Deadly Assets

by W. E. B Griffin

  He ended the call, stood, and walked over to Illana. He leaned in close, putting his right cheek next to hers.

  “Illana,” he said softly, “put those in the safe in my office for now.”

  She nodded, and quietly replied, “Yes, sir, Mr. Santos.”

  With the folders against her ample chest, tightly beneath her crossed arms, she made a thin smile at Badde, and then turned and walked out of the cabana.

  What the hell just happened? Badde thought, his stomach suddenly in a knot.

  “We seem to have problems,” Santos said.

  [ FOUR ]

  McPherson Park

  Kensington, Philadelphia

  Saturday, December 15, 9:35 P.M.

  After exiting the Delaware Expressway just past all the blinking bright lights of the two enormous gambling casinos, Piper Ann Harrison glanced at the clock in the dash of her five-year-old silver Toyota Prius and then sighed heavily.

  I really don’t have time for this, Piper Ann thought.

  The twenty-one-year-old college student, pale-skinned, her jet-black shoulder-length hair highlighted with streaks of purple, wore a silver stud in her right nostril. She had three other piercings in each ear, though these were now vacant.

  At five-foot-five and one-ninety, she embraced what she called her “healthy earthy look,” though she still occasionally complained about being at least thirty pounds overweight.

  I should have just stayed home and finished packing, she thought, then glanced in the rearview mirror. The two big cardboard boxes of sandwiches and hot chocolate were visible on the backseat.

  But I just couldn’t let all that go to waste. And it’s definitely needed . . .

  Each of the boxes contained a stainless steel thermos full of hot chocolate, twenty insulated foam cups, and twenty ham and twenty Swiss cheese sandwiches. Each sandwich was on whole wheat bread with low-fat mayonnaise and individually wrapped in cellophane with a business card included. There was an additional stack of about forty cards wrapped in a rubber band in the box.

  The cards all read:

  PATHWAYS PREVENTION

  HELP & HOPE FOR WHEN YOU ARE READY

  FREE COUNSELING! FREE MEDICAL CARE!

  CLINIC OPEN TUESDAYS–SUNDAYS 8AM—6PM

  DIAMOND & N. HOWARD STREETS

  HOTLINE — 215-555-1567 — ANSWERED 24/7

  Piper Ann had decided that, before traveling on a mission trip to the Republic of Cuba with her professors in the Graduate School of Social Work and Social Research at Bryn Mawr College, she would dedicate part of what she called Winter Break—she shunned the idea of Christmas—to helping the city’s local homeless population, many of whom were known to have severe drug addictions.

  Working on a double major, in Spanish Studies and Social Work, Piper Ann had discussed her idea with one of her professors. He in turn had put her in touch with the free clinic, which was about a dozen miles from her small, expensive (fewer than 2,000 students and an annual tuition of about fifty grand) private women’s liberal arts school in suburban Philly.

  When she contacted Pathways Prevention, one of the staffers—a former addict by the name of Jimmy “Bones” Packer, an extremely skinny thirty-two-year-old who looked fifty—suggested she adopt McPherson Square, and offered to give her a tour at her convenience.

  —

  “Needle Park ain’t as bad as some folks think,” Bones had told her as he gestured toward it on a cloudy gray Wednesday in early December. “It’s gotten better than it was years ago. But it still ain’t pretty. Fact is, probably won’t ever be. There’s always gonna be addicts because people always gonna have problems they want to forget. And of course the drugs just make them feel better. We’re trying to help one person to cope, one day at a time, and hopefully get help. Like I got help.”

  As they walked, Piper Ann saw that McPherson Square covered an entire city block. Sidewalks lined all four sides. It was studded with mature trees, and the pathways cutting across it created a giant X with two concentric rings. In the center of the X, wide steps led up to a branch of the Free Library of Philadelphia.

  As they approached the library, two girls around age ten were sitting on the steps and playing a frenzied game of Go Fish.

  When Piper Ann looked at the back of the cards, she did a double take.

  “Is that what I think it is printed on those cards?” Piper Ann quietly asked Bones.

  He looked down at the cards, saw the familiar design, then pointed across the park. A white panel van was parked on the sidewalk. On its doors it had the same image the cards did—the logotype of the blue-and-gold Philadelphia Police shield.

  “The cops have been giving them out,” Bones said. “That van’s from the Twenty-fourth Police District. They keep a pretty steady presence here, both walking and biking the beat, and the druggies, no surprise, keep clear of them. Those playing cards are an interesting idea. We thought about having the clinic make some up. Be better having the clinic info. Kids looking at photos of murder victims probably ain’t the most ideal.”

  “No kidding.”

  Bones shrugged. “But since their mothers are here watching, I’m betting the lady in the library gave the deck to one of the mothers. These people don’t have nothing. Absolutely nothing. And a free deck of cards is exactly that—a free deck of cards. Cheap entertainment.”

  Piper Ann saw that there was a small playground nearby, and smiled at the sight of two young mothers watching six little children running from one piece of equipment to another.

  “And there’s one thing you gotta watch for,” Bones said, and nodded in the direction of the playground.

  “What?” she said, and then saw a rough-looking white male, tall and walking with a stoop, approaching the playground. “Is that guy going to do something?”

  One of the mothers, a Latina of medium build, saw the man, went over to a park bench by the playground, and picked up what looked like a large glass jar. She carried it toward the man.

  “What’s with the jar?”

  “The deal is,” Bones said, “since you can contract HIV and hepatitis from reusing a dirty needle, the free clinic gets funds to distribute sterile ones. We give out plenty, but there’s still room for guys like Jumper there.”

  “That’s his name?”

  “It’s what he goes by. You’re gonna come to know, over time, many of the park’s regulars. Some of them are not much older than you. He’s one. And you’ll learn it’s common for many to hide behind street names—there’s Jumper, and over there are Ace and Wildman”—he pointed to them—“and then there’s others who go by regular names—that’s quote Amy and Bud unquote on the bench there—but that’s not their real names. Because they’re really embarrassed to be out here, they use an alias.”

  Piper Ann looked at the couple. “Amy” appeared to be asleep.

  And it’s the middle of the day, she thought.

  “So Jumper there,” Bones went on, “he works the system. He’s a dealer. Those young mothers? They bring rubber gloves and a jar to collect the used needles from the park so their kids don’t get stuck by them. Some mothers will just toss the jar of dirty needles in the trash can. But Jumper will buy them.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because he knows that the free clinic will swap old needles for new sterile ones. Sometimes he’ll do the needle exchange when our mobile clinic van comes by. But if he goes to the actual clinic, where we offer counseling and free medical care, he can get the doc to prescribe Sub.”

  “Suboxone? The methadone-like pill?”

  “Yeah, for fighting the symptoms of withdrawal from the opiate. Jumper can get a three-month supply, then sell the pills on the street for ten or so bucks each, pocketing about a grand. And for those doing dope, he sells ‘the works’—the sterile needles—for a buck each.”

 
Piper shook her head.

  “That doesn’t seem right.”

  “The addicts are too lazy to do it themselves. Or too fucked up—pardon my language.”

  She waved her hand.

  “No worries. I’ve heard the word a couple times. It seems appropriate here, I guess. But they could get their needles for free.”

  “Sure they could,” Bones said. “But Jumper provides a service. Sells the smack for ten bucks, then the needle for another buck. Kinda like, You want fries with that? Capitalism at its best.”

  Piper Ann grunted derisively.

  “Maybe I’ll bring the needles,” she said, “and give them away.”

  “Uh, I wouldn’t do anything until you learn more. Depending on the person you’re cutting out, doing that could get you killed.”

  Piper Ann met Bones’s eyes, made a face, then nodded.

  “Like I said,” Bones went on, “the park’s not anywhere near perfect, but it’s better than it was.” He motioned at the SEPTA station. “Used to be, just to avoid the drug-dealing and drug-using there at Somerset Station, people would walk the dozen or so blocks to the two other nearest stations, Huntington and Allegheny.” He chuckled. “Hookers are a big problem at Huntington, but I guess that’s easier to deal with.”

  “What’s going on with Amy?”

  Bones looked toward the park bench. He saw that Bud just sat there. But Amy was now awake and clearly trying to hold her head upright. She was unsuccessful. Her chin dropped to her chest, and then she did not move.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is she hypoglycemic?” Piper Ann said.

  “That’s not a diabetic shock. She’s been doing it almost ten minutes. And look at Bud. He’s not worried. If it was suddenly something new she was suffering—and there’s a lot of that these days—he’d be screaming bloody murder.”

  “Then what?”

  “Doper dip. Heroin nod.”

  “Oh my God. She’s so young.”

  “Your other clue is her hair, her clothes—she’s a mess.” He looked at Piper Ann. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “You said there’s a lot of suddenly new stuff?”

  He nodded. “Follow me.”

  As Bones led Piper Ann to the rear of the Free Library, she looked around and realized that she was really not all that surprised at what she saw.

  It reminded her of another mission trip she had taken, to New Orleans to help rebuild homes. She found the misery in that southern city—the poverty, the drugs, the crime—was not at all unlike what she had learned existed in clear view in Philly.

  And, when her classmates had gone to the jazz clubs on Frenchman Street, which was in a rough section just outside the French Quarter, they’d heard Glen David Andrews and his high-energy brass band perform. Andrews, who talked about being in rehab for his heroin addiction, was a champion for rising above. And his songs carried the message. In one tune, “Bury the Hatchet,” with a trio of trumpets backing him on his trombone, he sang: “How come children know how to work a nine-millimeter but can’t work a geometry problem? Illiteracy is not cool . . .”

  It’s like everyone knows this is going on, she thought. One big dirty secret . . . but it’s hardly a secret.

  —

  Near a bench on the backside of the Free Library, Bones bent to the ground and picked up one of the thirty or more discarded plastic pouches that lay in a pile.

  Piper Ann saw that they were colorful, and, surprising her, looked kid-friendly. The big yellow letters read ROCK CANDY.

  “You’re familiar with MDMA?” Bones said.

  “A little.”

  “In large part due to it being illegal, MDMA is dropping in popularity,” Bones said, then gestured with the brightly colored pouch. “The other reason is that these designer drugs are taking its place.”

  “Designer drugs?”

  “MDMA is short for methylenedioxy methamphetamine. Better known as Molly or Ecstasy. The meth creates euphoria by messing with the serotonin and dopamine levels in the brain. Dopamine affects the reward centers of the brain. You know, like when you feel pleasure.”

  “Like booze?”

  Bones nodded. “Alcohol produces, say, a hundred or two hundred units of dopamine. Cocaine takes it up to three-fifty. And meth creates extreme euphoria—in excess of a thousand units. Small wonder folks get addicted. Lord knows I did. You just want more and more.”

  After a moment she said, “What about Spice? Is there much here?”

  Bones raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ve never used,” she said. “Not after the stories I heard.”

  “Smart girl,” Bones said. “Spice I hope is on its way out. Dealers bought the synthetic marijuana in powder form, mixed it with rubbing alcohol or, preferably, acetone, because it evaporates rapidly, then sprayed it on tobacco or some other leafy material, like herbs, with a bit of spearmint added for smell and flavor.

  “What’s dangerous about Spice, as well as most street drugs, is there’s no quality control—could be a little of the drug, could be a lot—so users never know exactly what they’re ingesting. It was flying off the shelves in head shops, even online, for thirty-five bucks for three grams. But now the DEA has labeled the five active chemicals in it as Schedule One controlled substances.”

  “Then what’s all that?” she said, pointing at the bags on the ground.

  “So now along come these new ones. They’re synthetic versions of cathinones, which occur naturally in the khat plant. They can be swallowed, smoked, snorted, injected. They’re so new—Chinese ‘design’ them as variants to older ones, which is why they’re called ‘designer’—that laws can’t keep up with the changing chemical makeup. Like the ones they called ‘bath salts’ and ‘potpourri,’ these make folks paranoid. They hallucinate. But what’s worse is that they can cause the user to get hyperthermia—their body temperature soars over a hundred degrees.”

  He held up the Rock Candy packet.

  “This is it. Also called Grrr-ravel. And other names. It looks like tiny rocks.”

  “But the package label says Not for Human Consumption,” she said.

  “It’s an attempt to get around the law. They did the same with bath salts—which were made from a cathinone derivative called MDPV, now banned—but despite the warning, everyone knew their real purpose. It damn sure wasn’t bathing. Gravel is in the same cathinone family, but the alpha-PVP isn’t—yet—illegal.”

  He paused.

  “They should just call it Guinea Pig. It’s anyone’s guess what’s in it, and what it’s going to do. So every time a user takes it, they’re turning themselves into a guinea pig. I heard someone, not exactly kindly, call them a new kind of reverse eugenics.”

  She shook her head.

  “Darwin’s survival of the fittest.”

  He nodded, then added, “Cruel, but in many cases not entirely wrong. Their life expectancy is tragically short. I got lucky I got clean.”

  “Where do they get these?”

  “The better question might be, ‘Where can you not get these?’ They’re everywhere, because they’re legal. China, and increasingly Pakistan—they’re creating ones so fast that there’s not a scientific name for them.

  “The DEA says there are more than a hundred and fifty thousand of these chemical manufacturing facilities in China alone. They also admit we’re not going to arrest or legislate our way out of this.”

  Piper Ann was silent a long moment.

  “Surreal,” she finally said.

  “Yeah, surreal and worse. And so we have the free clinic. Like I said, one person one day at a time.”

  —

  Piper Ann Harrison reached over and turned off the radio in her Prius, and sighed heavily again. She had been listening to the news on WHYY, the public radio FM station, then pushed the button for the
University of Pennsylvania’s WXPN.

  They were playing a music program of classic jazz. Coming from her speakers was the sound of John Coltrane on the saxophone. The horn was soothing, especially compared to the news that WHYY had been broadcasting about the rally in Strawberry Mansion.

  The WHYY reporter had hesitated to call it a riot, but from her description of burning cars and mayhem, not to mention the shaky tone of the reporter’s voice, a riot was what it sounded like to Piper Ann. It all had made her very nervous, and gave her all the more reason to hurry and get the delivery of the sandwiches behind her.

  Because of that disturbance, she had had to go out of her way to avoid that part of town. Every other time she had made the drive to Needle Park, she had gone down Lancaster Avenue, then taken Girard Avenue across the Schuylkill River and all the way into Fishtown, then cut up to Front Street to reach the park in Kensington.

  But that route took her right past North Twenty-ninth Street.

  Taking the expressway now had been frustrating—she really had hoped to already have been there and back—but decided the inconvenience was worth it to avoid the problems in Strawberry Mansion.

  Piper Ann turned up the volume on the radio. John Coltrane’s horn, playing “My Favorite Things,” was almost hypnotizing. She dug in her purse and produced a cigarette and lighter.

  After her first puff, she pushed the button that opened her sunroof. She could feel the bitter cold air, and tilted her head back to exhale the smoke out the opening.

  Sooner I get this done, the sooner I can get home.

  And the sooner I’ll be enjoying the warm Caribbean sun in Cuba.

  She pressed harder on the accelerator, and the hum of the electric motor grew slightly louder as the seventy-four-horsepower gasoline engine kicked in with extra power.

  Ten minutes later, she approached McPherson Park.

  She saw that, despite the winter weather, the park was busy as usual, with many people milling around its center, near the Free Library.

  Well, I feel better now that I came.

  I can just leave the boxes of food up at the library, then take the empty thermos and head home.