The one time Hugh visited him, his condolences were, "Watch your back next time."
Jamie didn't respond. One, his back wouldn't have mattered. They'd swarmed him from all sides. Two, his jaw was wired.
22 Cabot didn't look like too bad a building for the hood. Like having a skybox in Hell, Jamie thought.
The inside was another matter. The checkered floor looked like it hadn't been washed in years and Lord, the smell-cooking odors, sharp spices mixed with a stench of wet decay that made Jamie's stomach churn.
Jamie pinched his nose walking up the stairwell. Somebody was yelling in Russian. Another had their television turned way loud. Alex Trebek said, "Monticello."
Who the hell would be living in this dump and buying G-13? Maybe somebody called and they were going to rob him again, knowing he was going to be carrying the best stuff.
He had no choice. Make the delivery or be out of a job. Some of the other guys armed themselves, and for a moment, Jamie reconsidered his negative stance on carrying a weapon. But in the event of a po-po shake, he didn't need weapons possession added to the charges he would already be carrying in his messenger bag. He though about bringing his bike chain with him, but shit, leave his bike unchained? In Roxbury?
Besides, he knew his capabilities. Jamie wasn't a brawler, but he could run, given the right reasons. And once he was on his bike, he was gone.
2-E. Jamie knocked. He heard rustling inside and a deadbolt click. The door opened a crack and a small Hispanic woman peeked out. "Can I help you?" she asked softly. Her voice was tinged with an accent. What Jamie could see was pretty as hell. The eye in the crack was a deep brown, long lashes.
For a second, Jamie forgot what he was there for. "Uh, yeah. Delivery?"
"You bring pizza?" She peeked a little further and looked at Jamie's empty hands.
"Huh?" This had never happened before. Jamie looked at the door number again. Somebody screw up the apartment numbers? "No, I…"
"Jen! Who you talkin' to?" a male voice yelled behind her.
"Is a delivery," she replied.
Jen fell away from the door, pulled roughly back. "The fuck you doin' answering the door?"
Aw no… Jamie knew the voice. Fucking Trezza.
Trezza swung the door wide. He was shirtless, muscles twitching at Jamie. He'd grown a gut, but he was still huge. And all things equal, he was most likely still a psychopath, too. Through the door, Hugh could see into the apartment. Considering the building, the neighborhood and all, the apartment was clean. Big flat-screen. Furniture that didn't look like it had been picked off a curb.
"S'up?" said Trezza. "You one of Hugh's boys?"
"Yeah," Jamie said. Thank God for small favors. Trezza didn't recognize him. Not that there was any beef, but Jamie preferred anonymity where Jude Trezza was concerned. Jamie had delivered to Trezza a couple times, years ago when Trezza had a pad in Jamaica Plains. The guy was a nightmare.
"What you got?"
"I got Northern Lights…"
Trezza grabbed him and pushed him hard into the wall, held Jamie by the collar of his windbreaker. "I'm talkin' G-13, bitch. You think I can't afford the good shit? Save the skunk for the sororities, bitch."
Jamie's legs went weak, remembering what Trezza had done to Ike. "Yeah. I got two packets," Jamie croaked. He tried to keep the fear out of his voice, but heard it trembling anyway. Self-loathing coursed through Jamie. His nerves told him to run. His pride said fight back. The brain won. Fighting back would be suicide, at least more hospital time. Jamie wasn't eager for either.
Trezza smiled crookedly at Jamie. "You scared, Pee-Wee?" Jamie didn't have to respond. Trezza knew that he was. "You should be. You know what happened to the last guy tried to rip me off?"
Jamie nodded.
Trezza let his collar go. "Damn, only got two? I got my boys coming over. Two packets ain't gonna do it."
"I only got two."
"What's the next best?"
"Depends. Kryptonite and Silk are both…"
"Gimme it all." Trezza waved his hand and pulled a wad of hundreds from his pocket.
When Jamie went to his pack, he saw around Trezza's legs. Jen sat on the couch. She and Jamie locked eyes for a moment. Well, locked eye was more appropriate. Her left eye, the one that Jamie couldn't see through the crack was swollen shut. The biggest part of her was her stomach. She was really, really pregnant.
"What?" The sharpness of Trezza's tone snapped Jamie back. Again, he had no response. Trezza's gaze hardened as he looked back and realized just what Jamie was looking at. A backhand clipped Jamie across the face; lightly, but enough to humiliate him. "Mind your own."
Jamie noticed tracks in the crook of Trezza's elbow.
"I can't believe you sent me there." Jamie was pissed. Hugh knew Trezza's history. Not only was Trezza one of the biggest heroin dealers in Boston, but a year ago he beat down another member of Hugh's delivery crew. Jamie was pissed not only that they were still delivering to the prick, but that Hugh sent him.
Adding to that aggravation was Jamie's difficulty finding Hugh's new base of operations. Hugh kept his operation mobile, ever since four armed guys hit his place in Brighton. It was a righteous paranoia, but he'd forgotten to tell Jamie where he moved to. Jamie had to ride an extra hour in the rain while he tried to connect with Hugh in order to bitch at him. Hugh finally answered on Jamie's sixth attempt. Hugh didn't like being called. Hugh was the man who made the calls.
"Trezza's a customer." Hugh didn't look from his scale, carefully weighing out the packets.
"Ike…"
"Ike ripped him off. Conversely, he was ripping me off."
Ike thought he was clever, started selling fake G-13 in order to line his pockets beyond what Hugh paid him. Nobody knew how long Ike had been running the scam, but it came to an abrupt halt when Trezza busted him on the fake. That was over a year ago. Ike was still eating through straws. "He threatened me."
"How much did he buy?" That was going to be the checkmate. Louder than words, any threats made, the money would win, would always win. "Six hundred," Jamie mumbled.
"How much?" Hugh asked again, holding his hand against his ear for emphasis.
"Six hundred," Jamie said.
"'Nuff said." Hugh pinched off a small portion of pot from an enormous bag and placed it on the scale. He handed the baggie to Jamie. "Enjoy. Hazard pay. Smoke it when you get home and chill the fuck out, Jamie."
Jamie tried once more. "Looked like he's started hitting his own goods."
Hugh's attention had already returned to the task at hand. "Don't care."
Jamie rode for as long as he could, trying to push his emotions out through the pedals. The anger just moved through his body as he shot through traffic. It was getting dark before Jamie headed home to Southie. He let himself in through the basement door, rather than track moisture over his mother's rugs. The last thing he needed was a hissy fit from his mother about not being able to have nice things. Nice things being the ten-dollar Oriental rug runner purchased twenty years ago from K-Mart.
"Jamie? That you?" His mother called down the stairwell. Jamie peeled off the wet clothes that stuck to him like Saran Wrap.
"No, Ma. It's a psycho, here to steal your Hummels."
"Don't be a smart-ass." When his mother was aggravated, her Southie accent deepened. Jamie could tell she was in a state when she called him "smaht-ass".
"What now, Ma?"
"Your dinner's almost cold."
"Yell at me when it's cold, then." It was Thursday. Shepherd's pie night in the McGowan house. It wasn't very good when it was hot. Jamie's mother suffered from the culinary challenges that faced generations of Boston's Irish.
Jamie heard her mutter another "smaht-ass" as she shuffled off. At least living in the basement afforded him some privacy. His mother's bad hip left her paranoid about tumbling down the stairs.