I nodded.
“That point is tonight,” Vince said. “Suzanne has been very close to leaving on her own accord for a long time now. She hasn’t worked in some time, and generally avoids the conversation. We’ve given her the benefit of the doubt due to her longevity, but increasingly it has seemed she is no longer interested in being a part of our cooperative effort. Adeline, others with an interest in the matter, and I have agreed, if she chose to leave, we’d honor that choice. That is what happened this evening.”
“How do you know that?” I asked. “How do you know she’s not just blowing off steam?”
“She made the choice,” Vince said. “She has to live with it. She won’t be invited back.”
“That’s how it works?” I asked.
“That’s how it works.”
I thought about it. Adeline sat straight-faced, ready to answer any questions or spit more information about the “community” and Suzanne. She was remarkably adaptive, able to pivot from provocative touches and batting eyes to cold businesswoman, the first lady of Colorado heroin smuggling. Each time I met her, she surprised me in some way.
“She’s not getting hurt or anything?” I asked.
“No,” Vince said with a wave of his hand. “Julian, no. Of course not.”
“We’d never hurt one of our own,” Adeline said. “Even though Suzanne may not be a fit for the community anymore, we still consider her a friend. We would never hurt a friend.”
I asked more questions, and each of them was answered. I asked about the dealings with the local police, and was told it was a necessary relationship that was brokered long ago, and again was assured it was nonviolent. I asked about the drugs, how much the others knew, and who was using. Vince told me a very small percent of the community members knew what was being shipped—only those who worked directly with the product—and zero percent used heroin.
“Not a single one,” he said. “It’s strictly a way to support the community. It’s very important to us that our members don’t use. A few have gotten caught up over the years, but those cases are extremely rare and immediately dealt with.”
“So no heroin,” I said, still uncomfortable with the word and keeping my voice low, “but I’ve seen plenty of weed smoked.”
“Marijuana is fine,” Vince said. “We treat it the same as alcohol. Psychedelics are okay on occasion, with approval, but that’s it. Our policy beyond that is zero tolerance.”
I asked about the future plan for me, and was told I was in control of it.
“Of course,” he said, “we’re constrained a little at the current time. Right now, we can’t have you leave the community completely. I understand how this sounds, and I need you to understand why it is, and that it’s a special case.”
“I get it,” I said. “We went over it.”
“Of course,” he said. “Past that, your role is up to you. You can be as involved as you’d like. If you just want to continue doing runs and live on your own, that’s perfectly acceptable.”
“But,” Adeline said, “Vince and I both agree, ideally, your role would expand. Despite some bumps in the road, he sees your value. We’d like to see where you could go within the community.”
I looked her in the eye and tried to see the other side of her. The other sides of her. The girl who showed up at my apartment drunk and slept over. The one in the coffee shop who expressed uncertainty about her relationship. The knockout at the ball with a tight dress and flowing hair, making small talk with her friend. I looked in her eyes and tried to find these people, but saw nothing but a calculated CEO. I saw my former bosses, I saw Wall Street, I saw emptiness.
We finished dinner, Vince picked up the check, and I drove home. Despite everything, I still expected Suzanne to be waiting at my apartment, but she was not.
40
Months passed and winter came. Snow came in sheets, blanketing the hills around Otter Ridge in white. The town moved slower. Temperatures dropped. The canyon was quiet during weekdays, roads packed with snow and ice. Chimneys bellowed smoke from fireplaces. On weekends, the roads were abuzz with tourist traffic, cars and SUVs motoring through town with skis and snowboards strapped to the tops. Bars were full. It snowed every third day. It was a good time.
Snow in Otter Ridge was not snow in New York. Or Boston, or D.C. Snow in Colorado was welcomed with open arms and stuck-out tongues. Back east, the snow was a sign of depression, of winter, of the dark season, or inconvenience. Snow made life harder, the commute longer, and the locals ornerier. It fell as white flakes and turned immediately to black slush, dirtying up slacks and dress shoes and making roads slippery. Snow in New York was dreaded.
In Colorado, it still made roads slick and driving harder. You still had to shovel, to dig out your car and your sidewalk. But life moved slower, so none of these things mattered. Snow made the town prettier, and filled the water reserves with runoff for the spring. Snow meant high rivers and few fires. Snow meant powder days at the ski resorts, which meant smiles for the locals and money for the businesses. Snow was a blessing, an offering from above, and it snowed every third day.
With Vince’s business, I’d gradually settled in. The trust between us had slowly been built, starting with that dinner in the hills. Immediately Vince took me off the runs and reassigned me to a different task. He decided I knew too much about the operation to be comfortable and effective, and I agreed. I was moved to bookkeeping, where I kept track of numbers and made sure the money added up. Financials; just the job I’d run from in New York, but light years simpler and incomparable in scope. Days started at 10 a.m., and 5-day weeks were uncommon. The money was even better than driving. It was a much better fit for me to begin with, but I had to know everything.
It was also more incriminating. It required me to know—and influence—the cash flow of the business. I was more than an accessory now; I was a full-blown accomplice. I was a player in the heroin trade. This dawned on me quickly, but I saw no other option. One day, a man dips his toe in the mud, just to test and see how it feels. The next he goes a little further, and the next his whole foot is in. Each step is a small one, seemingly innocuous, but before long, the man is up to his neck in shit.
Slowly, day by day, the scope of what I was doing disintegrated from my grasp. It was a job now, and a routine one. The more I performed my tasks without seeing bags of brown heroin or a police raid or a murder or anything else I’d blindly associated with drug trades, the more it seemed normal. It was just a job. I kept my small apartment and made the rent payments myself. I maintained independence. I attended social gatherings sporadically, but saw no séance’s or cultish behavior. I began to understand Vince’s explanation of the community.
I slept with Adeline twice more. Both times she showed up at my apartment drunk and unannounced, and both times she assured me no one would find out. Both times, in the morning, I told her it could never happen again. There was too much risk. Both times she smiled, nodded, and told me not to worry, then she did what she pleased. I convinced myself it could not continue. But I knew, deep inside me, that if she showed up again I could not turn her down. She was powerful, in control, and the most beautiful woman I’d ever met. Seeing her darken my door made my knees weak.