"Trezza's a customer." Hugh didn't look from his scale, carefully weighing out the packets.
"Ike..."
"Ike ripped him off. Conversely, he was ripping me off."
Ike thought he was clever, started selling fake G-13 in order to line his pockets beyond what Hugh paid him. Nobody knew how long Ike had been running the scam, but it came to an abrupt halt when Trezza busted him on the fake. That was over a year ago. Ike was still eating through straws. "He threatened me."
"How much did he buy?" That was going to be the checkmate. Louder than words, any threats made, the money would win, would always win. "Six hundred," Jamie mumbled.
"How much?" Hugh asked again, holding his hand against his ear for emphasis.
"Six hundred," Jamie said.
"'Nuff said." Hugh pinched off a small portion of pot from an enormous bag and placed it on the scale. He handed the baggie to Jamie. "Enjoy. Hazard pay. Smoke it when you get home and chill the fuck out, Jamie."
Jamie tried once more. "Looked like he's started hitting his own goods."
Hugh's attention had already returned to the task at hand. "Don't care."
Jamie rode for as long as he could, trying to push his emotions out through the pedals. The anger just moved through his body as he shot through traffic. It was getting dark before Jamie headed home to Southie. He let himself in through the basement door, rather than track moisture over his mother's rugs. The last thing he needed was a hissy fit from his mother about not being able to have nice things. Nice things being the ten-dollar Oriental rug runner purchased twenty years ago from K-Mart.
"Jamie? That you?" His mother called down the stairwell. Jamie peeled off the wet clothes that stuck to him like Saran Wrap.
"No, Ma. It's a psycho, here to steal your Hummels."
"Don't be a smart-ass." When his mother was aggravated, her Southie accent deepened. Jamie could tell she was in a state when she called him "smaht-ass".
"What now, Ma?"
"Your dinner's almost cold."
"Yell at me when it's cold, then." It was Thursday. Shepherd's pie night in the McGowan house. It wasn't very good when it was hot. Jamie's mother suffered from the culinary challenges that faced generations of Boston's Irish.
Jamie heard her mutter another "smaht-ass" as she shuffled off. At least living in the basement afforded him some privacy. His mother's bad hip left her paranoid about tumbling down the stairs.
Jamie's mood didn't leave him with much of an appetite anyway. Instead, he rolled himself a small joint from Hugh's gift bag that he hoped would help his attitude and give him enough of the munchies to choke down his mother's cold shepherd's pie.
For a few weeks, he suffered mild paranoia whenever his phone rang. His gut clenched between answering and getting the address. He dreaded having to go back to Trezza's. After some time passed, so did his worries.
Four months later, Jamie was at the Model, like always, waiting on the next delivery. The phone chimed on the bar. "Where to, Hugh?"
"22 Cabot Street. Roxbury."
Jamie closed his eyes, took a shallow breath as the old fear crept back into his belly. "Aw, hell no, Hugh…" Jamie didn't want to whine, but he heard his voice squeak anyway.
"22 Cabot Street. Roxbury."
"C'mon, can't you…? Jamie cut the complaint short. Somewhere irrational, he hoped that it was another apartment. There was more than one in that shithole,
"Apartment 2-E." The phone disconnected.
The fear that washed over him when he walked out the door suddenly took a 180-degree turn into anger. Anger at his own cowardice, his weakness. Jamie threw his phone down onto the concrete. The plastic shattered and Jamie felt a small release. At least Hugh would have to buy him a new phone. That'll teach the prick to send him to Trezza's again.
Jamie rode as fast as he could to the address and ran up the stairs. The whole ride across town, Jamie convinced himself that it was better this way. Facing his fears, and all that Dr. Phil shit.
Hell, who was he kidding. He was scared shitless.
Jamie could smell it from the other end of the hallway. At first, he thought it must have been coming from somewhere else. The stench of diapers and pizza (that was all he could relate it to) was definitely coming from apartment 2-E. A quick edit of slasher films projected through Jamie's imagination.
The door opened wide this time. Jamie couldn't see anyone inside. Then he looked down.
A kid, no older than five, stood there, smiling up at him.
His Spongebob pajamas looked like they hadn't been washed in weeks. Jamie remembered Jen and her eye. The kid looked just like her, but the nose was Trezza's. Trezza had the type of nose that had obviously taken a few punches over the years.
So had the kid's.
Looking at the child flooded Jamie with unwanted memories of his old man and his own eager willingness to lash out. Staring at the boy's disfigured nose made the old scars on the back of Jamie's legs burn as though the leather had just whipped across them. He smoldered with an anger he'd thought long dead when the kid took Jamie's fingers and led him inside.
"Is your Daddy home?" Jamie felt like an asshole for even asking. For Christ's sake, he was there to sell Daddy drugs. In the months since Jamie had been there, the apartment had gone to the dogs. The kid pulled Jamie to the coffee table and opened a Cohiba box. For a second, Jamie thought the kid was offering him a cigar.
He wasn't.
A handful of unopened disposable hypodermics, matches, a spoon and packets of heroin sat in the box.
Jesus Fuck, the kid was offering him a hit.
He'd probably seen Daddy do it so many times that he'd adopted the gesture.
"Uh, no thanks," Jamie said through numb lips. From watching you Dad. I learned it from watching you. Jamie remembered the old anti-drug campaign and would have laughed if he wasn't so fucking horrified.
A toilet flushed and out walked Trezza. He'd dropped at least thirty pounds (which only meant that he still outweighed Jamie by about fifty), and looked...
Unwashed was the only word that came into Jamie's mind.
Trezza stopped buckling his belt when he saw what was happening at his stash. His eyes went wide and he charged Jamie like an enraged pitbull, driving him into the wall and knocking his wind out.
"The fuck you doing in my house? The fuck you doing with my box?" he screamed. Trezza's eyes were wild, darting all over Jamie, pupils burned down to fiery pinpricks.
"Nothing," Jamie wheezed, his lungs spasming.
"Who the fuck are you?" Trezza reached into his back pocket and pulled a box cutter. He flicked his thumb, opening the blade with a click. He pressed the tip to Jamie's throat. "Answer me!" Again, Trezza failed to recognize Jamie. This time however, Jamie wished he did.
"De-delivery," Jamie said hoarsely.
Don't let me pee. Please don't let me pee.
A small light of memory—either of Jamie or of the fact that he'd called for some weed—shone on Trezza's furious expression. "Asshole," was all Trezza said before he bashed Jamie on the nose with the bottom of his fist.
Blood gushed from Jamie's nostrils, filled his sinuses as he crumpled to the floor. "Don't ever let me see you in my house again." He turned to the kid. "And what the fuck are you doing?"
The kid was crying, pleading to Trezza in panicked Spanish. Jamie didn't understand anything the kid was saying except for "Papi"
Trezza brutally slapped his child, knocking him to the floor. The kid wailed, terrified and hurt, the blood from his busted lip seeping into the sleeve of his Spongebob pee-jays.
"Quit it!" Trezza raised his hand again and the boy scrambled under the coffee table, away from his father's fists. The kid balled up, his cries drawn into whimpers.
Trezza rifled Jamie's bag, looking at the packets. Taking what he wanted, he threw the backpack at Jamie, lifted him by the shirt and tossed him into the hallway. Trezza threw a wad of crumpled bills at Jamie's feet and slammed the door. Jamie then heard
more yelling in Spanish. Trezza's voice, harsh and abusive. Jen's pleading. Jamie heard flesh smacking and more sobbing.
Then an infant's weak cries joined the din.
Jamie half-crawled, half-fell down the stairs as he fought to escape as fast as he could.
"Jamie, please… What's wrong?" Jamie's mother hovered at the top of the stairs. She'd heard Jamie when he came in. Probably because when he did, he'd lost control and thrown his bike across the room. It landed on with a crash that could probably be heard downtown, much less upstairs. His mother started crying when she heard the tears in Jamie's voice.
"Leave me alone, Ma!" Jamie couldn't stop crying. His nose wouldn't stop bleeding. It wouldn't stop. None of it would stop.
"Please, Jamie," she sobbed. "I can't help you. I can't come down there."
"Just go away, please." Jamie curled up on the musty carpet. Everything hurt.
Then his mother said, "I miss your Dad, too."
Jamie let her think that.
"You get the license number?" Hugh gave him the once-over as Jamie held ice against his swollen nose. Hugh, with his usual style, expressed slightly more sympathy than a brick.
Jamie shook his head. He would have said "no", but he was trying to avoid any words using the letter N. The sound sent bolts of pain into Jamie's nasal cavities. "Guy bumped me and jetted." The explanation worked for two reasons, since Jamie didn't have to come up with a second excuse to explain the busted phone.
"Doesn't look like you need stitches." Hugh was looking at the cut on the back of Jamie's head. Jamie guessed that he'd suffered it while tumbling down the stairs. He heard Hugh sigh with relief. Probably less in concern over Jamie than at the decreasing possibility that he'd have to foot another hospital bill. "You sure you don't want to get checked out? You might have internal injuries."
Jamie shook his head carefully, otherwise his nose might start leaking again. "I fell odd my head." Jeez, talking was difficult.
Hugh sighed, "Good. I mean…"
Jamie waved off Hugh's apology. "Weh he calls, I wah Drebba's delibbery."
"Huh?"
Jamie repeated himself, as best he could.
Hugh shrugged. "I'm not understanding you."
"Drebba!"
"Terror? What terror?"
Jamie grabbed a notebook off the desk. There was no way to say it without n's. He wrote on the paper: When he calls, I want Trezza's delivery.
Hugh read the note and smiled. "You two kiss and make up?"
Jamie shrugged. Good tipper, he wrote
It was raining again when Jamie went back to Cabot Street. Jamie's sneakers squished wetly on the stairs. The rank smell was worse this time. It had been three months since Trezza broke Jamie's nose. It healed badly, leaving him a lump on the bridge and unable to smell through his left nostril. The closer he got to 2-E, the more he wished that neither one was operational. Before he got to the door, Jamie opened his backpack and put the baggie in his pocket. He didn't know if the opportunity would arise, but he'd waited three months. Too long to not be ready.
He knocked.
Nothing.
He knocked harder. Jamie's heart picked up the pace, but not from fear this time.
"Who izzit?" came a slurred voice from the other side.
"Delivery," was all he said, flat-voiced.
"Open the fuggin' door,"
Jamie slowly opened the door and poked his head in.
"Bout time," said Trezza. He looked like he'd dropped another thirty pounds. The once intimidating frame looked like somebody had made a Jude Trezza scarecrow and carelessly threw it onto the couch.
Jamie fought off the violent rush he felt course through him. For once in his life, he might have had the upper hand physically. Jamie remained calm, he would stick to the plan.
"Gimme the weed," Trezza said,his eyes half-lidded.
Jamie walked over and placed the packet onto the table, next to the cigar box.
With difficulty, Trezza drew a significantly smaller wad of cash from his pocket. For a second, he stared at his hand like he wondered how the money got there.
"How much?" Trezza drooled onto his lips and wiped it with his forearm. The tracks made a connect-the-dots game, mapping out the veins on his arm.
"Fifty for what's there."
"Fuck. Fifty bucks for pencil shavings," he muttered. Trezza slapped the bills into Jamie's palm.
Jamie needed to buy some more time. "Can I use your phone?"
"The fuck for?"
"Battery died on my cell. I gotta call Hugh."
Trezza waved towards an old brown plastic phone on the end table. "Whatever."
Jamie picked up the phone and dialed.
"…at the tone, the exact time will…"
"Yeah, Hugh. It's me."
"…beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep…"
Trezza stood and stumbled to the bathroom.
Jamie hung up and opened the cigar box. He pulled the baggie from his pocket and compared. He held the two side-by-side. The color was right. Jamie added cinnamon to the Clorox before bagging it. He placed his bag into the box. There was more in Jamie's bag, but he doubted that Trezza would notice or care. If there was less, Jamie had no doubt that repercussions would come crashing down on Trezza's family.
On his way to the door, Jamie noticed the empty crib.
And Jen staring at him through the kitchen doorway.
Her eyes flickered to the cigar box, then to the hand that Jamie palmed the real heroin in.
Almost imperceptibly, she nodded, then walked back to whatever she was stirring on the stove.
The toilet flushed and Jamie dropped the heroin on the floor. It landed next to a tiny foot in a Spider-Man sock. He bent quickly to pick it up and saw the little boy in his hiding place under the coffee table. The boy put a finger to his lips. Jamie winked as he stuck the drugs into his pocket. Then he held his own finger to his lips, smiling. The kid grinned and put his hand over his mouth to stifle the giggles.
Jamie was gone before Trezza made out from the bathroom.
The Saint of Gunners
I rolled down the window of my unremarkable rented Taurus outside Elvis's Lounge. The residual fumes from the half-pack I'd chained rose into the darkness like an urban smoke signal. Even though I was parked in behind a van, conveniently shadowed from the streetlights, the young idiot should have seen me from his position. For him, the entire world was focused down to a pinpoint onto the painted red door.
The kid was clearly too fired up to make even the most basic attempts at being inconspicuous. I was good enough at it. Others were better. The kid pacing nervously under the awning next to Elvis's was being so obvious, he might as well have been dressed in a gorilla suit and blowing an air horn.
I was testing him, giving him every chance in the world to go about his business without me sticking my nose in it.
He failed. Emotion was making him stupid. Or worse, it was going to get him killed.
I had no intention of somebody else's idiocy having me killed along with him. Bullets don't discriminate when they start firing.
He was dressed in an oversized cream-colored jacket and a bright red Yankees cap that practically glowed under the light. This kid could be one of, if not the first person killed for making poor fashion choices. He was all boiling hot piss and vinegar. The readout on my dashboard said it was 17 degrees out. Even if it was the middle of July, he should have had gloves on if he intended to use the gun that he had in his right hand.
I sighed and crawled across the front seat of the car and exited on the passenger side, away from the street. I stuck to the shadows, taking the long route inside the glow of the streetlights. My soft-soled shoes made no sound as I worked my way up behind the kid. The last three feet behind him were well lit under the awning. I took those three feet fast as I pressed the muzzle of my revolver under his ear. The kid froze, arms by his side. The light gleamed off of the chrome piece in his hand. Even his gun conspired to give him away.
; "You turn your head and the last thing you see will be your own face lying on the sidewalk. Say yes if you understand me."
"Y--yes." His frightened breaths froze in the air, his throat clicking as he swallowed.
"Good. Now hand me the gun slowly and walk backwards with me until we're out of these goddamn spotlights." Not too bad a gun; a Smith & Wesson Short .40, serial numbers filed off. Point one for the kid doing at least one thing right. We backed into the darkness and I stuck his gun into the back of my black jeans. "Now, you see the Taurus behind the van?"
"Yeah"
"Walk to it. Go around to the rear passenger side and get in."
Dutifully, he did as he was told. His gait was defiant. Not at all the walk of somebody with a gun at his back. Had to give the boy some credit. Mighty big stones for a kid that couldn't be any older than sixteen.
I climbed in behind him, pushing him along the seat with light pressure into his ribs with my gun. I would have preferred not to kill him in the rental car if I didn't have to. Rather not have to kill him at all. Too many bodies make for a messy night and a longer than usual explanation to my rental agent.
"You gonna smoke me?
"That's all up to you, Sean."
"My name's not Sean."
"Well, since you got that name written all over your coat, let's just stick to that for right now."
The kid clucked his tongue. "That's the brand name, man."
I moved the barrel of my gun up to the base of his skull and pushed it hard, pressing his forehead against the glass. "Tell you what? The man with the gun says it's your name right now, unless you want to tell me what the real one is."
"Carlos."
"Now, Carlos, you mind telling me what you're doing marching back and forth next to Elvis Maxwell's joint with a gun?" I knew the answer; I just wanted to hear him speak it.
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