Dying for a Fix

by G. K. Parks

  “Thanks.” I went into the locker room and retrieved the bag.

  Outside, Heathcliff was a few feet away from the employees’ entrance. Without a word, he slipped an arm around my waist, leaning in close so I could put my arm around his shoulders and he could support some of my weight.

  “You should have told me. That day in your apartment when I was grilling you about the bruises, you should have told me,” he whispered.

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Sure, you could. But you didn’t.”

  We continued toward the end of the street where there was more foot traffic before attempting to hail a cab. He reached into his pocket and handed me something. From the feel alone, it was a roll of cash, and I tucked it inside my purse. My eyes scanned the area, but he wasn’t risking either of our covers by continuing communication or acting like we knew one another. When a cab finally stopped after my fourth attempt to flag one down, I climbed inside.

  “I’ll be around,” he said, closing the door and tapping the side of the car.

  Once the cab dropped me off, I pulled the roll of bills from my purse and put them inside my pocket. Waiting on the front steps of my apartment building were Francisco Steele and DeAngelo Bard. There was no sneaking past or avoiding them, which clearly meant someone wanted the money and didn’t trust me not to abscond with it.

  “You’re home early,” Steele said, checking the time on his phone. “Did something happen?”

  “No, but I had a crappy night.” Reaching into my pocket and removing the cash, I closed the gap between us and slipped the wad of bills into his pants pocket. “That should do it.”

  “How do you know you passed it off to the right guy?” Bard asked, commanding our attention and snapping his fingers at Steele to give him the cash.

  “Well, how many idiots would kill for some iced lemonade with oranges?” I retorted.

  “Watch your tone,” Bard ordered, removing the rubber band and thumbing through the bills. “At least you didn’t get greedy.” He tossed a glance to Steele before disappearing across the street, mumbling about mouthy bitches.

  “Whatever,” I sidestepped past Steele, “today was hell. I need to sit down.”

  “Chica,” he grabbed my shoulders and pulled me backward, almost knocking me off balance in the process, “did you forget something?”

  My mind ran through his instructions and orders, but I couldn’t come up with anything. The only thought that raced through my mind was that he’d found the cell phone in his car. But if he did, I’d probably be dead by now.

  “Apparently.”

  His hands slid across my waist and over my stomach, coming to rest inside the front pocket of my sweatshirt. “I told you I’d take care of you. A deal’s a deal.” He pulled his hands free a second later. “That ought to improve your night.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll need a cut if you expect me to keep this up.” He emitted a noncommittal sound, so I continued on my trek inside and up the stairs.

  Steele’s present provided the perfect opportunity to hole up inside, fail to answer the door when he came knocking later that night, and to stay indoors and monitor the situation outside. After sending a few encrypted messages about my handoff to my handler at the OIO, I stretched out on the air mattress, bouncing slightly as the oversized balloon settled underneath my weight. But as usual, sleep didn’t come.

  When dawn broke, I removed the surveillance equipment and went back to bed. With the amount of smack Steele placed in my pocket, I could theoretically ride out the high for the next day or two. Sure, that probably wasn’t his intention, but in order to continue the ruse, it seemed like an okay plan, particularly since I didn’t want to go back to the Black Cat where more product might be awaiting pick-up. Addicts were unreliable, and I’d been keeping too strict of a schedule for the last couple of weeks. It was time to mix things up again.

  When the boredom became too much to take, I climbed off the air mattress and did some light stretching, a hundred push-ups, and a few hundred crunches. My hip was feeling better, and the swelling was completely gone. It still hurt to put pressure on it, but taking a day or two off from sashaying about in my underwear would surely alleviate that.

  After narrowly managing to contain a fit of hysteria when I found two six-legged friends showering with me, I returned to the main room. It was midday, but things were quiet outside. Probably too quiet. Trying not to think of the possible reasons for the lack of gang activity, I microwaved a frozen sandwich pocket and grabbed the last remaining crossword puzzle book. Jablonsky messaged earlier that I was to stay in the vicinity and inside the apartment if at all possible. For once, I was inclined to follow orders.

  As the sky darkened and the foreboding clouds threatened to dump another foot of snow on us, Bard and a few of his personal guards exited the apartment across the street. Francisco was near the burning trash bin with the two usual lookouts. The men gestured wildly, and I would have loved to eavesdrop on the conversation. Unfortunately, my surveillance gear wasn’t quite up to snuff for that. The discussion continued until someone else walked up.

  From the distance, I couldn’t tell who he was, but he offered his hand, pulling Bard and then Steele into a one-armed hug and clapping each man on the back. He fist-bumped the two lookouts and then pointed in the direction of my apartment building. Instinctively, I ducked down, studying the small screen on the camera from my crouched position. This newcomer wore a dark jacket, a scarf, and a ski cap pulled low on his head, making identification difficult from the tiny fraction of his face that was visible, but I recognized his gait. Derek.

  Scrambling, I hid the surveillance equipment and pulled out the dark eye shadow pallet, doing a quick update on my track marks and adding a fake puncture or two with some red lip stain. Shellacking the effects with a quick coat of hairspray, I hoped not to come under too much scrutiny by Steele or one of Bard’s other lackeys. Finally, I dabbed the tiniest amount of peppermint oil on my cheekbones to make my eyes redden and tear just as the knocking sounded.

  “Alexia, open up,” Steele bellowed. I mumbled something that hopefully sounded like a euphoric grunt. He pounded against the door, making the floor vibrate. “Chica, I know you’re in there.”

  “Hang on,” I called softly, not moving from the spot. A minute later, I went to the door, slowly twisting the lock and opening it. “Huh?” I asked, fluttering my eyelids.

  “You’re gonna be late for work,” Steele said.

  “I’m not going. I’m sick.”

  I tried to shut the door, ignoring the posse of three men that were accompanying him, but he stepped into the doorframe, using his foot to keep the door from closing. Pretending not to notice, I turned and stumbled back into the apartment, dropping onto the mattress and bouncing up. Heathcliff was in the hallway, and I wasn’t too worried about annoying Steele with back-up that close.

  Francisco stormed into my apartment and yanked me off the bed. Remembering to act as if my limbs were made of gelatin, I let him shove me against the wall. “We had an agreement,” he hissed, infuriated.

  “I did what you wanted,” I slurred, finding his shirt particularly fascinating and tracing my fingertips over the pattern. “And you rewarded me. I’m so fucking rewarded right now.” Lolling my head backward against the wall and sighing, he saw the empty baggie on the table that I planted intentionally next to a syringe. I pretended to try to focus. “What’s wrong? Was I supposed to do something else? Did you tell me to do something else?” He released my arms, and I sunk to the floor as if my legs didn’t know how to function.

  “You’re useless.” He turned to the men that remained in the hallway. “We’ll have to get one of the other girls to do it for us.” He cautioned a final glance my way before speaking to the two lookouts. “And keep your mouths shut about this to Bard, or you’ll have to reckon with me.” The two KXDs took off to enact whatever Steele wanted.

  “God, I get put away for a nickel, and now that I’m back, it looks lik
e things have really changed. But Shakespeare made it sound like you’re still having the same problems as before,” Heathcliff said, stepping inside.

  “The Lords are trying to move in on our turf again. They turned a few of our girls.” Steele ran a hand through his hair. “They’re ballsy fuckers. They even made a move on our imports the other day, but we picked up the shipment early. So they came to our stash house. Did you see what they did to Alexia?”

  “Hmm?” I barely lifted my head off my chest, watching the exchange from beneath my lashes.

  “Oh, so that explains why she could barely dance,” Heathcliff said, stepping closer and crouching down to examine my arm. “Was the blow part of the shipment you just received?”

  “Yeah.” Steele sounded suspicious, and Heathcliff stepped away. “Since when does stuff like that matter to you, Hotshot?”

  “Since I need to know that your supply lines are secure.” Heathcliff moved forward, standing toe-to-toe with Francisco. “There isn’t a chance in hell that I’m serving any more time, and pissing off the Irish is a surefire way to end up behind bars or in the ground.”

  “Then why are you acting like their lapdog?” Steele challenged.

  “Because no one can move product at a markup that high without the proper societal connections, and we both know who has that racket. I’m not going back to pushing on street corners with skanks begging for a hit on trade or some other pusher knifing me in the back to clean out my pockets for a few dimes worth of blow. I’m moving up in this world, Francisco, and you ought to consider doing the same,” Heathcliff growled. “Now run along, unless you want word getting back to Shakespeare that you screwed up by not having someone ready to procure my product for tonight.”

  Steele looked torn, and for a moment, I was certain he wouldn’t leave Heathcliff alone with me. Under different circumstances it might have been considered chivalrous, so I needed to do something to convince him that leaving was a good idea.

  “Babe,” I pulled myself to my feet, “when’d you get here? Did you come back to finish what we started yesterday?” I purred, hanging on Heathcliff’s arm and running my other hand through his hair.

  “Take off,” Heathcliff said again.

  “If you do anything to her that she doesn’t want, I’ll rip your balls off and hang them from my rearview mirror. You got that?” Steele snarled. “You’ll tell me if he hurts you, right, Alex?” I nodded, and he slammed the door shut behind him.

  Twenty-five

  “Looks like Francisco has a soft spot for you,” Heathcliff smirked, “or a hard on. Either way, getting into his good graces is probably one of the few good decisions you’ve actually made lately.”

  “Bite me,” I snapped, glancing around the apartment. Going to the door, I made sure to secure the locks and check the peephole for signs of lingering gangbangers. “It’s not safe to talk here.”

  “How much MJ did you smoke? Because that’s just called paranoia.” He grabbed one of the straight-backed chairs from the table and dragged it to the door, shoving it underneath the knob. Then he led the way to the only separate room in the apartment – the bathroom. Once we were inside, he turned the sink and shower on full blast and shut the door. “Should I continuously flush the toilet too, or can we get on with this conversation?”

  “Someone’s in a crappy mood.”

  “Yeah. That’s what happens when Eric “Hotshot” Hall gets pulled out of retirement. Since the story went that I was arrested and spending my days in the pen, it wasn’t too hard to promulgate some misinformation about my release.” I flipped the toilet seat lid down and sat while Derek leaned against the edge of the sink. “You’ve stepped into the beginnings of a gang war, Parker. You refused back-up. You didn’t give the PD the heads up, and you’re getting in too deep with the wrong bunch of people. Have you seen Steele’s record? Or Bard’s? They’ll kill you without blinking an eye.”

  “That’s only if they realize who I am. And they won’t. Not if you keep your damn mouth shut.” Taking a breath, I reminded myself Derek wasn’t my enemy. “How much product is supposed to be moved out of the club tonight?”

  “Another kilo. Don’t worry. The place is getting busted in an hour for expired alcohol permits, and the girls will be brought in and grilled about prostitution. No one’s saying a word about drugs, but hopefully, the brick will still be on the premises when the cops get there.”

  “That’s why Mark told me to stay away. How come no one bothered to tell me the plan?”

  “I did. Just now.” Normally, Heathcliff and I got along great, but it was obvious he was upset about this assignment and my involvement. He scratched his beard. “We need to figure out how the drugs are being moved through the Black Cat and where they’re originating. Any ideas?”

  “Veronica was working for Steele, but she’s out of the picture.” I thought back to the two girls with the bag of ecstasy and Joe’s suspicions. “Our best bet would be Joe the bartender.”

  Heathcliff snorted. “He doesn’t know anything.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because I read his last report.”

  “Report?” My mind flashed through the inconsistencies. “He’s a cop?” I asked, dumbfounded, and Heathcliff nodded. “Let me guess, he’s not really gay either.” Although, it provided an excellent excuse not to hit on the working girls. It also helped conceal the real secret Joe was harboring; he was an undercover narcotics officer.

  “Not according to his girlfriend and their two kids.” Some of his harsh exterior faded. “But I guess that means he had you fooled, which means he probably has the KXDs fooled too.” I grumbled something incoherent about being left out of the loop. “If it makes you feel any better, he thought you were just another junkie,” his tone hardened, “which is why the FBI should have informed us of their operation.”

  “Don’t tell me we’re working the same goddamn case.”

  “Like I said, you should have said something sooner. You knew I helped narco out a couple months ago on something big. Isn’t this big enough for you?”

  “Derek…Eric…shit,” I sighed, “just read me in before this headache gets any worse.”

  “It gets worse.” He glowered. “I’m willing to lay my cards on the table if you are. The brass won’t like this, but I trust you, even if you’ve done nothing but lie for the last month or so.” He met my eyes. “What do you say, Parker?”

  “It’s Nicholson from here on out. Agreed?”

  He nodded. “You go first.”

  Silencing the voice inside my head that argued that every word I said went against protocol and ignoring the fact that this voice also sounded a lot like Mark Jablonsky, I told Heathcliff everything from the FBI’s suspicions concerning the smuggling of contraband to my own insertion into this neighborhood and attempt to infiltrate the KXDs. Occasionally, he would grunt out a response or nod, but for the most part, he was back to his still and stoic self as he processed this added information. As soon as I finished, he launched into his own tale.

  Two and a half months ago, Detective Derek Heathcliff was asked to assist the narcotics division in making a bust. Despite the fact that he had transferred to major crimes half a decade ago, he still had a long list of confidential informants, a few undercover identities, and numerous ties to local dealers at his disposal. He even had a few remaining connections to the gangs and crime syndicates that functioned in the dark underbelly of our city.

  The police department had heard stirrings of a turf war on the verge of breaking out. The number of gang related deaths, drive-bys, and assaults had skyrocketed in the last few months. Originally, a task force was sent to deal with the gangs, but they quickly discovered that the reason for the violence traced back to a supply and demand issue. Illicit contraband was in demand, but the supply chain had dried up.

  According to the research and intel the police department compiled, the DEA had taken a major stance against a preeminent Mexican cartel. The result of dethroning on
e of the major drug sources for the United States led to a sudden drought when it came to the influx of many illegal substances. And while the next bigwig supplier was scrambling to find a foothold in this wide open market, the street-level dealers were scrambling to stockpile what they could. Prices were about to soar, and everyone wanted to profit.

  “It’s basic economics,” Heathcliff surmised. “Plus, the price of pills and prescription opiates skyrocketed. Morphine, oxy, hydros, everything went through the roof. And suddenly, a bunch of teenaged thugs are breaking into grandma and grandpa’s house to empty out the medicine cabinets. It was a mess. So needless to say, narco needed a few extra eyes and ears to figure out who the biggest troublemakers were and to set them straight.” He frowned and shook his head. “The sad part is once new supply lines were established, everything settled down. It had more to do with a fresh supply than anything we had done to stop it.”

  “People want what they want. Street drugs aren’t just rampant in poor neighborhoods like this. The upper class want to experiment and escape too. And they’ll pay through the nose for the shit they want to put up their nose.”

  “Heroin. Coke. Crack. Ecstasy. A plethora of hallucinogens. Marijuana. Pills. You name it, they want it. And don’t forget about the designer stuff that gets cooked up in labs. And people say the sixties was a drug era. They need to look around at what we’re dealing with now.”

  “I wouldn’t know. That was before my time.” I shook my head. “Yours too. But this isn’t a philosophical debate. Drugs are here, and as long as we’re enforcing the law, we follow orders. So after the violence died down, you went back to major crimes, right?”

  “Yeah. But the department didn’t give up on keeping the peace and getting as many dealers and drugs off the street. The Lords were still causing trouble, rattling their sabers and hoping for a fight. They wanted to absorb the KXDs’ supply system into their own and become the primary distributor.”