"Drebba!"
"Terror? What terror?"
Jamie grabbed a notebook off the desk. There was no way to say it without n's. He wrote on the paper: When he calls, I want Trezza's delivery.
Hugh read the note and smiled. "You two kiss and make up?"
Jamie shrugged. Good tipper, he wrote
It was raining again when Jamie went back to Cabot Street. Jamie's sneakers squished wetly on the stairs. The rank smell was worse this time. It had been three months since Trezza broke Jamie's nose. It healed badly, leaving him a lump on the bridge and unable to smell through his left nostril. The closer he got to 2-E, the more he wished that neither one was operational. Before he got to the door, Jamie opened his backpack and put the baggie in his pocket. He didn't know if the opportunity would arise, but he'd waited three months. Too long to not be ready.
He knocked.
Nothing.
He knocked harder. Jamie's heart picked up the pace, but not from fear this time.
"Who izzit?" came a slurred voice from the other side.
"Delivery," was all he said, flat-voiced.
"Open the fuggin' door,"
Jamie slowly opened the door and poked his head in.
"Bout time," said Trezza. He looked like he'd dropped another thirty pounds. The once intimidating frame looked like somebody had made a Jude Trezza scarecrow and carelessly threw it onto the couch.
Jamie fought off the violent rush he felt course through him. For once in his life, he might have had the upper hand physically. Jamie remained calm, he would stick to the plan.
"Gimme the weed," Trezza said,his eyes half-lidded.
Jamie walked over and placed the packet onto the table, next to the cigar box.
With difficulty, Trezza drew a significantly smaller wad of cash from his pocket. For a second, he stared at his hand like he wondered how the money got there.
"How much?" Trezza drooled onto his lips and wiped it with his forearm. The tracks made a connect-the-dots game, mapping out the veins on his arm.
"Fifty for what's there."
"Fuck. Fifty bucks for pencil shavings," he muttered. Trezza slapped the bills into Jamie's palm.
Jamie needed to buy some more time. "Can I use your phone?"
"The fuck for?"
"Battery died on my cell. I gotta call Hugh."
Trezza waved towards an old brown plastic phone on the end table. "Whatever."
Jamie picked up the phone and dialed.
"…at the tone, the exact time will…"
"Yeah, Hugh. It's me."
"…beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep…"
Trezza stood and stumbled to the bathroom.
Jamie hung up and opened the cigar box. He pulled the baggie from his pocket and compared. He held the two side-by-side. The color was right. Jamie added cinnamon to the Clorox before bagging it. He placed his bag into the box. There was more in Jamie's bag, but he doubted that Trezza would notice or care. If there was less, Jamie had no doubt that repercussions would come crashing down on Trezza's family.
On his way to the door, Jamie noticed the empty crib.
And Jen staring at him through the kitchen doorway.
Her eyes flickered to the cigar box, then to the hand that Jamie palmed the real heroin in.
Almost imperceptibly, she nodded, then walked back to whatever she was stirring on the stove.
The toilet flushed and Jamie dropped the heroin on the floor. It landed next to a tiny foot in a Spider-Man sock. He bent quickly to pick it up and saw the little boy in his hiding place under the coffee table. The boy put a finger to his lips. Jamie winked as he stuck the drugs into his pocket. Then he held his own finger to his lips, smiling. The kid grinned and put his hand over his mouth to stifle the giggles.
Jamie was gone before Trezza made out from the bathroom.
The Saint of Gunners
I rolled down the window of my unremarkable rented Taurus outside Elvis's Lounge. The residual fumes from the half-pack I'd chained rose into the darkness like an urban smoke signal. Even though I was parked in behind a van, conveniently shadowed from the streetlights, the young idiot should have seen me from his position. For him, the entire world was focused down to a pinpoint onto the painted red door.
The kid was clearly too fired up to make even the most basic attempts at being inconspicuous. I was good enough at it. Others were better. The kid pacing nervously under the awning next to Elvis's was being so obvious, he might as well have been dressed in a gorilla suit and blowing an air horn.
I was testing him, giving him every chance in the world to go about his business without me sticking my nose in it.
He failed. Emotion was making him stupid. Or worse, it was going to get him killed.
I had no intention of somebody else's idiocy having me killed along with him. Bullets don't discriminate when they start firing.
He was dressed in an oversized cream-colored jacket and a bright red Yankees cap that practically glowed under the light. This kid could be one of, if not the first person killed for making poor fashion choices. He was all boiling hot piss and vinegar. The readout on my dashboard said it was 17 degrees out. Even if it was the middle of July, he should have had gloves on if he intended to use the gun that he had in his right hand.
I sighed and crawled across the front seat of the car and exited on the passenger side, away from the street. I stuck to the shadows, taking the long route inside the glow of the streetlights. My soft-soled shoes made no sound as I worked my way up behind the kid. The last three feet behind him were well lit under the awning. I took those three feet fast as I pressed the muzzle of my revolver under his ear. The kid froze, arms by his side. The light gleamed off of the chrome piece in his hand. Even his gun conspired to give him away.
"You turn your head and the last thing you see will be your own face lying on the sidewalk. Say yes if you understand me."
"Y-yes." His frightened breaths froze in the air, his throat clicking as he swallowed.
"Good. Now hand me the gun slowly and walk backwards with me until we're out of these goddamn spotlights." Not too bad a gun; a Smith & Wesson Short.40, serial numbers filed off. Point one for the kid doing at least one thing right. We backed into the darkness and I stuck his gun into the back of my black jeans. "Now, you see the Taurus behind the van?"
"Yeah"
"Walk to it. Go around to the rear passenger side and get in."
Dutifully, he did as he was told. His gait was defiant. Not at all the walk of somebody with a gun at his back. Had to give the boy some credit. Mighty big stones for a kid that couldn't be any older than sixteen.
I climbed in behind him, pushing him along the seat with light pressure into his ribs with my gun. I would have preferred not to kill him in the rental car if I didn't have to. Rather not have to kill him at all. Too many bodies make for a messy night and a longer than usual explanation to my rental agent.
"You gonna smoke me?
"That's all up to you, Sean."
"My name's not Sean."
"Well, since you got that name written all over your coat, let's just stick to that for right now."
The kid clucked his tongue. "That's the brand name, man."
I moved the barrel of my gun up to the base of his skull and pushed it hard, pressing his forehead against the glass. "Tell you what? The man with the gun says it's your name right now, unless you want to tell me what the real one is."
"Carlos."
"Now, Carlos, you mind telling me what you're doing marching back and forth next to Elvis Maxwell's joint with a gun?" I knew the answer; I just wanted to hear him speak it.
"I- I wasn't…"
"Wasn't what? Trying to get yourself killed? Making a mess of my night? Guess what, kiddo? Until I stepped in there, you were preparing to do both with blazing probability."
"How am I making a mess of your night?" Anger edged his words.