Tripping Back Blue

by Kara Storti

  “I have my sources. I need to talk to him. Negotiate.”

  “Bullshit. You’re going to negotiate for no one else besides yourself.”

  “And you’re lucky that I’m trying to help out your old bro by giving him a heads up on my plan to contact Early. After ganking my shit and assaulting . . . my . . . friend,” I trail off.

  That word . . . friend . . . it’s so . . . it doesn’t even cover it. After the Mike fiasco, Orah and I sat across from each other at another diner in another town. We both refused to go to the hospital, instead deciding upon coffee (me) and Earl Grey tea (her) as the cure. Our conversation was lighthearted, about her family (mostly Billy before drugs), about the subjects I like in school (English and biology), and the dialogue was such that I could be myself, be normal, be all right. We both forgot about the preceding events and sank into the rhythm of our chatter. Midday morning clouds parted by the time we left.

  Jason’s mouth is full, food bulging out his cheeks. “That’s right, Mikey told me about that. Shit, dude, you into geriatrics now?”

  “Blow me,” I say, popping another fry in my mouth. It’s deliciously disgusting. “You can’t go choke-holding an old lady like that. Don’t you people have any manners? Any respect?”

  “Dude, don’t even talk to me about choke-holding,” he says, rolling his eyes. I slide in closer to the window, locking him into his space even more. He scowls. All he can do is sip on his milk shake like a fucking toddler.

  “Let’s not get off topic here. Early.”

  Jason slams down his milk shake and picks up his phone. “You’re going to be sorry you ever came here.” He starts dialing, but I’m kung-fu fast and have his phone in my hands right quick.

  Jason pounds his fists on the table, the silverware shakes, the milk shake in his cup sloshes. Everyone glares at us. It’s dark outside, but the windows are reflecting the light from the dessert case, the fluorescents over the counter seating, the other diners’ faces are in various stages of annoyance.

  “Come on, man,” Jason says quietly. His black hair grazes over his eyes.

  I smirk. “Are you getting sick of me yet?”

  “Yet? I was sick of you the day you came out of your mom’s skank-afied vagina.” A piece of food flings from his mouth.

  I do an eye-roll scoff and pull out a paper lunch bag from my backpack. I’m not sure if the timing is right for this move, but I don’t want to jerk around any longer than I have to. In it is two hundred dollars’ worth of heroin. Indigo is becoming like currency now—I was able to trade some for H, an arrangement my dealer, Carter, was psyched about. He’s not a stand-up dude, but he knows an opportunity when he sees it. Plus he’s got street cred. He lives in D-Town Heights, and everyone knows to stay out of his way.

  “This is for you. I know how much you like this stuff, especially the kind that Carter sells.” I cross my arms over my chest. He peeks into the bag, and though he’s trying to guard his reaction, I see the shock over the amount and the white-hot yearning for it, a yearning I’m having myself but trying not to show either—shoulders no longer slumped, still frowning but not as tightly. He’s entranced.

  He tucks the H next to him, but his fingers stay latched around the rolled-up edges of the bag. I choose the cleanest used napkin I can find on the table to wipe the grease off my hands. Jason has the gall to call to the waitress.

  “Hey, what’s it going to take to get my check around here?” he asks, two fingers up high.

  “Man, listen, I just need to know how to reach him,” I say. “That’s it. Then we’re done.”

  Jason pauses, then he starts to crack up, in one of those silent but full-bodied laughs, when you don’t know if someone might be choking or having a heart attack.

  He gathers himself. “You don’t find Early,” he says, knocking his knuckles on the table. “Early finds you.”

  “Oh God,” I say, rubbing my temples. “Could you be any more dramatic?” The waitress waddles to the table, slaps down the bill. Jason checks out her forty-year-old ass as she leaves. Christ, I think, as a waitress, Mom must deal with this punk-ass behavior on the regular. No wonder she wants to stay on the couch her entire life.

  “You don’t get it, dude.” Jason says. “Early’s always looking to grow his business. I know that indigo is new, and it’s not even having an effect on his profits, but it will eventually, and he’ll do anything to prevent that. It’s not just the city, he wants the whole state.”

  Jason goes on to say that as it stands now, Mike and Early have an understanding to stay out of each other’s way—Mike supplies weed for much of New York State, Early supplies the harder stuff that manages to make its way up to D-Town: heroin, cocaine, meth. Mike never wanted to get into the heavier stuff—until his crop started failing, and I introduced him to indigo.

  Jason continues. “Rumors are going around that Early is killing people so he can fertilize the ground with their bones so the flowers will grow. Mike heard about how he tortured a nark who was working with the DEA. Hung him up by a meat hook and chopped off pieces of him, one by one, like some tribal shit. This isn’t just some dude trying to get paid off, man, he’s the real deal.” He takes a huge bite of his hamburger and looks out the window, chewing aggressively.

  “I am becoming more and more aware of that fact, trust me.” And I am. I don’t even want any of those disgusting fries anymore. They’re looking like bones, and the ketchup oozing from Jason’s mouth is looking like blood.

  After some coaxing, I finally get more information, and unless Jason is feeding me BS, I’m getting an ultradose of in-over-my-head. Early—birth name Mario Coletti—is apparently this supernatural g-force of a person who will fuck you up just by blinking. He started off his stellar career by stealing cars when he was fourteen and holding a person for ransom when he was fifteen. When he was sixteen, he killed a man for not paying the hundred-dollar debt that was due to him. That’s how he earned his name—nobody’s late with Early. Boy, oh boy. When he wasn’t killing anyone, he worked at his cousin’s pizza joint in Queens, a front for drug trafficking and other illegal shenanigans. This must have been the pizza place that employed Billy when he was discovered taking a line of indigo.

  I’m not that shocked I haven’t heard of Early before. I deal weed, which means I only deal with Mike’s guys. The harder stuff, well, I didn’t start using until this year, and Carter is a freelancer and real hush-hush about his supplier.

  “So if Mike knows that Early is pretty much a madman, then what’s his plan? What does he want to do with the indigo he stole from me?”

  Jason wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “He wants to talk to Early about partnering up with indigo distribution. Why do you want to talk to him?”

  Huh, that was my plan.

  Mike has no idea that the bone in Orah’s garden was a deer bone. He doesn’t know about the crypt or the Klaski history or the other potential indigo sites. He doesn’t know that it’s the Klaski bones that make my version so much better.

  I nail him down with my eyes. “Never mind about that. Just tell me where I can find him.”

  “Whatever, it’s your funeral. If you do find him, he’s not going to talk to you.”

  I make a sour face. Jason sighs. “Fine. He owns Ti’s Pizzeria and Café, on Bank Street in Schenectady. Good luck finding him there—I’ve heard he spends most of the time in the city. He wants to keep a low profile. People don’t know him, they just know of him.”

  The waitress comes by again for the check. He doesn’t tip her well. He shoves his wallet in his back pocket, scrawny arm all tracked up, causing me to self-consciously check my own. Luckily I was with it enough today to wear long sleeves. I slide out of the booth to let him get out. I chuck over his phone that I confiscated, then throw down some more change for the waitress.

  “You decide to pursue this, you’ll be dead in a week,” Jason says. The door chimes its obnoxious noise as he leaves.

  I got what I came to get. Ea
rly’s whereabouts. Now I need to refine my plan—and there isn’t any room for mistakes.

  Tuesday, May 21

  Chapter Thirty-three

  It’s Tuesday night, which is like, the most innocuous night ever. Who does anything of real importance on a Tuesday night? Come on. Well apparently this guy does, because as I’m pumping gas in my car, a middle-aged hot chick is about to approach me, looking all Friday night, in tight jeans, V-neck T-shirt, and done-up blond hair. Then it’s like she changes her mind because she turns around, walks toward a silver Jetta. I shrug my shoulders and check the pump. Whoops, there she goes, facing me a second time, scrunching up her face, narrowing her eyes, trying to decide. I raise my eyebrows.

  Finally she comes over and says, “Hey, I know you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Finn. You must be Finn. I recognize you from hanging around my son. Spencer? You’re the one with the bird tattoo.” She’s closer now, and I get a whiff of lilac perfume or lotion or some other girly varietal. Fucking Spencer, really? This kid’s so lame he makes Jason look like a superhero.

  “That would be me,” I say, leaning against the side of my car. “And your name is?” I reach out my hand for a shake; her fingers are soft and way too breakable.

  “Claire,” she says, pearly whites not disappointing in the parking lot light. She shifts her weight, I notice her sandals are silver, a style a little too young for a mom, but maybe that’s the point.

  “So this may sound a little odd, but my son, he won’t stop talking about this . . . I don’t know what it is . . . maybe an herb? This holistic remedy that’s been going around at the high school. I have to admit . . . I tried some . . . and it’s . . . wonderful.” Her breath catches in her throat, and she touches my car with the tips of her manicured fingernails. Pale pink. Real classy.

  “Herb, huh?” I say. “That’s what your son told you? And he dropped my name?”

  Her face pops a deep crimson. “No, he didn’t give away your name, but I’ve seen you with him, seen you with the other boys when I drop him off at school . . . and well, you look—”

  “I look like what, now?” I feel my own blush of shame rising up, but I’ve got claws to swat it down.

  “Oh no, no, that’s not what I meant. I’m simply just asking around. Do you have any clue about it?” She brings her hand up to her collarbones, where she fidgets with a heart charm on a thin, gold-chained necklace.

  A jet stream of brilliance flows through me, an idea, though inchoate, is beginning to solidify.

  “I might have a clue,” I say, but nothing more. I want to make her squirm, but the truth is, I can tell she’s the type of lady who’s been squirming most of her life.

  “It’s just,” she says, still fiddling with that chain. “Well, I’ve noticed the difference, in Spencer. Even myself, after one try.” Her voice is getting stronger the more she talks. “It’s been a rough time, for me, and for my family . . .”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, leaning, crossing my ankle over my sneaker.

  Then it’s all happening so quick, she yanks my hand to her chest where I’m expecting to feel boob, but all I’m feeling is flat. The material of her shirt is silky, and her chest is warm. But it’s her stance that tears me a new one. Unapologetic. Proud. Our eyes meet, tangle up, and I fight against the internal sting of it. She’s telling me how it is, by saying nothing at all. I don’t want to hug her, I want to embrace her, envelop her, give her what pathetic strength I have, maybe she can make something out of it.

  She releases me. “The surgery was painful, and the chemo is horrendous. Medical marijuana is hard to get, and I don’t want to get addicted to pain pills,” she says, brushing a lock of blonde hair—that I now assume must be a wig—from her face. I nod, I got heartstrings, they’ve been thoroughly pulled.

  “How ’bout this,” I say. It’s all coming together, all the pieces in this jigsaw are falling into place. “You get all your friends together, and we’ll have a party. An indigo party. Order pizza, drink some wine. Is this sounding reasonable?” I ask. I’m hoping so, because the party will be my way of contacting Early, while at the same time profiting from a bunch of ladies who need an escape from life. Will it work? Am I being too rash?

  She has to ruminate on it for a minute (just as I am); I see her scrolling through her contacts in her head. I can tell she’s in the mindset of full speed ahead. No time to waste.

  I reassure her. “It’ll be spiritual, you and your best friends, a bonding moment, better than therapy. You’ve been through hell. I get it.” I look at her with sympathetic eyes (but not too sympathetic) and reach out to touch her necklace, I can’t believe I’m doing it until after I’m doing it. I’m not laying game, I’m really not, but it feels like a button that should be pushed. She looks down at the pavement, then at me, and nudges me away.

  “Friday afternoon,” she says. “Three o’clock. Bring enough. There’s a lot of pain to go around.”

  I shake her hand with both of mine. Strength in those manicured fingers. She gives me her address and number. When she walks to her car, her initial nervousness is past tense, her posture is straight, strong, steel. This is the benefit of hope: sometimes you inherit that don’t-fuck-with-me swagger.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  I’m in my car, at Meadow Lane Park by myself, getting baked. The conversation with Spencer’s hot mom is an hour behind me, and I’m going over my plan, but my mind keeps wandering. I can’t believe it’s the end of May. Graduation is at the end of June, and I’m really hoping that the teachers will be sick of me enough or so vulnerable to my charms that they’ll give me passing grades. It’s dark and quiet here, just me and the crickets—exactly what I need. My mind’s too loud. I have Mike to worry about if he hears I’m dealing indigo to a bunch of ladies on Friday. I have Early to worry about, who might be killing me before I get in touch with him. Faith, who deserves the world and more, is a millimeter away from giving up on me. Stacey probably thinks I’d be better off dead. Though I haven’t seen her since the Mike incident, Orah is the only one who doesn’t seem to judge me—even when I put her in danger. But she’s also the one who’s most oblivious.

  The pot smoke is dense around me; I can barely see out the windows. I’m not experiencing the high like I used to. My joints are aching, and my arms and legs are so out of whack that my head’s too big and my feet are too small, Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. I want to send myself toppling over the edge, just for a little while. For a few hours tonight, I need to shut down.

  When I make the phone call to score some heroin, my hook-up Carter doesn’t answer. This is not cool. I need something now. I know that he lives in D-Town Heights; he’s invited me out to his place before. I don’t think he’d mind if I dropped by. I’m giving him business—how could he mind? Before I start my car up, I attempt convincing myself to not go through with it. I remind myself of the aftereffects of heroin, and how I want to lay down and die when the euphoria is over and done with. I remind myself that the tracks on my arms are getting worse, and I should probably start shooting up between my toes so no one will suspect. I remind myself of my sister, and her reaction if she found out how desperate I am for a fix right now.

  My keen persuasion tactics work on everyone else besides myself. As I drive out of the park, my tires crunch against the gravel parking lot and kick up sharp pebbles in their wake.

  Carter’s apartment is on Fourth Street, the top floor of a nondescript six-story block of a building. White siding, bars on the windows, one bare bush that has lost its nerve. It’s nearing eleven o’clock, not the best time to be here, but it’ll just be a quick in and out. As I ring the buzzer, Faith is calling my cell phone. I pick it up.

  “Where are you?” she asks.

  “I’m at Walmart,” I say. “Needed a new pair of pants.”

  She lets out a hmmph. “Where are you really, Phineas?”

  “I told you, sis. I’ll be home in a little while. I had to go to the Walmart
in Glenville because the Rotterdam Walmart didn’t have my size in these specific jeans I want. Probably won’t have them here either, but I just thought I’d check.” I’m not sure why I’m weaving this tale, but I go with it, what’s got to come out will come out.

  “I need you here,” she says adamantly. “Dad’s acting up, my car isn’t working, and nobody’s around to take me somewhere else.” Well, where’s your savior Peter, I think. Let him come rescue you, damsel that you are.

  “That dumb car,” I say. “I told you I’ve got money to fix it. Why don’t you just let me—”

  She heaves out an exasperated sigh. “That’s not the point, dumbass.” I look at the paint-chipped white door before me and listen to my sister’s ragged breathing. It softens me, and I start to feel bad. This is your chance to back out, take advantage of this rope to pull you out while you can.

  But I don’t. It’s just too hard.

  “Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can. What’s he up to?”

  “He took out the Jack Daniels.” She’s moving around, doing something, it’s jostling the phone so I can barely hear her. “He’s starting to talk about the past, you know, and it’s moving into fucked-up territory. The no-going-back zone.”

  “Where’s Mom?” I ask, knowing that it’s a stupid question, knowing that her whereabouts aren’t going to make a difference in this situation. Last time Pop drank Jack and talked about the past he head-butted the wall in the living room and left a skull-shaped imprint. He didn’t do anything to repair it until I couldn’t take it anymore and patched the wall up myself. There were strands of hair stuck to the jagged edges and small streaks of blood, nothing heavy-duty, but enough to think, oh yeah, that’s just Pop’s head breaking open.

  “Mom’s in the bedroom, ignoring him,” Faith says with a break in her words. I hear her swallowing back tears. “Will you just forget about your stupid pants and get here?”