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17
River
First things first,I pack a bag and then take a taxi from the guys’ house to my place again. It’s weird doing the same trip that I did that first morning, remembering how I thought I was free of them. I remember coming out of the shower to find Knox standing in my living space looking through my shit and shake my head.
It’s only been a couple of days since then, but it feels like a lot longer.
I find my shitty car where I left it parked in the abandoned parking lot next to my building and slide into the driver’s seat. It’s a piece of crap, held together with haphazard repair jobs and pure spite, but it’s mine. It’s not some sleek, high-end machine being driven by an asshole who thinks his car alone makes him better than me, so I’ll definitely take it.
From what Meredith said, I know I’ll find this dealer somewhere around Eight Mile.
Damon Sinclair, who keeps tabs on Ivan St. James. There are a lot of ways I can handle this, but I decide to go in neutral at first, just to scope out what’s going on with him.
I drive over that way and park on a side street. It’s not hard to find him. He matches the description perfectly, and I have to wonder how a woman who’s probably blind as shit knew exactly what this low rate dealer would look like.
Either the blindness is an act, or she has an information network that’s damn good. Judging from how Gage acted around her, it’s probably the second one.
Either way, it got me what I needed, so I’m grateful for it.
I walk up to Sinclair, taking him in.
He’s nothing special, your average small-time dealer out here in a world of small-time dealers. He’s lanky and thin, skin pale and a little sickly looking. His hair needs washing, and his clothes hang off him like they never fit him in the first place and the problem just got worse over time.
His eyes dart around nervously, and whenever anyone gets too close, he looks like he’s about two seconds from jumping out of his skin.
“Damon Sinclair?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. Just to see what he’ll say or do.
For a second, he looks like he wants to bolt, but then he eyes me and nods shakily.
“Yeah. You looking to buy?”
“Not whatever you’re selling. I’m looking for information.”
“Don’t have none of that,” he says quickly, scratching at an already red patch on his arm. “Got other stuff though. Takes the edge off. Makes you feel good.”
I raise an eyebrow, watching his twitchy movements. Just from the way he’s acting, I wonder if he’s breaking the first rule of dealing and sampling his own wares.
Fucking idiot. It’s a wonder he hasn’t OD’d or been killed by a rival yet if he’s out here doing this shit in the middle of the day. But that’s not my problem one way or another.
“Look,” I tell him, keeping my cool. “I know you keep tabs on Ivan St. James. I need information about him.”
Just the mention of Ivan makes his skin go even paler, and he looks around frantically, like he’s expecting the man to melt out of the shadows and take care of him personally.
“Who said I know anything about him?” he asks.
“Someone with more sense than you, obviously,” I shoot back. “Tell me what you know.”
“Don’t know nothing,” he insists, but his voice goes high and reedy, and it’s not even a good lie. “Don’t know nothing about him. I keep to myself. Sell my shit and go home. That’s all.”
I roll my eyes and cross my arms. I might not be as intimidating physically as Knox or Priest, but I know how to make myself look like I’m fed up with someone’s shit. Mostly because Iam.
“Yeah, sure,” I say. “And I’m a part time nun down at Old St. Mary’s. Tell me what you know or it won’t go well for you.”
The threat gets his attention, and he stops looking at everything but me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean if you don’t tell me, I’m going to make sure Ivan finds out you’re dealing just a little too close to his territory. Everybody knows how territorial he is. How touchy he gets about those lines he’s drawn.”
Sweat beads on Sinclair’s brow, and I know I’ve got him. I’m an unknown entity to him, but it’s pretty much legend at this point how Ivan St. James deals with people who cross his lines. Or even get too close to them. Sinclair’s an idiot, but he’s not that stupid.
