Dying for a Fix

by G. K. Parks

  “Do you have the cash?” he asked.

  “It’s on the table.” I returned to my current task, adding a tremor to my hands. “Dammit.” I wiped at the smeared mascara. Abandoning the makeup, I went to the table. “You’re a real lifesaver. I hope you know that. And obviously, in more ways than one.” Lifting the baggie, I held it up to the light, examining the contents. “Is this as good as that miracle pill from the other day?”

  “Sample it if you want.” He was distracted by the money. “Is this the cash?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All in one dollar bills?”

  “Cash is cash.”

  He turned, his eyes focused briefly on the mattress, and my mind flittered to the knife I kept tucked underneath in case of emergencies. It never hurt to be prepared. But his eyes were focused on the black sequined triangle bikini top. Maybe he liked shiny things. After pocketing the cash, he glanced at the skimpy outfit again before going to the door.

  “Have a good night, Alex.”

  The door shut, and I froze. My heart hammered in my chest. How had I introduced myself? I was positive I hadn’t said Alex, but he had done his research on my cover. Maybe he couldn’t read, or he was shortening the Alexia. Wouldn’t Lexie make more sense? Calm down. I took a deep breath. There was no reason to jump to conclusions. None. I was out of practice and nervous to be on my own. That was it.

  Ready to distance myself from Steele and the neighborhood as soon as possible, I finished my makeup, changed into the black sequined boyshorts and matching top, put my street clothes on over the uniform, slipped the drugs into the hidden compartment of my coat, locked up, and ran for the bus. Arriving seconds before it departed, I slid my transit card through the slot and took a seat in the corner closest to the door.

  Near the front was one of the neighborhood regulars, but I made a point not to notice as I leaned back in the seat and jittered my leg and fidgeted for the rest of the ride, hoping to convey some of the typical signs of frequent drug use. It seemed to work well with a couple of older women who casually moved up a few seats to get away from me. Either that or they were offended by the glittery lotion that was slathered over whatever skin was visible and the ridiculously thick eyeliner I wore. If I were them, I’d probably move away from the skank in the back too.

  Tugging on the line, I slid my bag diagonally across my chest and stood, waiting for the bus to stop. The airbrakes squealed and let out an exhale seconds before the doors popped open. Exiting into the cold night, I noticed the punk from the neighborhood get out when I did. Pretending to be oblivious, I went down the street at a fast gait. He followed at a reasonable distance. When I turned left, I could see the neon pink silhouette of a cat. Almost there.

  Half a block later, I brushed my hair out of my face, turning just enough to see that he was still behind me. Amateur. Continuing the pretense of being oblivious, I went around the side of the building to the employees’ entrance and opened the door. One of the agents from the surveillance van was standing in the hallway, and I nodded to him, continuing straight to the sign marked ‘employees only’. This would have been slightly easier if I had visited this lovely establishment before tonight, but since when did I ever do anything easy?

  Finding a locker room full of women, some of whom obviously had rough lives and probably should be wearing a bit more than the required uniform, I found the locker labeled ‘Alexia’ and stripped down. A couple of them cast questioning looks in my direction. A few scoffed. And one slammed into my back, shoving me face first into the locker. Clearly, I was already making friends.

  “Bitch, out of my way.”

  “Sorry,” I muttered, not bothering to turn around.

  “What?” she taunted. “You think you’re better than us? I’ve never seen you around here. When’d you get hired?”

  “Look,” I spun, holding my arms down at my sides but with my palms out, so she’d see the barely blurred track marks, “I’m required to have a job. This is the only one I could find. Do you have a problem with that? ‘Cause if you want to start something, we’ll start something.” I didn’t want to start anything, and I hoped she didn’t either.

  “Whatevs,” she spat. “Your skinny ass won’t last here. The manager has a zero tolerance policy.”

  “Is that so?” I narrowed my eyes, reading the name tag clipped to the top of her shorts. Veronica.

  She rolled her eyes, huffing like a steam train and stomping off with more attitude than I’d ever witnessed from anyone firsthand. The door to the locker room slammed shut, and I turned back to the locker, making sure my belongings were secure and palming the baggie of heroin in order to slip it into the miniscule pocket of my shorts without anyone being the wiser. There was no way I was leaving it inside when I was dealing with such a friendly group of people.

  “Don’t mind, Vee,” another woman said. “She’s been here the longest and gives everyone hell.” The girl smiled and offered her hand. “I’m Sasha.”

  “Alexia,” I replied, studying her, “please tell me you’re twenty-one and blessed with amazing genetics.”

  She laughed. “Twenty-three actually. And thanks.” I heard a ding, and the loud music changed. “Gotta go. That’s my song.” She disappeared, and I realized she was one of the dancers, as if the bright red top and matching thong hadn’t been a complete giveaway.

  Taking a deep breath, I clipped on my own name tag and followed the narrow hallway out to the main area. The other undercover agent was now stationed at the front door, looking as menacing as the rest of the bored bouncers. Meandering through the closely packed tables, I made it to the bar. The bartender looked up, glanced at my name, and jerked his chin at the opening.

  “Welcome. We’re not much for training here. So this won’t take long,” he shouted over the music. “I’ll give you a crash course, and then you’re on your own.” That sounded just about right.

  Nine

  The rules were simple. Take orders, serve drinks, and don’t step in front of someone who is enjoying the show. Pay attention, wait for glasses to be half empty, and then approach to offer another. In most circumstances, make sure the patrons pay as they go. This was a cash-only establishment, and the ATM machine in the corner was busier than the bathroom. The tips were nice; the comments were not.

  Gritting my teeth as yet another slightly drunk man slapped my ass, I buried my natural inclination to respond and continued to the bar. Touching was off limits. But most of these pricks didn’t seem to care, and neither did the bouncers. I caught the eye of the other undercover agent as I went around the bar, but he wasn’t going to jeopardize his cover for something that was nothing more than a pain in the ass. Snorting at the pathetic play on words, I refilled a few glasses and balanced out the tray. I needed a life.

  “You ever wait tables before?” the bartender asked. “You’re a natural at this.”

  “Didn’t you read my résumé?”

  “What résumé? The manager left a note saying he forgot to mention he hired a new waitress and to show you the ropes. You mean to tell me you turned in a résumé with your application?”

  “Hell no.” I smirked, glad to know what the official line around the gentlemen’s club was. “And to answer your question, I did waitress once for a very short amount of time in a place similar to this.”

  “What happened?”

  “Another story for another day.” Mysterious was the best option.

  I placed a new round of drinks at a table of out-of-town businessmen, wondering briefly if Martin ever entertained clients at a place like this. Maybe I’d ask whenever I felt a bit more self-destructive. One of them shoved a few crumpled tens into the side of my shorts while the rest stared slack-jawed at the main stage. Extricating myself from the group, I pulled the money out of my waistband and returned the empty tray to the bar.

  The punk from the neighborhood had been lurking at the fringes of the club. He had spent some time leaning against the far wall, sitting at a few of the back t
ables that weren’t in my section, and making frequent trips to the restroom. Apparently, he must have gotten up the nerve to make his move. He went to the bar, taking a seat at the end and swiveling on the stool. Joe, the bartender, immediately went to him and began filling a glass from the tap.

  Pretending not to notice, I went behind the bar and hopped up on the back counter, crossing my legs rather provocatively considering the boyshorts, and waited for Joe to open the register and cash out my latest table. Hopefully, this would provide plenty of intel for the neighborhood kid to report back to Steele or Bard. See, the girl that knocked you on your ass is in fact just a junkie stripper wannabe, my mind screamed in his direction.

  “Here,” Joe said, handing back a hefty sum that was my remaining tip from the stack of tens, “did you just give someone a lap dance without my noticing?”

  “Maybe,” I purred, glancing at the mostly empty section of tables. “How come this place is clearing out so early?”

  “Darling, it’s after one a.m. We’re only open ‘til two during the week.”

  “Time flies when you’re having fun.” I hopped off the counter. “I’ll start to clean up.”

  Ten feet from the bar, the punk grabbed my elbow. Spinning, I jerked away, uttering the management’s line about touching and groping. He smiled, holding his hands up. Something sleazy was in his expression, like he wanted to establish dominance and let it be known he could get to me anytime or anywhere, but his words conveyed nothing but apologies.

  “I know you from somewhere,” I said, narrowing my eyes and playing dumb. He was the man who had been lucky enough to be introduced to my taser.

  “Absolutely,” he winked, rubbing his fingertips together and watching the transferred concealer blend into his skin. “You should probably hide the bruises a little better. You wouldn’t want someone to get the wrong idea and tip off your boss or parole officer, would you?”

  Oh, so now he was threatening me. This was an interesting turn of events. Cocking my head to the side, I stepped away from him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, you do.” He crinkled his nose playfully and gave a toothy grin. He moved forward, forcing me backward against one of the booths. I remained calm, seeing a few bouncers take notice. His hands came to rest on my hips. “And I’d suggest you don’t mention any of this to Francisco if you don’t want any more problems, chica.” Practically spitting the last word, his hands began to travel.

  “Sir,” one of the bouncers said, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him backward, “we’re gonna have to ask you to leave. Now.”

  “I’ll see you around.” He blew a kiss while two of the bouncers hauled him to the door.

  Once he was outside, the other undercover FBI agent approached me. “Everything all right, miss?”

  “Hell if I know.” Taking a breath, I noticed Joe watching our exchange. “I wouldn’t mind eyes on my way out.”

  “No problem.” He returned to his position near the front door.

  “Congrats,” Joe said when I finished wiping down the empty tables in my section and returned to the bar to wait out the rest of the patrons, “you just popped your cherry.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “First night and already the bouncers had to kick someone out for harassing you. Happens to all the girls. Shit, you don’t even hold the record, but the first night is still fairly respectable.” He twisted the top off a beer and slid it across the bar. “Cheers.”

  “Salut,” I replied, taking a small sip.

  The club closed thirty minutes later, and by 2:30, I was back in the locker room, putting my street clothes on over my uniform. The dancers had already cleared out, and Veronica didn’t say another word. As I zipped my coat, I spotted two waitresses divvying up a bag of blue pills and cash. Great. The girls were selling or using ecstasy, probably both. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I slammed the locker and went out the back door. That wasn’t my problem.

  When I hit the street, headlights flashed briefly. Nodding slightly, I continued on my way, knowing that someone had my back. At the bus stop, I pulled out my phone and dialed Jablonsky’s burner. His throwaway phone couldn’t be traced, and it held my paranoia at bay by providing an untraceable line of direct communication.

  “I have a million things to tell you,” I said, maintaining a level of secrecy.

  “Can it wait until morning?”

  “It’ll have to. I can’t just stay out all night, can I?”

  “No. Go back to the apartment, wait until ten, and we’ll meet at the office building around twelve.”

  Sighing, I disconnected and dialed a cab company. The last bus ran an hour ago, and walking twelve blocks in the freezing cold wasn’t on my list of things to do, particularly after being hounded by that punk. When the cab arrived, I climbed in, gave the driver the address, and watched the judgmental look play across his face. Screw you, I thought but kept that sentiment to myself.

  Arriving outside the apartment, I paid the cabbie, not bothering to give him a decent tip. He squawked at the dirty, crumpled handful of one dollar bills I tossed into the front seat, but his protests remained unanswered. Slamming the door, I wasn’t in the mood for games or this bullshit.

  One of the two gangbangers stationed near the trashcan let out a choked whistle, like he remembered half a second too late to mind his manners. Glancing down, I noticed my coat was still unzipped from paying the driver, and my shirt had ridden up, giving him a view of my midriff.

  “Really?” I snapped. “Is it the glitter or the milky white skin that has you so hard up?”

  “Why don’t you come over here and find out?” He blew a kiss in my direction and made some crude gesture.

  “Enough,” Francisco bellowed from his usual position in the alleyway next to my building, emerging just far enough onto the street that I could make out his silhouette. “Don’t start shit you can’t finish, Cesar.” The whistler shut up, slinking back into the shadows. Francisco turned to me. “I stuck my neck out for you once, and you said you weren’t asking for trouble. This is asking for trouble, so shut your goddamn mouth and get inside.”

  I snorted, rolling my eyes. “Yeah, right. You think you have some power over these guys. Sure, fine.” I went past him to the door, catching my first glimpse of DeAngelo Bard. Bard was leaning against the wall, next to the dumpster. Apparently they were having a meeting, and I interrupted. “Whatever.” Now wasn’t the time to mouth off to Francisco, but I already committed to this course of action.

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Francisco growled, chasing me up the steps and jerking my arm. He spun me around to face him, pinning me against the doorjamb. It was part of his posturing in front of the boss, and insolence would not be tolerated. If he hit me, it would hurt, and fighting back would make things worse. “Speak, Alexia.”

  “Nothing.” I turned my head, glaring at the ground.

  “Dammit, woman, what is your goddamn problem?”

  “You, your guys, this shit.” I met his eyes. “Let’s just pretend this didn’t happen. Hell, forget everything about me. I don’t need more of your buddies showing up at work and threatening to narc on me or worse. Whatever. It doesn’t even matter. I can take care of myself.”

  His eyebrows arched in confusion, and for the briefest moment, I wasn’t positive that the punk hadn’t followed me on his own accord and not because of Steele’s orders. Then Steele’s lips curved into an omniscient smirk.

  “You need to work on learning some respect, chica. But obviously, I already have your trust.” His fingers trailed from my earlobe to my chin, holding my face steady to maintain my gaze. “Go to bed, you look wrecked.”

  The man he sent to rattle me at the club was a ruse. But I shouldn’t be sharp enough to connect the two, especially at this time of night after my alleged hit of H earlier in the evening, so I shrugged, shaking my head as if trying to make sense of things, and trudged up the steps. Once I cleared the first flight,
I picked up the pace, going inside and locking the door. Ensuring that the coast was clear, I unlocked the closet, removed the false back, and grabbed the surveillance equipment and directional microphone.

  Beneath my window, Steele and Bard were in the midst of a serious discussion. Thank god I arrived home when I did. Some of the words were garbled, but it sounded like the two men were speaking in code. Luckily, it was being recorded, and the powers that be could decipher it in the morning. But a few key facts were easy to discern. A shipment had arrived, and the raw materials were being cut and mixed. That meant the KXDs had a drug den somewhere, perhaps a stash house, and even a lab. Making a mental note to check property titles and request permission to establish additional surveillance to monitor Steele and Bard’s movements, my thoughts drifted back to earlier in the afternoon.

  Francisco had gone somewhere close by to pick up the heroin. It was within walking distance and probably guarded. What if the gangbangers near the blazing trashcan were keeping tabs on the entrance to the stash house? That would make sense. Propping the mic on the sill so it pointed at the men below, I shifted around in order to peer out the adjacent window.

  From this vantage point, I could see the building across the way. What were the two lookouts monitoring? A few dozen doors, a side street, an alleyway, and steps leading down to a few basements were clearly in view. It really could be anywhere. Or they might be doing nothing more than keeping eyes on the street for signs of police or rival gangs. Picking up a digital camera, I took a few shots of the possible targets then zoomed in, hoping for some graffiti or marking to indicate what property belonged to the KXDs, but I came up empty.

  As I scribbled down a few notes, someone pounded against my door. Shit. Glancing out the window, Francisco and Bard were gone. Silently, I disconnected the surveillance equipment. Just as I grabbed the digital camera and my notes, the banging started again.