“Something bothering you?” she asked.
“Nah.”
“Bullshit.”
He turned to look at her as if alarmed by her intuition. “Savos is a crook. I’m workin’ for him and breakin’ the law.” He popped something in his mouth and washed it down from the tap in the sink.
Marly stirred the slurry as the pan heated. She thought about her own emancipation and how Eddie must feel. “You’ve got more to worry about than that, Eddie.”
“What?”
“You’re hooked on oxy, that’s what!”
“It’s just prescription stuff. It’s no big deal.”
“Eddie! I lived with people—girls—who did oxy. It’s a one-way street unless you quit early. How long have you been using?”
“My old man had a prescription for back pain. He had a shitload of OxyContin when he died. Shit, I don’t know…I was maybe…scared. They made me feel good. I figured it was safer than heroin.”
The eggs were done, and she scraped them onto a plate. “You can’t do much about owing Savos, but you can get yourself clean from those pills. What are they?”
“Eighties,” he said. “Don’t worry, I can stop if I need to.”
Marly didn’t think so and wondered why she even cared about this guy.
But she did. “Why did you leave your ma, and move in with your father?”
He obviously did not expect the question from out of left field and took a beat before answering. “Living with my aunt…she was always making my mom feel guilty having to stay there; was always on me about one thing or another. Besides, I wanted to finish high school in the Sault.”
“You finished?” Marly felt a pang of guilt for lacking her diploma.
“Yeah. I liked school. Would have gone on to college if I’d had the money.”
“I skipped out on my senior year,” she said, adding “Dumbest thing ever,” as a self-reproach.
~ * ~
Dale Urban rinsed the last traces of shaving soap from his face and toweled dry, inspecting the results in the mirror. With small scissors he clipped an errant hair from the moustache he’d styled from old images of David Niven. The 1940s actor’s suave demeanor was the persona he strove to achieve.
A rhythmic banging from somewhere in the house got his attention. He knew it must be the kid again—up to something.
He walked to Joey’s room. Sure enough, there he was on the floor, singing some nonsense and thumping his head against the dry-wall in time with it.
“Stop that! Mrs. Pearl will be here to make breakfast. Where are your socks?”
Joey continued to sing: “Na, na-na,” accompanying it with a bump, bump-bump rhythm.
“Joey!”
“Na, na-na.”
“Goddammit, get dressed!”
“mmm-Bad man,” Joey answered, and turned his back to his father. “Na, na-na”
“Little shit!” He grabbed Joey’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “Knock it off!”
“Shit, shit-shit,” to the same three notes.
Urban was at a loss. In the past, he had slapped the boy and it left a bruise that was hard to explain. He didn’t need some asshole social worker at his door, not with the community profile he was trying to cultivate.
He released Joey’s arm and went to the dresser where the boy had arranged his Matchbox cars at an angle in four perfect rows. From the top drawer he found a pair of socks, and tossed them to his son, leaving the room—and the problem—to the sitter.
The thought hadn’t left his mind when the front door opened, revealing Mrs. Pearl replacing the key in her bag. On the floor were two fat envelopes. She picked them up and was inspecting them.
“Don’t bother with that!” Urban yelled, a mite too loud.
“There’s no address,” she said. “Are they yours?”
He’d gotten in late and forgotten about the new delivery arrangements with Savos. “Yes! Here, I’ll take that.” From then on, he’d have the money delivered when he was at home, alone.
There was one more chore to do before leaving the house. Returning to his home office, he punched a pre-dial on his desk phone.
“Yeah,” a male voice responded.
“I’ve been reading the news,” Urban said.
“So?”
“A guy winds up in the hospital after getting almost beaten to death. That sounds a whole lot like that goon that works for you. I don’t like it. The cops found the guy carrying a lot more oxy than a user would. They’ll be watching him under a microscope, if he hasn’t spilled his guts already. Your man should have relieved him of the stuff.”
“Maybe. The dude was the competition. He had to be roughed up good. Don’t worry. The cops will do us a favor putting them out of business if they learn anything. I gotta protect my territory. We got the best spots. I’m guessing you wanna keep it that way.”
Urban couldn’t argue the point but had to be careful. “I don’t want that ape hanging around your place. His next victim’s liable to finger him. Use him but use him at arm’s length.”
“You telling me how to do my thing, now?”
“As long as you need what I can supply—yes.”
There was silence on the line. Urban waited patiently, knowing he held the cards.
Finally. “Like I give a shit. Yeah, I’ll tell him. He ain’t gonna like it, but all right.” There was an audible click as the call ended.
Urban smiled. That was done. Attention to detail was the mark of a successful businessman.
Ten
It was Eddie’s fourth trip into Michigan and back. He was beginning to be recognized by the border agents, and easily passed on through as he displayed an auto part, or a receipt for some delivery or another. Trips back and forth were routine for many of the small businesses in the combined Saults.
He drove to Savos’ shop where he found the man and Teach in heated conversation. Neither man was happy from the looks of it. When they spotted Eddie they stopped talking, and Teach turned on his heel, leaving not only the office, but the building.
Savos motioned Eddie into a chair.
“Hand it over.”
Eddie gave him the bulging 9x12” envelopes.
“I got something new for you to do,” Savos said. He pulled a package from his desk. “Want you to deliver this tonight, after seven. Want you to go alone, ring the front door, and give it to nobody but the guy who lives there.” He wrote an address on a separate piece of paper.
It wasn’t what Eddie wanted to hear; something else to do for no more money. “Okay, Nick, but I’m almost out of stuff.”
Savos hesitated “I got none of the regular stuff.”
“What’ve you got?”
Savos left the office, returning after several minutes with a baggie filled with maybe a dozen pills. “This should last ‘till I get some of the other.”
Eddie could see the familiar “80” of the OxyContin he’d been taking and wondered what the problem was. “Deliver the envelope after seven. Got it!” Eddie said. The address on East Queen should be easy to find.
~ * ~
Eddie stood on the step holding the package while waiting for his ring to be answered. The door was finally opened by a slender boy of no more than seven or eight.
“Yo, little dude. Is the mister home?”
The boy looked past Eddie onto the driveway. “F-ord Taurus, eighty-six, first year it was made. T-wo point five, four-cylinder nhh-engine.” His voice had a nasal quality, making it slightly hard to understand. It wasn’t a stutter, more like a difficulty in forming the first letter of certain words.
“Whoa, Dude!” Eddie leaned over to shake the boy’s hand but was refused. He recovered. “You know a lot about cars.”
The boy appeared to still be focused on the car. “Dude.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Joey.”
“Hi Joey. I’m Eddie. You like cars, then?”
“Eddie and Joey,” the boy said, bouncing on the balls of his
feet and wriggling his fingers. He giggled happily.
A man’s strong voice called, “Joey!”
The boy bolted away into the house, leaving the door open.
Eddie waited a moment before calling, “Hello?” A second call was required before a man appeared in an unbuttoned dress shirt.
“Who are you?” he asked, surveying Eddie up and down.
“I, uh, rang. The boy—”
“That for me?” Dale Urban held out a hand.
“Yeah. Uh, I’m gonna be delivering from now on.”
“What’s your name?” Urban asked, taking the envelope.
“Eddie, sir.”
“All right, Eddie. Listen to me. Don’t come around before eight at night. I just got home and didn’t hear the bell. Got it? Thursday nights as soon after eight as possible. I don’t want to wait around for you in case I have to go out again.”
“Yes sir.”
Urban swung the door closed without another word.
Edie returned to his car but sat in the driveway for a moment wondering what had just happened. He had little doubt that the package contained money. Savos making payments to some bigshot family man didn’t make sense.
Screw it! He couldn’t worry about it. That feeling of unease—no, more like hurting all over—was returning. He was glad he’d gotten the refill from Nick. From his pocket he found the bag of 80s and popped one in his mouth, swallowing it dry.
He started the car and headed home, satisfied that in a few minutes he’d feel better.
~ * ~
Marly was in her room changing clothes when she heard Eddie’s car. She waited for the garage door to bang shut and Eddie to traipse in the back entrance. Neither happened.
Five minutes passed before she threw on shorts and a top to investigate what might be keeping him. The garage was visible from the kitchen window. She saw the car parked inside. No sign of Eddie. What the hell is he doing?
More minutes passed before she went out to see. The car was still running, rumbling softly amongst the cardboard boxes and long-unused garden tools. There, Eddie sat slumped over, his hands still gripping the top of the wheel and supporting his head. He was shaking.
“Eddie!”
“Yeah,” was his croaked reply.
“C’mon. Let’s get inside.”
His shaking increased. “I can’t. Oh God! I feel like shit.”
“You gotta! Let’s go!” Marly got the car door open and undid his seatbelt. “C’mon now. Gotta get you in your bed.”
~ * ~
Marly was dressed for work when she came down to the kitchen the next morning. Last night she’d maneuvered Eddie down to his basement apartment and got him in bed, removing his shoes and trousers. He’d settled down without more than a drink of water in the way of first aid.
She found him as she’d left him, still asleep, and gave his shoulder a shake. He didn’t respond.
“Eddie. You okay?” Still nothing. On the floor, a plastic bag lay. She picked it up and saw pills inside like the ones she’s seen him take before.
She shook him again, only harder. “Eddie! How much of this did you take?” She couldn’t see him breathe, and put an ear up to his parted lips, hearing a shallow rasp.
Oh shit! Something was wrong here. She scrambled up the stairs, found her phone, and called 911.
~ * ~
“Go on!” Eddie insisted. “You’ll lose your job. I’ll be fine.”
Marly wasn’t so sure, but she knew she couldn’t afford a day off even if her boss let her.
The EMS from the nearby fire brigade had shown up within minutes of her call and confirmed Eddie had overdosed on a powerful opioid. Marly watched as a young woman on the EMS team broke open a package containing a plastic sprayer she held up to Eddie’s nose. The effect was almost immediate. In a minute Eddie was lucid, asking “What the fuck’s going on?”
“What’s that!” she asked the girl.
“Naloxone hydrochloride, Narvan on the street. We always have it. You should too. She handed Marly three of the wrapped applicators. “If it happens again, just insert it in his nose and spray. The instructions are on the package.”
On the bus, Marly thought about Eddie’s insistence that he’d taken only one of the pills in the baggie last night. But then, he was a user, and users lie like hell.
Eleven
“I got nothing!” Terry said, recounting the return to his previous stakeout. “I think we may have spooked this guy.”
“We?” Andy admonished. “I don’t think I spooked anyone, Detective. There must be more than one pusher on the street, probably dozens. Why don’t you try down by the river this afternoon?”
“And you?” Terry pushed his glasses to the top of his polished skull.
“I think we may be missing a good source of information. The Ministry of Health has a task force that’s assigned a team to look into the Sault’s ‘epidemic.’”
“Who’s that?”
Andy opened her note pad and read, “Dr. Kevin A. Campbell, Manager Crisis Outreach Support, Laurentian University School of Medicine.”
“In Sudbury?”
“Seems the med school there is on the forefront of opioid addiction.” Andy looked at her watch, stood and returned the notepad to her bag. “Damn! I’m supposed to meet this guy in ten minutes.”
“Sounds like this doctor is a long way away from what goes on in the street,” Terry said.
“We’ll just have to see.” Andy blew Terry a kiss and left.
~ * ~
“Yes. You are—or were—expected.” The receptionist returned her glance from Andy’s ID to her computer screen, making an entry of some kind. She then pushed a button to somewhere announcing the visitor.
“Accident north of town,” Andy said, mad at herself for gabbing too long with Arnold Terry.
A woman wearing a volunteer badge came to fetch her. “He has a seminar to give, and wanted you to attend,” she said. “He’s addressing our staff and EMT representatives from around the area.”
Andy was led to a room where perhaps seventy-five people were crammed around a projector that was in the process of being focused on a screen at the far wall. She found a place to stand by the door.
“Can we douse some of those lights?” The request came from a man standing by the screen. He was youngish looking, except for the shock of almost-white hair, neatly dressed out in pressed khakis, a blue dress shirt, and flowered tie. He cut a good figure for sure, Andy thought.
The lights were duly dimmed, and Dr. Kevin Campbell introduced himself to the few that didn’t know him. Behind him, on the screen was projected the title of his presentation:
THE OPIOID PROBLEM
A Moving Target
He began with a brief history of opiates, crediting them as being civilization’s oldest source of illicit drug use, going back millennia.
“Once the sap of the poppy was first extracted, man has been relentless in finding new forms of it to abuse.”
He continued to describe the various forms, from morphine to heroin, and concluding with a list of names like oxycodone, OxyContin, hydrocodone, methadone, tapentadol, hydromorphone, bupre-norphine, codeine.
“But there seems to be no end,” he continued, “and that’s part of our challenge. Now there is fentanyl, the new opioid on the block we all have come know to be fifty to one hundred times more potent than morphine.”
Only a few in the room seemed to be surprised by the last statement, Andy among them.
“And the synthetics, opioids, continue to be increasingly aggressive. There is a new derivative named carfentanyl. This one is ten thousand times more potent than morphine.”
That brought a gasp from even some veterans in the room.
Having made his point about the insidious nature of the epidemic, Campbell went on to address the more practical aspects of the current problem, such as identification of over-the-counter (OTC) pills, their critical doses, and street values.
“Any f
ool with a tabletop pill press can go into business mixing opioids with various diluents to produce saleable drugs having no guarantee of strength or purity.”
He gave an example of one compounder who, in error, added just three tenths of a milligram of fentanyl to each pill in a batch he produced. Three persons were dead before the stuff was traced back to a dealer who went to jail without disclosing his source. To make his point, Campbell showed on the screen what that amount of fentanyl looked like inside a common teaspoon. It was barely discernable.
Finally, Campbell delved into ways to detect symptoms of opioid abuse as opposed to other symptoms of distress in a subject.
The whole presentation was over in an hour. Andy was surprised by the amount of information Campbell had compressed into the available time. The man sure seemed to know his stuff. Handouts of the information presented were available at the door. Andy was collecting hers when she heard her name.
“Detective Blake!” She looked up to see Kevin Campbell smiling, holding out his hand.
He was taller than he appeared in front of the group, a good half head more than Andy’s five feet nine. Up close he was older and better looking, she thought. The lines around his eyes gave him a countenance of having seen it all.
“Sorry to have missed you earlier,” he said.
“No, that’s on me. I was late.”
“Well, we have some time now. They’ve given me some space for an office. Come on. We can talk about everything the OPP needs to know.”
~ * ~
Throckmorton rolled on his back next to Andy who, sitting on the stoop of her kitchen door, was oblivious to his entreating for a rub. Thoughts of Grant hung heavy on this otherwise glorious Sunday morning. She’d been totally blindsided by his strange initiative to buy a house in the States without so much as a word to her. Then, his decision to sell his hard-earned company was impossible to understand.
Andy’s return to her childhood home had begun as a trip back from Windsor to dispose of the property after her parents’ passing. In the end, she couldn’t do it. There was just too much of her here, not the least being the stone foundation in her back yard, a few yards from where she sat sipping coffee. In the process of razing an old garage filled mostly with junk, they had discovered the foundation was much older—two hundred years older. Within it was the grave of a woman: Andy’s third great grandmother, Annette Gibson, who had died and was buried in that spot, now an historical marker.
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