“We’re in hell?” Kenny asked.
“Got a feeling we will be soon enough.”
“Fuck, I’m already there,” Ginger grumbled and nodded toward Nash. “Who put this clown in charge?”
Nash ignored her. Someone had to handle the situation and none of them seemed willing to step up to the plate. He paced back and forth, arms crossed, voice authoritative.
“Okay,” Nash began. “First of all, does anyone remember how they got here?”
They all shook their heads except Ginger. She stood motionless, face pinched, bitterly pissed at him for taking the helm.
“Okay, does anyone know where the hell we are?”
Shrugs and silence. After some consideration Felix spoke.
“I’m guessing somewhere in the Florida Keys?”
Nash rolled his eyes. That was a no-brainer. Judging by their surroundings there was little doubt they could be anywhere else.
“No shit, Sherlock. I was hoping for something a little more specific.”
Felix flipped him the bird. “Fine, we’re on a deserted island in the Florida Keys.”
“What do we all have in common?” Nash asked.
Kenny gave a shaky laugh. “Shit, we all got fucking roofied, man.”
“Is it safe to assume we’re all from Miami?”
Everyone nodded.
“What parts?”
Hesitation from the others as Nash looked from person to person, hoping they might say something first. Lips were sealed, none of them willing. Nash gave in and took a deep breath to get the ball rolling.
“Opa-locka, north near the I-95. I’m in a Wash Box.”
They all knew it, the code name for those on the level. There were plenty of bad places to hole up in Miami, but the Washington Blocks ranked with the worst. They didn’t just scrape the bottom of the barrel; they punched a hole through it to an even shadier depth. There was a delay before the rest of them volunteered any information.
“I’m in Overtown,” Kenny said eventually. “Wrong side of the tracks, I guess you could say.”
“Coconut Grove,” said Ginger. “The bad corner.”
Nash snickered. “Jeez, which one?”
“The worst one.”
“And you?” Nash asked, turning to Felix.
“Liberty City, Seventy-ninth Street, y’all can guess which intersection.”
“The one you don’t hang out on after sunset?”
“The very same.”
Nash turned to Maria. “What about you?”
All eyes were on the woman who spoke little. She wanted no part of the conversation, trying to appear disinterested in them and the talk they were having. Her eyes betrayed her, though, silently informing the others that she was afraid to answer. They stared her down until she capitulated.
“I . . . move around.”
“Maria of no fixed address, eh?” Felix said. “Don’t sweat it, honey. I’ve been there too, more than once.”
The demographic they shared was clear. Every one of them dangled from the bottom rung of Miami’s social ladder, living in the worst neighborhoods with the poorest folk. More destitute urban locations of Western civilization on the East Coast would be hard to find.
“What else we got in common?” Ginger asked.
“I dunno,” Kenny said. “It ain’t age, sex, or race. I mean, we got man, woman, black, white, young, old—”
Kenny cut himself off and cast a nervous glance at Felix, who sneered before holding up a fist and extending a middle finger at the boy.
“Who the fuck you calling old?”
Nash didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, come on. You get a senior’s discount with all that gray hair, dude?”
“Premature . . . it comes with the territory.”
Nash raised an eyebrow. “And what territory is that?”
Felix didn’t reply. Nash looked the man over, then the others, then himself, looking for similarities, wondering what else they shared. He scratched at his sweaty throat, tiny sickly spiders crawling under his skin that needed to be squashed.
“Have any of us ever seen each other before today?”
“Nope,” Ginger said, cocking her head as she looked at Nash. “But you’re starting to seem a little familiar. What do you do?”
“A bit of this, a bit of that.”
“Yeah, don’t we all. C’mon, what’s your thing?”
“I’m a musician.”
“Wait?” Ginger peered at him. “Are you in a band or something?”
“Yeah, mostly play guitar in this outfit called Fuel Injector.”
It took a moment before Ginger’s eyebrows rose. Then she jabbed a finger at him, a snide bark of laughter punctuating each stab in the air.
“You’re in Fuel Injector? You play at the Barracuda Room sometimes, right? That band that’s always advertising ladies free ’cause you can’t get any chicks to show up to your gigs?”
“Bitch, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ginger smirked. She knew exactly what she was talking about.
“I knew I’d seen your washed-up ass on a poster or something somewhere. Man, you look worse than your lame-ass photo.”
Nash shrugged off her comment. “Okay, there’s something we have in common. We’ve both been to the Barracuda Room. Felix? You ever been to that joint? It’s in Coconut Grove.”
“Nah, I stay out of C.G. Made some enemies there a couple years back.”
“Kenny? How about you?”
“Nope. Never.”
Nash turned to Maria, but she only shook her head and averted her eyes.
Ginger snapped her fingers. “Speaking of enemies, do you guys have any?”
“No one I’d call an enemy per se,” Nash said. “There’s a seriously pissed-off bass player I shit-canned from the band a few months ago, but that’s about it.”
Kenny sighed. “My parents hate my guts. Can’t think of anyone else who has a problem with me. What about you, Ginger?”
“I run out on a lot of joints without paying my tab,” she replied. “Which makes me public enemy number one with local bartenders and waitresses.”
Ginger scratched her elbow and for the first time Nash saw, really saw, the track marks on the insides of her forearms, scabby ones dotted with the fresh, their numbers alarming. He looked closer at everyone, discovering similar scarring. The harrowed looks on their faces, the bags under their eyes, the feverish, incessant scratching. All were signs. Nash paused before asking his next question, the precursor of silence making it pop from his lips when he finally spoke.
“You’re all junkies, aren’t you?”
The question caught Felix, Maria, and Kenny off guard, but not Ginger. She’d already pieced it together. She looked him straight in the eye and an understanding passed between them, two diseased peas sharing a putrid pod.
“Not as dumb as you look,” she said.
Uncomfortable silence from the rest, telling Nash everything he needed to know. He scratched another burgeoning itch on his neck to show that he too was a member of their exclusive club. They began to peer at one another for the telltale signs of a bad heroin habit. Only Kenny had less overt signifiers of drug abuse, but he was the youngest. Ginger’s fingers crept over the veins in her arms, touching the remnants of every puncture that pockmarked her skin.
“Smack made me its bitch years ago.”
The others nodded in perfect unison: addict marionettes strung together. Nash leaned over and inspected Ginger’s arms as close as he dared. She allowed him, but only so she could return the favor. It was close, but Nash’s looked a mite worse.
“Made all of us its bitch,” said Nash. “That’s what it does best.”
Everyone avoided eye contact, trying to hide their scars and scabs, fiddling with their clothes an
d hair, pretending to be suddenly interested in their surroundings. The tension in the air implied that no one wanted to continue the conversation. Kenny was the only exception. He raised a hand and waved it until everyone was looking at him.
“So . . . uh, what kind of price do you guys get for your shit?”
Eight
TWO DAYS AGO.
“How much did that cost you?” Kenny asked.
“No different from anywhere else,” Merle replied.
Kenny Colbert shifted his weight uneasily in the leather armchair. He was getting antsy. Looking at the tar turning in Merle’s fingers made him twitch with delight.
Matty, on the other hand, sat completely still. His voice was soft, as if raising it might disrupt preparations. “Except this stuff ain’t like that weak-ass shit you keep buying.”
Kenny was defensive. “My shit ain’t bad.”
Matty and Merle exchanged a smirk on the sofa. Kenny leaned forward in his seat, gawking at them for validation.
“C’mon, my shit ain’t too bad. . . .”
“Your shit ain’t too good either, kid,” said Merle. “We gotta expand your palette.”
“And you need to learn to take your medicine properly,” Matty added, nodding to a syringe lying at the end of the coffee table. “Like a grown-up.”
“I told you needles freak me out,” Kenny whined. “I ain’t sticking myself.”
Matty groaned. “Oh, don’t be such a pussy. You don’t get your money’s worth freebasing. You gotta inject for best effect.”
“I don’t like needles, Matty.”
“Love this kid,” laughed Merle. “No matter what, he sticks to his guns.”
Merle reached over and gave Kenny’s neck a squeeze, fingers lingering longer than appropriate. Kenny shrugged the grip off and leaned away. He hated being a third wheel to Matty and Merle, or M&M, as they were called. As far as Kenny was concerned, Matty was the only piece of candy between them. His beige skin and curly brown hair, complemented by his almond eyes, were almost too sweet. Merle was bland in comparison. He was much older, gaining weight and graying around the edges, but always had money to blow. Being equal amounts dealer, thief, and pimp, Merle was bringing in a lot of disposable income. His little whore Matty generated a good portion of it too. Being too old to hook himself anymore, Merle had a kind of father-figure complex going on with his escort-in-training, although it didn’t stop him burying his dick in Matty when Kenny wasn’t around. And it didn’t stop the older man from trying it on with Matty’s friends every now and then.
“How much longer?” Kenny asked. “I’m fucking jonesing here.”
Kenny looked at the time displayed on a large and completely out of place antique grandfather clock standing next to the fifty-inch flat-screen TV on the opposite wall, both taken in trade. He watched the second hand tick, faster than it should, though time itself was dragging. Kenny needed his hit hours ago.
“Be patient,” Matty said. “You want it done right, not done fast.”
Merle’s cell phone chirped and he retrieved it from his pocket. He was smiling when he looked at the call display. The smile fell when he recognized the number. Creases appeared on his brow. He rose from the couch with a grunt.
“Take over, Matty,” he ordered. “I have to take this call.”
“Jesus, Merle. C’mon, we’re right in the middle of fixing our—”
“You think I don’t know that?” Merle spat. “Some things are a little more important than your goddamn tar.”
Kenny didn’t like the tone of Merle’s voice. This was pimp-Merle, the don’t you dare fuck with me part that revealed itself on occasion. Matty should have folded, but he decided to be a little bitch instead.
“Like what, Merle? What’s more important than this? Please tell me, because I really, really want to know.”
Kenny was sure Matty would receive a slap for his insolence, and he might have, had the incessant ringing of Merle’s incoming call not forced the older man to leave the room for some privacy.
“Take care of Kenny,” Merle said over his shoulder as he headed for the bedroom. “And prep my dose. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
Merle slammed the bedroom door behind him, making Kenny flinch. Matty didn’t even bat an eye, taking over the preparations with an unimpressed shake of his head.
“What was that about?” Kenny asked.
Matty shrugged. “Who cares?”
“Don’t you?”
Matty rolled his eyes. He wasn’t interested in anything his pimp-daddy was talking about. His only interest was the heroin laid out before them. Kenny’s curiosity, however, was aroused.
“Is he talking business?” Kenny asked.
“He’s always talking business,” Matty said. “He doesn’t talk anything else.”
“What’s he got going on these days?”
Matty turned an impatient grin on him. “Hey, you wanna get high or you wanna keep flapping your lips?”
Kenny realized then just how much Matty didn’t want to talk about Merle or Merle’s business, probably because it involved his own fine naked form in all kinds of compromising positions.
“High,” Kenny said, and he turned his attention back to the junk.
“Wait here a second,” Matty whispered.
He tiptoed to the kitchen and rummaged around in some drawers, returning a minute later with a secretive smile on his face and something in his hand.
“I’ve got a present for you.”
“You do?”
“Uh-huh, but don’t tell Merle, okay?”
“I won’t. Cross my heart.”
Matty held out his hand, a small packet of white powder in his palm. “Forget that tar, I’m treating you to something better. Merle picks up from this particular connection once in a while. It’s not too often, only when the supplier comes into town, which is a pity because this shit is incredible. It comes from Afghanistan, straight from the source. That’s where they grow the best poppies on the planet.”
“Yeah?” Kenny grinned. “Awesome.”
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it, sweetheart. Quality control is in short supply these days, but this here is triple-A rated. You ready for your medicine?”
“Yeah, just let me take a leak first.”
Kenny rose and made his way to the bathroom. If the stuff was as good as Matty was saying, he worried about wetting himself. Once, while tripping, Kenny’s bladder had relaxed involuntarily under the influence of premium quality. He passed the closed bedroom door where Merle was taking his phone call and heard a muffled voice speaking rapidly with stress. Curious, Kenny strained to hear the conversation, figuring Merle was talking to a prospective client about Matty and his services.
“. . . Look, I know what type of guy you need. I’m just saying he’s not a bad boy. . . . Yeah, I understand, you don’t need to remind me of that. . . . Look, a deal’s a deal. Have I ever not come through before? He’s what you want . . . he fits your profile . . . yes . . . yes . . . I’ll have him gift-wrapped for you in less than twenty-four hours. . . .”
Kenny leaned away from the door, no longer comfortable with wanting to hear the sordid details of what sexual favors Matty was capable of providing for what prices. His friend never spoke much about what he did to earn his keep and Kenny felt suddenly guilty for eavesdropping. His own parents, people of wealth and influence, had argued regularly in the privacy of their bedroom when he was a child. Cupping a curious ear to their closed door had been one of his biggest regrets, an action that led him to discover the extent of the hatred his father had for his “faggot son.” His mother wasn’t much better, convinced that Kenny’s homosexuality was a phase, and that with the help of prayer and patience, God would straighten him out. Wishful thinking, Kenny knew even back then. At sixteen he was kicked out of the house after being caught in the bas
ement with his hand down the pants of an older boy. In less than twenty-four hours he was on the street with nothing but the suitcase his mother had packed and his father’s final words still ringing in his ears.
You made your choice to be an affront to God, son. Your mother and I don’t ever want to see you again.
Kenny took his piss and returned to the living room, perturbed by memories, not wanting them in his head anymore. The junk would help. He wished he had the balls to cross the line to injection, but freebasing was his m.o. After all, Kenny sucked like a vacuum cleaner. Numerous men could testify to that.
“Here’s the prom queen.” Matty chuckled. “Just in time.”
Kenny plopped down in the armchair. Matty had his hit prepped, lighter already cooking the underside of an aluminum foil square. Kenny’s eyes strayed to the syringe nearby. Matty noticed.
“Thinking about a change in tactics?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Why now?”
“I want the whole nine yards. I want to chase away my demons and not have them come knocking for a while.”
Matty smiled. “Smoking or shooting, this shit will do that regardless. I promise.”
“I hate this stupid hang-up I have with needles. . . .”
“Next time, Kenny,” Matty cooed. “We’ll hook it up for you next time.”
“Fucking things scare me. They always have.”
Matty caressed Kenny’s hand. “Look, I’ll shoot you up myself when you’re ready. You’ll barely even feel the pinch when that junk hits your bloodstream, okay? But for now just stick with what works for you.”
Kenny looked at the syringe again. “What’s it like, shooting that stuff?”
Matty grinned. “It’s like . . . having this wonderful wiggly worm inside your head.”
He held out the hit. Kenny leaned forward with his pipe and inhaled the fumes rising from the foil until his relaxing muscles caused him to fall back into the cushions. He closed his eyes, diving headfirst into the drug’s euphoria, the plunge peeling away his worries and stretching time over the ticking of the grandfather clock. Faintly, in the center of his head, he was sure he could sense that worm Matty was talking about, wiggling, dancing, making love to his gray matter. Kenny trilled with delight.
Bait: A Novel Page 4