Dying for a Fix

by G. K. Parks

  “What are you drinking?” the bartender asked as soon as I slid onto an empty chair.

  “Rum and Coke, hold the rum.”

  It took him a moment to understand what I said, and then he chuckled. “So you want a Coke?”

  “Yeah and toss in a lime wedge.” I smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not pretentious enough to ask for an umbrella too.”

  Flirting with the bartender ought to secure my seat at the bar until closing time. It would also make it appear that I might be dealing from the bar, particularly if I slid some napkins across to people, passed a few bowls of pretzels around, or talked to some lonely gentlemen who were placing orders. And given that the place was packed, it would look convincing. Furthermore, ever since I emerged from the back hallway, two guys had been keeping tabs on my movements. Maybe it was nothing, but by now, I knew how Francisco worked. And I bet he wanted to know how I worked too.

  Over the next hour, I made it a point to whisper a few words to a few dozen people. It was innocent conversation, but a touch of the arm or a handshake could be anything, particularly to the untrained observer. The two men, who looked just familiar enough to be frequenters at the Black Cat, never moved from the high-top table in the corner. The only thing they did was study me. So I put on a good show. Sure, the fake junkie jitters and fidgeting were gone because I didn’t want to come across that way to everyone I spoke to, but with any luck, they wouldn’t notice the difference.

  A couple minutes after last call was announced, someone bumped into my back, practically knocking me off the stool. He apologized profusely, righting me on the stool and slipping a three inch thick wad of cash onto my lap. Securing the money, I swiveled just slightly to acknowledge him.

  “Five o’clock,” I said, and he leaned back against the bar, taking in the view of the emptying dance floor. “Two at the high-top.”

  “No worries,” Mark said, dressed in his wrinkled suit from work. He didn’t exactly look like much of a businessman at four a.m., so he disappeared down the bar. And I quickly began chatting with the closest guy like nothing happened. With any luck, my two spotters missed the brief exchange.

  After a few minutes and losing Mark amidst a crowd of last minute drinkers, I ducked back into the ladies’ room, knowing he was tracking my path. Flipping the lock, I went to the handicapped stall, discovering the legally required baby changing table inside. Sometimes you have to love state regulations. Even if a baby in a club was probably in and of itself illegal, the changing table was state mandated.

  Opening the contraption, I removed my gun from my purse, emptied my pockets and top, and stuck my cocaine-laden bag inside, securing the thick plastic vertically against the wall using the Velcro strap. After flushing the glowing tracer, I locked the stall door and slid underneath. I secured the gun behind my back, untied the shirt, retying it lower to hide the concealed weapon, and left the restroom.

  Mark was lingering inside the men’s room with the door cracked open. Casting a glance around, I didn’t see the two men, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. He didn’t say a word, but our eyes met. He was concerned and anxious, and my mind which had been occupied with other things since encountering Francisco returned to the situation at the Black Cat. I didn’t know what happened or if everyone made it out alive. If I wasn’t concerned about Detective Heathcliff’s safety, I would have been extremely angry with him for the way he handled me and the situation. But I couldn’t think about that now.

  “Goddamn changing table,” I griped just loud enough for Mark to hear and for the words to sound innocent enough to any unknown eavesdroppers.

  Walking out of the club, I put my sweatshirt on over my stolen attire, checked the time, and went to wait in the same spot Francisco dropped me off. If I was right about the two men, they’d phone their boss, and the SUV would be pulling up shortly. If I was wrong and they were rival gang members, Agent Jablonsky would be close enough to handle the situation. Game on, bitches.

  Thirty-one

  I didn’t see the two men again. Perhaps they were a figment of my imagination or a hallucination from being in such close proximity to that much cocaine. Regardless, relief washed over me as I headed down the street. The traffic picked up as most of the clubs shut their doors for the night. Cabbies fought for the best locations to snatch up drunk partiers, and slews of people teetered down the sidewalks, finding twenty-four hour diners, getting into private vehicles, or taking a brisk, sobering walk in the middle of the night. By my best calculations, the streets would be empty within fifteen minutes, and if Francisco didn’t show by then, I’d find another way home.

  “Chica,” he called from a parking space, “you’re done?”

  I didn’t notice his arrival and wondered how long he’d been waiting. Burying the fear that he had seen Mark arrive or spotted a government-issued vehicle, I dashed across the street and flung myself into his arms. He wanted affectionate gratitude, so I could play along for now.

  “It’s not hard when you have something everyone wants,” I whispered, nipping at his earlobe and passing the cash to him. Thankfully, he was more interested in the new bulge I put in his pocket than the hard metal protruding from the base of my spine. “That was exhilarating. Now can we get out of here?” Giving him a wicked grin, I went around to the passenger’s side and opened the door.

  “I had my doubts.” He put the car in gear, setting out for the neighborhood. “But if this is any indication of what you can do, then there’s no reason for me to worry. Shakespeare will be pleased.”

  “So we’re good?” I remembered his earlier aggression after my verbal blunder.

  “Better than. And might I say, damn, you’re looking fine in that tied up shirt.”

  “How do you know what I’m wearing?” He cast a quick look my way but didn’t speak. “You were watching?”

  “I’ve told you the KXDs have eyes everywhere. And I have some sexy stills of you passing product on my phone.”

  “Can I see?” I hoped Mark wasn’t caught in any of them.

  “Only if you plan on replacing them with something even more scintillating.” He didn’t offer his phone, but he dug into his pocket for half a gram of heroin. “Maybe you’ll be more inclined once I give you what you’re after.” He dropped the tiny packet onto his lap. “You don’t mind grabbing that, do you?” It was another test, and ignoring my personal distaste for him and the things he wanted, I reached onto his lap and searched for the baggie that dropped between his legs, giving him a gentle squeeze. “That’s more like it.”

  When we arrived home, he led the way up the steps and past my apartment. On the level above, he went to the corner apartment and stuck a key in the lock, opening the door. Apparently he lived in the building. I’d have to remember to update the OIO on this fact. The thought of Steele finding the gun behind my back was worrisome, especially after his insistence that I not be armed. Furthermore, everything I needed to fake taking a hit of smack was downstairs, as was the blade beneath my mattress. Things were about to get tricky.

  “Are you anxious?” he cooed, still turned on from being fondled during the car ride home. “Fine, I’ll let you take the edge off before we get started.”

  “My stuff’s downstairs. I’ll just run down and get it and be right back.” Assessing the room for weapons or other means of escape, I played off my desire to leave by smirking at him. “I didn’t realize you’ve been on top this whole time.”

  “Top, bottom, doesn’t matter much to me, just as long as I have you exactly where I want you.” He grinned wickedly, producing two sealed syringes from a drawer. “And there’s no reason for you to leave. It pays to have a prescription for diabetes medication. All the clean needles a person could ever want.” Well, there went one excuse down the drain. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.” He put a lighter down next to the box of aluminum foil.

  He disappeared into the bathroom, probably to do a few push-ups, but his absence gave me time to fill the syringe wi
th water, liquefy the drugs, and dump them down the drain, leaving the smell of cooked heroin in the air and burnt residue on the foil. Stripping off my sweatshirt, I tucked my gun into the front pocket and rolled the sleeves around it, putting it on the floor at my feet. When he came back, I pressed the plunger down slightly on the syringe to get the air out and glanced around the room.

  “Tourniquet?” I asked.

  Smiling, he pulled a rubber strap from inside a box and handed it to me. Inhaling deeply, he watched through hooded eyes as I tied off my arm, just above the elbow, and found a vein. Needles were on my list of ten most hated things, and injecting some questionable water into my body was the purest form of torturous self-loathing. Thoughts like ‘why the hell am I doing this’ cascaded through my mind, but I held the determined look on my face until the needle went in, then I pressed the plunger down, counting to three before releasing my grip on the syringe and throwing my head back in sheer ecstasy. Sinking to the ground, I rested my head against the cabinet doors, leaving the needle in my arm and fighting the urge to cringe. My only comfort was the gun inside the sweatshirt at my back.

  “I have something else you’ll like,” he said, kneeling on the floor and kissing me, but I didn’t respond. Maybe I could fake an overdose or a bad trip. A seizure might work too. When I failed to reciprocate his affections, he untied the tourniquet and pulled the needle out of my arm. A few drops of blood dripped onto his floor, but he didn’t notice. He pulled his shirt over his head and unbuckled his belt. “Alexia, come on,” he scooted closer, “we’re just getting started here.”

  The next few minutes felt like an eternity as we kissed, and my thoughts focused on how badly I wanted to wash my hands in bleach. He didn’t seem to notice I wasn’t into this, which meant either I was pretty convincing or he didn’t care. It was probably the latter, but my biggest dilemma was figuring a way out of this before I’d have to bleach more than just my hands.

  He pushed my fingers away and began to untie and unbutton my shirt. “Francisco,” I whispered, wondering what to do. In two minutes, things were gonna go from bad to worse. And before that happened, I would shoot him. So I needed a better plan and fast.

  “Hmm,” he murmured, pulling the shirt off of me and kissing along my clavicle. His fingers went to my belt, and I wondered how hard I’d have to hit him in order to knock him unconscious. Glancing around, the kitchen was sorely devoid of practical weaponry like knives, frying pans, and rolling pins. He pulled down my zipper and splayed his hands against my lower stomach, trying to push my jeans off. “Lift your hips.” Maybe I could just knee him and put an end to his randy mood. As I moved into the perfect position to squish his berries, the phone rang. “Fuck,” he growled, shoving me off of him and onto the floor, “hang on.”

  It quickly became apparent he was agitated with the caller and the conversation. While he continued to answer questions in the affirmative or negative and utter a mile long string of expletives, I remained in a gelatinous state on the ground, deciding on the perfect method of killing the mood.

  “She’s been with me all night,” he said, and my ears perked up. “No, man.” A long pause. “No shit.” Another pause. “Now?” He grabbed his jeans off the floor and zipped them up. “Shit. No, I’ll be there in five.”

  Now that he was dressed, it was safe to act interested again. I clawed at his leg as he went past, making a pouty face. “Francisco, what’s going on?”

  He knelt down and grabbed my shoulders, trying to force me to look at him, but I lolled my head back, afraid he’d catch on to my sobriety if he got a good look at me. “Did you see anyone strange at the club tonight?”

  “No. The girls hate me,” I whined. “I barely said two words to any of them.”

  He shook me. “No. At the club. Were there any strange men. Maybe some cops?”

  “The cops raided two nights ago, and that’s why no one was there tonight. That’s why we closed early.” Shakespeare must have heard about ESU handling the situation with Joe and the KXD enforcers. What the hell was he planning to do now?

  “I gotta go.”

  “What’s happening?” I asked, making a show of struggling to my feet and grabbing my sweatshirt. “Why are you asking about the club?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He led me to the door. “Wait for me at your place. I’ll be by later.” He raced down the steps and out of the building, leaving me standing outside his locked apartment door. I needed answers.

  Returning to my apartment, I opened the door and tensed. The sound of running water instantly alerted me that someone was inside. Pulling the gun free, I aimed at the closed bathroom door, edging toward it. The faucet stopped, and the doorknob turned. Leveling the barrel at chest height, I cocked the gun and slowly exhaled.

  The door opened, and it took every ounce of self-restraint not to automatically fire at the intruder. This was a lousy neighborhood with scary gangbangers. Whoever snuck inside must have a death wish.

  “Easy, Parker,” Detective Heathcliff said, raising his hands. “You already bruised my ribs. You don’t need to shoot me, too.”

  “I should,” I snapped, holstering the gun. “What the hell were you thinking, shoving me inside that cab?” Heathcliff was alive, which meant my emotional meter just went from worried to irate. “How’s Joe? What happened?”

  “C’mon.” He stepped to the side of the doorway, gesturing that I join him in the bathroom. This was quickly becoming our place, and I didn’t quite care for it. As soon as I entered, I washed my hands in the sink. He turned the shower on and took a seat on the ledge of the tub. The dark circles under his eyes, the way he held himself, and his unseemly appearance were indicators that this job was getting to him. Once he collected himself, he let out a weary sigh. “Did you just shoot up?” He nodded at the trickle of blood running from the bend in my arm.

  “Yeah. A few ccs of water. Well, I hope it was water.” Shrugging, I slipped into interrogation mode. “Don’t change the subject. Joe and the Black Cat. What’s the deal? Did ESU get to him in time?”

  “Uh-huh,” Derek said, but his tone wasn’t convincing. “The PD’s raid was premature. It caused the KXDs to start talking. Apparently Bard has plenty of pull at the Black Cat, and he has access to the security feeds. Despite the fact we’ve been piggybacking off their footage and I assume your people have been doing the same, Bard must have discovered Joe was undercover. Joe must have slipped up, and we missed it.”

  “How?”

  “A few detectives are reviewing the footage, but from what we’ve seen, it has to do with the ecstasy tabs. There’s footage of Joe collecting those coasters with the tearaway corners. It was the only suspicious thing on the tape, but since Bard’s paranoid, maybe he thought they could be used as evidence.”

  “Why don’t you ask Joe about it? The KXD enforcers were asking him about something. Maybe Bard didn’t know for sure that Joe was a UC.” My thoughts scrambled to determining if we were blown or if this was Bard being a paranoid lunatic. Given his personal preferences for having top-of-the-line security, paranoia seemed a likely medical diagnosis for the KXD leader.

  “We don’t know enough yet. That’s who I was on the phone with before you arrived.” He glanced at the sink, indicating the reason for the sound of running water when I entered.

  “Can’t Joe tell you what happened? Or did he have to get his union rep to intervene because IA is accusing him of something?”

  “He can’t talk right now.” Derek swallowed, and pain contorted his features.

  “Can’t or won’t?” My heart palpitated at the morbid thoughts traveling through my mind.

  “Parker–”

  “We should have intervened. You shouldn’t have pulled me. Who the hell put you in charge? You had no right, Detective. We are not in the same chain of command, and you will not make those types of calls again. Do I make myself clear?”

  He bit back whatever remark he wanted to make, instead snorting incredulously. “You and your peop
le waltz into the middle of a police investigation, practically blow it to kingdom come, and then blame us because you can’t do anything wrong. Then you get annoyed when we don’t share our intel or assets. And you want to ride in on your high horse and save the day, when things didn’t escalate until it was your bacon in the fire.” He shook his head. “It must be nice to be a goddamn fed again.” He stood up. “Jablonsky asked that I keep an eye on you since we have a history and you wouldn’t risk anyone else’s neck. If you went in like you wanted, you’d be dead now. Those KXD douches had machine pistols. Two members of ESU are in the hospital. Joe’s sedated while they get him stabilized. So how the hell would sacrificing yourself have helped anyone?” He backed me against the sink. “I’ve already had one suicidal partner. I will not tolerate another one.”

  “We could have done something.”

  “I made the right call. At least one of us can see that.” He opened the bathroom door. “Patch yourself up. We need to prepare for what’s about to happen.”

  Thirty-two

  Heathcliff was in rare form. No matter how unemotional and by the book he tried to act at work, he always came to my rescue when I needed him. He’d defended me against his fellow officers and friends on numerous occasions, and he’d risked his neck more times than I could count. That’s why the current situation was so frustrating. He was wrong. We should have moved in to help Joe. Until today, he’d never treated me like a damsel in distress or a liability, but apparently now he thought I was both. And he called me the f-word. So what if I was a federal agent again? It didn’t change anything. I was still me. He was still him. And we still had a job to do. This wasn’t that different from any of the other cases we’d worked together, but from the heated glower that traveled in my direction, he didn’t agree with that assessment.