"Bundle," he said, and the boy looked expectantly down the street and then wrinkled his face at the lack of traffic.
"Go on, nigger," snapped the dealer, cuffing the boy with the back of his hand and scowling after him until he'd disappeared around the fence. As Eddie rattled closer, the dealer reached into his pocket and took out a gold dollar coin and started flipping and rolling it in his hand. He had worked the street for two years, dealt with the meanest motherfuckers in the biz. Been tightened up by the cops a dozen times and just swallowed the blood in his mouth and stayed cool. But the trash man always made him nervous. Those got-damn eyes lookin' up at you like dark holes that you couldn't escape.
The boy came back just as Eddie slowed to a stop, his cart inches from the Brown Man's hip. The runner started to offer up a warning to the old junk man but the dealer hushed him. The Brown Man took the thirteen dime bags of heroin from the boy and dropped them casually into the cart. In exchange Eddie passed him a crisp, folded hundred-dollar bill. Neither man spoke a word. Eddie shuffled on and the boy's eyes rode his rounded back until he was out of earshot.
"They's a man you don't fuck with," the Brown Man said when the runner turned. "His moneys always good, and you don't never try to cheat his ass. You always give him the good rate, hear?"
The boy nodded. He was new, only on the street a week, but he had never seen such deference from the Brown Man, even when the packed-up low riders or the sedans with white men pulled up. Maybe it was the junk man's eyes, the boy thought. He'd never seen eyes so hollow.
Five blocks later Eddie heard the girl behind him. He'd seen her peeking out of the alley when he went by. He knew she would follow. Now she was hanging back, scared but unable to stop herself. Eddie went left, around the chain link fence at the back property of the old newspaper printing plant and pushed his cart a few blocks through the alley. He turned onto a rutted trail leading into an overgrown weed lot. There was an abandoned cinder-block shack squatted down near the back of the lot. It had once been some kind of electrical substation, but once it had gone unused for a month, it was stripped of anything that could be used, exchanged or sold. Eddie hoped no crackheads were using it. He could hear the girl moving in the grass behind him. He pushed the cart against the outside wall of the blockhouse and ducked through the doorway.
Inside the single room a torn, filthy mattress lay on the floor. Piles of wadded trash-greasy food wrappers and empty cellophane bags-were kicked into the corners. Something scurried away when Eddie sat down on one corner of the mattress and took out his tools.
Inside his coat was a spoon from his mother's kitchen, a small bottle of water and a syringe that he had stolen from her diabetic supplies. Eddie knew the value of a clean needle. Sometimes he could barter the ones he had hoarded in exchange for dope when times were tough. But times had not been tough. Eddie had money now. He carefully poured the water into his spoon and then mixed in the powder from one of the thirteen bags. He wondered what was taking the girl so long.
When the heroin was ready, he took out a small piece of cotton from his shirt pocket and rolled it between his thumb and finger into a small ball. He dropped the cotton into the spoon and set it on the floor while he took the orange cap off the syringe and then she was there.
"Hey baby, you got some sugar for me, too?"
The girl was leaning into the doorway, the toe of one shoe pointed carefully inside. She had finger-brushed her hair back and used some kind of cloth to wipe her face clean. When Eddie looked up she straightened her back, pushing her small breasts out against the worn fabric of a dingy cotton blouse. Eddie could see the tremble in her fingers.
"I seen you stop off at the Brown Man's so I was wonderin' maybe you want some company," she said, trying to hold her voice steady. Eddie went back to his spoon and slipped the needle into the soaked cotton and drew the liquid up into the syringe. The girl stepped over and sat next to him, folding her long, washed-out skirt under her. From somewhere she came up with a thick rubber band and without asking wrapped it around her bare upper arm. Eddie looked into her face but she was staring at the needle, a small pink tip of her tongue showing at the corner of her mouth.
"You get what you want. I gets what I want," Eddie said.
Question or order? The girl couldn't distinguish the statement. But she knew how to handle his kind. She'd been on the street. She'd get the sweet shot and slip the junk man without giving anything up.
"Sure, baby. I know what you want, big man," she said without looking up from the needle. The veins in her arm had popped like thin worms under her bruised skin. She nodded and the tip of her tongue moved to the other corner.
Eddie watched the girl accept the dose of heroin into a thin vein. He watched her eyes roll up and the smile play at her face. He liked to watch them. It made him anxious for his own hit, but he liked to see them smile first. She hummed through the high for a few minutes and then her eyes drifted open.
"Go 'head, baby," she slurred. "Get your own self some of this."
Eddie knew the girl would wait until he was half conscious with a dose and then either rip him off or split. He shook his head.
"Now I gets what I want."
The girl's eyes opened wider and she pulled herself up.
"Okay, baby. You gonna get yours. But I gotta pee first. Know what I mean?" She was now on her feet. Yeah, Eddie thought, I know what you mean.
She took a step and he had her by the wrist before she could turn. She kicked at him but Eddie caught her ankle and like a rag doll tossed her back on the mattress. Eddie had been cheated too many times by women. When she started to scream Eddie had her instantly by the throat. No yellin'. Ain't no yellin' in this house, his mamma always said. His grip on her throat tightened until she was quiet and he went about his business, getting what was his.
When he was through, Eddie let loose and sat back against the cool block wall. The girl stayed quiet while he mixed his own package from the bundle and got himself high. She was still quiet when he got up to leave. She was still lying there when he ducked out the doorway and started pushing his cart back to the streets.
8
When I left Ms. Greenwood I drove east, over the tracks and toward the ocean. After ten years as a cop I'd heard enough stories, confessions, excuses and bullshit to come to a conclusion. Truth is an ephemeral thing. Perception holds a powerful sway. Ms. Greenwood was convinced that someone connected to her mother's viatical policy had a hand in her death. That was her truth. Billy, whose judgment I trusted, also believed it. McCane was never going to get his nose in this neighborhood to make any kind of assessment. I could walk away and not subject myself to the hassle. But that was the thing about truth and the possibility of it. I had a hard time leaving it alone.
I crossed A1A and turned down a short residential street to a small oceanfront park and pulled into a shaded spot. I stepped over the bulkhead and walked down to the beach. At the edge of the sand you could smell brine drying on the rocks left behind by an outgoing tide. I dug the cell phone out and dialed Sherry Richards' direct line.
"Strategic Investigations Division, Richards."
"I am surprised and honored not to have your machine answer," I said.
"Freeman. Hey, what happened? The swamp dry up?"
Her voice had a lilt to it. That was positive. It had been a few weeks. Maybe she wasn't pissed.
"I had a craving for civilization," I said.
"You're calling me civilized, Max. How sweet."