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He fisted his hands in his lap. His shoulder twitched, and he let it. In fact, he amplified it. “I have money.”
Jackson transformed right in front of Slate’s eyes. His eyes turned dead, and he actually stopped eating. This was the hard-nosed businessman Slate knew. He was the best friend when a guy needed a fix. He could take care of a man if he just needed a quick hit during lunch. But when it was time to pay…
“Let me see it.” He dusted off his hands as he set his roll back on the tray. “You’ve interrupted my lunch, by the way.”
“It’s four o’clock,” Slate said, digging into his pocket. He pulled out the wad of cash Lauren had given him. Apparently, the bills were marked in some sort of untraceable, electronic way. Slate had questioned her about that plenty, because he didn’t believe something electronic could really be untraceable.
She’d shown him cameras he couldn’t even see—but his face came up on the computer screen. Technology had advanced while he’d been behind bars, he supposed.
He put the pile of money on the table in front of him, and said, “There it is.”
“Are you insane?” Jackson hissed, glancing around. He shoved the money toward Slate. “Hide it, you idiot.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Slate said, covering the money with both hands. “I forgot.” He gave a nervous laugh that was entirely too real. “I’ve been out of the game for too long, and I need a pill.”
“More than one,” Jackson muttered, now playing the salesman. He looked out the window, his eyes narrowing for a moment.
“You have some close by, right?” Slate asked. “My dad says you eat here every day.” He too looked out the window. “The drop has to be real close.”
Jackson picked up his sandwich and finished it, leaned away, and regarded Slate. Slate held his gaze for only a moment before remembering that junkies didn’t stare down their suppliers. It was always,yes, sir, I have the money, sir, just give me the pills.
“We better go now, or all the good stuff will be gone.” He signaled to Peggy, who came toward the table.
She looked at Slate and then to Jackson. “All done, sugar?” she drawled, seemingly normal to Slate. “You didn’t even finish your chips.”
“I had an old friend join me today,” Jackson said, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. He dropped a twenty on the table. “Keep the change, Peggy.” He stood with a smile and started for the door, his eyes locking onto Slate’s as he went behind the waitress.
That was more than a two-dollar tip, and alarms started to wail in Slate’s head. He repeated the same mantra that had been streaming through his mind since late last night.Get him off the streets. Get him off the streets.
Slate wouldn’t wish prison on anyone, but for a man like Jackson MacBride—he deserved it.
Jackson had stopped just outside the door, and he looked both ways down the street. “Walk ten feet behind me,” he said as Slate stepped next to him. “I’ll double-tap the drop. You pretend like you dropped something, and you bend down. If you can’t find it from there, you’re a moron.”
“I need a fix,” Slate said. “I’m not thinking clearly.” He tried to make himself sound utterly desperate, and it was almost strange how he felt exactly that way.
“You won’t miss it,” Jackson said. “Take the box out. Take what you want. Leave the money.”
“As much as I want?” Slate looked at him with eager eyes. “Really?”
“One packet per hundred,” Jackson said. “Don’t get greedy on me now, Slate. You’ve been off the hard stuff for a long time. You need to start with the yellow pills.”
“I want the pink ones.”
“Your funeral.” Jackson shrugged, and Slate once again felt this primal need to pummel his face into a pulp. How many people had he said those exact, nonchalant words to where it had resulted in exactly their funeral?
Before Slate could unclench his fingers, Jackson took off down the street. He waited until he’d gone a few paces, and then Slate followed. He stuck his hands in his pockets and kept his head down, just in case Jackson turned around. It wouldn’t do to have him see Slate scoping out where all the undercover police officers stood.
He watched him touch a parking meter. Just once.
His pulse picked up speed.
Jackson touched a fire hydrant. Just once.
He tapped a light pole once, then actually stepped toward a parked car and touched it once.
Finally, he crossed the street at the light—doing absolutely nothing illegal should anyone be watching—and started back toward the barbecue joint.
Another parking meter. A signpost for the directions to a museum. One tap. One tap.
