4
Stone finished his deliveries and returned the van to its parking spot behind the pharmacy. It was eight o’clock. He was the last driver to check in. He piled out and scanned the other delivery vans, all neatly lined up in a tin soldier row. No other drivers were around, just the yellow vans, the sides displaying the large VFFP logo in blue and orange. In the center of each hand-painted logo was a neatly stenciled syringe and a toppled prescription pill bottle, its contents scattered across the brightly painted sheet metal. He was only an hour late. Fredrico would already be long gone.
Fredrico Verigini was the ‘V’ in the VFFP logo. He was the owner of Fredrico Full Family Pharmacy. Fredrico had built his empire from the ground up, dispensing capsules, tablets, pills and creams from a rundown apothecary that catered to the indigent, the elderly and the dying. They were his bread and butter customer base as he shoveled his way to the top. Now he ran a chain of pharmacies and a mondo warehouse that delivered to welfare patients and hospitals alike. If you were sick enough to need the pharma, Fredrico would deliver the goods. He owned the largest fleet of delivery trucks in the Midwest and they were on the road six days a week with emergency service on Sundays and Holidays.
Mr. ‘V’, as Stone called him, was a hustler who was proud of the fact that he had earned his living by the sweat of his brow. He expected the same from his employees. Mr. ‘V’s motto was: “We live to serve our customers.” Stone had worked at VFFP long enough to know what that really meant—Mr. ‘V’ never met a customer’s money he didn’t like. Stone also learned Mr. ‘V’ was not the type of boss who liked having his ass chapped. He had zero tolerance for employees who loafed. Off the clock, Fredrico could give a shit, but punched-in and on his payroll, you’d best be earning your keep. Ditto mixing up orders, fouling up deliveries, or being a wise ass. Stone had managed to do all four and that put him heavy on Mr. ‘V’s radar.
Right now, Stone was more concerned about Nip. If he was late making his drop of stolen goodies, he’d blow a gasket. Nip was a lot of things—thief, clepto, doper, dealer—but patient wasn’t one of them. Stone made some serious wedge from the pharma he unloaded to Nip. For that cash flow to continue, he needed to keep the man high and happy. He grabbed his stolen stash and jackrabbited out of the parking lot.
Nip’s place was on the west side of the city. Stone’s foot was heavy on the gas pedal. He kept his eyes peeled for wayward cops laying for speeders. The last thing he needed was some rook pulling him over and shoving his snout into the bag of stolen goodies. A duffle filled with sixty brown bottles bearing the VFFP logo, each with a different patient’s name on the label—that spelled busted in bold, black capital letters.
Stone herded his car into a dark alley and killed the engine. He rifled through the stash, checking the contents under the yellow flame from his trusty Zippo. He was running behind, but he needed a bump, a little something to take the edge off. And behold, there it was, little, blue and scrumptious, his old friend Xanax. Come to Papa. He popped three and pulled back into traffic. He had fifteen minutes.
5
Arder thought about her swine-of-a Dad, bunching his jaws as he double-knotted the laces on her shoes. It had been years, but if she closed her eyes she could still see his demon eyes and those drawn and withered fingers working the strings into rock-hard knots. It was the only form of attention he ever gave her and he doled it out liberally. To her it was a punishment; to him it was some sort of therapy. Arder wept.
Deep inside her Dad’s imperfect world he insisted everything be perfect. The perfectionism led to abuses of the mind-screw variety, what Arder called the bruises that never showed. And it never seemed to take much to push his buttons and send him hurtling into psycho-city. “Why aren’t there pickles and mustard on the table with my supper?” He hated pickles and mustard—never ate them. “Where’s my morning newspaper?” He didn’t subscribe to any newspapers—couldn’t even read. “Arder, the dog messed in the hallway again. Clean it up.” Never mind the fact they had never owned a dog, or any other pets. Ever. “We’re out of milk again.” The only beverage Daddy kept in the house came in brown bottles. If Arder was thirsty, she could drink water.
Arder learned to adapt, but it didn’t keep Daddy from playing his little games. His all-time fave was The Hoover Maneuver. After he ignored her for a couple days, he would suddenly scoop her up, take her out for lunch and lay on the charm. “I’m sorry, sweetness. I don’t know what gets into me. Solemn promise, it will never happen again.” It was all part of his efforts to suck her back in. It never lasted and when his lid popped and he boiled over, BAM, out came the laces.
Arder adjusted her loafers and crossed her legs. She’d managed to deal with her Father in the only way he understood. What she hadn’t quite relieved herself of was the painful memories. While all the other kids were going on school trips, she was being put on bizarre guilt trips. It was the only trip she and her Father ever took together. She pitied him and the small hell he’d created for himself. She hoped he’d be happy there.
6
Stone found Nip flopped on his ratty couch, eyes closed, a forty-ounce malt liquor in his fist, his feet propped on a wobbly wooden coffee table. In the center of the table was a skull-shaped crystal bong with skuzzy water in the bottom. Nip cracked one eye open slightly, a fleshy slit with a bloodshot marble crammed inside. “Hey, bro, whatsup?”
Bro. Nip called everybody bro. Stone didn’t wanna be Nip’s bro . . . or his pal . . . or his amigo . . . or his buddy . . . or any other damned thing. He moved the bong aside, opened his duffle and dumped the contents on the table top. “Check this shit out. I got a major haul for ya this time.”
Nip leaned forward, opened both eyes wide and yawned. “Looks like the same ‘ol same ‘ol to me.” He fished through the pile with his grubby fingers. “Ain’t sure I can use any of this stuff.”
Stone pointed to the table full of pharma. “Come on, man, the percs and Vicodin alone should bring us about two grand on the street, easy.”
Nip widened his eyes and shook his head. “Things’ve changed. Most of the regulars ain’t askin’ for Percocet no more. I mean, they’ll take vicodin in a pinch, but they’re all screamin’ for the Big O”. Nip wiggled his eyebrows. “Oxycontin, baby, that’s the ticket. The peeps all love the oxy.”
Stone raised his hands in protest. “You know how hard they’ve come down on that stuff? There’re more people watchin’ that shit than the gold in Ft. Knox. Getting caught rippin’ that shit is a sure ticket to some serious jail time.”
“Just sayin’.”
“Just sayin’ my ass. We had a deal for this shit.” Stone jabbed a finger at the pile on the table. “I snag these goodies, you pay me what they’re worth and turn the stuff over out on the streets.” Stone ran a finger through his damp, sweaty hair, “I don’t get you. We been doin’ this gig for, what, eight or ten months? You said it was cool, that this was our cash cow.”
Nip took another blast from his forty. “Hey, things change. It’s supply and demand, my friend. You gotta give the people what they want.”
“Well, trust me, oxy is out. I ain’t takin’ that kinda chance.”
“I don’t know what to tell, bro. It’s a harsh world.”
“So, tell me, what am I supposed to do?”
Nip rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Here’s a thought, score me some ‘E.’ You get me some ecstasy, I mean some real lip-smackin’, top-of-the mark ‘E’, then we’ll talk some serious turkey.”
Stone tossed up his hands in frustration. “Nip, you haven’t been payin’ attention. Pharmacies don’t stock ‘E’. Pharmacies don’t sell ‘E’. Pharmacies don’t deliver ‘E’. That means I don’t have access to any damn ‘E’.
“Serious?”
“Serious.”
Nip took half a dozen monster blasts from his forty, an internal debate about firing up the bong for another round plastered on his face. “Well, they should, bro. Drug stores could make a fortune.
”
“Got news for ya, Nip, they already make a fortune.”
Nip let out a loud, foamy belch. “Duly noted. Still, my street meat, they are way into “E” right now. It’s totally hot. If we could get our hands on a truckload of the kryptonite shit, and if we put the word out, we’d be all set.”
Stone was shaking his head now, amused at how clueless Nip could be. “Yeah, yeah, I know. And when ifs and buts become candies and nuts, every day will be like Christmas.”
Nip let out a wet, farty noise, picked up the bong, let brown skuzzy water slosh on his jeans. “Got a new load of smoke yesterday. Wanna try some out?”
Stone’s head was still buzzing from the Xanax. He eyed the skull as Nip loaded up the bong. “I think I’ll pass.”
“Wussy.” Nip sparked it up and took a long, hard toke. He held out the bong, humming the Jeopardy theme through a thick cloud of smoke.
“Shit.” Stone grabbed the bong. “We ain’t through yet. We still gotta talk about all this pharma I dragged in here for you.” He took a short toke, coughed it back out. “I put my ass out on the line to score this shit. Besides, I need the cash. I’m assed out.” He hit the bong again and flopped down next to Nip.
“Relax, bro, we’ll get it sorted out. The market value’s not what it used to be, though, just remember that.”
“It never stops with you does it?”
“Hey, I’m a businessman. Don’t hate me for it.”
Stone set the bong down and waited for his skull to stop vibrating. “So, let’s talk business.”
Nip surveyed all the goodies spread out on the table. He had to admit, Stone had hooked into some prime pharma. He wet his lips, eager to get the ball rolling. ‘Stoney, my pharmaceutical friend, I shouldn’t do this, but I’m gonna cut you a break. Just this one time I’ll do the deal for twenty percent less than our last one.”
“You’re insane. I can street it myself and do better than that.”
Nip waited a beat. “O’kay, this is unheard of but I’ll go fifteen percent.”
“You’ll go straight to hell, then.” Stone began shoveling the pharma back in his duffle.
Nip grabbed his arm. “Hold up, we’re buds, right?
Stone was silent.
I’m losin’ my ass here, but I’ll go ten percent.”
“Five.
Nip gave him the snake eyes.
“Five, or I walk.”
Nip sat the bong down and stuck out a hand. “Deal”
Stone ignored the hand but took the offer. “Damn right it’s a deal.”
“Now,” said Nip, “all we need to do is snag us a couple babes and let ‘em test drive some of this shit before we put it out on the street.”
Stone smiled. “Game on.”
7
Arder sat at her portal. She caressed the orb, adjusted the screen and accessed her archives of past redemptions: Wayne, Rancer F., grand theft auto, petty theft, shoplifting. Arder shook her head and grinned at the memory. Rancer Wayne was a full-fledged klepto. He could pop the lock on most cars and be tooling down the highway in less than twenty seconds. Fords. Chevys, Beamers, whatever—the brand did not matter—no lock or ignition could defeat the magic fingers of the great Rancer Wayne. And security systems with high-tech features designed to thwart burglars? Forget about it.
Rancer didn’t limit his sticky fingers to autos, either. Arder tailed him for nearly a month as he cruised through malls and convenience stores, stuffing his pockets with anything of value. He’d snag anything that wasn’t nailed down or chained to a wall. He’d once lined his pants pockets with plastic bags in a failed attempt to swipe an aquarium full of rare tropical fish—water and all. Arder had prayed for him to get caught by someone willing to press the issue and thus, make her job a little easier. Fat chance. Rancer would drift into a store unnoticed, blend into a crowd, do his pilfering and disappear like a ghostly vapor. She could taste the bitter irony of it all.
Rancer finally got his comeuppance via the thing he loved most, a stolen car. It should have been an easy jack. He’d done it hundreds of times before without a hitch. The classic Mustang Fastback Rancer decided to nab was in an ideal location. He figured the owner must have been a complete idiot— parking it under a busted streetlight, off the main drag, on a deserted side street—it was practically begging to be taken. All Rancer needed to do was Slim-Jim the lock, jack the ignition switch, twiddle around a bit with the screwdriver and ‘Bob’s yer uncle.’
What a pity he hadn’t counted on the nasty gasoline explosion from the leaky fuel tank, trigged by an electrical short in the wiring. It had only taken Arder a few seconds to chafe the insulation enough to cause the wires to arc. The arc created a spark, the spark started a fire and the gasoline fed the flames.
Click.
Whoosh.
Boom.
He’s gone.
Arder twirled a piece of broken shoe lace between her thumb and forefinger. She marveled at how hard she had worked to redeem Rancer Wayne. She’d thought he was salvageable, just show him the error of his ways, help him clean up his act a little and he’d be just fine. She’d been wrong. He wasn’t a lost sheep. He was a sneak thief who crossed the line one dark, foggy night when he slaughtered his first purse snatching victim. From there it was all downhill and he began racking up victims like billiard balls. He’d chosen to put his life in the toilet and Arder became the flush handle. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
She clicked on the next file in her portal. This one she’d forgotten. It had been so many years ago and she’d done hundreds of redemptions since. The image was fuzzy and the face pock marked and wrinkled—not what she’d remembered at all. She stared at the image. “Oh, Mother Jade, you were quite the challenge weren’t you?”
Jade O’Day wasn’t a nun. In fact, she had no affiliation with the Catholic Church, or any other church for that matter. The title was an honorary one, placed on Jade by members of her flock. Her motherly instincts had given many of them a safe and loving home. Like Rancer, Jade had sticky fingers, but she was a bit more sophisticated.
Mother Jade had started Blessed Rose Children’s Home with the best of intentions. She had a good heart and dearly loved children. She’d always wanted her own, but could never conceive. She didn’t play favorites at Blessed Rose and no child was ever turned away. The poor, the orphaned, the handicapped and the abandoned—all were treated with loving kindness.
Along with her motherly skills, she was blessed with a head for numbers. She could effortlessly tally vast columns of figures, maintain the ledger and balance the books at Blessed Rose without a single error. Ever. It was a gift.
As with any gift it was only as precious as its recipient. Unfortunately, Jade’s gift was supplanted with a horrible curse—greed. Soon she was struck by temptations—a quarter here, fifty cents there—she didn’t see the harm. As with any curse, this one clung like a wet sheet on naked flesh. The greed intensified. The years of chump change she embezzled turned into a small fortune. Blessed Rose relied on generous donations to keep the doors open, so every penny she kept took food from her children’s mouths and clothes from their backs. The greed consumed her and Jade became blind to their suffering. The weaker children became ill and the stronger children became weak.
Arder had to assume the body of an investment broker to quench the fires of greed burning deep within Jade’s heart. Arder played the role to the hilt, using a silver-toned tongue to convince Jade to stuff her bucks into high yield investments. Arder’s phony rates-of-return had Jade’s mouth watering. Arder sucked her in while sucking her accounts dry.
Arder didn’t keep the money. Currency meant nothing to her. That was the beauty of it. Every dime was directed right back to the Blessed Rose Children’s Home, through a very private, very mysterious trustee.
The day Mother Jade abandoned the children, went to cash in and high tail-it to a tropical paradise was a date Arder would never forget. When Jade completed the required paperwork to close o
ut her accounts she was taken to a vault to access a securities box. It was opened and inside were Jade’s second set of books—the books only she knew about—the books showing every cent she’d stolen. Attached to the cover was a signed federal warrant and a small note which read: Gotcha !
Mother Jade had fallen a long way from grace. With a jump start from Arder, she came screaming back at light speed. Sure the greed still burned in her heart, but it’s hard to find much to be greedy about deep behind the walls of a federal penitentiary. On the up side, the patients in the prison infirmary where Jade spent most of her days emptying bed pans and changing shit-stained bed sheets continued to call her Mother.
Arder had restored peace and order to The Blessed Rose Children’s Home and changed Mother Jade. There were no scare tactics involved in this one, no snarling monsters with foaming mouths full of jagged teeth, no flesh-eating ghouls dragging their victims to the grave, just shear cunning. Jade had been given a large dose of her own medicine and the medicine was bitter. She closed the files, turned off the portal and left the orb. There would be time to reminisce later. She shape-shifted and floated above the city scanning flop houses, crack dens and ghetto flops. Soon she spotted what she was looking for. It was time to rattle some cages and she knew just where to start. She drifted toward the front porch of the shabby little row house, spread her arms and crashed through the door.
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