And then you’re stuck. You can’t walk away. Ever.
“Did you go see my brother today?” Theresa asked as she started taking chairs off the tables.
“Yep.”
She grinned. If I saw Fender, that meant I had dope.
“You want to smoke a jay before we open?” she asked.
Theresa was a cute girl—how could I say no?
I didn’t tap into the new brick of marijuana. I left that in my backpack behind the bar and went to the stash I kept in the freezer. I rolled a joint while Theresa finished setting up the chairs.
We sat at a table like a couple of regular customers and passed the joint back and forth. The funny thing about pot is that the best stuff in the country comes from Colorado, where it is legal. I figured it was just a matter of time before it was legal everywhere and my little side business would be defunct. I was trying to figure out a plan to get out from under Ramzen by then, but I hadn’t come up with any ideas yet.
I’d been smoking so long now that smoking a joint was kind of like smoking a cigarette to me. I didn’t get much of a buzz. Theresa had done some hard drugs in her day, but she didn’t have as many years of smoking weed on her résumé as I did. Her eyes quickly turned glassy and she couldn’t stop smiling.
Theresa had dirty-blond hair that wasn’t nearly as well cared for as her brother’s mane. She wore low-slung jeans, a tight T-shirt, and no bra underneath. Her breasts were small, but I liked looking at her nipples poking against the fabric.
I was sure she noticed.
I was sure she liked me looking.
It was just a matter of time before we hooked up. That would probably mess things up with Fender. And if I didn’t have him supplying me anymore, then that would mess things up with Ramzen, who expected the cut I gave him every week and wouldn’t like it if I went back to just being a bar manager.
In other words, hooking up with Theresa wouldn’t just risk my oldest friendship. It might risk my life.
But I had a tendency to not think with my head. A younger version of me would have made my move already. Theresa and I would be fucking in the back room instead of sharing a joint up front.
But I was trying to be smarter these days.
Trying.
Two unusual things happened that night at the bar.
We were doing moderate business for a Tuesday night, enough that Theresa and I were busy but we could handle it ourselves. I worked behind the bar and she spent most of her time on the floor.
When customers came to the bar and ordered the special, I’d take them into the storage room and sell them however much pot they were looking for. I was always careful. I knew everyone I did business with.
The first surprise was that Ramzan Akhmadov and his henchman Zakir came in.
Ramzen never came himself. He always sent Zakir, or someone even lower on the food chain. So when Ramzen showed up, I got a knot in my stomach and started to sweat.
“Hello, Charlie,” Ramzen said, sitting on a barstool across from me. “How’s things?”
He and Zakir both had thick accents, like a couple of Russian terrorists in a bad action movie.
“Good,” I said, wiping the bar off as if I was a character in such a movie.
Ramzen was in his fifties, with a face like a boxer who retired well past his prime, with lumpy, ruddy patches of skin and a mouth full of crooked teeth. He had a head full of silver hair and eyes that looked black in the bar’s dim lighting. Zakir was in his thirties, maybe a few years older than me, and he was handsome, with slicked-back hair and a mouth full of straight white teeth. While Ramzen looked like a dock worker trying on a nice suit, Zakir looked the part of a gangster.
I made myself put the towel down and just stand and talk with the men. Stop pretending nothing was weird.
I asked Ramzen if he wanted anything, and he declined.
“You?” I said to Zakir.
Zakir always took single-barrel bourbon, and I would normally pour without asking, but with Ramzen here, he might not want to be seen drinking on the job, so I figured I better ask.
He shook his head no and came around the bar like he always did and went into the back to the cooler. There was a case of Budweiser that was always in the same place. There were twenty-three bottles of beer inside. In the one empty space was an envelope of cash that I kept up to date for these visits.
“Did you catch the game?” Ramzen asked, making small talk.
“No,” I said. “I missed it.”
I had no idea what he was talking about, not even what sport. It was summer, so that meant either the Indians or, if they were still in the playoffs, the Cavaliers. I didn’t give a shit about professional sports, and I’m sure Ramzen didn’t either, except for the betting that went along with it.
I figured the game, whatever game it was, had something to do with why he was here. Maybe he wanted me to start taking bets like a bookie.
I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want to get any more involved with him than I already was.
“Have you seen your friend Fender lately?” he said.
“I saw him today,” I said.
Honesty seemed the best policy here. I didn’t want him to find out later that I was lying.
“And how was he?” Ramzen asked.
I shrugged. “Fine.”
I was doing my best not to look over Ramzen’s shoulder at Theresa out on the floor. As far as I knew, Ramzen didn’t know that Fender’s sister worked for me. She was just another cute waitress. I had a few of them. Call me sexist, but good-looking girls help with business.
“Did Fender tell you about a new drug he has?” Ramzen asked. “I think it is called Y.”
Zakir came out from the back and sat next to Ramzen. Both of them stared at me.
“He mentioned something about it,” I said, again choosing honesty. “Some new thing from China.”
“Did you try it?”
“No,” I said. “You know me. I stick with naturals—no pills, no powder.”
Their eyebrows raised in unison, and that made me qualify my statement.
“No powder anymore,” I said.
“This is from the bones of a prehistoric animal,” Ramzen said. “What is more natural than that?”
I forced a laugh.
Zakir spoke up for the first time. “Did you see it?” he said. “The Y?”
Now I chose to lie.
“No,” I said. “He knew I wouldn’t be interested in something like that.”
Now things were starting to make sense. Fender said he had a buyer lined up. They were just haggling about price.
Ramzen was his buyer.
Fender paid his cut to Ramzen just like everyone else. But he didn’t work for Ramzen. He was never in debt, never needed Ramzen’s money (unlike me), so he was able to operate more or less without any oversight.
Still, Fender needed to be careful.
Ramzen Akhmadov wasn’t someone I would haggle with over a price. Fender had bigger balls than I did.
Ramzen and Zakir were boring into me with their stares. I could feel Theresa doing the same from across the room.
“If you find out anything you want to tell us,” Ramzen said finally, “call this number.”
He set a card on the counter. It was blank except for a handwritten number.
I frowned, hoping my expression would say, I don’t know what you’re talking about.
But I did, and they knew I did.
After they left, Theresa came over, her face full of worry.
“What was that all about?” she said.
“Do me a favor,” I said. “Call your brother and see if he’s okay.”
That’s when the second surprise of the night came: a police detective walked into the bar.
He was in street clothes, but I could tell he was a cop. For one, he had the air of scumbag smugness that cops have.