“If she’s easy, that’s her problem. I didn’t flirt.”
“She looks anorexic.”
“She’s just another speed freak.”
We drove around for a while after the club closed to give the waitress time to get home. It was almost one when we got there. The apartment complex was shabby at best. Single building, two stories, made of wood and in need of paint.
“Give me twenty minutes,” Jim said. “I don’t expect trouble.”
“Wait up,” I said. “What’s the deal?”
“I’m okay. I’ll do this one solo.”
“No witnesses?”
“If I’m not out in twenty minutes, come in after me.” He pulled a napkin from his coat pocket, glanced at it and stuffed it back. “Apartment 23,” he said. “Twenty minutes.”
“Hey,” I said. “Shoot straight.”
“Just let me get this done,” he answered.
“This is not cool.”
“She’s a needle-freak, okay, you saw how it went down with Willy Red.”
“You think I didn’t handle it or something?”
“You handled it beautifully,” he said. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
He weaved across the parking lot and took the stairs slowly, checking and rechecking the napkin. I left the engine on and the heater running. Twenty minutes. You’re stout for a chick, man, I know you’ll handle it. Right. So what was I doing waiting in the car? Fuck him.
I got out and sat on the hood, which was warm against the cold night air of November. I counted ten faded red doors, spaced evenly along the ground floor, separated by sets of windows on either side. Television-blue light flickered from several of them. A man’s voice flared from behind a door, then a woman’s, screaming back at him. The sounds of their rage pulled at my stomach. I wondered how far they would take it, if glass would be broken or blows exchanged. But it didn’t sound like it would turn into a full-scale Family Disturbance. I could tell by their yelling that they were trying to vent steam, attempting to get rid of the pressure that builds quietly between some couples until it either blows them apart or sucks them under, pulling them so close together that they forget how to breathe without one another.
The yelling stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and when Jim came down the stairs his footsteps were loud on the wooden slats in the otherwise quiet night.
He filled out his report as soon as we were home, initialing the tiny triangles of plastic and sealing them in a manila envelope. He wrote the date and time and his initials across the flap, making sure the letters and numbers crossed the seal to show it was delivered to the lab intact. The chemists would slit the top open, test a sample, and reseal it with red tape, adding their initials last.
“Your turn,” Jim said, handing me the envelope.
“I didn’t see the buy,” I said.
“You saw me go in. You saw me come out with this. Now you’re seeing me seal it. I doubt this one will go to trial anyway.”
I took the envelope and added my initials. If he’d done speed, I couldn’t tell it. He seemed calm, a little high from another evening of drinking, but not at all wired.
“So.” I handed back the envelope. “The mighty Gaines spoke tonight.”
“We have to be patient. Very. He’s not the kind of man you can press.”
“Walker said he’ll have some smoke tomorrow. Told me to come by.”
“I’ve been thinking we ought to flip that little bastard.”
“I’ll check his pulse,” I said. “Right now I’m tired.”
Jim stood and stretched. “I think I’ll read the paper awhile, catch up on the news.”
I picked up the envelope.
“You can leave that,” he said. “I’ll stash it later.”
I was almost asleep when I heard him ease the front door open and lock it quietly from the outside.
7
I slept until almost one the next day, and when I woke up Jim still wasn’t back. There was a note on the table: Had some business, see you at dinner. I made some calls to set up buys and spent the afternoon flipping channels.
I was leaving for Walker’s when Jim showed up, looking like forty miles of bad road.
“Where you headed?” He seemed bewildered.
“Walker’s. He said he’d have smoke. Last night?”
“I’m bushed. I’ll wait here.” He kicked off his shoes and fell onto the couch. “Ran into some armed robbers last night. Sorry motherfuckers. One of them just got out of the joint yesterday. Said they’ll have crystal by Saturday.”
“Can’t wait to meet them. I’ll be back shortly.”
I had to bang on Walker’s door with my fist. His sound system covered most of the north wall of his living room, and he had it cranked. He was pulling in koke fm all the way from Austin: Traffic doing “The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys.”
When I sat down, he plopped next to me on his couch, lip-syncing while he twisted up a joint. When he finished, he picked up the remote and muted the sound.
“It’s not the Hawaiian, but it’s pretty good.”
I lit the joint and passed it back to him. We smoked in silence for awhile. He seemed antsy, tapping his boot to some imaginary tune.
“I think,” he said finally, “we should like, talk about something.”
“What’s that?”
“Some of my friends and me. Well, they’re kind of concerned. We’re kind of concerned about your boyfriend.” He looked at his watch, shook his wrist. “Worthless,” he mumbled.
“Broken?”
“Just slow. Every day winds up forty-two minutes slow.” He wrapped the face of it with his knuckle. “Rolex my ass.”
“So take it back.”
“Can’t. Guy gave it to me for some blow.”
“Anybody I know?”
“Naw. He split out of town, can’t find him. Anyway.”
“So what’s the deal, what’s the problem?”
“Some of us are kind of, uh, some of my friends think Jim might be a cop.” He pulled a fleck of marijuana from his tongue and wiped it on his jeans, holding the joint out to me.
“I’ve known Jim for ten years,” I lied. “Your friends should be careful who they tag as heat.”
“I’m not saying he is, just that some folks are wondering. I mean, he moved into town last May, doesn’t work, been steadily buying dope from damn near everybody he meets. Folks are talking, and that’s not good. A man could get hurt.”
“That’s the thing,” I said. “Someone could get hurt. Jim doesn’t need a bunch of lightweights starting up about cops. It’s not smart.”
“Well I don’t think he is, but I’m in a goddamn deep pile of shit if the rumors are true.”
“You got nothing to worry about,” I said. “Not from Jim’s direction. But you should tell your friends to think about what they’re saying. Jim does business, you know. He doesn’t want any heat of any kind from any direction whatsoever. You tell them that.”
“I ain’t so worried. I mean, I just figure you’re the one to talk to. I know you’re cool. Hell, you’re a woman, and I know you’re tight with Jim, and well, if he is the heat, you know, I’m in a bind.”
I wasn’t sure, but it seemed like Walker was running way out front, looking for a deal. He knew something was up. I could see invitation in his eyes. He was scared, looking for the way out of a maze he wasn’t entirely sure he was trapped in. But it sounded like he was flat-out offering to snitch.
“Why don’t we go upstairs and talk to Jim,” I said. “He’s home. Let’s get this cleared up.”
Walker let out a sigh. “Let me roll one more.”
“Do that,” I said. “Jim will appreciate it.”
I sat watching him try to be calm while he twisted up the joint, and I remembered my first night with Skip, when I’d struggled to roll an entire lid into cigarettes and had no idea what I was doing or what I was getting into. Then, I’d wanted a few pat answers to my vacuous little questions, and now I w
as foolish enough to believe that I had them. This guy did not need to go to jail.
He was in trouble, he didn’t know how much trouble, and I was incapable of mustering the cold efficiency that Jim seemed born with. I liked Walker. Whether he knew what he was asking for or not. But it would be better for all of us if he worked off his cases and avoided arrest. Jim had mentioned flipping him. I lacked the predatory instinct. Perhaps this is what drove me to try all the harder. Perhaps it was the lure of illusion: I’m separate from all of this, morally superior; I tell them how to behave. It was a sham. Working undercover on this kind of defendant made me feel like a meter maid.
Jim was on the couch, wrapped in a blanket even though the heat was on. The temperature in the apartment had to be pushing eighty.
“Hey man,” he said, struggling to sit up when Walker and I entered. “What’s happening?” His eyes were sleep swollen, his face creased from a wrinkle in the pillow.
“Walker here wants to chat with you.”
“Oh. Damn. Made some coffee and dropped off to sleep before it was brewed.” He tossed aside the blanket and stood up to snap the button of his jeans. “What time is it?”
“Close to eight.” I motioned to the kitchen table and Walker sat down.
“Excuse me a moment,” Jim said. He shut the door behind him as he went into the bedroom. I brought cups from the kitchen and set them on the table.
“He probably went in there and fell asleep again,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
Jim was combing his hair in front of the mirror on the closet door.
“He’ll snitch,” I whispered.
“He just up and volunteer?”
“Practically. There are rumors. He’s concerned. Says he wants to do whatever he has to in order to keep himself clear. He’s plenty scared you’re the heat.”
“I guess he should be, shouldn’t he?”
“You mentioned flipping him. I think he’s ripe.”
“What about Nettle?”
“He’ll go for whatever gets him his cases. We should just do it and tell El Jefe after.”
“El Jefe.” Jim snickered. “You damn sure got his number.” He stepped into his shoes and leaned against the dresser. “You’re right. He’ll go for it.”
“You said Walker’s connected. He could make life easier. And we could keep him out of the joint.”
“You be the good cop, baby. Be polite now. Stay calm and minustrate to the boy’s emotional needs. He’s about to have a heap of them.”
Jim waited until I was clanking dishes around, setting out the sugar bowl and spoons, before he came out of the bedroom and sat down next to Walker. He had his .45 stuffed down the front of his jeans and his eyes had a look I hadn’t seen for awhile, a certain eagerness that pulled his eyebrows down and hardened the muscles of his jaw. The last time I’d seen it, he’d been standing on someone’s front porch, getting ready to kick a door in.
“What’s on your mind?” He leaned in toward Walker.
Walker sat silently for a minute, cleared this throat, and sat some more. He picked at the peeling Aerosmith logo on the front of his black T-shirt.
“He thinks you’re a cop,” I said.
“That right, motherfucker? You been running around town yapping that I’m the man?”
Walker glanced at the gun and shook his head. “I ain’t accusing you of shit, man. I just think you should know that some folks are concerned. Just around, you know, people are talking.”
“Well hey, little boy,” Jim said, “let me just get something real clear here.” He stood up, pulled his gun out and stuck it against Walker’s lips. Walker straightened in his chair and sat trying to blink his hair out of his eyes. Jim’s eyes narrowed. “You ever tell one solitary motherfucker a single word about what I say to you here tonight and I swear to God I’ll kill you. It’s that simple. I’ll drop the hammer on your ass so fast you’ll be dead before you got here. You understand?”
The blood drained slowly out of Walker’s face, his flesh going gray-white in distinct stages. He barely nodded. Jim stood there in a low-burning rage, and at that moment I knew what he was capable of, that he would do as he threatened.
I kept my hand steady as I poured coffee. Jim still had the gun at Walker’s face, staring at him as though pulling the trigger would redeem both their souls.
“Not a word,” Jim said. “To anyone.” He pulled the gun away and stuffed it back in his jeans.
“I need the john,” Walker said.
“Down the hall.” I waited until I heard the bathroom door close. “Prosecutor, judge and jury.”
“No need to drag the thing out in court,” Jim said. “We know he’s guilty. He knows he’s guilty. Hell, he takes the deal it’s the best thing could happen to him. That boy wouldn’t last ten minutes in the joint.”
Walker came back and fell into his chair, landing hard enough to knock a gust of breath out of his chest.
“What made you snap?” Jim asked.
“What?”
“Why’d you think I was the heat?”
“I don’t know,” Walker said. “Not exactly. I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I guess that nobody could do as much dope as you’ve been buying. And I ain’t heard yet of anybody buying from you.”
“Yeah. Well, you got it right.”
“No way,” Walker said. “No way you’re the man.”
“Well hell, boy, if you don’t think I’m the heat, what the fuck did you come here for? Are we a little bit bored on a Friday night, decide to stir up some amusement?”
“This isn’t happening,” Walker said.
I brought some blank offense reports from the bedroom closet. If Walker argued, Jim’s gun would come out again.
“See these? There are two of them filled out with your name right there on the top line. They’re in a filing cabinet at the Vice office downtown.”
Walker stared at the reports. Neat blocks for name, address, description, date and time of offense. A space for details of the crime.
“Man, what’s the deal? Come on, Flo. Enough already. Man. Let’s smoke a joint.”
“Walker,” I said. “We’re cops. Undercover. As in narcotics agents.”
“You?” He stared at me in utter disbelief. Finally he let his head fall back and closed his eyes. “Damn.” He sighed. “And all this time I thought you were from France.”
“What?”
“Yeah. You look really French.” He laughed to himself. “I don’t know man, I’m just, maybe that pot was stronger than I thought. I don’t know. He rolled his head back and forth, his Adam’s apple jutting from his neck. “I was trying to decide if I could hit on you without Jim here finding out.”
“Hey.” Jim sat down again and leaned toward Walker. “I need some answers right here and now, boy.”
Walker pulled his head up and his eyes seemed to come back to focus.
“You want to slide on those cases? You got to work them off. You cool things down, you make some introductions, you’ll walk and nobody needs to know anything. What’ll it be?”
“Man, don’t I get a lawyer? I mean, I want to talk to a lieutenant or something, man. I want to know what the fuck is going on. You can’t do this.”
Jim reached for the phone, dialed the Vice office.
“Sergeant,” he said, “Working late on a Friday night?” He listened for a moment. “Yeah. I got somebody wants to go to work for us.” He paused, said okay, and hung up the phone. Then, to Walker, “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To meet the chief of police. He’ll be waiting for us behind the Piggly Wiggly. Ten minutes. You’d best try to think straight on the way over.”
“I want a lawyer.”
“You want a lawyer?” Jim was on his feet again. “Okay. There’s the phone. Here’s the deal. You call a lawyer and we forget about walking you. We’ll take you to trial. We’ll tell a good, solid, drug-hating Jefferson County jury that you have been out on the streets of their to
wn selling cocaine and LSD. You know what they’ll do, boy? They’ll lock your ass up for forty years. Maybe life. Go ahead. Call your fucking lawyer.”
I stayed behind the wheel when Jim and Walker got out. Halfway to Dodd’s Plymouth, Jim turned.
“You’re not coming?”
“I’ll sit tight,” I said. They climbed into the back seat of Dodd’s car, and I could see their silhouettes through the windshield as they leaned toward one another and talked.
The alley behind the supermarket was narrow and dark, lit by a single, mesh-enclosed bulb above the truck dock. There was a large green dumpster near the side of the dock, the asphalt around it littered with crushed containers and pieces of cardboard. I noticed a large jar of Bosco near the base of the dumpster, cracked. A childhood treat, it had been. I felt a vague longing for a second chance at growing up, but, too late for that. Here I was, and there was no way to shoot a U.
They talked for some time. At one point I turned the ignition to accessory and let the heater run for a few minutes.
Jim held Walker’s arm in the classic suspect-in-custody grip as they walked back to the car, a gesture that said, “He’s ours.” Nettle and Dodd pulled slowly out of the alley and Jim got into the back seat, motioning Walker to sit up front.
“Let’s go score,” Jim said.
“Right now?” Walker turned to look at him.
“This minute. Who’s that dude, your running buddy, the one drives the maroon hearse and thinks he’s such hot shit. He holding?”
Walker began cracking his knuckles in the silence.
“Hey,” Jim said, “you gonna do it, let’s go. Show me where your loyalties lie.”
“Grady,” Walker said. “His name’s Grady Carter.”
At an Exxon station, Jim handed Walker a quarter and stood next to the phone booth while Walker dragged his boot heel back and forth across an oil spot on the concrete and stabbed at pushbuttons on the phone.
I watched him talking, his face pained, and then Jim brought him back to the car and leaned in to ask if I wanted a Dr. Pepper. Walker got in and sat staring at the glove box while I looked past him to see Jim feeding coins into the machine, his face glowing red when he bent close to pull out the cans.
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