Memoirs Aren't Fairytales: A Story of Addiction

by Mann, Marni

  I said just being with him during the long drive would make me feel better. I even offered to wait in a restaurant while he picked up the shipment and dropped it off. The begging helped my case. But the blowjob gave me the answer I was looking for. While I sucked, he put the van in drive and turned back onto the road. He even told me I could go with him to the supplier's place, but for the delivery I'd have to wait at a restaurant.

  We pulled onto a back street that ran parallel to a shipyard. There was a strong smell of fish in the air, and seagulls were flying overhead.

  I asked where we were, and he said Conley Terminal in Southie. He explained that boats, stacked full of containers, came into the harbor to import goods for Boston and the surrounding areas.

  “The drugs are hidden in the containers?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “And a container is going to fit in this van?”

  The yard was still a few football fields away. Even so, the containers looked bigger than the van. There were guards and dogs walking through the yard and what looked to be a security check-in gate up ahead. I didn't know how we were going to get past the guard on our way out with a van full of dope.

  “No baby, we buy the drugs from an importer who's already cleared customs,” he said.

  I didn't understand, but he told me it would all make sense in a couple of minutes.

  Buildings ran along the side of the shipyard, and a few blocks before the security gate, he pulled down a long driveway.

  The lot behind the building was empty. Dustin drove up to the garage door and honked three times. The garage door opened. He drove in and parked, and the door shut behind us.

  “Stay here and don't come out until I tell you to,” he said and he got out of the van.

  The building was a massive warehouse, and on all three sides were wooden shelves that ran from the floor to the ceiling. On the shelves were couches and oversized chairs wrapped in layers of thick plastic.

  Dustin stood by the front of the van, waiting for the man walking towards him. His orangey red hair was cut in a fade. They shook hands. Dustin handed him the envelope tucked in the waist of his jeans. The man opened it, and his mouth moved like he was counting whatever was inside. When the guy put the envelope in his jacket pocket, Dustin pointed at me. The man's eyes moved over the hood and through the windshield, meeting my stare. He then looked back at Dustin and shrugged his shoulders.

  Dustin waved, signaling for me to come out.

  “Séamus, this is Nicole, my girlfriend,” Dustin said.

  Séamus stuck out his freckled hand for me to shake. “Nicole,”

  he said and dipped his head.

  His accent sounded like he was from Ireland. Southie was full of Irish mobsters. I knew Dustin dealt with some rough men, but the mob? Damn. He was in deeper than I thought.

  Another guy drove a forklift with a wooden pallet with two couches wrapped in plastic over to where we were standing.

  “Honk when you're done,” Séamus said, and both men went into the office by the back wall.

  Dustin went to the front seat and came back with a knife, cutting the plastic off the furniture. When both couches were uncovered, he sliced each of the cushions, the armrests, and the back panels. Fluff stuck out from each gash.

  “Start pulling,” he said.

  He was standing in front of the first couch, yanking out the fluff.

  “What am I looking for?” I asked.

  Once all the outer fluff was out, he held up a brick of heroin wrapped in more plastic and stamped with a skull and crossbones.

  “How many are there?”

  “A lot,” he said.

  We worked our way through all the cushions and the back panels of the couches, and piled all the bricks on the ground. By the time we were done, there had to be over a hundred of them, and we packed them into the paint cans. When those were full, we stuffed the buckets too. We covered the buckets with tarps, and on top we scattered paint trays, brushes, and edging tape.

  I waited in the passenger seat while Dustin looked everything over to make sure it was all secure, and then he joined me in the front seat. He honked and we backed out through the open door.

  New York City was a four-hour drive and that was a long time to go without using. My stomach was already queasy. I couldn't wait. I took out a rig, spoon, and bundle from my pocket.

  “Put that shit away,” he said. “You've got to wait until we're in New York.”

  “But I'm starting to feel sick.”

  He looked in the side mirrors and the rearview. “Then hurry up, I try to only break one law at a time.”

  “I love you so much,” I said, next I could ask him to stop at a gas station to pee. Dustin only did runs with guys on board and they probably peed in a soda bottle. I should have worn a diaper.

  He kept his eyes on the road, but he squeezed my leg. “I love you too, baby,” he said. “And you did good back there, but promise me you'll never sneak into the van again?”

  “Yeah—”

  “No, I mean it, Séamus is cool cause he's family, but the other guys I deal with don't fuck around,” he said. “I can't just bring someone new with me to the delivery. There's a code, and I've got to follow it.”

  I never thought about the risks involved when Dustin ran these drugs. It seemed so simple, pick-up, drive, and drop off. But the mobsters were probably strapped, and if they sensed something wasn't right they wouldn't hesitate to shoot.

  “You and Séamus are related?” I asked.

  The road was bumpy, and I really had to pee, so I was having a hard time keeping the spoon steady.

  “Séamus and Richard are brothers,” he said.

  Brothers? Shit, what if Séamus called Richard and told him I'd been at the pick-up? Richard would know I was up to something and he'd figure out my plan—get Dustin out of Boston before he found out we'd had sex—and order one of his squatters to kill us. Someone could even be following us now.

  “Does Richard have another van?” I asked.

  There was a mini-van behind us and a black car behind them.

  “No, just a car,” he said.

  “What color?”

  “Black, I think.”

  Even if I was being paranoid, there could still be someone waiting for us in New York. I couldn't let Dustin deliver these drugs.

  “How much can we get for this load on the street?” I asked.

  He took his eyes off the road to look at me. “Why?”

  The smack was bubbling in the spoon and I dipped the rig into the mixture, filling the chamber.

  “I don't want to go back to Boston,” I said. “Let's go somewhere, anywhere, maybe California and sell these drugs on the street. Just think how rich we'll be.”

  “You're crazy.” He looked in his rearview mirror and turned on his blinker to merge when the street went from three lanes to two. “Is that why you wanted to come to New York?”

  I flicked the chamber with my finger to get out the air bubbles. “We could do it, you know, and we'd make a good team,” I said. “We could hustle together out on the streets in California.”

  “Do you know what would happen if I didn't drop off these drugs and return the money to Richard?”

  “How would he find us in California?”

  “Richard and Séamus and his guys wouldn't be the only ones looking for us. The Guidos who are supposed to get this shipment would be looking too,” he said. “Nicole, they'd hunt us down and kill both of us.”

  “Not over one little shipment.”

  He laughed, but nervously.

  “Then we'll go to Mexico,” I said.

  “We can't run for the rest of our lives.”

  I stuck the needle into the back of my hand and waited for the flash. “As long as I'm with you, running wouldn't be so bad.”

  His knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel, and his leg was bouncing. He wasn't convinced. But there was one thing I could say that might change his mind.


  “I think I'm pregnant,” I said and emptied the dope into my vein.

  I hated lying, but it was the only way. And once we got settled somewhere, I'd figure out how to tell him I'd gotten my period.

  He looked at me again and I smiled. “I'm a couple days late, and I'm never late.”

  But maybe I wasn't lying. I hadn't kept track of the twenty-eight day thing since the abortion, so there was a chance I could be pregnant. And since we'd been together, he'd never worn a condom and pulled out when he was ready to come. But pulling out wasn't the best birth control.

  His eyes went wide, and his mouth opened.

  The car in front of us pulled over and double-parked. “Watch out,” I yelled.

  He braked hard and swerved to the left so he wouldn't hit the car. He had the van under control, and his eyes were on the road, but his lips were moving and no words were coming out. He was talking to himself. Why wasn't he talking to me, saying how happy he was that he was going to be a dad?

  “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have told you,” I said.

  “No baby, I'm glad you did,” he said and put his hand on my stomach. “I just wanted to wait until I had enough money saved, that's all.”

  “Mexico sounds a whole lot better now, doesn't it?” I asked.

  “Hell yeah, it does.”

  “So what do you think? Should we go?”

  He was about to answer when I heard the siren. I looked in the side mirror and saw flashing blue lights.

  “Fuck,” he shouted and put on his blinker, pulling over to the side of the road.

  “Were you speeding?”

  “I think the cop saw me swerve back there.”

  The cop got out of his car and waited for the traffic to slow down so he could come over to the van.

  “Get rid of all this crap,” Dustin said, pointing to my lap.

  I stuffed the rig, spoon, and bags into my pocket just before the cop tapped on Dustin's window.

  Dustin rolled his window down, and the cop peered inside the van.

  “Saw you swerve back there,” the cop said. “You almost hit that Neon.”

  “Sorry officer, my girl here just told me she's pregnant. Shocked the hell out of me and I just took my eyes off the road for a second.”

  The cop was a big man, taller than the van with fingers the size of sausages.

  “License and registration,” the cop said.

  I felt his eyes on us, watching Dustin's hand as he pulled out his wallet. And on mine when I took the registration out of the glove box.

  “Are you insulin dependent?” the cop asked me.

  “No, sir,” I said.

  I handed the registration to the cop, and that's when I saw the blood drips from the needle hole running down the back of my hand.

  “I picked a scab,” I said.

  The heroin was causing my whole body to tingle.

  “Then why is there a needle sticking out of your pocket?” the cop asked.

  I looked down.

  He was right. Not only was the orange cap sticking out, but half the chamber was too.

  I was a little high and my brain wasn't working right.

  “It's for bees,” Dustin said. “She's allergic and she's always gotta carry around that medicine in case she gets stung.”

  The cop told us to wait in the van and he'd be back in a few minutes.

  Once he was away from the window, Dustin punched the steering wheel.

  “Don't worry,” I said. “I think he bought the whole bee thing.”

  “Screw the bee thing, there's a warrant out for my arrest.”

  Richard would bail him out if he got arrested. But that would screw up my plan to go to Mexico, and then Dustin would definitely find out about Richard and me. If he got in trouble I didn't know what I'd do, where I'd live, and how I'd get dope.

  “Do you know what that means?” he asked. “It gives them the right to search the van.”

  I turned around, glancing at all the brushes and trays and paint cans. It looked legit. Why would the cops even bother to search through it all?

  Dustin sent a text message and then rested his head on the steering wheel. “We're fucked.”

  We? I'd get in trouble too? But Dustin had the warrant, not me. Why wouldn't they let me go after he was arrested?

  “Don't say anything to the cops, not now or when you're in jail,” he said.

  Jail?

  “Why would I get arrested too?” I asked.

  “Nicole, I was arrested on a drug charge and never showed up to court,” he said. “They're gonna search the van and when they find the drugs, you've got to keep your mouth shut. Richard will bail us out, just keep fucking quiet. Got it?”

  Richard would bail me out too? But what if he didn't? I'd have to call Michael or my parents. I could just imagine their faces when I called them collect from jail. I'd left rehab and hadn't talked to them since the morning they'd dropped me off. They probably wouldn't bail me out either.

  My armpits were soaked with sweat.

  A second cruiser pulled up, and the cops talked behind the van. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but they were pointing to Dustin's side of the van and one of them was calling someone on their cell phone.

  Sausage fingers came up to Dustin's window, and the other cop tapped on mine. I rolled down the window and the cop said, “Ma'am, please step out of the vehicle.”

  Once Dustin and I got out of the van, we were both handcuffed.

  Dustin was told he was being arrested for his warrant, and the cop read him his rights as he shoved him in the back of the cruiser.

  My cop backed me up against the hood of the other cruiser and stood in front of me. Sausage fingers joined him, and both cops towered over me.

  “Are we going to find a warrant on you too?” one of them asked me.

  “No, sir,” I said, keeping my eyes on their feet. “I have a clean record.”

  “What about the van, is that clean too?”

  Dustin had told me to keep my mouth shut, but what if I could get us out of this mess? Maybe if I said the right things, they wouldn't check the van and they'd let me go.

  “It's my boyfriend's work van.”

  “He's a painter?”

  I nodded. “We were just driving to a job.”

  “I called the number,” one of the cops said, pointing to the lettering on the side of the van. “And the line has been disconnected. Why's that?”

  “Money is tight, I must have forgotten to pay the bill,” I said.

  One cop stayed with me, and the other opened the back doors of the van. He picked up the brushes and paint trays and lifted the tarps. He tapped his wand on the tops and sides of the paint cans.

  Slowly, he pulled the lid off one of the five-gallon buckets.

  Dustin was right. We were fucked. I wanted to run, but I couldn't. I was cuffed, and the cop was standing next to me.

  “Foster,” the cop in the van said. “We got something big here.” He was holding one of the bricks up in the air.

  Foster grabbed the back of my arms and read me my rights before pushing me in the backseat of his cruiser.

  Dustin was in the car in front of mine. He turned around, and I saw parts of his face through the plastic shield. I knew this was going to be the last time I'd ever see Dustin.

  All the pee I'd been holding in was now running down my legs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Once I was booked at the police station, an officer brought me into a small room and pushed me down in a chair next to a double-sided mirror. He slammed the door behind him, leaving me alone. From the other side of the mirror, I felt different sets of eyes scanning my face and body. I couldn't hear their voices, but I knew they were talking about how they could get me to rat out Dustin.

  The chair was metal and uncomfortable, and I could only sit on half of it with my hands cuffed behind me. I circled my thumbs, and to get my mind off the trouble I was in, I counted each time my nails touched. Sweat was still dripping down
my back even though the room was freezing and the pee on my pants hadn't dried yet.

  After what seemed like hours, two men came in and sat down. They were both dressed in dark suits and striped ties. The guy behind the desk introduced himself as Detective Shay, and the other guy's name I didn't catch.

  I thought of all the people who had been in this room before me. Mobsters and murderers, serial rapists. And here I was, put in the same room like I'd done the same horrible shit.

  Shay commented on my pee-stained jeans and swollen eyes. I'd sobbed the whole way to the police station, but my eyes were dry now. If he thought I was scared, he was right, but that didn't mean I was going to answer any of their questions. Dustin had told me to keep my mouth shut, so I did. I listened to him ask about my involvement with the heroin trafficking, where we picked up the drugs, and where we were taking them. He threatened a fifteen to twenty-year jail sentence. Still, I didn't say anything. I stared at his coffee cup and the folder with my name and booking ID number on the corner. The overhead light showed little gray hairs in Shay's black goatee, and there was a hole in the other guy's ear where an earring used to be.

  I didn't know how all this worked—getting arrested, posting bail, going to court—but I'd seen enough movies to know I could ask for a lawyer. And so I did.

  Shay stopped pacing the small space between the desk and me and looked into my eyes. I told him I wouldn't say a word unless it was to my lawyer, and both men left.

  I was put in a holding cell where I'd stay until my arraignment the next morning. There were three other women I shared the cell with, but only one talked to me. Her name was Venus, and she wore a silver, low-cut fitted dress with black eye makeup that could hardly be seen over her dark skin. She mostly did escort work through the Internet so she could stay off the streets but said she knew Sunshine. She told me she hadn't seen Sunshine around lately and heard she was working at one of those massage parlors that gave happy endings. I had a hard time believing Sunshine would ever work for someone especially since it was almost summer and that meant hooking season was here.

  An officer came by our cell to deliver dinner: a bologna sandwich, chips, and milk. I wasn't hungry. The shot I'd done in the van had long worn off, and I was starting to feel dope sick. A part of me, not looking forward to the withdrawal, wished I'd never tried heroin.