by Jon Grilz
“So, when you told me to go back to work and get on with my life, you were convincing yourself, weren’t you? Giving yourself permission to be a cop instead of waiting next to a bed? She probably told you the same, to go home and do your job.”
Perez wrinkled up his nose just short of a sneer; he was disgusted at how easily Charlie had read him. He ejected the magazine from his gun and popped the two bullets out from the clip, the ones Charlie had claimed were duds. When he reached for the other two bullets, Charlie made no move to stop him from loading them back into the clip.
“If you don’t mind, now that you have a full clip, I’d like to use your bathroom before your finger wanders over to the trigger. Maybe give you a moment to think about what it would mean to try and take a guy like me into custody.”
Perez tilted his head to point down the hall toward the bathroom.
“You’re one of the good guys,” Charlie said from the entryway as he walked past Perez.
“What makes you say that? You don’t even know me.”
“Because I know bad guys, and if you were one of them, you wouldn’t have woken up wondering if you heard glasses clinking. You would have wondered if that was gas you smelled.”
It was almost a full minute before Perez realized he didn’t hear any sound from the bathroom. As he looked around his house, he noticed that all the windows were shut and the doors were locked, but Charlie was gone. Perez couldn’t sleep for the rest of the night. It wasn’t so much the gas comment as his own doubts. Maybe he should have shot Charlie when he had the chance. Then again, maybe he really was one of the good guys. Why in the hell did Charlie Kelly have to show up in his town?
Chapter 17
It would have been a waste of time to knock. Charlie had to admit that it had been fun, making a grand show out of all of it, going over the top as if he were putting on a performance. It wasn’t at all difficult to create drama and confusion in such a remote place, at least when he thought he could get away with it. Standing outside of the old Drumlins’ Pharmacy building, holding a couple of wires he’d twisted into perfect lock picks, he realized he needed to do things a bit more subtly going forward, so that he didn’t go down in a hail of small-town gunfire, especially since both sides of the law had an eye out for him.
It was an idea all the more supported when he saw the seam and bolt pattern in the door and recognized it as a heavy metal arm used to blockade from the inside. There was no way to pick it, so he needed to find another way in. Charlie took a lap around the block as he thought to himself. If this Baker guy was such a good meth cook, he would need to have a decent ventilation system. Charlie didn’t so much like the idea of taking the tunnel rat route, but he was thin on time and options. Charlie just hoped The Baker wasn’t in the middle of making a batch of meth. He’d never used it and had no interest in it, nor was he eager to inhale the phosphorus hydride gas or any of the other toxins that could be present around an active meth lab.
Charlie took his time on the roof, looking at the huge old air vent that could have easily accommodated three human beings. It was the old kind of vent, the stuff of Hollywood films, since it was perfectly roomy enough for the good guy to crawl around in. Charlie felt no heat and smelled no fumes coming out of it as he estimated, with his best guess, how far he might have to combat crawl before getting inside the building.
All in all, Charlie’s estimation was pretty close; he simply hadn’t accounted for the fact that the vent might not be bolted on both sides. As such, it swung open under Charlie’s weight, sending him tumbling at least ten feet to the ground. He rolled the best he could, like he’d been taught to break a fall, but it didn’t feel good. There must have been a bit of shock and awe for the occupants of the deserted pharmacy, because as Charlie stood up, he saw a thirty-something white guy staring back at him, with his glasses at the tip of his nose, and his long, brown, scraggly, unwashed hair scattered in every direction.
Charlie looked around the room at all the paraphernalia, which reminded him vaguely of his high school chemistry class. “I take it you’re The Baker?” he asked as he grabbed his porkpie from the ground next to him and stood up. He had meant to sound menacing, but everything he said always tended to come out nonchalant.
The Baker didn’t move. He set his eyes on Charlie and didn’t show as much concern as Charlie expected. “Who are you?” The Baker asked flatly, as if he was not impressed at all.
Charlie could barely restrain a laugh. “I suppose that’d make me the candlestick maker.” His eyes stopped and locked on The Baker’s. “Or maybe I’m the butcher.” Charlie held back a smile as his voice found just the right tone of ominous to force a clenched look onto the man’s face. “Either way, you can call me Charlie.” Charlie then walked toward one of the work benches and sat down.
The Baker didn’t move at all and never took his eyes off his impromptu guest.
“You know,” Charlie said, “you and I are very different people, and I don’t just mean from a morality standpoint, because I know there are plenty of people out there who object to the kind of work I do. I’m talking about on a simpler level.” Charlie took off his hat and set it on the table. “Your job is to make meth, and a by-product of that is that things don’t blow up. I, on the other hand, make shit go boom on purpose.”
Finally, The Baker began to show some emotion, and worried creases formed in his brow. Nevertheless, he didn’t say a word.
“Maybe you ought to take a seat and breathe,” advised Charlie. “It’ll all be okay. See, I normally don’t talk so much, but ever since I got to town, I’ve been talking a country mile. I suppose it’s all pent up after years of not being able to say much. I miss talking, ya know? Just casual bullshit, like the Cardinals lineup, movies, or even trade craft. I bet you and I know a lot of the same things.”
“Like what?” The Baker asked, his voice somewhat high pitched, like a kid in middle school; Charlie assumed it might just be from nerves, because the guy was clearly a few years beyond a pubescent voice change.
Charlie poked around the scattered containers of solution and powders, all meticulously labeled and arranged. Charlie had to hand it to him; the guy knew what he was doing. “Like what happens when you heat this chemical and that one or combine acids and bases—you know, trade craft…stuff like that.”
The Baker cleared his throat and pushed his glasses further up his nose. “Yes, well, the whole point of this is to make sure none of that happens. I make high volumes of high-quality product. My research and knowledge cuts down on the need for so many of those grimy little trailers out in the parks, with guys holding shaker bottles or people cutting with dangerous chemicals. This isn’t the old cat litter, fertilizer, and Heet treatment. This is the real thing.”
Charlie smiled. “So you’re saying you make better, safer meth, huh? The new and improved version?”
“That’s right,” The Baker said, with no irony in his voice.
Charlie stood up and walked around the table to give The Baker a slap on the back. “A true humanitarian.”
The Baker scoffed with contempt, making it clear that he’d finally found some balls. “I can do without your sarcasm. You’ve obviously got no idea what you’re talking about. Meth has been around for over a hundred years. They used to give it to fighter pilots in the thirties to keep them alert and awake and, thus, alive. It was even sold over the counter as a cure for obesity. The government cracked down on it, like they do everything they realize they can’t control with absolution, anything they can’t make money off of, so it all went underground. The labs that popped up then were nothing more than time bombs, just waiting for some junkie to mix the chemicals wrong. Guys like me know how to make meth a better way, and we’re doing what the government doesn’t have the balls to do. Save your judgment, Mr. Butcher or Candlestick or whoever the hell you are. I know you killed Clarence and Dick. What do you think that makes you? Some kind of good guy? A vigilante? Some fucking superhero for the greater good of m
ankind? I hardly think so.”
Charlie tapped his fingers along the metal tables as he perused the area, wondering if and where the Baker kept a gun. “Good guy? No, not really. Sure, I do some of the same things good guys do, the things big fish in boardrooms and meeting halls seem to think necessary, but I’m not a good guy. Good things rarely come from the actions of good men. History, as you seem so fond of quoting, is written with dirty hands.” Even Charlie thought for a moment that he heard a twinge of regret in his voice. “I’m damn sure not a superhero either, but for what it’s worth, I’m absolutely certain the bad things I do pale in comparison to the big picture.”
The Baker shook his head. “There is no big picture. People like you don’t seem to understand that. It’s all just a bunch of small pictures put together by men who want more. Damon wants more, and he’s going to get it. He’s doing it right now, and the police can’t do anything about it. He’s dangerous in ways you can’t threaten me with, and he pays better than any job I’d land with a chemistry degree. You’re wasting your time here. Go home, wherever that is, and forget about your little crusade against meth.”
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Meth? Heh. It seems you’re the one who doesn’t understand, buddy. This isn’t about meth. I don’t care what people decide to do to themselves. My problem is that other people, innocent people who want nothing to do with your poison, get caught in the crossfire. Too many unsuspecting people, naïve people who don’t know better get caught up in the bullshit rhetoric peddled by men like Damon, kids born addicted to meth, parents more interested in getting high than feeding their kids. Shit, it’s just like Africa—kids caught in the wake of someone else’s self-righteous insanity and suffering for it.” Charlie set the picture of his sister on the table in front of The Baker. “Victims deserve voices.”
The Baker picked up Kay’s picture and adjusted his glasses, then did something Charlie hadn’t expected: he started to chuckle a clipped little wheeze of a laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Charlie asked.
“This girl?” The Baker said, pointing at the photograph. “Are you suggesting this girl is one of your naïve, unsuspecting victims?”
“Yes. Caught in the crossfire.”
“Heh. Again, you’re mistaken. Who do you think convinced Damon that North Dakota would be a good place to move his operation?” Kevin Hartman had never liked to be called The Baker, because to him, it sounded too ordinary for his contribution to the operation. Considering he had a double-major in chemistry and biochemistry and had been able to come up with a formula that created a double-yield of product with diamond purity, he expected to be called “Mr. Wizard” or something along those lines, something more appropriate. Then again, the fact that Damon paid as much as he did and never used his real name made him feel a little better. He felt a great deal of safety and anonymity in making meth under Damon’s enforcement—that was until a man literally fell from the sky making accusations and trying to play the sympathy card about some tweeking little whore.
“What do you mean?” Charlie asked, looking as if he’d just learned that Santa wasn’t real.
Kevin knew he needed to buy some time, in the hopes that the two meth-heads in the back room would actually notice that something was going on in the lab and burst in with their guns raised. He panicked at the thought that they were bad shots; a wayward bullet in a room full of flammable gas tanks would not be a viable solution for any of them. “Exactly what I said,” Kevin said.
“You’re telling me the girl in this picture was actually involved in this operation?”
It was all so juvenile. While Kevin had no idea how the man had found out where their lab was, he was clearly over his head and on some kind of a vendetta trip. He was so filled with emotions that his own judgment had been sacrificed. It was pathetic. “That’s what I’m telling you,” Kevin said.
“What if I told you I don’t believe you?”
“It doesn’t make any difference whether you believe me or not,” Kevin said. “All that matters is the shit-storm you’ve brought on yourself by storming in here and making threats. You have no idea what’s going on or what kind of people you’re dealing with.”
Charlie paced back and forth, and Kevin began to curse the idea of having two additional bodies in the lab if they weren’t going to provide better security, quality assurance testers or not. It had never been an issue in the past, but now he realized just how ridiculous it was.
“Fine. Let’s say you’re right—”
“I am,” Kevin interrupted.
Charlie sneered at him. “What’s stopping me from just killing you and destroying this whole little operation? Got a wiseass answer for that?”
Kevin shook his head, more out of contempt than resignation. “You really think that’ll make any difference? You think you can use me like some kind of pawn? Scare me into telling you details of the operation? You watch too much TV. Damon doesn’t care about me. The batch is done, and the sale will be made soon enough. He wouldn’t even care if you killed me. Besides, as I’ve mentioned, the worst thing you could think of to threaten me with would pale in comparison to what Damon and his group of thugs can and will do to me and my family if I turn on him. You’ve got nothing on me,” Kevin said, wondering how convincing his tone was. He was terrified of Damon, but he had no idea what Charlie was capable of. Rumor was that Dick and Clarence had been tortured before they were killed, and he didn’t want to endure that, no matter whose hand it came from.
Charlie continued to pace around the room like an animal. Then, all at once, he stopped. His face lost any trace of emotion, for better or worse. His eyes looked hollow as he stared at Kevin. It wasn’t the kind of menacing, intimidating stare Damon’s thugs tried to muster, squinting to appear tough. Rather, the look Kevin saw on the man’s face was like a great white’s before a kill, devoid of everything but impulse. He knew he had to keep himself from revealing how worried he suddenly felt. Where the hell were those guys and their guns?
“You’re a smart guy,” Charlie said. “You know how to make meth, and you must do a good job, all alone and high volume and all that. You’re probably used to being the smartest guy in the room. I bet you’re really polite with Damon, but as soon as he leaves the room, you’ve ramble off all sorts of snide little comments that you’d say to his face if you had the balls to say it. Hell, I’m guessing you’re the kind of guy who corrects other people’s grammar.”
Kevin felt the urge to move toward the back door.
“I bet you had to talk and reason your way out of more than one ass-kicking on the school playground or in the locker room when you were a kid, huh?” Charlie asked. “You got good at talking down to people to cover up how lonely and miserable you really are. Then you became an adult, something switched in your head, and you realized there’s more profit to be made in playing with the bad guys, mingling with the class bullies. Maybe it’s your own personal ‘Fuck you’ to those guys who used to beat you up as a kid, showing them how tough you are now.”
“You don’t know me,” Kevin said.
“Keep telling yourself that,” Charlie said. “See, the problem here is that you’re trying to talk your way out of this right now too. You’re trying to make me mad, frustrate me by talking in circles, get me to do something stupid. Maybe you’re wasting time on purpose, hoping someone will show up and rescue you. In spite of what you say, you’re still valuable to Damon.”
Kevin laughed. “Why would you think that?”
“Because the drugs are still here, aren’t they? And if I have you and the drugs, I think that makes me a monopoly.”
Kevin didn’t know what to say, but while his mouth had stopped moving, the rest of his body naturally started to retreat toward the back door.
“Stop,” Charlie said, and Kevin complied. “We got a little sidetracked, sure, but now we’re on a new course in our conversation. That’s okay, right? It’s good to be put in situations where you are forced to adapt. It show
s what kind of a person you are, what you’re really made of.” Charlie walked toward Kevin slowly, portentously. He seemed seven feet tall, almost looming by the time he got within arm’s length of Kevin. “I’ll tell you what, Baker. If you tell me where your five-star meth is, you won’t have to adapt to life without thumbs…or eyes.”
Kevin swallowed and stood up straight. He refused to let this stranger, a man who knew nothing about him, have any leverage with which to bully him. “Save it,” Kevin snapped, albeit rather weakly. “I’m not scared of you.”
Charlie moved fast in popping Kevin’s right thumb out of place and putting a hand over his mouth to keep Kevin from crying out in pain. “Shh,” he said. “It’s just dislocated. Stop overreacting.”
Kevin felt a tear roll down the side of his nose, and he sniffed as he tried to compose himself.
“Now,” Charlie said, “what else needs to happen before you’ll cooperate?”
The answer came from the open door behind Kevin. “Move away from The Baker.” It was that mean-looking tweeker, John, armed with a .44 in his hand and bulldog-of-a-scowl on his face. It was the first time Kevin had ever been happy to see the man.
Charlie didn’t move.
“I said move away from him, or you’re dead, buddy,” John said.
“First, I’m not your buddy, pal. Second, I think the meth has gotten to you. Why would I move away from him when he’s the only reason you aren’t shooting me?” Charlie said. “I don’t like the idea of being shot any more than I like the idea of you missing and blowing us all up, or at the very least shooting a gun and alerting the police before I get what I came here for.”
Kevin could just barely see John out of the corner of his eye by turning his head and looking over his shoulder, and from what he could see, the man didn’t look too happy. He could also see Greg moving around in the room behind John. Greg was definitely the prototypical meth user, complete with the twitch and the constant itching, thin as a rail, with a skeleton head. In his hand was a .357 Magnum that might as well have been a cannon. Kevin prayed John would be able to do something before Greg got so freaked out or riled up enough to come in and kill them all with a stray bullet.
