Narc

by Crissa-Jean Chappell

  He goes right for it. My fatal weakness. My soft spot. My kryptonite.

  “I’m not stupid,” I tell him. “This is my school, okay? I see what’s going on.”

  “So you witnessed a transaction,” the cop said. He wanted to know: How much product? Where is it collected? Who handles the money?

  I closed my eyes. When I opened them, the cop was still there, watching.

  He jotted something down on a memo pad. “I’m going to look into those locations. Send a car out there.”

  “She’s got a little brother,” I said.

  “What did you say?”

  “Skully. I mean, Jessica. She’s got a little brother. He’s a diabetic.”

  “What age?”

  “Midde school, I guess.”

  The cop put down his pen. “This complicates things.” He stared at me. “You’ve got a younger sibling, too.”

  It took me by surprise. “What does my sister have to do with this?”

  He kept his gaze pinned on mine. “You’re not thinking of backing out, are you, friend?”

  I swallowed hard.

  “Because if you back out,” he said, “we won’t be there to protect you.”

  “Protect me? From what?” I stammered.

  “Oh, let’s see. You’ve already botched a deal with this guy, Finch. If he finds out that you’re a snitch—and believe me, he will, if we don’t take care of business soon—you’re not the only one he’ll be coming for.”

  No way could I let Haylie get dragged into this mess. So I lowered my head and said, “I’m not backing out.”

  “Whatever the case, I’m still going to keep watch on the addresses you mentioned. Maybe we’ll hold off on the search until you can actually buy—”

  “Finch is their supplier. Why don’t you just search his place? I lost his number, but I think I can remember where we went to see him.”

  The cop stood. He smoothed the pleats in his pants.

  “Take me there.”

  “It’s near a power station,” I said.

  We’d been driving around Wynwood in an unmarked car, a silver Corolla, for twenty minutes. As we passed the electric plant for the third time, I started to panic.

  “Sure you know where it is?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I chained my bike to the fence.”

  The cop smirked. “Well, it’s not there anymore.”

  I stopped scanning the streets for my bike, which, no doubt, I’d never see again. The address was a blur. I couldn’t get a sense of direction. It was starting to rain—slow, fat drops that Dad would have called “spitting.”

  “Okay. I’m going back now,” he said. I could tell he was pissed.

  He jerked the steering wheel and we turned back onto the street. We cruised around the hand-painted signs that reminded me of hieroglyphics—a high-heeled shoe, a pack of cigarettes, a floating soda can, a giant set of steak knives.

  “There,” I said.

  The lead officer hit the brakes. He parked on the curb. Then we waited.

  I stared at a burnt-out car in the adjacent lot. The driver’s side window was shielded with tinfoil. Somebody was curled up in the back seat, a man resting on a blanket. I wondered if he was dead.

  “Is that your guy?” the cop asked.

  At first, I thought he meant the man in the car. Then I saw Finch in his stupid hat, creeping around the garbage cans wearing a wifebeater and boxer shorts. For some reason, he turned and looked at us. Maybe he was curious about the car. Or maybe it was an instinct left from prehistoric times.

  “He sees me,” I told the cop.

  “Nah. We’ve got tints.”

  Finch started walking toward us.

  “I’m going,” I said.

  The cop took off his sunglasses. “Where?”

  “To do a little business.”

  “Not a smart idea,” he said, but I was already messing with the door.

  “It’s cool.” Actually, it wasn’t.

  “Okay. I’m going to take a drive and come back,” he said.

  “But my cell is busted. What if I need to call you?”

  “Go,” he said.

  My fingers slipped on the handle, but somehow I managed to push it open. I got out and Finch came over.

  “You disappeared the other night. I went out of my way and you didn’t show,” Finch said, like he was my girlfriend or something.

  “I got caught up in some drama.”

  Finch kept looking at the car. “What’s your name again?”

  “Aaron.”

  “Well, Aaron. It’s your lucky day. Remember what you asked for?”

  “A jar.”

  “There’s more, if you’re interested.”

  Was he lying? Either way, I didn’t trust him. Why should Finch make a special effort, especially after I flaked out on him?

  He squinted. “Whose car is that?”

  “My friend’s older brother. So when can I pick it up?”

  “Now,” he said, turning back to the warehouse.

  This was crazy. If I went inside, I could be stepping into a trap. I didn’t even have a cell phone on me. I looked back at the car. This was my chance to redeem myself in front of the lead officer, not to mention lead him away from the girls. I doubted that I’d get another chance like this. Still, I must have hesitated.

  “You sure about this?” Finch asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  Another lie, maybe the biggest of all.

  17 : Carambola

  Finch led me toward the back of the building. The rain had stopped and the road glistened like oil.

  “Where are we headed?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  After we’d walked a few minutes, I asked, “Is it close?”

  “Chill,” Finch said. “We’re here.”

  I saw nothing except an overgrown lot beside the train tracks. It would take a machete to hack through the thick jungle-like scrub.

  “I’m not going in there,” I said.

  “God, you’re making me paranoid. See that house?”

  Then I spotted it, a stone cottage behind the vine-choked trees. The backyard was littered with rotten yellow fruit. I stepped over a husk swollen with flies.

  “What is that? Mango?” I asked, remembering the rash on my feet.

  Finch laughed. “You never ate starfruit before?” He grabbed a branch and shook it. The fruit toppled all around us, hitting the ground with a thunk. He took out a pocketknife and sawed into one lengthwise, showing me the star-shaped chunks. “The pioneers used to make wine from it,” Finch said, popping a slice in his mouth. “Go on. Try.”

  I bit into it. The syrupy juice dribbled down my chin. “It’s good,” I mumbled.

  On the front porch, a handmade sign read Take off shoes. So we did.

  Finch kicked open the screen door. I followed behind. Who would’ve imagined that in the middle of this industrial wasteland, I would find starfruit, and now, a glassed-in room filled with more flower pots than I could count? They hung from the walls on S-shaped hooks. Others sat in wooden baskets on a picnic bench.

  “This tiny one smells like dead meat,” said Finch, tipping it toward me. “It’s supposed to attract bugs.”

  “Where did they come from?” I asked, taking a sniff. He was right. It stank.

  “My dad auctions them off. Some of these orchids are megarare. We steal them from the Everglades.”

  Talk about modern-day pirates.

  “Really?” I said. “He sounds cool.”

  “You can meet him, he’s right here,” Finch said, stepping behind the picnic bench. There was a hulking, bare-chested man in a straw hat, misting plant roots with a spray bottle.
/>   “Dad, this is Aaron,” Finch said.

  The man whipped off his hat. His broad skull was completely shaved.

  “Call me Big Jack,” he boomed in a voice full of twang. He tugged off his rubber gloves with his teeth. “You visiting Miami?” he asked, pronouncing it My-am-uh. “You’re a god damned Yankee, eh?”

  “Not exactly. I’ve traveled around a lot.”

  “That makes you a citizen of the world. Like me.” He winked. “I bet you could use some Cuban coffee. Maybe a cortadito? I’m about to brew a pot.”

  “Actually, I’ve got to get back.” I glanced at Finch, who was rocking on his heels.

  “Won’t take but a few minutes,” his dad said, steering me into the kitchen.

  I plunked myself down on a stool. Big Jack stood at the stove. He lit a match and the smell of gas flooded the room.

  “The espresso maker is in that top left drawer,” he told his son.

  Finch rustled in a drawer and found a small metal pitcher.

  “That’s the one,” said Big Jack. He took his time, scooping coffee grounds from a can of Bustelo.

  I stared around the room. That’s when I saw the guns mounted on the wall. Guns of all sizes, from Colt revolvers to shotguns to muskets, and even a few Civil War relics: long-barreled rifles and silver pistols with curlicues scraped into the handles.

  “You collect antiques?” I asked, jabbing my thumb at the weapons.

  Big Jack reached into the cabinet and pulled out a doll-sized cup. He dumped a couple tablespoons of sugar into it. “Those beauties? I inherited ’em,” he said. “Did you know that Confederate soldiers used guns imported from England?”

  “Really?” I said, as the blood pounded in my throat.

  “What do they teach in school these days?” Big Jack asked. He poured a trickle into my cup and stirred.

  “School blows,” said Finch. “They just make you memorize the names and dates of battles and shit.”

  “That’s right. It’s all about death,” Big Jack said. “Who died. When they died. Where they died.” He blinked at me. “Go on. Bottoms up.”

  I took a sip. My tongue burned, but I knocked it back in one swallow.

  “If you’re so curious about the guns, let Finch take you outside. Test your luck with a little plinking,” Big Jack said.

  What the hell was he talking about? I was so busy thinking about death and guns, I didn’t even notice that Finch had lifted a hunting rifle off the wall. He held it in both hands, like a gift.

  “Let’s fire up this bad boy,” he said.

  We shot at a trio of empty wine bottles, lined up on a log. After nailing each round, Finch poured black powder down the muzzle.

  “If you don’t load it the right way, it’ll explode,” he said.

  I could barely hear, thanks to the wax plugs I’d screwed in my ears. Now it was my turn. Finch showed me how to lean the rifle on a rest (in this case, a musty sleeping bag). I pretended that I’d never done it before.

  Finch said, “Don’t hold it so tight. Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire.”

  I hunkered down on my belly, like I was about to blast a charging rhino. In the distance, I heard something clicking and whirring, almost like a lawn sprinkler.

  “What’s that noise?”

  “Zombies,” he said.

  I pulled the trigger until it broke. A plume of white smoke puffed around us, but the bottles were untouched.

  “Not bad,” he said. “There’s a crosswind blowing so we’re going to move the target closer.”

  As he rearranged the bottles, I wondered if the cop was waiting for me back by the power plant, or if he’d issued an alert.

  “Let’s make a bet,” I said, hoping this would speed things along.

  “Yeah?” Finch said. “That’s ballsy. One shot and you’re making wages?”

  “Why not? You go first, okay? Winner is the first to hit three in a row.”

  “Deal,” he said. “Could do it in my sleep.”

  He reloaded. The rifle fired off another round of dust and noise. The bottle’s skinny neck exploded and the bottom half wobbled off the log. He went again. This time, he missed. He didn’t try for the third. Just passed the rifle to me.

  “See if you can do better,” he said.

  I made the first shot, no problem. I was skewing my aim, preparing to miss, when Big Jack lumbered into the backyard.

  “How’s it going?” he asked, clapping a hand on his son’s shoulder.

  “It’s Aaron’s turn. He’s good for a beginner,” Finch said.

  Big Jack cackled so hard, you could see metal glinting in his molars. “That boy? He don’t look big enough to fit in my back pocket.”

  Stupid redneck. I took aim and the bottle toppled into pieces.

  “Lucky shot,” Big Jack said. “You got a talent for it. Would be a good thing, considering your size and all. Not like you’ll ever take a man in a fistfight.”

  Before I realized it, I’d squeezed the trigger. The last bottle went down in a blink.

  “Shit,” said Finch. “You sure you’ve never done this before?”

  His father nodded. “You did good, boy,” he said, taking the rifle from me. “Maybe you can join the army when you grow up.”

  “I’d rather be a cop,” said Finch suddenly.

  We locked eyes for a moment.

  He laughed. “You know what? Being a cop would suck. Then I’d have to rat out all my friends.”

  “Whatever,” I said, brushing off my greasy sneakers. “Don’t change the subject,” I told him, though that’s exactly what I was doing. “I beat your ass, fair and square.”

  Finch gave a little shrug. “So what? You want a medal?”

  I glanced around the backyard. I could still hear the clicking noises, like someone trying to crack open a safe. It was coming from a shed beyond the trees.

  “What’s in there?” I asked.

  Big Jack was already walking away. “Don’t you worry about that.”

  “Oh, what, is that where you hide your dead bodies?” I said, trying to make a joke.

  Finch twitched his lips into a grin. “You really want to see?”

  His father gave him a look. “That ain’t your business.”

  “Actually, it is,” said Finch, standing beside him.

  They scowled at each other. The clicking noise grew louder, then stopped, as if I’d imagined it. Then I only heard cicadas sawing away in the oaks.

  “Okay,” said Big Jack. “The boy earned it.”

  We walked to the shed. Big Jack was still holding the gun. The shed looked like a vacation cottage for the seven dwarves: a tiled roof and a window trimmed with an empty flowerbox and shutters that were nailed closed.

  Finch reached into the flowerbox and pulled out a key. My grandma used the same trick when she was stuck in the hospital one summer and I babysat her Siamese cats. Finch jiggled the lock and the door creaked open.

  The smell was the first thing that hit me: thick and tangy, like rotting carpet. “This is some operation, you’ve got here,” I said, as Finch showed off the high-powered lamps, the whirring fans, the automatic watering system hitched to the ceiling, not to mention the thousands of dollars worth of marijuana plants.

  “Lay your eyes on this. Been growing about eight weeks.” He pinched a leaf dusted with yellowy pollen.

  “That’s all you got?”

  Finch glared. “Who’s doing business with you? Nobody’s got better quality than this,” he said. “You buying dime bags from Morgan?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “And where do you think she gets it? Take a guess. She ain’t growing that shit in her daddy’s backyard.”

  “What about the jar?”


  “Hey, man. You didn’t show. I had to sell it.”

  “What? Then why did you bring me here?”

  “I thought you’d be interested in this,” he said.

  Big Jack cut between us. “How about we go inside?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Big Jack slung his arm around me. In the other, he held the rifle.

  “Good answer.”

  18 : Rolling

  Big Jack gave me a bag of something called ahahuasca. He said it came from the rain forest.

  “Don’t smoke it,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “That would insult the goddess,” he said, tapping his forehead, as if the goddess lived in there. “And you don’t want to make her angry.”

  We shook hands. Then the door creaked shut, and I was back outside, wondering what the hell just happened.

  I asked Finch, “Is your dad for real?”

  Finch ripped a stalk of tall grass. He shoved it in his mouth and chewed. “Don’t knock my old man. He used to live in the jungle. He’s seen all kinds of crazy shit.”

  “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” I asked, dangling the baggie.

  “Boil it on the stove.”

  “Then what?”

  He smirked. “Drink up.”

  “You tried it?”

  “Sure,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was lying.

  “How many times?”

  “Mucho,” he said.

  “So what happens when you take it?”

  He spat on the ground. “Geez, you’re full of questions. Look. It changes your view of reality. Nothing is what it seems on the surface, you know? People wear masks. This strips everything down to its elemental level. It reveals truths, you know?”

  “Sure.” I nodded.

  Finch kept rambling. Nothing I hadn’t heard before. All this New Agey talk was grating my nerves.

  “So your dad goes to the Everglades a lot?” I asked.

  “That’s where he gets the orchids.” Finch squatted on the sidewalk and took a Philly Blunt from his shirt pocket. He tore it open and dumped out the tobacco.

  “Ever heard of people throwing parties over there?”

  “You mean like raves?” Finch said with a hint of sarcasm. He spun his fists, as if glowsticking. “Is that what you’re looking for?”