by Jon Mills
Once they had narrowed it down to a handful of distributors, it was just a case of determining what to look for. They knew there was all manners of bulking agents being used: baking soda, lactose sugar, and benzocaine powder to name a few. On the surface they mimicked the look and feel of cocaine, but when tested, the product would react differently. They assumed that whoever was duping them was giving them legit cocaine to test and keeping the rest of the fake packages below. The feds were notorious for doing this. It was fair to say that everyone was on edge. There was no way of knowing if they were walking into a sting operation or dealing with a low life just looking to score big.
But with Roy’s reputation on the line, the orders were clear. They were to test every package in a load. If any distributor refused, they were to be brought in. Gafino didn’t just want them dead; he wanted to toy with them before snuffing out their light. In his mind, what they had done was beyond business; it was personal.
That day was forever ingrained into Jack’s memory. He’d chewed it over for years in his cell. What he’d missed, what he should have seen, and how he had managed to escape. Ten days after they had begun checking all transactions, Gafino had asked him to help. Against his better judgment, he agreed. He was assigned to deal with Matt Grant. The exchange was meant to occur in an apartment in the west part of Chinatown. Immediately upon arriving on site, Jack didn’t like the look of it one bit. There were only two exits beyond the front entrance; both relied on a fire escape mounted to the side of the building like a black steel snake. Either you went down, or up to the roof and jumped a six-meter gap to the next apartment block. Neither seemed appealing if things turned sour. There was little that frightened Jack, but heights was one of them.
Jack moved in and knocked on apartment twenty-two. An African American with a neck as thick as any man’s thigh answered the door, and to anyone else, it would have been a frightening situation. But Jack had scraped knuckles with his fair share of thugs in and outside of the ring. Muscle may have been an indication of strength, but it also signaled weakness in speed. Stepping inside, Jack took a mental note of where the fire escape exit was and the position of the thug. Sitting across the room from them, on a black leather couch, was Matt Grant. With buzzed hair, dark circles around his eyes, and a nervous twitch, he couldn’t have weighed more than a buck forty. He had all the signs of someone who was using.
He motioned Jack to take a seat. Spread out on the table were several bags of cocaine, already slit and ready for testing. To the left of him were two suitcases. One was open, displaying packages of cocaine.
“Care to partake?” Matt asked, gesturing to a few lines of white powder.
Jack shook his head.
Matt snorted a line and then wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Down to business, then.”
Jack tossed a few chemical packs on the table.
“Test it.”
Matt stared up at him, shrugged, and went through the process that was always done. When he was finished, he asked for the money.
“Test the rest,” Jack said.
“What?”
“Gafino wants it all tested.”
Jack noticed his hesitancy as he reached over and grabbed a couple of packages.
“All of it.”
“That’s not the deal. I’ve shown you it’s legit.”
“Do we have a problem?” Jack answered.
Matt and the thug by the door exchanged a nervous glance. Jack’s eyes darted between them. Matt’s motion to grab another package was slow, but it wasn’t a package he was going for. Buried beneath the first layer of packages was a handgun. Out the corner of his eye, Jack spotted the thug reach for his own gun. In that instant, firearms unloaded and a hail of bullets shattered the room around them. As the thug dropped, Jack turned back and noticed that Matt had already vanished out of the half open window. The noise of feet clattering up against the steps of the steel ladder made Jack dash to the window. He fell back as a snap of bullets barely missed him. Reluctantly stepping outside, he grimaced, looking ten stories down. With little thought to his own safety he ascended the steps two at a time until he reached the top. He was fully aware that Matt had the advantage, and within a matter of minutes the place would be crawling with cops, but he couldn’t let him get away. He fired a few rounds over the edge of the building and clambered quickly over onto the roof’s surface. Rolling behind an air vent, he caught sight of Matt double-timing it toward the far side.
He was going to jump.
This guy was as crazy as hell. Hauling himself up, he darted in Matt’s direction, raising his gun in hopes he could get a bullet in him before he took the leap. Zeroing in on Matt, he fired once, then again. The first missed and by the time the second one hit him, he was already in a midair vault between buildings. When he landed, Jack heard the sounds of sirens. He watched as Matt limped away, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder before disappearing into the opposite stairwell.
It was the look of fear in the man’s eyes that Jack would never forget.
The next thing he knew, two cops were shouting at him to drop the gun and get on the ground. Jack turned, releasing his grip on the weapon and getting into a spread eagle. He spat gravel as they cuffed him.
All things considered, he got off lightly; the thug hadn’t died from the gunshot wound and there was only a little amount of real cocaine on scene. Jack got the minimum sentence with the assistance of a dubious lawyer on Gafino’s payroll.
At The Thistle Inn, he’d spent the first half an hour at the bar observing the comings and goings of locals. The establishment appeared to draw in all types of people, young and old. Some ate, others danced, and a few gathered at the bar. Dimly-lit antique lights illuminated small leather booths filled with families and couples. At the far end of the room there were two pool tables, a cluster of slot machines, and a door that led out to a set of washrooms. In the corner, a colorful retro jukebox played everything from old sixties hits to the modern day noise they called music.
Any number of people might have seen Matt Grant that night. He’d known that if anyone would remember Grant coming in, it would have been the bartender, a fat guy with salt and pepper hair. As conversation flowed, he soon learned his name was Alan Nock, the owner and only bartender at the Inn besides the one that came in on the weekends. At first it was all casual small talk about the area, passing comments as Alan refilled patrons’ glasses and wiped down the mahogany bar. Eventually Jack dropped Matt’s name. While Alan didn’t appear to register what he had said, a middle-aged man wearing a Yankees baseball cap at the far end of the bar had.
The man went from being captivated by the ball game playing on the overhead television to curiously glancing over. After that, Alan began questioning him. Had Jack known him? Jack replied that he was staying at the motel and had heard about the tragedy. The fact that he’d mentioned he was staying there seemed to put the bartender at ease. As for the man at the end of the bar, seeing him later speaking on a cellphone and eyeing Jack nervously was disconcerting—to say the least.
What he had managed to get out of the bartender was that Matt Grant had frequented the inn most evenings. He was known to play a couple of games of pool with work buddies and enjoy his beer. Alan had seen him chatting with his father that night; nothing that was out of the usual. When asked what he had done for a living, Alan appeared to pretend he didn’t hear the question. Instead, he simply ended the conversation by attending to another customer. Jack waited for him to return, but the following hour the man kept himself busy with other patrons and made it painfully obvious that whatever Matt Grant had done for a living, he wasn’t going to divulge.
As the afternoon wore on, a group of five men came in and joined the lone man at the far end of the bar. Out the corner of his eye Jack could see them glance over. A few minutes later, they gathered around a pool table. Some might consider what he did next stupidity, but he knew supper with Dana wouldn’t exactly be the best place to have a conver
sation about her dead husband. Indeed, the very thought of it all was confusing. Was Matt dead or in hiding?
Buying a couple pitchers of beer, he had Alan bring them over to the men, following him and introducing himself. There were two things that he knew were true about any man, especially those in small towns. They loved beer and challenges, anything that would transport them out of the mundane. He worked both angles that night. He told them he was only in town for a few nights and he couldn’t pass up a chance to rack up a few wins against some locals. Their eyes flared. He could tell it wasn’t anger; it was ego. The exact reaction he had wanted to get out of them. The notion that a city boy thought he could take them for a ride was just too good to pass up. They bought it and racked up the table. Jack laid down a twenty-dollar bill. He had no intention of beating them. Hell, he hadn’t played a game of pool in over six years. But it would give him the opportunity to fish for answers.
After consuming several pitches of beer and winning two games, they soon let down their guard and he was able to discover they all worked down at the marina. All of them were involved in different ways down at the harbor, from mechanical services and rentals to lobster fishing. It didn’t take them long to get around to his interest in Matt Grant. Jack was nonchalant about it. He mumbled that he’d got chatting with Dana up at the motel, who said that he was dead. In between shots, he mentioned how he felt it was tragic that she had to raise a kid by herself.
“They must miss him down at the Marina,” he said.
It just so happened that was where he had worked. According to the guys, he had owned a boat and hauled in large amounts of crab and lobster alongside several of them. It made sense. Already aware that he was distributing narcotics, he had to be getting it in from somewhere. Being a fisherman would have been a perfect cover. Out early in the morning, late in at night. The harbor was only a quarter of a mile from the ocean. No doubt that was how they had been smuggling it in. With this in mind, he used a simple bait and switch tactic of making an assumption about their work in the hopes they would make a slip.
“Must be hard,” Jack said, knocking a ball down the corner hole.
“What is?”
“You know, working all those hours for little pay.”
Tanked up on liquid courage, few men were able to resist the urge to boast, especially those who would have been making an outrageous amount of money from the cocaine Matt had distributed. The expressions on their faces said it all.
“You’d be surprised at how good the pay is,” one of them blurted before another elbowed him, giving him a look of disapproval.
It was enough to confirm his suspicions. None of them stood out as being a leader; they were followers. Town folk who were along for the ride, being led into dangerous waters by the lure of money. But if they weren’t behind it, who was? Who was pulling the strings? Who might have had a reason to hide him or kill him? He made a mental note to ask Dana about the boat. Maybe the money was onboard.
It wasn’t long before they treated him like one of them, patting him on the back when he missed shots and groaning when he came close to winning. Several times he could have won the games, but he wanted to keep them talking, and money had a way of doing that. He stuck around for one more hour before realizing he wasn’t going to get anything more out of them. The one he’d seen initially at the bar clamped down on any questions about what they remembered about that night Matt went missing.
After losing just over a hundred dollars, he dropped his pool cue on the table, bid them farewell, and parted ways.
Chapter 14
THAT EVENING, Dana sipped on a glass of Chardonnay wine as she prepared supper. Up from the basement, the clashing of symbols and the rhythmic beat of drums forced out any trace of peace she had hoped to get that evening. She’d lost track of the number of times she had shouted for Jason to keep it down. The only way it could have been any worse was if his friend, Luke Evans, joined him. Between the beating of drums and the squeal of an out-of-tune electric guitar, she was liable to lose her mind long before the stress of managing the motel would cause it.
For this reason, she didn’t hear the knock at the door. It was only for the fact that she turned to refill her glass on the counter that she saw the silhouette of someone through the frosted glass door. She had barely given any thought as to whether or not Jack would show. In fact, she hadn’t expected him to. It caught her off guard and for a second she felt a twinge of nervousness in the pit of her stomach; she’d seen the way the bikers had looked suggestively at her. Taking a deep breath, she went to the door and was relieved to see Jack.
“Hello,” he said, offering a smile that set her at ease.
“I’m glad you decided could come,” she said before peering past him instinctively, checking on the bikes.
“Expecting someone else?”
She gave a smile. “No, I’m…”
She trailed off as her eyes dropped down to the dog beside him.
“Oh, I kind of feel awkward about this, but—hope you don’t mind—I’ve been out most of the day…I didn’t want to leave him, you know…I swear he’ll be on his best behavior.”
“That’s fine. C’mon in; I was just in the kitchen.”
She stepped back and waved them in. As he stepped forward, she caught the fragrance of his cologne. It smelled piney. It had been a long time since she’d had invited a man into her home. Apollo trailed behind him with his nose to the ground.
“Sorry about the noise,” she said before hollering down to Jason. “Jason, can you come on up?”
He continued banging away, oblivious. She closed the basement door, trying to seal in the racket.
“Talented lad you have.”
She chuckled to herself while taking his coat. “I’m sure he’d be flattered to hear that.”
They made their way back into the kitchen, and Dana turned the heat down on the stove. “I hope you like spaghetti?”
“Love it.”
She continued browning the meat and then moved over to the fridge to take out some garlic. “Can I get you glass of wine, or beer, perhaps?”
“Beer sounds good.”
She pulled a frosted bottle out and handed it to him. He took a seat at an oak table at the far end of the kitchen; it was a laid out with placemats, condiments, and glasses. He thought back to the last time he had been in the house, before he had met her. He remembered that he hadn’t lingered long in the kitchen. He’d assumed a large amount of money wouldn’t have been stashed in a cookie jar. As she continued chopping up the garlic, he took in the room. Brand new tiled floors, oak cabinets, stainless steel sinks, pans hovering over a marble kitchen island, and cozy lighting made it feel comforting. Despite the aged appearance of the house on the outside, the inside looked modern, as if it had recently been through a renovation. For a second he wondered if that’s where the money had gone. Maybe it couldn’t be found because they’d sunk it into the home. It was possible. But it didn’t make sense. With so many of the rooms in the motel in disrepair, he imagined they would have used it there, if they had used it at all. It was very possible that Matt had funneled it back into the coke business.
“Do you need a hand?”
“No, I’m good. It should be ready in a few minutes.”
“You?” a voice said from behind him.
Lost in thought, Jack hadn’t noticed Jason walk into the room. He glanced up to see Dana, looking perplexed.
“Jason? Have you met?”
Before he could reply, Jack responded. “Yes, the other day I kind of got lost looking for that steakhouse you had recommended, and he pointed me in the right direction.”
The boy squinted, scrutinizing him.
“Oh, that,” she frowned. “But what were you doing out of school?”
“It was lunchtime.”
She looked at Jack as if to confirm if this was correct, to which he nodded affirmatively. Jason took a seat across from him, clearly looking uncomfortable.
“So
you’re a drummer.”
Jason remained silent.
“Jason, he’s asked you a question.”
“Well, kind of obvious isn’t it? I mean, unless you’re deaf.”
“Jason,” she stammered, giving him a look of disapproval.
Jack watched Dana cross the room and whisper into his ear. She lifted a finger. “Excuse us for a moment.”
Outside the room he could hear their faint conversation.
“What is this?” Jason asked.
“He’s a guest. I invited him.”
“You never do that.”
“Is there a problem, Jason?”
“No.”
“Well then show some manners.”
As they returned, Jason took his place across from him.
“Sorry about that,” she said.
“Not a problem.”
Apollo sat by Jack’s side, eyeing everyone.
“I noticed you have a dog’s bed, but no dog?”
Jason’s eyes dropped.
“She went in for surgery,” Dana said.
“Is it serious?”
“A tumor. They were going to drain it. They said there really wasn’t a lot they could do, except make her a little bit more comfortable and then send her home. She didn’t make it out of surgery.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“It’s Jason who’s taken it the hardest. That dog meant everything to him. Didn’t she, Jason?”
Jason didn’t reply. Instead, he glanced down at Apollo, who was now sniffing at his pant legs.
“You can pet him if you want. He won’t bite.”
He could see Jason was hesitant. As he petted him, Apollo licked his hand. Jason scratched behind Apollo’s ear, and the dog laid down beside him.
“Seems he likes you,” Jack said.
“How long have you had him?”
“Six years…” Jack trailed off, recalling how he’d missed out on four of those years while being incarcerated.