by Jack Slater
The trade on the street stopped the instant a police cruiser rolled down. Trapp made sure to keep his head down as the vehicle passed – as he was sure every other driver was doing. He wasn’t doing anything illegal – not yet, anyway – but the last thing he needed was to be stopped and questioned in a place like this.
The cop car didn’t stop anyone, it didn’t even bother flashing its lights. It was as though whoever was inside knew the essential futility of attempting to fight this trade.
That, or they’ve been paid off.
The answer to his question came to him as the cruiser turned off Cherry Street. It was resilience. Even if the local dealers weren’t getting harassed by the cops, they couldn’t rely on that situation holding forever – and there were other agencies who took a particular interest in their line of work. They might be able to bribe local cops, but keeping the DEA off their backs was another question entirely.
Spreading out the trade between multiple locations built in resilience. If one house went down, the flow of customers would automatically shift to the next, and the next in turn. A few dealers would no doubt be picked up and spend a few nights behind bars, but that would be the extent of it. Trapp imagined that the cops must find it like playing an endless game of Whack-a-Mole.
But, like an insect colony, there was a benefit to centralization as well. He noticed that every few minutes, a kid ran not from the street to his respective trap house, but from that house to another on the same street. And the building they ran to was always the same. If this street was a videogame, then number 5742 was the boss level.
Gotcha.
It wouldn’t be the same house every day, he guessed. The boss would rotate between them all, meaning by the time the cops obtained a search warrant, it would be too late. He couldn’t prove it, but it was how he’d do it.
Trapp felt the nerves surge through his body. His palms were already sweaty from the heat, but now the prickle of anxiety started at the back of his neck and didn’t stop. It was the same in Iraq, he remembered, every time his unit left the wire. It was the uncertainty that got you. Never knowing whether that blown-out tire in the middle of the road was exactly what it appeared to be, or whether it disguised a buried artillery shell just waiting to detonate beneath your vehicle.
Never knowing whether the Iraqi kid running alongside your Humvee begging for a bar of chocolate was as innocent as he looked, or whether the second he was gone, he’d tell the enemy exactly where you were.
He hit the button for the AC and regretted the decision instantly as the fans blew out a wave of stale cigarette smoke.
“Ah, hell,” he grunted, killing the system. “I shoulda paid extra.”
He knew he couldn’t, of course. Cash was his most precious resource, and it was about to start dwindling fast. He had had what, a little under thirty thousand bucks when he started. He was already a thousand down, and he had two grand in the glove compartment ready to join the party.
Stop messing around.
Trapp pulled the Corolla in by the curb of the house he figured contained the nerve center of the whole operation and rolled down his window. He beckoned over the nearest Latino teen. “Hey, kid.”
The boy was about 16 years old and was wearing a purple Lakers jersey and a red bandanna around his forehead. His nose wrinkled as contemptuously as any Hollywood starlet’s as he swaggered over, hands thrust deep into his pockets. “Who you calling kid, guero?”
The last word was a new one to Trapp. He rested his arm out of the car window languidly and made sure his posture was relaxed before he spoke. “I want to speak to your boss.”
The teenager’s head jerked left then right, as though he was looking for someone with whom to share his amazement. When no one appeared to be available, he turned back to Trapp. “I don’t got no boss, ese. And if I did, he sure as hell wouldn’t say nothin’ to a guy like you.”
Trapp took a moment to consider his next move. He guessed, probably correctly, that talk wasn’t going to sway this kid’s mind. It didn’t matter that he had almost a decade on the boy, because were only two things that people in his trade respected: money and power.
Well, he had at least one of those.
He reached over to the glove compartment, keeping the corner of his eyes fixed on what the teenager was doing. When the boy flinched, he said, “Relax, kid. I just wanna talk.”
“What you doing?” came the suspicious reply.
Trapp was careful to move slowly but let the wad of cash now in his fingers do the talking. It was the only language the kid would understand. It wasn’t that he expected this was the first time the wannabe gangbanger would have seen that much cash – but he suspected that it was at least enough to pique the right person’s interest.
“What’s that for?” the boy demanded.
“Tell your boss I’m looking to buy a gun. A couple, actually. And yeah, I get it, you’re not in that line of business. Just go ask, okay? Let him make the decision because there’s more where this came from.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed, and Trapp could almost hear the gears turning over in his mind. This could be a trap, and he could be a cop. Then again, what would his superiors say if he turned away that amount of money? Although he didn’t realize it, there was really only one outcome to that question. After all, nobody ever got fired for buying IBM – and no sensible employee would risk their job with a decision when the issue could simply be kicked up to management.
It didn’t take long.
“Stay there,” the Latino barked in a voice that wasn’t quite yet broken before turning on his heel and scampering toward the house.
Wouldn’t dream of going anywhere else…
27
Two heavies exited the trap house several minutes later with the kid in tow. One of the two men quite literally fit the terminology: he was topless, and his belly protruded over the waistband of his low-hanging yellow basketball shorts in a quite extraordinary fashion. It was as though a great tidal wave had frozen over, perpetually threatening to topple and crush whatever was unlucky enough to be caught underneath.
The other gang member was about Trapp’s own height but had at least 30 pounds of pure muscle over him. The two made a curious couple, like some kind of television comedy duo. He decided on the nicknames Big n’ Chunky, just to make things easier. Or the Spanish versions, whatever they might be.
Señor Grande was the talker, Trapp learned when they made it over to his car. He kept his hands on the wheel, the cash sitting on his lap, just in case they were jumpy.
“Get out,” the big man grunted, pulling up his fist and jerking his thumb backward.
He did as he was instructed, pocketing the banknotes as he exited the vehicle. He attempted to keep his muscles limber, just in case he needed to get out of here fast, though as he was shaking out his left leg, the situation struck him as faintly ridiculous.
Faintly?
Trapp didn’t resist as the two gangsters manhandled him from the car to the house. It was darker inside the building, and it took his eyes a couple of seconds to adjust from the blazing intensity of the California sun to the considerably gloomier interior.
“So,” came a shrill, reedy voice from behind him. “My cousin Rodrigo says you wanna make a deal?”
Trapp was about to respond, correctly surmising that he had been delivered to the boss, when Señor Chunky began roughly patting him down. He started by kicking Trapp’s left ankle out, hard, and working from the top of his boots all the way up his frame. As he got higher, the Latino’s magnificent belly jutted against his back, and Trapp noted with some distaste that it was covered by a slimy sheen of sweat.
Chunky mumbled something in Spanish, which Trapp took to mean that he was clean. He suspected that if he had walked in here with a weapon, they would have shot him in the back of the head, no questions asked.
“He done?” Trapp asked, turning around and searching the dark interior for the man who had spoken to him. His eyes passed over
the contents of the room: a large black beanbag on the floor, currently unoccupied, a beige couch pressed up against a wall, over which a painting of Jesus on the cross hung askew, a black leather La-Z-Boy with the stuffing poking out, and a boxy television attached to a games console, complete with two teenage kids whose attention was completely absorbed by the racing title they were playing.
And one other man, standing in the center of the room. He was wearing a black denim jacket, arms cut off so that it resembled a tank top, and the buttons undone to consequently display his torso. His arms were bedecked with tattoos, which ran all the way up his neck. He was greyhound thin, and an unlit cigarette hung from his lips.
“You a brave man, huh?” the boss said, pulling a cigarette lighter from the breast pocket of his jacket and flicking the flint until it sparked. He bent his head until the cigarette hung in the flame, and once it was lit, inhaled a deep drag of nicotine. “Entering the lion’s den like this. A real brave man.”
“Like you said, I’m just a guy looking to make a deal,” Trapp replied. He swept his eyes around the cramped front room of the drug dealers’ den, noting each entrance and exit, though he attempted to hide what he was doing. They briefly paused on a stack of wooden crates by the far wall, marked with colorful branding that looked strangely out of place.
He continued. “A few deals, actually.”
The greyhound first exhaled a cloud of smoke, then dragged in another, so that the embers of his cigarette glowed in the darkness. Trapp wondered how much of this was for show.
Well, it’s working.
“You come to the wrong place, ese. I’m a businessman. I don’t play that game. I just sell rockets. You know how it is, safe and sane, just like that.”
This time, Trapp swept the room once again, this time making it obvious what he was doing. He allowed his eyes to linger on Señor Big and Señor Chunky, then on the two kids behind the TV. Then the crates again. What was he talking about, rockets?
Finally, they settled on a black pistol in the greyhound’s belt loop. “That right?”
The greyhound flicked his cigarette, and a few sparks spiraled to the ground, briefly concerning Trapp that they would start a trash fire, given the layer of candy wrappers and soda cans that – in places – fouled the floor an inch thick. “You a cop?”
Trapp frowned. “Would I come here if I was?”
“Wrong answer, gringo,” the greyhound smirked. He glanced at Señor Big and nodded.
Oh shit. Here we go.
Trapp prepared himself for the blow. At least, he tried to, but it was like holding back the tide. The Latino bodybuilder grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around, and drove his clenched fist into Trapp’s gut hard enough to drive him to his knees and cause unbidden tears to sting the corners of his eyes. He bit down hard and focused on the wooden crates as his vision faded and his mind threatened to do the same.
It didn’t hurt so bad when he gave his brain something to concentrate on. Like the mystery of what was in those boxes.
And yet…
The first wave of pain wasn’t even the worst of it. The punch didn’t just drive all the air from Trapp’s lungs; it also stunned his diaphragm sufficiently that for a few seconds that felt like they might be his last he was unable to suck in a fresh breath. He swayed on his knees, on the verge of blacking out, when the greyhound gave another order, causing Señor Big to drag him to his feet and hold him in place.
“You wanna try that again?” the greyhound asked quietly, entirely unmoved by the sudden display of violence he had just set in motion.
Trapp gasped for breath for a few long seconds as the sensible part of his mind berated him for entertaining this damn fool idea. There were a hundred other ways he could have acquired the weapons he needed. Maybe not as quickly, and maybe not without subjecting himself to a background check which might have alerted Odysseus as to his location – but those risks were manageable.
It’s too late for that now.
“You guys,” he coughed when he was finally able to breathe again, “really need to work on your customer service.”
Señor Big didn’t say a word. He just kept holding on to Trapp’s shoulders, fingers digging so hard into the muscle that if he’d rented his time by the hour as a sports masseuse, he probably would have been able to retire before the age of 40.
His boss didn’t speak either. He just stared at Trapp, eyes widening with surprise. And then he started to laugh, flicking his cigarette into the corner of the room in which the two kids were playing PlayStation. The younger – or at least smaller – of the two jumped as the sparks raked down his cheek, before visibly swallowing his unease. Trapp’s main concern was whether the falling embers might ignite the layer of candy wrappers at his feet.
Or – and significantly more worryingly – the wooden crates on the other side of the room. And Trapp now had a fair guess as to their contents.
Fireworks. And big ones, of the strictly speaking not even close to being legal kind.
“Antonio – come here,” the greyhound said, holding back a second wave of laughter with great difficulty. He peeled a hundred dollar bill from his jacket and handed it to the boy. “Go buy me a pack of smokes. You too, Francisco. You can keep the change.”
Antonio grabbed the note, and the two boys sprinted out of the house without looking back. Trapp wondered if – or more likely, how much of – the show was for his benefit.
“You a real funny guy, you know that?” the greyhound said, stretching out his hand in greeting. “You can call me Estevan.”
Trapp glanced over his shoulder, but Señor Big waited until he got his marching orders from Estevan before eventually dropping him. He shook the drug dealer’s hand. “Name’s Jason.”
“You got a real set of balls on you, Jason.” Estevan grinned. “I’ll give you that, gringo.”
“So we’re cool?” Trapp asked hopefully.
“Not so fast, Whitey,” Estevan replied, glancing at Señor Chunky and snapping a curt order in Spanish. “Just ‘cause you got a set of cojones on you doesn’t mean I trust you, you understand? But we can get to that bit. First – I know you good for the money. Hypothetically, of course, what exactly you looking for?”
Since neither of the two burly henchmen were currently threatening to beat him down again, Trapp considered this development an improvement. He matched Estevan’s even tone and said, “Hypothetically… a couple of pistols. Glock, Browning, anything that’s not going to let me down in a pinch. Then some kind of semiautomatic. An AK-47, M-16, M4, whatever you got. A –”
“Hold up.” Estevan squinted, quite literally holding up a finger to prompt Trapp to stop. “You going to war or something, ese? Because war’s bad for business, you dig? War gets the cops asking questions. I don’t like questions.”
“I just got back from a war,” Trapp replied. “And I don’t want to go back. You could say I have a few security concerns. I guess you could even call me a little bit paranoid.”
Estevan shrugged. “Long as this doesn’t blow back on me, okay?”
“Hypothetically?”
The Latino grinned. “Yeah. Like I said, you a real funny guy.”
“I also need something I can use to shoot from distance. A good, high-caliber hunting rifle, or something more military. I’ll leave it up to you.”
Señor Chunky chose that moment to reenter the front room with an outstretched twenty-bag of cocaine in his fingers. He tossed it to his boss, who snatched it out of the air and turned back to Trapp.
“Let’s do a line.” Estevan grinned. “Pure Colombian, no mixer. This is real good shit.”
“I don’t –”
“You want to do a deal or not, boy scout?” the Latino gangster hissed, his expression switching in an instant from amiable to full-blown psychopathic. “In my neighborhood, you got to understand, we all about trust. And you come in here asking to buy a gun from me, when you know I don’t sell no guns. So that got me thinking, what if you’re a
cop? I know some ballsy cops, I told you. But I don’t know none who do a line of Colombian, comprende? Don’t look too good on the witness stand.”
Trapp closed his eyes and pictured Shea once again, hearing the bleeping of the machines that were keeping her alive. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Ding ding ding. Right answer.”
Estevan dumped the entire bag onto the window ledge and used a card from his back pocket to cut two fat, white lines of cocaine. Trapp had never done this before. He knew neither what to expect, nor whether the dosage in front of him was reasonable – or enough to kill a horse.
But most of all, he knew he couldn’t back out now. And at least they were both doing the same amount.
“You first, white boy.”
Trapp removed one of the hundred dollar bills from his pocket. He’d intended to use it as a down payment on this purchase, but this would have to do. He rolled it up into a thin cylinder, like he’d seen in the movies, lowered his nostril to one end, and the other to the line of coke. He hesitated for only a second before pressing his left thumb against the other nostril and inhaling hard. The crushed powder stung his nostrils.
Then nothing happened.
The cocaine traveled through the rolled-up note and into his sinuses, of course – but he didn’t feel anything, at least not before he handed it to the Latino to use in turn. He heard a second sharp, nasal inhale.
And then the right side of his face went numb.
“I guess you passed the test.” Estevan grinned broadly, using his thumb and forefinger to wipe away the white dust that decorated his nostrils like icing sugar before licking them clean, and prompting Trapp to do the same.
“So what now?” Trapp asked quickly, slightly slurring his words as the numbness worked its way down his face.
“Hypothetically, what you’re asking for would cost about five grand,” Estevan replied, slinging an arm around Trapp’s shoulders. Apparently they were buddies now. “I’ll need half up front.”