“Don’t freak out,” I said. “I know it seems pretty bizarre, but don’t lose it. You’ll be okay.”
Walker slammed a hand against the dash and twisted to face me. “What the fuck does that mean?” he yelled. “I’ll be okay? The fucking chief of police tells me he wants thirty cases and you’re taking me over to help you buy drugs from my best friend and you’re telling me I’ll be okay?”
“Hey,” I said, “ you won’t ever see the inside of a courthouse if you do what’s right. Jim and I are in a position to help. We can help you, and we can help your friend. But you’ve got to work with us. Do you hear what I’m saying?” I felt ill.
Jim came back with the Dr. Peppers and stretched out across the back seat.
“You said Fourth Street?”
“Yeah,” Walker said. “There’s a store down there. He’ll meet us.”
I pulled into the lot and parked under the bright yellow Wag-a-Bag street sign. Beneath red lettering was the image of a smiling dachshund, standing on his hind legs, holding an open paper sack between his teeth. There were curved brown slashes painted near his rear end to indicate that his tail was wagging.
“He’s here already,” Walker said. The hearse was parked next to the south wall of the store.
“Dude carry a heater?” Jim asked.
“Not usually.”
“Flo will go with you. Before anything changes hands, you get out of the car. Long as you don’t actually see the deal, they can’t call you as a defense witness. Got it?”
“I think so,” Walker said.
“We’re buying Demerol?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Walker said. “Demerol or smoke. That’s what he’s got.”
“We’ll take the Demerol,” Jim said.
I followed Walker across the lot and as we got close to the hearse I could see that the back of it was loaded with all kinds of junk, mostly stuff from Mexico: patio lanterns, wrought-iron bookends, piñatas, and a few adding machines and typewriters.
Grady leaned out the window and smiled, displaying a gold-capped front tooth with a bas relief peace symbol in the middle of it.
“How they hanging, man?” He grinned wider.
“This is Flo,” Walker said. “She moved in across the walk from me.”
“Good to meet you. Where you from?”
“Houston.”
“Oh. Too tough for me, man.”
“Walker says there might be some Demerol around somewhere.”
“Might be,” Grady said, and dove down toward the floorboards. He came up holding a Batman lunchpail, his tooth shining from the darkness of the hearse.
“Here we are,” he drawled. Walker patted his shirt pocket.
“Damn. Out of smokes. Be right back.” He bolted toward the bright lights of the convenience store.
Grady pulled out a bottle of pills and shook it, rattling them against the plastic bottle.
“How much?” I asked, digging into a pocket for some cash.
As we walked upstairs to Jim’s apartment, he leaned close and took my arm. “We’d better get this boy good and fucked up,” he said. “He’s got no idea how you spell relief.”
Walker went immediately to the living room and sat in a corner of the sectional. Jim handed him a Demerol and offered the rest of his Dr. Pepper.
“Relax, he said, “It ain’t the end of the world.”
Walker handled the tiny tablet as if it were a communion host, using both of his shaking hands to set it gently on his tongue. Jim and I took up places at either end of the sectional and he tossed me a tablet.
“A friend of mine,” he said, “swears that the first time he did Demerol he thought he was floating on a sea of titties.” We tried at one point to smoke a joint, but couldn’t keep it lit.
“How old are you?” I finally asked Walker.
“Twenty?” he slurred. “Yeah. Twenty. And I have fucked up big time.”
We nodded through the night, sometimes talking sense, sometimes just saying words. Walker heard the gospel according to Jim, “It’s every citizen’s duty to do all they can to help keep the streets safe for children.” I dozed behind the Demerol and listened to Jim’s drunken passion in the night. It was the same song he and Rob had sung to me when I first started undercover. The pathetic little tune that had sounded so good the first time I’d heard it.
I struggled with my eyelids while Jim talked, watched Walker’s head rolling on his shoulders as he fought the drug and tried to make sense of what he was hearing. I saw white squares and triangles floating in the dark around his narrow face.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Twenty?” he said. “Didn’t we do this already?”
“Maybe we did.” My tongue felt like gelatin. “Don’t feel bad,” I said. Who was I pleading with? “You shouldn’t, you know, you shouldn’t feel bad at all. You think Grady wouldn’t do the same? I’m telling you. They all do. Everybody. Wake up and roll over, man, talk and walk.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Jim said to me. “Dude might get out there and tell the whole damn town what’s coming down.” He leaned toward Walker. “I hope you do, motherfucker. I really hope you do. Been too long since I killed anybody, I’m kind of in the mood, you know?”
“Would anybody like some chocolate milk?” I asked. “I’m getting up now.”
At dawn, Walker picked up his boots and stumbled home, sock-footed. He was out there, out there and knew the score, but the rules had all changed. I watched as he staggered down the steps and lurched across the sidewalk to his patio door.
“Don’t worry,” Jim said. “We got his attention.”
8
As I turned into Dodd’s driveway, the garage door opened slowly and he waved me inside, hitting a switch on the wall as the back of the Olds cleared the entrance. There was an electric hum beneath the sound of gears grating as the door came back down. Dodd was in jeans and a dirty white T-shirt, wearing an Astros baseball cap. He looked like a pig farmer.
I got out and handed him the evidence envelopes, a dozen new cases thanks to Walker. I’d just come from making a coke buy, and was wired enough to hope it didn’t show.
“Kickin’ ass and taking names,” Dodd said. “Closing in on fifty cases. Any news on Gaines?”
“We’re letting him see us,” I said. “I’m so sick of the Driller’s Club I could puke.”
“How many cops you know would love to get paid for partying? Got your own place yet?”
“No,” I said, “and it’s hardly a party when you’re watching your back every minute.”
“Just start watching the classified section,” he said, “and get yourself a goddam apartment, girl. Nettle’s on my ass about it.”
“I haven’t had much time for personal business.”
“It’s not personal, its department regs.” He leaned against my car. “What’s Jim doing, I haven’t seen him lately.”
“He’s okay,” I said. “I’ve mostly been working Walker. Jim’s in with a bunch of pill dealers now.”
He shuffled through the envelopes.
“Buying a shitload of crystal.”
“Yeah,” I said. “There’s a lot around.”
“That and coke, looks like.”
“Those are mine. From Walker’s circle.”
“I’ve seen a lot of these names before. Burglars. Some of them still on probation. That’ll save time in court.” He ran his eyes over me. “You’re losing weight, girl.”
“I’ve dropped a few pounds,” I said. “We’re only working about twenty-three hours a day.”
“And doing a fine job. Don’t slow down.”
* * *
I signed a year-long lease on a one-bedroom in the Elysian Fields apartments, across the street from Jim’s place. The telephone man looked at me oddly when he came for installation. He worked silently for awhile and finally said, “No furniture? No dishes?” I told him I hadn’t quite moved in.
I wasn’t going to. The address would su
ffice. On some afternoons, when I found myself home alone, I would walk over there and sit on the beige carpet in the middle of the living room, smoking a joint while I tried to imagine what things would be like when the investigation was over. We were buying lots of dope, plenty of it, but I kept telling myself it was all under control. Pulling up would be no problem. I was strong enough. I could handle it.
* * *
Rob cruised in the front door in his full-length black leather, looked around the room and said, “I’m sure there’s some smoke around here somewhere.”
Walker had brought a whole crew over, pulled them in like fish and landed them in our living room. Jim’s place was the place to be in town. No rules. Loud music. Plenty of booze, plenty of smoke. The place to hang out after the clubs closed, taking turns on the telephone, looking for more cocaine. One more time. Tonight we had a room full of lightweights, disco cowboys and their girlfriends, the party crowd, not serious dealers.
“This is Jim,” I said to the defendant and when Rob walked in.
“Where’s Jim?” Rob said to me.
“I thought you were Jim,” someone said.
“The other Jim,” Rob said. “Where is he?”
“Gone after groceries,” said Walker.
“At two in the morning?” Rob looked perplexed.
“He got the munchies,” someone said. “You’re Jim too?”
“Yeah,” Rob said. “I be Jim. Now why don’t you motherfuckers split-down with the smoke.”
Someone gave him a joint. Someone else took J.J. Cale off the stereo and put on Supertramp. Rob toked on the joint, flaring his nostrils as he inhaled.
“Damn,” he said. “I forgot. I have someone in the car.”
“Bring her in,” I said.
“It’s not a her.”
“Anyone I know?”
He smiled. “It’s Jim. I’ll go get him if Jim’s coming back soon. He didn’t want to come up if Jim wasn’t here.”
“Tell him Jim will be right back.”
Walker stared at us. Rob took another hit, handed the joint to him.
“Save that,” he called. “I’ll be right back.”
A skinny defendant talking on the phone motioned for Walker to bring him the joint.
Rob returned with Denny at his side. “Everyone,” he said, “this is Jim.”
Someone said, “What’s going on.”
Someone else took Supertramp off the stereo and put on Marvin Gaye. Denny sniffed the air and said, “Y’all got anything around here that ain’t illegal?”
I brought a bottle of Wild Turkey and a shot glass.
“That’ll do just fine,” he said. He fingered the scar where his eyebrow used to be and blinked a few times, as though trying to wake up. Walker nodded toward the bedroom and I followed him.
“Who are these guys?” he whispered, closing the door.
“They’re Jims,” I said.
“Come on. What’s the real deal. Really.”
“Current and ex-State boys.”
“Agents?”
“One is, one used to be,” I said. He looked at me, half-stoned, half-drunk, and fully confused. I fell to my knees and raised my palms to the ceiling, felt the room rolling around us, heard my wasted voice bounce off the walls as I sang about Jim-Jims and staggered up and fell against the wall, took a bow, laughing, giggling, stoned silly. Walker stared at me.
“Sorry,” I said. The walls were shimmering.
“I don’t get it.” Walker collapsed onto the bed. I tried to focus.
“It’s a Lou Reed kinda thing.”
A short blast of Rod Stewart and loud voices came through the door with Rob when he ducked into the room. He eased the door shut behind him and the music pounded against the bedroom wall.
‘Walker,” I slurred, “meet Jim.”
Walker managed to stand up and shake hands.
“How you doing, man?” Rob said.
“I’m doing,” Walker said. “Just doing.”
Rob pulled a pill bottle from his coat pocket and began tossing it in the air. “Who am I meeting here?”
“Not Jim,” I said. “Un-Jim, dis-Jim, but not anti-Jim. Semi-Jim. Working for us.”
“That right?” Rob rattled the pills and slipped the bottle back into his pocket. “You wouldn’t know anything that might be happening in Houston, would you? I work the greater Houston metropolitan area.”
“I might,” Walker said. “I know some people there. Depends what’s in it.”
“Oh yeah!” Rob threw his head back, squealing in falsetto, “this boy be doing.” He brought his voice down and talked fast. “In the way of slack, my man? There be plenty of slack for a poor white boy got himself in little old jam. Lots of slack from the state’s direction. When you finish up here, you know. There’s folks who do it professionally, and make a good living at it. You’ll be relocating, I assume, when this thing’s done.” He took out the bottle again and poured pills on the bed. “Look at that,” he said. “Someone left dope in the room.”
Walker picked up a pink tablet and inspected the markings. “What is it?”
“It looks like speed,” Rob said. “Like Preludin maybe. I’ve heard that’s some damn good shit. Maybe somebody around here should try it.”
* * *
Jim was out on a deal when Walker stopped by after work the next day, covered with red dirt. His eyes looked wired, but he was moving slowly as he fell onto the couch and dug in his pocket.
“Blue Ringers,” he said, handing me a capsule. “Dude’s got thousands.”
“Never heard of them,” I said.
“I hadn’t either.”
“You try one out?”
“Took the edge off that pink thing y’all gave me last night. Must be a damn good downer. Dude’s name is Monroe, and he’s expecting your call. I told him you’d be interested in a couple hundred at least. If they were good.”
I drove out early in the evening, finally found the right numbers on a mailbox and pulled into the rutted drive. The house was made of cinderblocks, a perfect square, set way back off the road and surrounded by trees. I dug in my purse and made sure my gun was on top of everything. The place was hillbilly spooky, and in moments like these I realized exactly how vulnerable I was. In the middle of nowhere with a dope dealer I’d never met before.
He came outside before I got out of my car, and I recognized him immediately. He was the man who’d walked away the night I approached Walker at Drillers. Even up close he looked like Charles Manson. Same weaselly hair, same Holy Ghost eyes.
Except for a bathroom, closet, and small kitchen, the place was one large room, filled with gaming tables—blackjack, poker, even a roulette wheel. The floor was concrete, with an industrial drain set in the center, and there were a couple of leather couches against the back wall, large brass spittoons on the floor next to them.
“You want a beer,” he said, his voice scraping through the room like a wet shovel on dry cement. It wasn’t a question.
“I guess I do,” I said. “You have a party or two here?”
“Every Friday,” he said, “and every Saturday.”
I followed him back toward the kitchen. He took a couple of beers from the refrigerator and handed me one. Then he pulled open the flap on a cardboard box next to the stove and stuck his hand in, coming up with a palmful of tiny white capsules, each marked with a bright blue ring around the middle.
“How many do you want?”
“Where’s the break?”
“Three bucks each, up to a hundred. More than that, two fifty.”
I sipped the beer. “Hundred sounds good.”
He dumped a handful on the counter and began knocking them off by twos into a bottle. When he finished, he capped it and picked up two capsules from the leftovers, handing one to me.
“Let’s get fucked up,” he said.
“I’ve got people waiting on these. I have to drive back into town.”
“I said let’s get fucked up.” He w
asn’t suggesting.
I tossed the pill in my mouth and took a gulp of beer, handed him the cash. I figured I had twenty minutes to make it home before the thing kicked in.
“Look,” I said, “I’m gonna be in a real jam if I don’t get back. I’ve promised a lot of people I’d have these to them tonight. It’s been real, but I’ve got to go.”
He turned and walked to the closet, and came back holding a baby marijuana plant, not much more than a seedling.
“Peace,” he said, making the gesture.
“Yeah, peace,” I said. “Right. I’ll see you around.” I couldn’t get to the door fast enough, but he stayed right with me, walking me outside.
Just as I was about to get in my car, he pinned me to the side of it and planted a skanky kiss on my mouth. I eased sideways and slipped into the driver seat.
“I really have to go.”
“Happy motoring,” he whispered. It must have been the Ringers, but his eyes seemed to glow in the dark.
I remember the first ten minutes of the drive back. After that, it was all headlights. I knew I was in my car, I didn’t know on what road, I didn’t know who was steering.
I remember a phone booth, I don’t know where. I was standing there shivering, punching at buttons, listening to an operator’s voice. I remember sliding down the dirty glass wall of the booth, seeing a gray plastic receiver dangling helplessly at the end of its metallic cord, feeling it tap against my forehead. I think I passed out; I’m not sure for how long.
Then I was walking in the door to Jim’s apartment and seeing Jim and Rob and Denny stare at me as I fell over the couch. Laughing. I remember tossing the bottle of capsules to Jim. Passing out again.
* * *
There were trumpets, four of them, and they blasted out something that sounded more like a call to battle than an introduction to Christmas Midnight Mass. The processional came up the center aisle from the back of the church, a troop of altar boys led by Monsignor O’Brian, resplendent in white-and-gold vestments, followed by two priests I didn’t recognize. The monsignor had aged incredibly, his hair gone white, his skin sallow and deeply creased around the mouth. Too many years of dealing with sin, of unanswered rosaries, of baptisms and last rights. He had sounded so sure of himself the day he’d prayed for Kennedy. I gripped the back of the pew in front of me to keep my hands from shaking.
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