The following two buys were the same, two grams, and she seemed to grow more comfortable. Then he got bumped up to an eightball, and not long after that he rose to two. He always took a taste right there at the apartment, while they were talking, one of the perks of the job. Later, he’d either log it in as-is, claiming the shortage had been used for field-testing, or he’d pocket the light one, chop it up into grams, then drive to Henderson — or, on weekends, all the way to Laughlin — work the bars, a little business for himself, cover his costs, a few like minds, deputies he knew.
He found himself oddly divided on Sam. You could see she’d tried to cultivate an aura: the wry feminine reserve, the earth tones, all the talk about yoga and studying for her real estate license. Maybe it was motherhood, all that scrubbed civility, trying to be somebody. Then again, maybe it was coke-head pretence. Regardless, little things tripped her up, those selfless moments, more and more frequent, when she let him see behind the mask. Trouble was, from what he could tell, the mask had more to offer.
He’d nailed a witness or two in his time, never a smooth move, but nothing compared to bedding a suspect. As fluid as things had become morally since he’d started working undercover, he’d never lost track of that particular red line. That didn’t mean he didn’t entertain the thought — throwing her over his shoulder, carrying her into her room, dropping her onto the bed, watching her hair unfurl from the soft thudding impact. Would she try to fight him off? No, that would just be part of the dance. Soon enough she’d draw him down, a winsome smile, hands clasped behind his neck, a few quick nibbles in her kiss, now and then a good firm bite. And was she one of those who showed you around the castle — how hard to pinch the nipples, how many fingers inside, the hand clasped across her mouth as she came — or would she want you to find all that out for yourself? Playing coy, demure, wanting you to take command, maybe even scare her. How deep would she like it, how slow, how rough? Would she come in rolling pulses, or one big back-arching slam?
Then again, of course, there was Natalie. Truth be told, she was the one who’d stolen his heart. And it was clear her poor deluded mother loved her, but love’s not enough — never is, never has been. He remembered Sam asking, in their first face-to-face, about his marriage, about kids. You’re not a cop till your first divorce, he thought, go through the custody horseshit. Lose. Bobby was his name. Seven years old now. Somewhere.
When he found himself thinking like that, he also found himself developing a mean thirst. And when he drank, he liked a whiff, to steady the ride, ice it. And so soon he’d be back at Ms. Pitney’s door, repeating the whole sad process, telling himself the same wrong stories, wanting everything he had no right to.
Six weeks into things, he asked, “What made you get into this business anyway?”
She was sitting on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, wearing a new perfume. From the look on her face, you would’ve thought he’d spat on the floor. “No offense, but that came out sounding ugly.”
He razored away at three chalky lines. “Didn’t mean it that way. Sorry.”
She thought about it for a moment, searching the ceiling with her eyes. “The truth? I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom.”
He had to check himself to keep from laughing, and yet he could see it. So her, thinking that way. “Why not marry the father?”
Again, she paused before answering, but this time she didn’t scour the ceiling, she gazed into his face. Admittedly, he was a little ragged: His mouth was dry, his eyes were jigging up and down, his pupils were bloated. And his hands, yeah, a mild but noticeable case of the shakes.
“Some men are meant to be fathers,” she said. “Some men aren’t.”
Sam let one of Claudia’s Persians settle in her lap, pressing her skirt with its paws. The other cat lay in its usual spot, on the cushion by the window, lolling in the sun. Natalie sat in her stroller, gumming an apple slice, while Claudia attended to her ferns, using a tea kettle for a watering can.
“I usually charge thirty, which is already low, but I’d trim a little more, say, twenty-eight.” She was talking in thousands of dollars, the price for a pound — or an elbow, in the parlance.
“That’s still a little steep for me.”
“You could cut your visits here by half. More.”
“Is that a problem?” Secretly, Sam loved coming here. She thought of it as Visiting Mother.
Over her shoulder, Claudia said, “You know what I mean.”
“Maybe I’ll ratchet up another QP. I don’t want any more than that in the house.”
Claudia bent to reach a pot on the floor. “The point is to get it out of the house.”
Well, duh, Sam thought, feeling judged, a headache looming like a thunderhead just behind her eyes. She was getting them more and more. “There’s something else I’d like to talk over, actually. It’s about Natalie.”
Claudia stopped short. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Not yet. I mean, there’s nothing to worry about. But if anything ever happened to me, I don’t know who would take care of her.”
A disagreeable expression crossed Claudia’s face, part disdain, part calculation, part suspicion. “You have family.”
“Not local. And not that I trust, frankly.”
“What exactly are you asking?”
“I was wondering if she could stay with you. If anything ever happened, I mean.”
Claudia put the tea kettle down and came over to a nearby chair, crossing her legs as she sat. “Have you noticed any cars following you lately?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Any new neighbors?”
“That wasn’t what I meant. I meant if I got sick, or was in a car accident.” She glanced over at Natalie. The apple slice was nubby and brown, and both it and her fingers were glazed with saliva.
Claudia said, “I couldn’t just walk in, take your child. Good Lord.” Her voice rippled, a blast of heat.
Sam said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“A dozen agencies would be involved, imagine the questions.” She rose from her chair, straightened her skirt, shot a toxic glance at Natalie that said: Your mother can’t protect you. “Now what quantity are you here for? I have things to do.”
Sergeant Becker called Jimmy in, told him to close the door. He was a big man, the kind who could lord over you even sitting down. “This Pitney thing, I’ve gone over the reports.” He picked up a pencil, drummed it against his blotter. “Your buys are light.”
He stared into Jimmy’s whirling eyes. Jimmy did his best to stare right back.
“I’m a gentleman. I always offer the lady a taste.”
“She needs to sample her own coke?”
“Not sampling, indulging. And there’s always some lost in the field test.”
“Think a jury will buy that? Think I buy that?”
“You want me to piss in a cup?”