“He’s a contractor,” Nick went on, “works down in Henderson. I saw the blueprints and, you know, stuff in his place when I was there. Look, you don’t need the trade, forget about it. But I thought, I dunno, maybe you’d like the guy.”
“I don’t need to like him.”
“I meant ‘like’ as in ‘do business.’”
Sam checked the stroller. Natalie had her thumb in her mouth, eyes closed, her free hand balled into a fist beneath her chin.
“You know how this works,” Sam said. “He causes trouble, anything at all — I mean this, Nick — anything at all comes back at me, it’s on you, not just him.”
They met at the Elephant Walk, and it turned out Nick was right, the guy turned heads — an easy grace, cowboy shoulders, lady-killer smile. He ordered Johnny Walker Black with a splash, and Sam remembered, from her days working cocktail, judging men by their drinks. He’d ordered wisely. And yet there were signs — a jitter in the hands, a slight head tic, the red in those killer blue eyes. Then again, if she worried that her customers looked like users, who would she sell to?
“Nick says you’re a contractor.”
He shook his head. “Project manager.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Sometimes. Not often enough.” He laughed, and the laugh was self-effacing, one more winning trait. “I buy materials, hire the subs, make sure the bonds are current and we’re all on time. But the contractor’s the one with his license on the line.”
“Sounds demanding.”
“Everything’s demanding. If it means anything.”
She liked that answer. “And to relax, you...?”
He shrugged. “I’ve got a bike, a Triumph, old bandit 350, gathering dust in my garage.” Another self-effacing smile. “Amazing how boring you can sound when stuff like that comes out.”
Not boring, she thought. Just normal. “Ever been married?”
A fierce little jolt shot through him. “Once. Yeah. High school sweetheart kind of thing. Didn’t work out.”
She got the hint, and steered the conversation off in a different direction. They talked about Nick, the stories they’d heard him tell about his TV days, wondering which ones to believe. Sam asked about how the two men had met, got the same story she’d heard from Nick, embellished a little, not too much. Things were, basically, checking out.
Sensing it was time, she signaled the bartender to settle up. “Well, it’s been very nice meeting you, Jimmy. I have to get home. The sitter awaits with the princess.”
“Nick told me. Natalie, right? Have any pictures?”
She liked it when men asked to see pictures. It said something. She took out her wallet, opened it to the snapshots.
“How old?”
“Fifteen months. Just.”
“She’s got her mother’s eyes.”
“She’s got more than that, sadly.”
“No. Good for her.” He returned her wallet, hand not trembling now. Maybe it was the Scotch, maybe the conversation. “She’s a beauty. Changed your life, I’ll bet.”
Yes, Sam thought, that she has. Maybe we’ll talk about that sometime. Next time. “Have kids?”
Very subtly, his eyes hazed. “Me? No. Didn’t get that far, which is probably for the best. Got some nephews and nieces, that’s it for now.”
“Uncle Jimmy.”
He rattled the ice in his glass, traveled somewhere with his thoughts. “I like kids. Want kids. My turn’ll come.” Then, brightening suddenly: “I’d be up for a play date some time, with Natalie. I mean, if that doesn’t sound too weird.”
That’s how it started, same playground near the apartment. And he hadn’t lied, he hit it off with Natalie at first sight — stunning, really. He was a natural, carrying her on his shoulders to the park, guiding her up the stairs to the slide, taking it easy on the swing. He had Sam cradle her in her lap on the merry-go-round, spun them both around in the sun-streaked shade. Natalie shrieked, Sam laughed; it was that kind of afternoon.
They brought Natalie home, put her down for her nap, then sat on the porch with drinks — the usual for him, Chablis for her. The sun beat down on the freshly watered lawn, a hot desert wind rustling the leaves of the imported elm trees.
Surveying the grounds, he said, “Nice place. Mind if I ask your monthly nut?”
“Frankly?”
He chuckled. “Sorry. Professional curiosity. I was just doing the math in my head, tallying costs, wondering what kind of return the developer’s getting.”
She smiled wanly. “I don’t like to think about it.” That seemed as good a way as any to change the subject. “So, Nick says you wanted to ask me something.”
Suddenly, he looked awkward, a hint of a blush. It suited him.
“Well, yeah. I suppose... You know. Sometimes...” He gestured vaguely.
She said, “Don’t make me say it for you.”
He cleared his throat. “I could maybe use an eightball. Sure.”
There, she thought. Was that so hard? “Let’s say a gram. I don’t know you.”
“How about two?”
It was still below the threshold for a special felony, which an eightball, at 3.5 grams, wasn’t. “Two-forty, no credit.”
“No friend-of-a-friend discount?”
“Nick told you there would be?”
“No, I just—”
“There isn’t. There won’t be.”
He raised his hands, surrender. “Okay.” He reached into his hip pocket for his wallet. “Mind if I take a shot while I’m here?”
She collected her glass, rose from her chair. “I’d prefer it, actually. Come on inside.”
She gestured for him to have a seat on the couch, disappeared into her bedroom, and returned with the coke, delivering the two grams with a mirror, a razor blade, a straw. As always, a stranger in the house, one of the cats sat in the corner, blinking. The other hid. Sam watched as Jimmy chopped up the lines, an old hand. He hoovered the first, offered her the mirror. She declined. He leaned back down, finished up, tugged at his nose.
“That’s nice,” he said, collecting the last few grains on his finger, rubbing it into his gums. When his hand came away, it left a smile behind. “I’m guessing mannitol. I mean, you’ve got it around, right?”
Sam took a sip of her wine. He was referring to a baby laxative commonly used as a cutting agent. Cooly, she said, “Let a girl have her secrets.”
He nodded. “Sorry. That was out of line.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She toddled her glass. “So — will there be anything else?” She didn’t mean to sound coy, but even so she inwardly cringed as she heard the words out loud. The way he looked at her, it was clear he was trying to decipher the signal. And maybe, on some level, she really did mean something.
“No,” he said. “I think that’s it. Mind if I take one last look before I leave?”
And so that’s how they wrapped it up, standing in the doorway to Natalie’s room, watching her sleep.
“Such a pretty little creature,” he whispered. “Gotta confess, I’m jealous.”
Back in his car, Jimmy horned the rest of the first gram, then drove to the Roundup, a little recon, putting faces to names, customers of Sam’s that Nick had told him about: card dealers, waitresses, a gambler named Harry Thune, homely Brit, the usual ghastly teeth. After that, he drove to the strip mall on Charleston where the undercover unit had its off-site location, an anonymous set of offices with blinds drawn, a sign on the door reading Halliwell Partners, Ltd. He logged in, parked at his desk, and wrote up his report: the purchase of one gram Cocaine HCL, field tested positive with Scott reagent — blue, pink, then blue with pink separation in successive ampoules after agitation — said gram supplied by Samantha Pitney, White Female Adult. He invented an encounter far more fitting with department guidelines than the one that had taken place, wrote it out, signed it, then drove to the police tower, walked in the back entrance, and delivered the report to his sergeant, an old guy named Becker, who sent Jimmy on to log the gram into evidence. Jimmy said hey to the secretaries on his way through the building, went back to his car, moved $120 from his personal wallet to his buy wallet to cover the gram he’d pilfered, then planned his next step.