by Glen Kenner
-You’re not joking.
-Nope.
-Then I’m going with you. Don’t even try to talk me out of it.
-No. Fuck no. I’m not delivering you to him. That’s fucking crazy. Kingsley won’t be alone. He has a habit of surrounding himself with the biggest, craziest fuckers that don’t stay down like they should.
-Probably on MaxHealth+.
Sarah and I look at Glen Ray, who’s digging dirt out of his fingernails.
-What?
-They’re probably on MaxHealth+. Crap. Sorry. I’m blabbering. I’ll stick with the agenda.
-Grow the fuck up. What’s MaxHealth+?
-Nothing. It doesn’t have anything to do with the agenda.
-Hey, come on. John’s just worried which causes him to act mean. This is how he deals. Right, John?
Damnit. I hurt the boy’s feelings. Fucking baby Firsts these days. Snowflakes every one of them.
-Yeah, it’s how I deal. Back in my day, you know…
Fuck if I know what to say after that.
-You know? But tell us about MaxHealth+.
-It’s this super food for Firsts you can sometimes score online. On the darknet. It’s stolen, but you can usually buy it if you know where to look and how to ask.
-Why do you think Kingsley’s guys are eating this stuff?
-Because it comes out of New Jersey. And it’s not sold. It’s just distributed in those snack size ziplock bags. No labels or anything. The assumption is that Kingsley owns the production and gives it to his soldiers as needed. Like the other night in the empty lot with those two huge dudes. The one you killed, by the way, did you tell Sarah about how you did it? The rib? This was insane. John ripped-
I snap my fingers in front of his face.
-Hey, stay on topic. MaxHealth+. What is it exactly?
-It looks like jerky. Some guys call it pemmican. It’s just beef and fat. With a kick.
-What’s the kick?
-I don’t know but I imagine it’s some high grade meth. Like Breaking Bad super pure medical grade stuff. Not sure. But it makes Firsts really hyped up, gives them increased smack strength, you know? It lasts like 15 or 20 minutes. You can only buy it occasionally, when someone on the inside steals a box or even just a bag. And it’s super outrageously expensive, like five hundo a gram. Or even a thousand. Prices vary.
We let that sink in. That is expensive.
Sarah looks back from Glen Ray to me.
-So that’s Plan A. Make Kingsley change his mind. What’s Plan B?
-Not needed. We’ve got Plan A. Kingsley will come around to his senses.
-Really? No Plan B? Because what if Kingsley doesn’t come around? What if he has a hundred methed up dudes with machine guns and bazookas? What if he put a price on my head and I’m a walking target the minute I step outside?
Sarah’s voice is louder than I’d like but she’s got the right to be pissed. Damnit. She’s right. What if she’s a target. That’s what the assassins called her last night. The target. Fuck fuck fuck. My brain is stuck in the past when I really could walk in anywhere and make someone change their mind. Everything is passing me by so fast, like I no longer belong and just haven’t figured it out yet. And it’s just getting faster.
-Sorry, Sarah. You’re right. I’m sorry. But no one’s getting to you, alright? You have to believe me. They have to go through me first and no one has ever managed to do that. And if he does have an unbeatable army, we’ll figure something else out. I promise.
I take her hand and she doesn’t pull away but doesn’t react either. Glen Ray takes her other hand. I clear my throat and shake my head. He lets go.
From my front pocket, I pull out the roll of bills that Alex gave me last night. Everyone’s eyes go wide.
-Twenty-eight hundred. From one night’s work. Not bad. But it’s a loan until this is over and I can access my business account.
I peel off eight hundred and put it in front of Glen Ray.
-Find a store that sells disposable cell phones. The ones that drug dealers always seem to have on tv and in the movies.
-They’re called burners.
-I know that.
-No you didn’t.
-Yes I did. But it sounds stupid.
-Burners sound cool. Buuuurners. Sssiiiizzz… Buur-
-Three disposable cell phones and program each of the other numbers in each one. Just use one, two, three, instead of names. And pick up three headsets for the phones. The kind with a mic. Something decent, no cheap shit. And with whatever you have left over, buy a tablet so you can get back in First Club. When you get back here, charge up the phone batteries. Don’t forget.
-Eight hundo’s gonna be tight.
-Then eat the rest yourself. But only use cash. How much cash do you have, by the way?
He counts the money in his wallet under the table, puts it all back in his wallet and puts his wallet back in his pocket.
-Forty-two bucks.
-Looks like you might have to negotiate.
Sarah looks at Glen Ray and then back to me and makes a face that I’m sure is saying, remember your promise.
I put two hundred more down on the table.
-Bring back any change.
Glen Ray stands up to leave and I start to ask him something but just then Alex walks around the corner and into the kitchen. Her hair’s a mess and her face says that she’s not a morning person but she’s wearing a Cardinals t-shirt that doesn’t quite reach her pierced belly-button and a lacey pink thong and nothing else. We all three stare with our mouths open. Then Glen Ray just about leaps to the fridge and offers to get her something to drink or make her some pancakes or scrambled eggs but she cuts him off with a smile and a shake of her head. She justs wants her coffee. She pours a mug from the machine on the counter and says she’ll let us get back to whatever we were doing. Then she turns around and walks back around the corner.
Glen Ray stares at the spot Alex’s ass occupied three seconds ago. I snap my fingers at him.
-One last thing. Can a First get addicted to this MaxHealth+ junk?
-Supposedly not. Perk of being a First. But I’ve never tried it or even known anyone who has. It’s so expensive and hard to get delivered. And probably pretty damn dangerous to get caught with if Kingsley really does own it. He doesn’t screw around. But I guess you know that.
I do, I think to myself. And I need to remember it.
19 - Making Friends Ain’t Easy
Glen Ray leaves to buy the electronics and it’s suddenly quiet. I realize I’m still holding Sarah’s hand. I look her in the eyes.
-How about this? Let’s forget talking with Kingsley. He won’t change this mind no matter what anyway. I think I have a better way.
Sarah perks up.
-That sounds good. So we’re not running away from our problems?
-Nope.
-But it’s also not a suicide mission?
-Nope again.
-Alright. I like it. And I can come along?
-Absolutely. I can’t do this without you.
-I love it! What do we need to do?
-We’re going to go right to the source. But we still need to even up the odds in case we run into more out-of-town visitors. I’ll explain on the way. But I have one quick pit stop.
-So do I. I need some new clothes. You probably haven’t noticed but Alex and I are not the same size.
There’s a concierge at the front desk in the lobby. I ask him to call us a taxi and one arrives within ten minutes. Inside the cab, I explain my dilemma to the driver.
-We’re from out of town and staying with a friend and we got held up last night. Over on the east side.
He’s following along but looking suspicious.
-Our friend lent us plenty of cash, so we’re good there, but we need to get a few things. Can you take us to the Goodwill on Locust and wait outside? I’ll pay you in advance, if you want.
The driver’s English isn’t so great, but he’s friendly an
d says no problem. I ask where he’s from and he hesitates a second and answers Sudan. I switch to Arabic.
أين تجد جيد في سانت لويس؟
He lets out a long surprised ooooh and a big deep laugh and replies so quickly that I have no idea what he says. But I tell him again fül is delicious and that I love Sudan and the people. Very friendly! And it’s true that fül is delicious but when Sudan was the Kingdom of Kush a few thousand years ago, the people weren’t so friendly to me then. Not when they tried to flay me.
Sarah looks at me with raised eyebrows and I tell her in a low voice that it’s good to be nice to people. To make them feel good. To help them trust you.
She smiles and shakes her head but I know she understands. I’ve seen her do it.
We head down Broadway, make a few turns west and north and pull up at the Goodwill on Locust. We get lucky and get a spot behind the building and I hand Samir, the driver, forty dollars. I ask him to give us 15 minutes and he says yes, yes. He turns on some loud music heavy on the santur. I like it.
Inside we pass the jewelry counters and head into the women’s clothing. Pants. Slacks. Jeans. Then skirts. Then row after row of tops and blouses.
-We might work up a sweat tonight. Running, maybe a little fighting, I mean. So I’d go with something comfortable if I was you.
She heads to the skirts.
-You really love skirts, don’t you?
-You don’t?
She flashes me a big smile but I just shrug.
-I don’t really have the legs for them.
She finds a few skirts and then we look at blouses. I have no fashion sense and therefore no real opinion. But I tell her that they all look great.
We head to the dressing rooms and she comes out in a short pleated skirt with a dark top with a big bright flower pattern. The top is ass-ugly but it’s low cut and I quickly give it a thumbs up for that reason. She looks at herself in the mirror, frowns, and goes back into the dressing room. Out again, same skirt, different top. Sleeveless with frilly lace running down the front. Something Stevie Nicks would wear. Or Prince. Before I can yea or nay it, she frowns and goes back inside. Different skirt, longer, tighter, with a plaid top. Frown. In and out she goes, all the clothes and then in different combinations. I don’t know the time but I’m sure we’re way past 15 minutes and I start to worry that Samir will leave.
-We should get going. They all look good. You just have a way of making everything look good.
-Oh, thanks, John. But I don’t believe you. Why don’t you go find a new shirt since that one is seriously filthy and I’ll be out in five minutes. Okay?
She waves me off and frowns in the mirror and goes back inside the dressing room.
In the men’s section, I find a black t-shirt with a picture of Willie Nelson for three bucks. Outlaw Willie Nelson with the bandana and braids and joint in this mouth. The t-shirt says, Don’t blame me, I voted for Willie.
I turn around and Sarah’s walking up behind me. She has on a just-above-the-knee red dress with spaghetti straps. She looks absolutely beautiful.
-Not a skirt?
-It’s a smocked mini dress. Comfortable, stylish, and can handle running and neck snapping and kicking.
And then without even bending to the side, she lifts her right leg straight up in front her, less than a foot away from my chest, and then lifts it straight up and points her toes at the ceiling.
-Gymnastics?
-Well, Johnny, I didn’t learn that in football.
At the cash register, Sarah turns around and leans over the counter for the clerk to scan the barcode tag attached to the dress. The clerk says this isn’t how we are supposed to do this. Sarah says she knows and rips off the tag. I hand over my t-shirt and the clerk asks if I need a bag. I just take off my Cards shirt and put on the Willie and say no, I’m good.
We throw our dirty clothes in the can outside the store and walk around back and find Samir reading with the santur loud enough to hear from twenty feet away. We jump in and I tell him, one more short trip like this one.
-Yes, yes.
I give Samir the name of the shitty hotel in U City and the cross street. He says he knows it. We’re there in another ten minutes and he pulls up in the last spot on the street in front of the hotel. I tell Samir we’ll be just a minute.
Outside the cab, we walk across the street and to the spot we landed when we jumped from the balcony. It looks a lot farther up to the top floor in the daylight. I ask Sarah to help me retrace our steps from last night. We jog in slow-mo to the right toward the corner of the hotel and I look back over my shoulder at the parking spot where the Explorer was parked. Running running running, here. I stop.
-This is where we were when the woman shot at us. But she wasn’t shooting bullets.
I turn around and we’re past the hotel but still on the grass that covers the front and sides of the property. Immediately past the hotel is more grass and then the side street, then another sidewalk and then a few large oaks in the front yards of some large homes that have been divided into fourplexes. I point toward the trees and we cross the street and examine the tree trunks. Sarah finds it. A dart. From a tranquilizer gun. The shaft is plastic and transparent, less than half an inch in diameter and about three inches long. Basically a syringe with a fuzzy black stabilizer on the end. I pull it out of the bark and the needle is another inch and a half. Whatever was in the syringe was injected into the tree. We look around the lawn for more, hoping to find one with the drug still contained but no luck. It looks like Samir is watching us in his side view mirror and I wave and we head back. Sarah starts to get in the cab and I tell her just a second and jog up to where the Explorer was parked last night. Right where I thought it might be is a good-sized stain. Blood. Looks like my aim was tried and true. Damn if I ain’t still got it.
In the cab I ask Samir for his cell number, telling him I might need another ride soon. He happily gives it to me. Then I tell him one last stop.
-Yes, yes. Where?
-Goldie’s Pawn and Jewelry.
-Yes, yes. I know.
Goldie’s is not a St Louis institution. It seems to change hands and names every five or ten years. But the building has been a pawn shop since the late fifties. I’ve bought and traded a few lawnmowers, a chain saw, at least two tvs, a lot of power tools, mudflaps for my truck, all four sawhorses in my basement and I guess a lot of other stuff. The sledgehammer in Sarah’s closet. And my classic Nokia cell phone that I threw away last night. And some jewelry for a few different ladies over the years. Pretty much everything I own has come from either Goodwill or a pawn shop. Mostly this pawn shop, which is currently called Goldie’s. But the one thing I’ve never bought is a gun.
-Can I help you?
The clerk behind the gun case is the biker type. Tattoos, long beard, beer gut. Probably an asshole to everyone but family and friends. And then he’s probably the best they’ve ever had.
I say yeah and nod to Sarah.
-My friend needs some protection but neither one of us has ID.
-I can’t sell to you without ID. Missouri state law.
-Same in Illinois?
-Yup. Closest you can buy a firearm in a retail establishment without ID is probably Nicaragua. Maybe El Salvador.
He doesn’t laugh. I guess he has this conversation a dozen times a day.
-No ID needed for private sales, though, right?
-Not in Missouri. You can buy a gun from your friend with zero paper trail.
-Want to be my friend?
-Nope.
-Oh. I kind of thought you’d answer differently.
He doesn’t say anything and neither do I for twenty long seconds.
He breaks with a low sigh and pulls out his wallet.
-I know a guy. Maybe he’ll be your friend.
He hands me a card and says it’s his only one. He needs it back. I grab a ballpoint pen from the gun counter and write the number on my forearm. Then I hand the card back
with a folded up Hamilton behind it.
-Can I use your phone?
-Nope.
Fuck if ten bucks doesn’t go very far these days.
Sarah and I step outside and look up and down the street. This is mostly a residential area with small family-owned businesses scattered around, usually run from a former home. Hairdressers, boutiques. I see two law offices. An accountant. And a tarot card reader. We start walking south.
-You have an ID. Why didn’t you buy a gun back there?
-I didn’t want to buy anything he was selling. I only wanted the name and number. But, even if I did, we always have to be careful about creating a paper trail. We’ll get you set up with an LLC that’s not tied to your name. You’ll want to buy all of you property, cars, etc, in your LLC. Pay all of your bills through your LLC. An LLC can exist forever and doesn’t raise questions. Make sense?
-Yeah. It does. I had a tax law class last semester.
-Good. Maurice has a great guy that I’ve used a few times. And we both use the same guy for our driver’s licenses. You’ll want to take care of that in ten years or so. Sooner if you want to change your name now. Regardless, you’ll need to update it every five years or so. Ten years from now, when you haven’t aged a day, no one is going to believe you’re thirty. Oh, and whatever you do, don’t get fingerprinted. So never ever get arrested.
-That might be a problem.
-Getting arrested?
-Well, you never know. But I meant getting fingerprinted. Some states require fingerprints to sit for the bar exam.
-You’re going to have to think long and hard about that, Sarah. Once your fingerprints are in the system, you have to have serious pull at the FBI to get them deleted. I don’t have that kind of pull. Kingsley probably does, though you never want to owe him a favor. Anyway, imagine getting fingerprinted and ID’d today and then again in fifty years. You’d raise all kinds of huge dangerous red flags that you don’t even know exist.
We cut over one block and see a gas station another two blocks away. The world is changing fast but gas stations will always have public phones.
