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“You let Nicky know Delilah owes me bigger than shit, and if he puts his hands on her before I get my shake I will fucking ruin him. Got it?”
Quiet, between wet sobs: “Yeah.”
“I will fucking ruin him.”
“Okay.”
His wallet, keys, cell phone, smokes, lighter and meth pipe are all on an end table next to the door. A small ghetto-quality 9mm also. A small amount of Big Fry in plastic baggie. I pocket the pea shooter. I smash his cell phone and knock the table over.
I leave. Make for Jeremiah’s car fast. Before Benny can work up the intestinal fortitude to move from the carpet. It could be a good while. I get the car, relocate. Vantage point. I sit there and steam for a minute about how guys like Benny can use the Big Fry and survive, while guys like me get the short dick. I resolve to beat him a good one just for being better genetically predisposed to the drug than I am.
I smoke three cigarettes before I see him leave his front door. No cell phone to call Nicky; he’s got to go see him.
Benny’s tell: the Venetian Apartments were located at 11th and Elm before they burnt down last year. Nicky doesn’t live there.
Benny’s tell: a lie. Even to the end. It’s all about posturing. Probably just stupid; the rule of the street is to be arrogant and foolish above all else. He probably doesn’t even think about it anymore. He just does stupid shit, even in the face of death. Bangers are like that. Retards demand respect from perfect strangers and then go out of their way to disrespect everyone, everywhere. It’s all about posturing. Benny lies.
Benny’s tell: coffin nail.
17
Falcon Ridge Apartments.
Northwest side of the Burrows. The kind of place that has the dumpster right next to the pool. The dumpster is overflowing; the pool is drained. An old bloodstain makes a small, brown and rust-colored splatter pattern in the deep end. Trash has blown inside the pool, half-covered in snow.
The scent of nail polish remover in the air is redolent of a clandestine lab. The complex is small; there might be ten cars in the single lot that serves the place. A mile over is the newest landfill. As long as the breeze is coming in off the ocean it’ll blow that trash stink through here. Cover up the drug-cooking stink. Not today, though. I smell the complex.
I throw another glance at the dumpster. Coffee filters. Empty jugs of solvents. I kick a discarded propane cylinder. The nozzle is tarnished. Blue, corroded. Propane doesn’t do that. Anhydrous ammonia does. I leave it. Someone’s operation here is either sloppy enough to be an industrial accident in the making, or worse, brazen enough because no one cares or is too afraid.
Benny had parked and limped as quickly as he could down to a secluded office nestled in the guts of the small, still-as-a-bone-yard complex.
Ghost town. Litter and dilapidation are the twinkles in this complex’s veneer. One hand on my iron. I follow Benny; good distance.
He knocks on a door, waits. The door talks to him, he shouts through it. Voices muffled; he says it’s an emergency. In short order the door opens enough for a hand to yank him inside.
I walk down the flight of creaky, rotted steps to the door. All by itself. Near the laundry room. Says MANAGER.
This door is not stock. It doesn’t match the others on the surrounding apartments. Replaced. Drug house door. Faux gold on the door’s hardware, boiled up in spots with rust. That means there is a decent chance that the folks inside this apartment, while not expecting a raid, are prepared for one.
MacGyver drug dealers will rig wires and guns to their external doors. Some will keep loaded, cocked, locked and ready firearms within arm’s reach to snatch up when the door comes shattering inwards. Some will have nine deadbolts. Then again, some won’t do shit.
Curtains closed, shouts from inside. Chaos. Distractions. A prepared dealer isn’t reaching for a loaded, cocked, locked and ready gun when he’s fighting with some jackoff like Benny instead of paying attention to who’s busting through his door. Surprise.
Entry M
usic.
I step back, breathe in deep. Hurl one foot into the door next to the handle. Knock, knock.
18
A shower of splinters and dry wall dust announce my arrival.
A deafening blast of shattering wood fills the room, and before anyone can really compute what’s happening, I take a big step inside. Eye contact with Benny.
He’s being manhandled by a thug with a lazy eye. A more effeminate man is a few feet away. I have to assume he’s Nicky.
In the blink of an eye: I close the gap and my arms propel to Benny’s head like pistons breaking free mid-pump. Right palm heel strikes his chin; pushes it away. Left hand grabs the back of his head. With a fistful of hair yanks it towards me.
