Light burns its way in, disrupting the warmth of my fantasy and forcing me to open my eyes. John’s face is sweaty. He is biting his lip and, with one look at him, I feel my dreams wash away. It doesn’t look like he got much from Eddie, I notice, disheartened.
I roll out of bed, stiff and sore, trying to be careful not to shift my ribs again. Eddie has been strict with John ever since he bailed him out of jail. Their relationship has changed on another level as well. John doesn’t act confident, like the favorite child, anymore. Does Eddie still trust John? I wonder. He looks dope sick every time he comes back from a run at Eddie’s—ever since that night.
When Eddie Nash gets mad, John gets very scared. “We owe him,” John keeps repeating, but the money isn’t the only pressure he gets from the house on Dona Lola Drive. Eddie wants to know who that other voice on the phone was—the one who referred to him as John’s brother.
John grabs up our things from around the room and begins throwing them into plastic bags. “Take a shower before we go. It may be a while before we get another room.”
Here we go again, I think with a sinking heart. I don’t want to know anything else, and I do as I am told. Gingerly I move to make my way to the bathroom, mildly surprised that my body is feeling better. I watch hypnotically the steaming water cascade over the diminished bruise marks on my side, running my hand slowly down the length of my ribs. My fingers fumble around a large circle of calcium that is forming over the break, keeping me sorely aware that my injuries are real.
John has my clothes set out on the bed. Jeans, tennis shoes, and an oversized gray University of Oregon sweatshirt. “Put this on,” he says as if he’s talking to an assistant. Again, I do as I am told. Happy to be wearing warm clothes, I sit on the edge of the bed and, with difficulty, comb my long, wet hair.
John packs the rest of our things in the car and comes in to sit next to me on the bed. He opens his briefcase and uneasily lights the pipe, baking the sides of the stem to melt down the brownish residue that clings to the glass. He manages a large cloud of smoke and uncharacteristically puts the pipe to my lips. “Here. Suck.” He offers me the first pull of freebase.
I draw the billowing smoke into my lungs, feeling the stab of my right side catch my breath and stop me halfway. I choke back air, squeeze my eyes shut, and fall on the bed to search for that blissful numbing oblivion when John, anxious for some of the high, reaches down to suck my breath into his.
“Is that good, baby?” he asks after a while.
I don’t answer; only barely nod.
Without a sound, John closes his briefcase, helps me up, and escorts me to the waiting car. Latching on to what bit of high I can, I try to stay numb but can’t resist stealing a final peek over at Frosty’s door and whispering a silent good-bye. Good luck.
On the side of the road off of Dona Pegita, a street near Dona Lola Drive, John finds a vacant spot under a thick patch of eucalyptus trees. He parks the Malibu, sets up his brown Samsonite briefcase between us, and lights the pipe, once again melting down the darkened resin from the glass and the screens. The glass reddens with the heat and looks ready to explode as he attempts to drain every drop of the drug from a bone-empty pipe, this time blowing only gases of burnt screen ash into my mouth.
So this is Christmas, I say to myself flatly as I watch John manipulate the pipe. What did I expect? My body begins to hurt again. I am moving around more than I should and the drugs, what little there are, have worn off. I desperately want to be numb again, and watching John’s frantic scrapings of the pipe only makes it worse. I turn away from him, lay my head back against the sticky vinyl car seat, and stare at the grimy headliner.
“He wants to see you,” John finally says to me, not looking up, and spits a piece of tobacco from his mouth.
My heart pumps loudly at his words. “Wh, wh, who?”
“Nash,” he says, using Eddie’s last name. He spits again.
I say nothing.
“We got no choice. He wants to meet you.”
“Me? Why, John?” My voice is panicked.
“He wants to know who called him that night I was arrested.”
I look at John in disbelief, remembering that night, the claustrophobic narrowness of the phone booth and the way my body shook when I spoke with the heavily accented drug lord. He’ll kill you and dump your body in the desert. Don’t fuck up. He’ll kill you. If he asks you your name, don’t tell him. Don’t tell him anything. He’ll kill you. John’s warnings are still very clear in my head.
“Who did you tell him I was, John?”
“At first I didn’t tell him anything, baby, but he got pissed off. Then the fucker stopped paying me for deliveries.” His fist hits the steering wheel. “He’s starting to not trust me; doesn’t think I’m loyal if I don’t tell him.” He angrily looks down at the exhausted base pipe. “Now he’s real mad, baby, and I, I tried not to say anything, but he wants to meet you.”
“No! John! Who did you tell him I was?” I ask again, mortified that he is planning to take me to meet Nash—Eddie Nash.
“Baby, baby.” John turns to hold my hand. “Baby,” he murmurs.
I am crying now. Streams of tears run down my face.
John brushes them away, holds my chin, and looks me dead in the eye. “You’re my niece, from Oregon. You’re eighteen…”
“I’m nineteen, John,” I correct, interrupting his cold tutorial.
“Tell him you’re eighteen and your birthday is in a few days. He’ll be generous.”
Oh my God, he’s serious. I sob.
“Tell him you’re a nursing student from Portland. Tell him…”
Blocking out the noise of his words, I let his voice trail off. I watch as his mouth fervently continues to move, but no sound registers. His face squints and frowns in animation, yet I hear nothing. It feels safe here within my tears. He grabs my arms and shakes me. “Are you listening? He’ll kill you! If you don’t get this right, he’ll kill you. He’ll cut your head off! And, and your body will be dumped in the desert with the rest of them… and believe me, no one will ever find you!”
“I’M LISTENING, JOHN!” I shout, halting his familiar torrent of fear. “What—is—my—NAME?”
“Gabrielle. Your name is Gabrielle.” There’s a long silence. John’s face twists as if he is going to cry, until I acknowledge him with a curt nod and lower my head. “Thank you. Thank you, baby,” he gushes, kissing my face all over. “It’s just work, baby, right? It doesn’t mean anything. Just a job, okay?” He pulls me in close, then gets dead serious. “He’s no one to fuck with, baby. He’ll offer you drugs. You can’t let him know you know how to smoke base. Tell him you only tried it once before, and ask him to show you how to hold the pipe. He’ll like that.” John nods, seeming to agree with his own plan, and runs his fingers nervously through his greasy curls. “Now listen carefully. Are you listening?”
“Yeah… I’m listening.”
“There will be a bodyguard at the door, a big black dude. He’s one mean fuck. Don’t talk to him. He’ll show you into the living room and ask you if you want anything. Say no!”