AHMM, April 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Quick's eyes became slits as if trying to figure the scam. “So, yo clean, but the oinkers, they on your case?"

  Johnny nodded. “I need to find who's peddling this shit."

  Quick's mouth became as grim as his eyes. “Then what? You goin’ to rap the dude?"

  Johnny didn't even have to think about it. Give any word to the police about anything and he might as well dig his grave. He made a face saying, you got it wrong and said, “No way."

  "Then what?"

  "Way I figure, I find this dude, he winds up somewhere in the Corridor, carrying the stuff, bacon does the math, calls the dogs."

  Quick tilted his head back. “How much you handle in a normal week?"

  Johnny knew none of the dealers in the Corridor handled much, and he had no illusions of his status. “Good week, maybe two K.” Which netted him about eight hundred. He figured Quick's cut to be about another six.

  Quick said, “Ain't worth pissin’ on. ‘Sides, ain't no Fentanyl out there.” Which meant that Quick, who was the wholesaler for this part of the Corridor, was not supplying the stuff. Also meant, the stuff was not coming through the organization. Code of the street was, get caught peddling bootleg stuff, get stuffed in a fifty-gallon drum. Not that it didn't happen. Just don't get caught.

  Johnny nodded. Message was, no help here. He said, “Yeah, well, thanks."

  Quick said, “Come ‘round again, bring cash. Otherwise ... Now, get outta here."

  Way out, Johnny tried to catch the eye of any of the loungers, figuring one of them might have a clue. All he caught were snickers and leers.

  The sun outside the building made him squint. Maybe it was good that Bad Man Duff wasn't there. Gave him a separate crack at the supplier. He pulled his cell and tried Bad Man's number. Most times all he got was a call-back message. This time, though, Bad Man answered, “Yeah?"

  "We talk?"

  "You need stuff?"

  Though he didn't, Johnny knew no chance Bad Man would take the time unless there was cash in it. “Yeah,” he said. “Tom Boy's in fifteen."

  Tom Boy's was a little supermarket on Second and Alexandrine. About the only place in the Corridor people could mingle without being in the open. Johnny cut across some lots and waited until he saw Bad Man pull up and enter the store. Man was salivating over back ribs in the meat case as Johnny got next to him.

  Without looking up to see who was pushing his flank, Bad Man said, “How much you need?"

  "Small load,” he said, low-fiving a C-spot into Bad Man's palm. “Any chance you got some Fentanyl."

  Bad Man gave him a sideways look. “What you talking? Lollipops?"

  "Uh-uh. Raw."

  Bad Man now squinting, still with the sideways look. “That stuff costs.” What he was saying, Where you getting customers got that kind of cash?

  "Don't need much."

  "Hey man, this ain't Macy's. I buy, I got to buy big. You take a nibble from that bag, where I place the rest? You getting this?"

  "How much I got to take for you to get it?"

  Bad Man looked around to see if anyone was in earshot, like maybe it was a setup. Then he turned and walked, all three hundred of him. Johnny following, catching him in the dog food aisle. “You didn't give me my stuff, man,” asking for the hundred's worth he'd paid for.

  Bad Man on him, fierce. “You setting me up?"

  "What setup? Just trying to know if you can get the shit, that's all. What you saying is you can put your hands on it."

  Bad Man doing the squinty-eyed thing. “Yeah. I can get it. Get anything for a price. But this shit, it's cash up front."

  Johnny saying, “Talked to Quick. He says he don't peddle. Means you're going outside. Stuff you're peddling is contraband. Means, he finds out, your ass."

  Man his size, it surprised Johnny he could move that fast, arm shooting out like a snake's tongue. Johnny felt himself coming off the floor, toes just tapping the tile, Bad Man's fist holding his jacket under his chin. “What you saying?"

  "Saying, I need to know who's peddling this shit."

  "And why you need to know this, which ain't none of your business?” Bad Man eased his arm and Johnny felt his heels touch earth.

  Johnny tried to push Bad Man's hand away, but the grip held. “This white kid dosed on the stuff. Bacon's on my case."

  Bad Man's grip tightened and his arm flexed, lifting Johnny an inch. “I hear you saying you working for the pigs?"

  Johnny's head shook. “No, no. Nothing like that. Looking for this guy myself. Save my ass."

  "By rousting him?"

  Another shake. “By frying his ass, and letting bacon know he's the one. Like by leaving clues. Incriminating evidence. Gets them off me."

  Johnny felt his heels touch and the grip on his jacket loosen. “And you expect me to tell you who's peddlin’ this stuff?"

  "Figuring since I'm your man, least you could do."

  Bad Man let loose of Johnny's jacket.

  "Man's out there. I'm goin’ to find him. You help, I pile on an extra ten percent, next six months.” Johnny eyed him, figuring if anything can move that mountain, it'd be extra cash. “He soul?"

  Bad Man's brows came together and his lips puckered, but almost involuntarily, his head moved, side to side. “Twenty."

  "Hey, man, I gotta live. Fifteen. Anyway, this man's not soul, what's he to you? Just meat, not like a bro.” Now the squint-eyed, tilt-head look again, as if Bad Man's looking for the angle, figuring how he can get burned, figuring how he can get the fifteen without giving up anything. Johnny says, “Don't shit me."

  Bad Man says, “There's this guy, works Wayne State."

  * * * *

  Bracer pulled rap sheets on the twenty-three Cass Corridor pushers he and Cooley had street interviewed. Although the kid could have bought from any of them, Bracer had this sense that allowed him to zero in on the most likely. Not that he was always right, but it gave him a place to start. A large part of the zero was the way the perps reacted in the chat. He wrote off the shakers, those who quaked when he muscled them, as being too scared to lie. He also crossed the mouths, anyone with a history of cooperating with the police. They knew, they'd talk. None had. Most pushers became immune to the shakes after a half dozen or so alley chats, so the ones left were hard cases. Those left, about ten, were lucky enough to have made his bonus round. These he would give a second interview. Before that, though, he needed to talk to some kids who knew the dead girl, people who might have been with her at the buy. Problem was, if he was right, nothing but the buy happened in his jurisdiction, and that was an open question. Girl OD'd outside the city. Even if the locals called for city help, it would be the narc squad or homicide, not some street cruiser, like him.

  "Hey, Cool,” he said to his partner sitting across from him.

  Cooley looked up, questioning.

  "You know anybody in Narc?"

  Cooley shook his head as if thinking, When would it end? He said, “Guy by the name of Dobczak, Fedor Dobczak."

  "How about making a call for me?"

  * * * *

  Word moved fast once the second interviews started. Guy Johnny knew sent him a text, three others voiced. Word was, heat's on for any perp who sold Magic to young white meat. It immediately dried up the market for everything else since no one wanted to risk a spot in the lineup.

  Bad Man hadn't given him a name, but something almost as good, the phone number the guy used for contact. What Johnny knew about computers he could fit in the business end of a syringe. But he had this customer who worked over at Wayne State who did computers, guy went by the name of Casper the Ghost. Dumbshit name.

  Johnny caught Casper coming out of a place called The Bronx, a steel-doored bar done up in fake sandstone. Though the Ghost was with three other dudes, Johnny cut him out of the herd with a juke of his head.

  Trailing five yards behind his buds Casper said, “Hey man, what's up?"

  "Want to earn a little?” Casper snorted coke, mainly bought
C-bags when he had the green. Not a big spender, but steady.

  "What you need?"

  "Got this phone number needs looking up."

  "You talking cell? Cells are hard."

  "Don't know what I'm talking. Just got this number and need the name and street that goes with it."

  "I dunno, man, cells are hard."

  Even though he didn't know much about computers, Johnny figured they could do almost anything with the right guy pushing the buttons. To him it sounded like the ghost was negotiating. “You sayin’ you can't do it?"

  Casper backed off a little, pushing air with his hands. “No, no. Not saying that. Sayin’ it's hard. Maybe worth more than a C-bag."

  Always about the money. “What we talkin'?"

  Casper shuffled, looking up, looking down, looking sideways, looking everywhere but in Johnny's eyes. “Say five bags."

  Johnny snorted, knowing he had a deal. “Three."

  "No guarantees. You give me a number from one of them K-Mart throw-aways, no way I can get that."

  "Three when you gimme a name and address, else nothing."

  "Aw, man, cells are hard. I gotta get something outta this."

  Johnny had worked the street for too long to pay for air. He handed the number Bad Man had given him to Casper. “Name and address, else nothin'."

  Casper took the slip of paper, looked at it, said, “I jus’ know this gonna be a throwaway."

  * * * *

  Bracer caught up with Missy Conlan at a Mickey D's on Southfield in Beverly Hills, a bedroom community south of Birmingham.

  Like the Brandon girl, she was blonde, fit, and sixteen going on thirty. Dobczak had given Cooley phones and photo IDs on four of the vic's closest. Two had panned, denying any knowledge of inner city trips or drug buys. Driven snow. He's expected no more from this one, but no way to tell unless he asked the questions. Given her age, protocol called for him to first contact her parents or the school before talking with her, but at the moment he wasn't too interested in the rules. Any of the kids’ parents complain, lieutenant would hammer him. But no pain, no gain.

  She came away from the counter with a salad and coke, heading for the door with three other chattering magpies when he stepped in her way, showing her his wallet badge, saying, “Missy Conlan?"

  Four pairs of teenaged Bambi eyes saucered. Bracer, who was in civvies, smiled at the gaggle and said, “Not to worry. Just a routine followup on the girl who died last month.” Gesturing toward a table by the window, he said, “We can sit over here so your friends can watch from the outside."

  Missy gave the others a pained smile, as if her parents had just grounded her, then moved to the table, saying, “You really a cop?"

  Bracer figured even without the uniform he looked like a cop, and he had showed her the badge, so why the question? “Yeah,” he said. “Want to see my badge again?"

  She flashed him a self-confident smile, the kind of self-confidence he wanted LuAnne to have someday. “No, that's all right. I just didn't, y'know, see a police car in the lot."

  He nodded. “Plainclothes cops use regular cars.” In fact, it was his day off. Had he used a marked car, the Beverly Hills PD would have spotted it and his charade would have been over. He pulled a picture of the Brandon girl from a manila folder. “She was a friend of yours, right?” The shot had been taken on the hospital gurney and showed neither life nor charm. It was the kind of picture that could turn stomachs.

  Missy looked at it, as if seeing her friend for the first time. Perhaps she was.

  The girl nodded, bead of a tear welling in one eye.

  "You ever go into the city with her?"

  A scared look on her face told him she had. Before she could deny the question, Bracer said. “Look, I'm trying to find the guy who sold her the stuff that killed her. What you say is between us. Doesn't go in my book. Doesn't go to your folks. Just stays here between us. So, help me out here."

  Her eyes went down, and she bit her lower lip. Truth teetered on its edge. Slowly, her chin bobbed.

  "You ever with her when she bought stuff?"

  Again, the startled deer look. The look told him she'd made the trip.

  Pulling a sheaf of mug shots out of the folder, he said, “Look at these. Tell me if you recognize any of them."

  One by one she studied the pictures of the Cass Corridor dealers, turning each over as she finished with it. Then she stopped, looked up at Bracer, and handed him the picture. It was Johnny Doogle, the pusher with the white birthmark on his cheek.

  "Lucky it wasn't one of them throwaways,” Casper said, handing Johnny a printout. “Cell, though. Hard enough."

  Johnny took the page, looked at it, read the name: Evan Williger. Lived in Birmingham, same as the dead girl. “How do I know this is real?"

  Casper's eyes rolled. “What you think? Call the sucker, check it out. Do whatever you're going to do with it, but, man, that's genuine."

  Johnny supposed it was, but once he handed over the booty, no way of getting it back short of muscle. He fished a single baggie out of his jacket pocket and handed it over. “Get the rest once I check this."

  Stuffing the baggie in his inside jacket pocket, sneer on his face, Casper said, “That the way it is, kiss off the other shit."

  It took a second for Johnny to decipher the message. “What you talkin'? What other shit?"

  Casper waved him off and began to turn around. “Way you pay, I'll just keep the other stuff till I get my price."

  They were on the Wayne State campus, plenty of people around. That didn't stop Johnny from grabbing Casper's shoulder, spinning him around, fisting his jacket, and pushing him back until he was against the bricks of the Old Main building. The only reaction of the pedestrians was to give extra distance as they passed. Casper, thirty pounds light on Johnny, went for the hands, but he couldn't break the grip. Johnny gave him a shake. “What you got?"

  Casper worked on Johnny's clutch with both hands, one foot trying a shin kick, saying, “Leggo. Anyway, pay up what you owe. Then what I got cost you an extra two bags."

  Johnny thumped Casper against the wall, making his head kiss the brick, moving in so the little man's kicks had no force, bringing a threatening knee near the jewels. “What you got?"

  Casper's eyes were doing their everywhere but straight on thing. Finally, barely audible, he said, “I got more stuff."

  Double handing Casper's jacket, another bounce on the wall, then getting his head down low enough so he could see the man's face. “What?"

  Casper yelled, “I got more stuff on that guy. Looked him up on the Net."

  Computer guys, anything they got, they printed. Letting go of the jacket with one hand, Johnny reached inside Casper's coat, feeling for the papers. His hand came out with a folded sheaf.

  Casper said, “All you paid for was name and address."

  "Work you did, paid too much."

  Using the forearm of his clutching hand and a side body press, he kept Casper pinned to the wall while he opened the sheaf with his other hand. First page, there was a man's picture. White guy, young, maybe thirty-something, dark hair cut in one of those flat-tops, face clean, like he'd never taken a punch. Beside the picture was a column of words with the caption, Evan P. Williger. The rest of the words were too small to read with Casper squirming. Taking a step back, he straightened his arm, gave Casper another bounce, saying, “Don’ ever hold out on me again,” then released his grip.

  * * * *

  Johnny dialed Harper Hospital and asked for Evan Williger in the chemistry department. When someone answered, “Chemistry,” he asked for the name again.

  "Is this a personal call?” the voice asked.

  It threw Johnny for a second, then he figured it. “Naw, this here's business."

  There was a long wait before a man's voice said, “Hello."

  "This here Evan Williger?"

  "This is he."

  "We need to talk,” Johnny said.

  "Who is this?"
r />   "Some guy knows you're selling shit on the street that gets people killed."

  Could have watched a football game, pause was that long. “I don't know what you're talking about. Who is this?” The last said with some force, guy trying to act tough.

  "Find that out when we meet. Or you rather I just give this to the bacon?"

  "Bacon?"

  "You know man, the pigs, the cops. You don’ wanna talk with me, I jus’ give them what I got."

  Another football game. Then, voice very low now, guy trying to whisper, “I'm working. I can't meet till later. My shift ends at eleven."

  Johnny looked at his Rolex: four fifteen. “No problem, man, eleven thirty, outside Traffic Jam and Snug.” His working hours, anyway.

  Traffic Jam and Snug was one of those little upscale eateries that exist on the fringes of urban campuses. This one's specialty was homemade bread and an on-site micro brewery. Johnny had done the place once, after a big score, but he thought the beer bitter and the bread brown and full of things he couldn't identify. He'd finally asked for a Bud and some plain white bread to go with the well-done steak and fries he'd ordered. Except for the oak door, the outside of Snug was all brick, with a communal urinal serving as a flower pot on one wall.

  Johnny, standing under the porcelain trough, checked his watch. Eleven thirty-two. Man was late.

  A car drove into the self-park lot across the street. A moment later a man no taller than Johnny but with a slight build walked through the break in the chain-link fence. There was not enough light to make out his features, but from the way he looked around, Johnny guessed it was Williger. Crossing the street, the man slowed as he approached Johnny who stood in the shadow of the urinal. He could make out the white boy's face now and said, “Williger?"

  The man, as if finally noticing him, changed direction, saying, “Yes.” His voice sounded strained. Guy was scared. So much the better.

  While most of Cass Corridor was shrouded in the black of shot-out streetlamps, the area around Snug was brightly lit. Not where Johnny wanted to be. Before Williger reached him, he moved out of the shadow, took up a streetside position next to the chemist and, heading toward the dark of Third Street, said, “C'mon."