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I approached his shaking form, reaching out until his thick, oily fingers were heavy in my hands. His pointer finger was my first target.
“Who?”
Snap.
He screamed, and it was music to my ears.
“Is?”
Snap.
He was louder this time.
“Your?”
Snap.
He whimpered, his hand limp against his side, the breaks of each finger bone jutting out. Smiling, I grabbed his palm, angling his wrist, reveling in the sound I knew was coming next.
“Supplier?”
Crack.
He screeched this time, wildly shaking his head and smashing it into the back of the chair.
“Okay…okay!”
Feeling satisfied, I steepled my fingers together, waiting for the pathetic mess to continue.
“I don’t know who makes the dust. It ain’t my payroll.” He began stammering when I pulled his other hand close, ready to start snapping those fingers, too. “B-B-But….”
He flinched away from me.
“I know the guy I get my stacks from. He’s a greasy mother fucker. He’s at the corner of Fulton. Goes by the name Grinder. I don’t know nothing else, I swear, lady!”
I pondered that information for a minute. Grinder was a name I’d heard a few times. The idiot got his name by doubling at a butcher’s shop. He wouldn’t be an easy mark because his stupid pals flanked him like flies on shit.
The dealer was sobbing now. The salty smell of tears invaded my nostrils. Great. He was crying, and I didn’t ‘do’ tears. Ever. I could handle curses from a grimoire, shouting, screaming, anything but fucking crying.
“I helped you, girl. So please just let me go. I won’t say nothing, I swear.”
This was always the part I hated.
The hope.
It was a bubble of light in the black hole of death.
“Okay, sure. You won’t say anything.” I shrugged, hearing him sputter and shift around in his uncertainty. “So, take me back to your apartment, then.”
His body was hesitant as he flexed his muscles and cradled his battered hand when I released his bindings. He stumbled around, bumping his big body into the side of the container.
“Uh, okay…why?” he said, still unsure.
“Because you’re going to use the burner you stash under the oven in your place to set up a meet with this Butcher,” I paused, moving in closer. “For this week.”
The dealer wobbled in the space. His silence had to be a sign of his shock. He hadn’t noticed I’d been tracking him down for weeks. He never detected my presence in his rundown apartment building.
He, nor anyone else, had thought to look around the corners of the noisy alley past the grime-filled dumpsters, dumpsters that happened to have the perfect view into his bedroom. The dumpsters had easily hidden my small frame as I’d moved closer to the window and peered inside. The flimsy cardboard section on his window had been easily removed, allowing me to survey and peruse the area. Once inside, I’d inspected the oven first. The oven was often a hotspot for things to be hidden, and I discovered a small phone concealed inside.
