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“Hey, Judge.” Paul glanced up at him from behind thick goggles. “Cops came around yesterday, like I told you. Jasper gave us a heads up so we managed to have everything put away.”
“We’re movin’ again soon. I’ve got a trailer in mind about half a mile from here, and another house.”
“Cool.”
The middle-aged man used to be a science teacher in Alabama, until he’d gotten addicted to crack cocaine in the 1990s. He’d beat the addiction but couldn’t find employment, so he’d ended up in and out of jail on small crimes just to survive. Jude had met Paul through his brother and saw the diamond in the rough, the value deep inside the man.
Paul understood chemicals. He understood drugs. He understood human nature. The man had lost his entire family and career—there would always be a sense of desperation driving him, propelling him forward. He had no interest in taking meth himself; it wasn’t his drug of choice. Nor did he appear to wrestle with the lure of craving, and he wasn’t riding a moral high horse. The man simply wanted to make a living. Agoodliving.
“This batch is going to be perfect, Judge!” Paul said with pride as he moved about slowly, with gloved hands.
“It better be.”
“Oh, it will. We’ve got the good brand of iodine, ether, and plenty of acetone… I got the red phosphorus delivery, too. I made sure the other labs got their share.” Judge had between twelve to fourteen meth labs sprinkled throughout the city of Nashville at any given time. Rather than going for a huge central spot that would garner too much attention, he focused on smaller dwellings and shuffled his focus among them, never allowing them all to operate simultaneously. By the time the police were sniffing around, he was gone and off to another one. He was always a step ahead because warming a few greedy officers’ palms with a wad of cash made life so much easier. In fact, Jude had quite a few people on the payroll. He also had a few rules for his employees, including Paul, his top dog and manager:
1.No labs were allowed to ever have children present on premises or in the vicinity.
2.No one was to speak to anyone outside of his jurisdiction. His name was to never cross their lips with people outside their circle.
3.Never make business calls on personal cell phones. Burners and old school SIM card flip phones with no Wi-Fi only.
4.Gloves, goggles, and safety procedures were to be followed to the letter. His product was 70-75% pure at all times. He’d had a few fires and explosions over the years, but if his guidelines were respected, the likelihood of such a situation occurring was slim. Explosions caused loss of productivity, product, and personnel. There was another damn ‘P’ word, too, for such disasters also invited the police over for a visit—particularly the ones hellbent on upholding their duty, and those he prided himself on eluding.
5.If he dropped in unannounced at any of his properties and saw anything disconcerting, the employee would be first told their pay would be cut in half and they’d be given a stern warning. Second time, they’d be judged—hence, his nickname—and the consequences could be deadly. He wasn’t opposed to the death penalty. Third time? There was no third time. He didn’t play ball.
6.Jude took excellent accounting records. He knew what materials were bought, when they were purchased, and who had what. If you stole from him, there’d be no pardon. If even one bag of crystal meth, ice, speed, biker’s coffee, chalk, yaba or crank came up missing, he’d know, and it wouldn’t be long before he was bringing down the gavel.
His phone vibrated and he looked down at the text that just came in:
I need some glasses for a party.
It was one of his customers, Alex, a long-time crystal user. The fucker injected and snorted the shit like a vacuum and constantly needed a large quantity on hand. Alex was often broke, but usually managed to swindle someone or panhandle long enough to get enough money for his glass. Judge used to sell him pills, Percocet and fentanyl, but he’d retired from peddling prescription medicines years prior and focused solely on his meth services.
Jude decided instead of texting the man back, he’d call him. He remembered that dear ol’ Alex had gotten paid—his social security check had come. It was showtime.
“Alex…”
“Judge,” Alex stated breathlessly, his addiction making him drip with need and desire, the newly deposited money burning a hole in his pocket. “You’re the best in town, man. I want top notch tonight.”
“You complained last time that my prices were too high,” Judge smirked and crossed his arms.
“They are, but with your shit, I don’t have to worry about what it’s cut with. I mean, I don’t mind it being cut if it gets me the same or better feeling, but some of this shit is causin’ me problems, man. I got a gram from that one guy, Locust, and it had me freakin’ out. I was up for five days, hallucinating. His shit is garbage.”
“You played with the rest, now you’ve returned to the best.”
His price was higher than his competitors’, such as many of the Mexican drug cartels that were moving into the small towns and taking over, but Jude knew his worth. He knew his product and the tweakers had begun to distrust some of the cartels’ front men because of the unscrupulous dealings, bad product, and revenge killings. Jude and men like him, those born and bred right there in Tennessee, still had courtside advantage, but only if the tweakers believed in the dream that was being sold.
Besides, many of his customers were former cocaine addicts trying to save a little money but get the same or better high. That’s what meth was: a pretty girl in a cheap dress. The bastard daughter of Ms. Temptation and Mr. Sin. A thrill of a ride, but there was no way off once you slid on top of her for a fun fuck, lest you cast yourself off the jagged cliff.
“How much for a couple of grams? Do I get a weekend discount?” Alex chuckled nervously.
“This isn’t an auction. You know the price. Thirty dollars per gram. It’s still primo—very small percentage of additives, no tweaking, no hallucinations, no clawin’ your eyes out, and anything that is comparable in quality to my load is triple this amount in other cities.” He could hear the guy snorting, mulling it over.
“Okay. Ninety dollars. I want three grams then. Where should I pick it up this time?”
“Casa dos. Send my money to the Cash App. Once it clears, you can get what you need.”
“Okay, got it. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
