’s expression. He took a sip of his coffee and frowned at the cup as he swallowed. “Look, man. If you’re sorry you told me anything, you’ve got nothing to worry about. You’re down there, I’m up here.” Then he glanced over at Quinton, and after taking note of his body language said, “But if this is like a one-night stand where you wake up in the morning and regret the night before I totally get it. All is forgotten.”

  “No,” Quinton said quickly. If he said it, he said it. He couldn’t take it back. “It’s fine. How long have you been in the game?”

  “Five years now.” Zeke laughed. “Wish to God it was twenty. Blow is having a comeback, as I’m sure you know, but up here we’re all about mixed marriages, you know what I mean?”

  “I don’t think I do.”

  “Mixing, man. Lacing up. Intermingling.”

  “You mean cutting it?”

  Zeke snapped his fingers. “Damn right we are. Ask me with what?”

  “With what?”

  Zeke teased out the syllables. “Fen-ta-nyl. Fentanyl, man. It’s the newest thing. Like dipping your ice cream in chocolate was back in the fifties.”

  “I don’t know a lot about it,” Quinton said. “A friend of mine was prescribed something last year after his hand surgery that had fentanyl in it.”

  “Well, yeah. It’s an opioid man.” He lowered his voice and smoothed it out. “A real downer. Makes you feel like you’re laying on a cloud, floating across a universe filled with gumdrops and rainbows. Even unicorns, if you’re into that kind of thing,” he laughed.

  “So how’s that work lacing it with blow? Coke’s an upper, not a downer.”

  “Quinton,” Zeke the Beak’s voice was all business now. “Help me out here. Where do you rank? You work curbside or do you bring it in?”

  Quinton hesitated. “We bring it in.” Then he added, “Being on the coast helps. We don’t work the curbs. We just get it to distributors in the larger cities.”

  Zeke set his coffee down. “Ohhh, man. That is perfect. So perfect.” His excitement animated his hands as he spoke. “Listen, you could make ten times what you are now and not have to get any more buyers. Your buyers will be coming to you begging for more kilos than you could ever dream up.”

  And there it was. A seemingly ordinary moment on a penthouse balcony, while large white clouds floated casually over Lake Michigan and most of the city was hard at work, that three words were spoken that would change everything: the moment when Quinton slowly ran his tongue across his pearly whites and said, “Let’s hear it.”

  Zeke straightened up and set his elbows on his knees, his voice a flurry of excitement. “Okay, man, here it is. You’re right, fentanyl is a downer, but it’s highly addictive. As you’ll be aware, a large part of the coke market is represented by weekend users—just normal folks looking to have a little fun. But. What if you tossed a wee bit of something else that they have to have again? Some poor freshman at the local college studying for that midterm thinks he’s just snorting a little dust, but the next day he finds that he needs another hit, and then another, and he’s hooked. It’s not your product that does that. It’s my additive. We’re even getting heroin addicts to switch over.”

  “So you’re expanding your market,” Quinton said.

  “No. No. No,” Zeke chuckled. “Not market expansion. You’re goofing the idea all up. It’s market assurance. I mean, where can you go and get ninety-five percent repeat business? My sister-in-law runs an online clothing boutique and from what I hear it only rides a sixty percent repeat tops. We don’t want them to be users; we need them to be addicts. You get them laced up, man, and they want more. And man, our coke is laced up more than a virgin’s thigh on her wedding night. Folks think they’re buying a kite when what you’re really selling them is a trip to the moon for pennies on the dollar. When their capsule comes burning back through the atmosphere and splashes down in the ocean they open up that hatch begging for you to send them back. All of a sudden hovering fifty feet over a war monument in the park on a piece of nylon string doesn’t do it for them. And these people, the ones who would only dust their noses in a club a couple weekends a month or while cramming for finals, now they’re hooked in, man. I mean barb all the way down the throat isn’t coming back out hooked.”

  Much to his surprise, Quinton found that he was catching Zeke Beaker’s excitement. For ten years now he and Ringo had stuck with one product. That had been the smart, the wise move. And now they knew that market inside and out. They even dominated it across their local area now that Nunez was gone. Ordinarily, Quinton would have never, not in a million years, considered doing what Zeke was doing with his operation. But a question that had been rattling around his subconscious the last few months suddenly became a clear and coherent thought. Isn’t it time you started making a little something too? That was it. A very simple question that could only have a complex answer.

  He and Ringo had helped hundreds, if not thousands, of families over the years. Because of them children were still breathing and playing Little League and going to recitals. Neither he nor Ringo had ever taken a dime from this side enterprise of theirs. Not a single red cent. Outside of business expenses, everything they had made—millions over the years—had been distributed to non-profits all over the country, organizations on the front lines of pediatric cancer research. Even the mansion in Ionia had been a gift from César five years ago. As far as Quinton knew it was still in an offshore trust held by Angelos Negros.

  But now, he was surprised to hear the hoarse voice of Larry Lawrence barking in his ear: So you’ve helped a few people and you’re proud of it. Whoop-de-doo, people. Whoop. De. Doo. One day, they are going to die and you are going to die. That great soul train of the universe is going to carry you off and dump you at the eternal tar pits. So, you want something? Go get it. You want more out of life? Just. Go. Get. It.”

  They would keep helping people—Quinton didn’t want to stop doing that—but maybe it was time to get a little bit for themselves too. Maybe it was time to see what else they could do with this business.

  “Hey, man? You still with me?”

  Quinton drained the last of his now cold coffee. “So you just mix in the fentanyl? How do you get it?”

  “Okay, so of course with coke you have all this growing and processing that has to happen. Same with heroin—it’s just poppies instead of coca leaves. This stuff, you can make in a bucket for next to nothing. So cheap, man. And I mean like baking soda cheap. It used to be that you had to depend on bad apples in the pharmaceutical plant or greedy doctors or pharmacists. The product was steady, but it was a faucet drip. I’m telling you, Quinton, this is early adoption. You get in now before the competition and you’ll dominate. You’re down in Florida. How far are you from…” He snapped his fingers. “Well, shoot. I can’t remember. I think she said Punta Gorda? Something like that.”

  “It’s in the county just north of us.”

  Zeke whistled long and low. “Mannn, do I have a career twist for you. One of my best friends from grade school is down there doing what I’m doing.”

  “No kidding?”

  “No kidding. She’s looking for a legit coke supplier. She’s got one now, but she says quality is the pits. I don’t know how good yours is, but I could may
be connect the two of you.”

  That next day Quinton decided to skip the Cubs’ next home series and return to Florida. He had to bring the idea to Ringo. Quinton was fairly certain he wouldn't go for it, but he was going to try anyway. And then he found that he didn’t need to speak with Ringo about it after all. Rather, Ringo told him he was stepping down, that he was handing the reins over.

  Now, as he tucked the ticket stub beneath his mouse pad, Quinton started to ponder the rules they had established all those years ago. If he wanted to, he could turn his pencil upside down, erase anything he didn’t want to keep, and re-write the commandments. He was the finger of God now, the two stone tablets without a word yet upon them. Maybe it was time to start making a little coin for himself, to enjoy the fruits of his labors. He could do that if he wanted. Because he was in charge now.

  New Ringo, new rules.

  The front door to the bait shop clattered open—it didn’t have a bell, the sound annoyed Quinton—and a lady that could only be called stunning walked in. She wore a bright yellow halter top that hardly covered her breasts, revealing a flat stomach and a navel ring. Her denim shorts, if they could even be called shorts, put long legs, perfect and evenly tanned, on display. Her jet black hair had a purple stripe down the side.

  Quinton, being a man, perked up and came to his feet. He maneuvered out from behind his desk and stepped up behind the counter. “Can I help you find something?”

  Her eyes sparkled with intent, and the A/C unit blew her body spray around the shop, replacing the piscine odor of live bait with whipped vanilla and cherry blossoms. Her movements were subtly provocative and as she approached the counter Quinton exercised every bit of willpower to keep his eyes from falling down the deep ravine between her breasts.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Stacey Blume.” Her accent was rich with Southern sultry.

  He nodded, his blood warming. “Quinton Davis. You looking for something in particular?”

  “Somewhat. From what I understand you and I have a mutual friend.”

  “And who is that?”

  “Zeke Beaker.”

  Quinton’s expression flattened.

  “I was just in the area and thought you might want to talk about any mutual interests regarding our products.”

  Quinton said nothing, so she continued, this time with a bit of uncertainty in her voice. “Our product is the talk of the town, as I’m sure you’ve heard. It works great with what you’re selling.”

  Quinton’s business savvy kicked in, overriding his testosterone. He looked down at her hand and smiled. “That’s a nice ring.”

  “Oh,” she smiled. She brought the ring up and cradled it with her other hand. “Thank you. I got it just a couple weeks ago.”

  “Can I see it?” he asked.

  Charmed, she extended her hand to him and he gently took it into his, the way he might a baby bird. She teased a smile while he examined it. And then, with a sudden movement, Quinton brought out his other hand and clamped it around her wrist; firmly, too firmly, like he was crushing a baby bird. Her eyes became dark pools of confusion. “What are you doing?” He ignored her and plucked up her ring finger. He wrapped his hand around it. Her eyes widened in sudden fear. Quinton lifted it away from the others. “Ouch!” She tried to pull back, but he was far too strong. “What are you doing? Ouch...you’re hurting me...let...go!”

  Quinton did not let go, but he did stop the advance of her finger. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled.

  Squirming, she said, “I’m trying to have a conversation with you. I hear...ow!..I heard you might be good for it.”

  “I am a businessman, lady. What you just did coming in here like this is not only unprofessional, it’s full of risk. You want to do business with me, you’re going to have to act like you’re running a business, not a whorehouse.” He released her hand and she took it into her bosom, massaging it.

  “You’re a jerk.”

  “And you need to leave.”

  She huffed and turned toward the door.

  “I’m very interested in your product,” he said flatly. She drew up but did not turn around. “But I’m not interested in working with anyone who walks slipshod. Prove me wrong.”

  She stared indignantly at the door for several moments before pushing against it and exiting the shop.

  Quinton went back to his desk, angry and disappointed.

  Zeke Beaker called him a half hour later and apologized.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The glowing Arizona sun had nearly completed its descent below the horizon when the man hurried across the Walgreens parking lot and went inside. Deneford watched him from the comfort of his rental car. He recognized the Indian man with the white hair from a brief conversation earlier. And that was good.

  Deneford still had not found his target after his escape from the hospital. He had spent the last eight hours moving from business to business, flashing his badge and asking dozens of shop owners and employees if they had seen a man with Virgil’s description. They had not. Deneford had worked the route with caution, careful to avoid the police who were patrolling the streets, looking for the escaped John Doe, often getting out and inquiring inside businesses as well. Nothing had turned up. That left only a couple options. One, Deneford hadn’t thrown out a wide enough net. Somehow, Virgil had managed, in the condition that he was in, to get further than a half mile out from the hospital. But something told him that hadn’t happened. Deneford had searched everywhere: bathrooms in the nearest high rises, diners, mom and pop stores, doctors’ offices in the medical district. He used his badge to get security guards to review their camera footage, telling them to call him if they found anything. But Virgil had vanished.

  And that’s when Deneford went back to the rental car and brought out his surveillance equipment from his duffle bag. There were three pharmacies within a half mile radius; and Deneford only had four micro cameras—each the size of a nickel. For this to work he needed two per location. He chose the two most logical locations and planted the cameras near the medical supplies. Then he sat in his car and waited.

  Now, Deneford watched the feed on his phone as the Indian man grabbed up a handful of gauze packets, antibacterial ointment, pain relief, compression bandages, and a couple other items that Deneford couldn’t identify through the small black and white video feed.

  Pleased with himself, Deneford smiled. Five minutes later the gentleman hurried out of the Walgreens clutching several plastic bags, one of which contained several bottles of Gatorade. He got into his car and quickly drove off.

  Deneford didn’t need to follow him. He knew where he was headed.

  ____________________

  Dinesh Aziz held the bottle of Gatorade to Virgil’s lips and watched as the man drank greedily. He pulled away from the bottle and swallowed. “Thank you.”

  “Yes. Tomorrow I must take you to a doctor.”

  A hefty knock rattled the front door. Virgil and Aziz looked at each other, wide eyed. “Don’t,” Virgil said. “Just act like no one is here.”

  They were in the back room of Mr. Aziz’s pawn shop where Virgil had slept for the past seven hours. He had tried to fight it, but after the kind store owner had decided to believe Virgil’s story, he had taken him in and fashioned a pallet of blankets for him in the corner of the back room. Virgil had asked Mr. Aziz to wake him in two hours. Instead, the older man gave him seven hours and woke him holding a bottle of Percocet he had gotten from home and a bottle of Gatorade.

  Another knock, followed by a “Hello? Mr. Aziz? I believe I forgot my wallet here earlier today. Hello?”

  “No,” Virgil whispered. “Don’t go. It’s not worth the risk. He can come back tomorrow.”

  Mr. Aziz hesitated and then stood up. “Let me just see who it is.”

  “No...don’t.”

  The older man stood and peeked around the corner. “I can’t see what he looks like. It’s too dark.” Then he jerked back int
o the room. “I think he saw me.”

  “Just leave him be.”

  Another knock. Harder this time. “Please, sir.”

  “Don’t answer that door, Mr. Aziz.” Virgil watched as the pawn shop owner struggled with a decision. Before he could object again the shop owner had straightened his back, lifted his chin, and stepped into the main service area with a hurried but professional stride.

  He unlocked the door and opened it. “How can I help you? We closed a few minutes ago.”

  The man’s presence was imposing. He stood tall over the short Indian man. “I’m sorry, sir. The sign here said you don’t close for another hour yet. I think I left my wallet here earlier today. Have you come across one?”

  “No...I did not find one today.”

  “It’s important that I find it,” Deneford said. “May I come in and look for it? I may have set it down by the tools. I was looking for some wrenches.”

  Mr. Aziz hesitated again and then made the last decision of his life. “Okay. But please hurry. I need to get home.”

  “Of course.”

  Deneford stepped in and walked back to the area with the tools, away from the front window. Aziz followed him. Deneford stepped behind the shelving and bent over, fingering the tools and quickly feigning discovery. He stood erect and turned to Aziz, a pre-owned hammer clutched in his palm. “Sir, you shouldn’t have helped him.”

  Deneford heard a soft tap from the back of the store, like metal on metal, like a door shutting.

  Aziz started to tremble. “I do not want any trouble. Please.”

  “Certainly.” When forensics showed up it needed to look like a man in a wheelchair had hit the man. Deneford dropped to his knees and swung the hammer around into the older man’s temple. Aziz went flying into a steel framed rack filled with electric saws and chainsaws and then crumpled to the ground, unconscious, blood seeping from his head.

  Deneford walked calmly across the room and into the back, where he stopped momentarily and took in a corner where a pallet of blankets and a folded sleeping bag lay. A couple Walgreens bags lay on the floor. Next to the bags was an unopened box of gauze squares and a half-empty bottle of grape Gatorade. A pillow inked with small blotches of dried blood.