Worm

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Why was he working as a driller on a job where the worms were tested constantly for drugs if those were the same worms he wanted to sell his shit to?

  How was this not a recipe for getting caught?

  And why the fuck had Ferret wanted in on this? His stomach squeezed anytime he thought about it.

  He crossed his arms and turned in a slow circle, looking for...no clue. He had asked, What am I looking for? And Slow Bear had said, Clues. But no, he didn’t know what clues. Some shit written in Serbian? Some photo albums full of Pancrazy as Colonel Blagoje shooting women and children? Some sales receipts for dope?

  A quick peek in the mini-fridge, a peek behind the small loveseat, a toss through the dresser drawers—where he’d found a handful of women’s underwear, but definitely American, unless Bosnian Muslim girls wore G-strings, too. Ferret gave up before he even really started and sat down on the bed. He rubbed his temples. He couldn’t do this. Goddamn that Gene Handy, should’ve listened the first time. Should’ve. But he didn’t think he could do what’d he’d seen and done earlier that day, either. A lot had changed since then.

  *

  Good Russell had found Ferret on the job and told him Pancrazy wanted to see them both. It had been a busy morning, with new guys replacing some other new guys who couldn’t hack it. Ferret had to explain and explain again. This was how you did it. Only two of them weren’t mouthbreathers. Those two would be fine. Ferret hoped the others would stay out of the way and not get people hurt. He got them sorted and then headed towards the trailer.

  Inside, Pancrazy, shirtless, his chest a patchwork. It looked like he’d been wrapped in barbed wire at some point. Good Russell closed the door behind them and, goddamn, it was hot. The a/c was off and the windows were closed, and for some reason there were five space heaters on full blast surrounding the desk. Pancrazy, sauna wet and sleepy, waved them in to sit in chairs. It stunk of too much cologne and sweat and whatever mold had been awoken by the heat. Like Brut and cheese. Above it all, this acrid minty smell, like a pine tree car freshener.

  Ferret sat and felt the wind go out of him. Tired. Sweat streamed off his forehead and over his eyebrows. Blink blink blink wipe. If Good Russell was feeling any of this, he was hiding it well.

  On top of it all, Pancrazy was smoking.

  He said, “Sales are down.”

  His words sat there on the desk. Sales wasn’t any of Ferret’s concern.

  Good Russell said, “Drug tests? Guys try to clean out if they think those are coming up.”

  “But they’re fucking random.”

  “Someone’s got to know. An extra order of testing supplies, someone getting a bunch of cups out of a closet.”

  Pancrazy flicked ash on the floor and shook his head. “Are we going to talk about cups and tests, or about the locals who make this shit?”

  Ferret could barely pay attention to what he was saying, too busy listening for an accent. How could a Serb this old speak English like he’d been born here? Well, he didn’t have a choice, Ferret supposed. His life depended on it.

  Good Russell looked at Ferret, back to Pancrazy. “Anyone can make meth. That’s why it’s shitty. It’s fuckin, like, poison, right? It’s fucking cold medicine.”

  “Ours is better.”

  A shrug. “Sure. The buyers don’t care. They want cheap shit where they still got money for beer left over.”

  “What are you telling me, Russell? Are you telling me I’m full of shit?”

  “Shit, boss. Listen, what do you want me to do? Tell me and I’ll do it.”

  Pancrazy didn’t answer right away. He stared at one of the windows, at the blinds. The fuck was he looking at, Ferret wondered. The driller said something under his breath, sounded like, Jebo or Jebum or something like it and some other shit that got lost in his growl and then a cough that sounded like years of scar tissue and hate.

  When he was done, he took another long drag—menthol, add that to the stink in the room, yeah, that’s what it was—and told Good Russell, “If you head down to the chicken joint, ask the cook, you know the cook?”

  “I’ve met him.”

  “Guy named Martin, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “So, if you ask him, he’ll tell you that some of our salesmen are cooking their own and calling it ours. He’ll tell you where they do it.”

  Ferret couldn’t help himself. “Wait, how do you know this?”

  Pancrazy looked at him, scrunched brow. “People tell me things. Especially if they work for me and they get caught with dirty piss and don’t want to lose their job.”

  “Listen,” Good Russell slid forward on his chair. “They probably make enough to smoke half themselves and sell the rest to their buddies. It’s not a big deal.”

  “No, see, it’s a big fucking deal, Russell, because you’re the one who hired the punks. And you’re the one I trust to get things done, to clean things up, but I don’t know if you and that shit-for-brains friend of yours...you know what Martin told me? You really want to know?”

  “What?”

  “Come here.”

  Russell sighed, clapped his hands on his knees, and took a moment to push himself out of the chair. He rounded the desk, weary. What, Ferret though, was Pancrazy going to slap him? But he didn’t. Russell leaned in and Pancrazy mumbled some smoke into his ears. Made Russell cough. Pancrazy grabbed Russell’s collar, got his mouth right on that earlobe. When he was done, he shoved him back. Russell sat again, looking sick, like throw-up sick.

  The driller took another noxious drag. Ferret wanted to pry the invisible hand from his throat. Pancrazy stubbed out the butt. “I don’t know why I got into meth. I don’t even care. It’s boring. It’s not like...heroin, see. But as long as we’re doing this, we have to send a message. You two, you go send a message.”

  “What?” Ferret didn’t do messages. “I don’t do that.”

  “You do what I need you to do.”

  “No, wait, seriously. I drive.”

  Good Russell said, “I can get Gene Handy.”

  “Gene’s busy. I want Ferret to go with you.” Pancrazy, all leaned back in his chair now, fingers laced across his chest. “I gave this one a bonus. He has to work harder after a bonus.”

  “He did. He drove. It’s no big deal. I’ll do it myself.”

  “No, you’ll take him with you. I said take him! I’m your fucking boss, asshole, your fucking boss, and you’re going to take him with you!”

  Good Russell stood with an “Okay, okay,” and slipped his hand under Ferret’s arm and lifted. “C’mon.”

  “But I’m right here. I can speak for myself. I don’t want to do this. If this means I can’t drive for you anymore, okay, I won’t. That’s done. Okay? I’ve kept my word, I’ve never told anyone. We’re good.”

  Good Russell tugged again. “Finn, please.”

  He twisted and broke Russell’s hold. “Do you hear me? I’m done, okay?”

  Pancrazio said, “You do this or you’re fired. I mean fired fired. And wherever you go for a job, whoever you try to get on with, there’ll be a jar of filthy piss waiting for you. The filthiest. No one will hire you, not even through the backdoor. Your wife’s job will probably be in jeopardy, too, because the parents won’t want her supporting your habit. Not to mention the visits from the police, checking on your stash. A stash they will find, by the way. And I swear, you won’t find it first. But they will. Okay? They will arrest you in front of your daughter. Okay?”

  What was he saying? What was this? Jesus. He felt tight. So much to say. It didn’t get past, “Who the fuck—”

  Good Russell gave a good hard yank this time, lifted Ferret against his will. “Come on. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Who the fuck do you think—”

  “Let me know when it’s done.” Pancrazy swiveled his chair a full one-eighty from the desk. “Ferret can take the rest of the day off after.”

  Good Russell nearly dragged his ass out of the trailer,
but Ferret didn’t get to say anything else other than “Who the fuck does he think he is?”

  What really sucked was that Ferret already fucking knew.

  *

  It was in a trailer park, barely shielded by a windbreak. The leaves had been falling fast, so they drove over a wet red and yellow blanket to get there, past abandoned trailers, some with squatters, and Ferret wondered if there were more than one meth lab in this park. Not only that, but real Labs—the dogs—sunning themselves and rolling in leaves and trotting alongside the truck for a few seconds before giving up and heading back. They were all limping.

  Good Russell had told him not to worry. He’d said he would take care of it. He’d said Ferret could sit in the car if he wanted, but Ferret wasn’t going to do that. He wasn’t a child. Besides, Good Russell had said there wouldn’t be any real trouble. More like a warning. More like posturing.

  “Seriously, you can stand back. Look bored.”

  But then they parked and got out and Good Russell leaned his driver’s seat forward, pulled out a long iron pipe and a giant golf club, the shaft snapped in half. He tossed the club to Ferret. “Just in case.”

  Ferret nearly dropped it because he was expecting something heavier. This thing, like, light as a tennis ball. Lighter. Not that he wanted to use it, but if he had to. “Is this for catching butterflies?”

  “That thing smacks a ball four hundred yards. It’s science. It’ll do someone in good.”

  Ferret flipped it, dropped it, picked it up from the ground. He looked at the club head. It said “Heated” and had some letters and numbers but they had been scratched away, like some guy had practiced on concrete. Stained, too, dirt and something else. Brown. Don’t think about it. He double-handed the shaft. It was too skinny to get a real grip on and his palms were sweaty. He twirled the head.

  Good Russell smiled. “Trust me, okay? It’s only for show.”

  “You know these guys, right?”

  “I know them. You let me deal with it.”

  The trailer wasn’t all that bad. Clean, too. A lot cleaner on the outside than Ferret’s place. A couple of big gray bricks, off-kilter, were the only steps. Good Russell didn’t hesitate. Hopped right on up and tried the door without knocking. Of course it opened. Trailer locks, so flimsy. Ferret decided to get another lock on his own trailer’s door now that he thought about it. Good Russell had no trouble making the jump and Ferret was right behind.

  He wasn’t ready for the smell. What was it about stink today? Seriously, this was like burning cat piss in a men’s locker room. Ferret made a couple of gacks while Good Russell said, “You two, sit down. Everybody, get out here right now.”

  Then the other voices, white boys playing gangsta. “The fuck man? Shit, Russell!”

  Ferret got the door shut behind them and took a look. Off to the left, the kitchen, every square inch of it full of glass beakers and plastic bottles and pipes and baggies. To the right, bare bones living room, couch with no legs, a small flatscreen, a Playstation, and at least one or two bags from every fast food joint in Williston. A five-foot tall tower of Mountain Dew boxes. And a fat kid with a tank-top, no pants, a buzzcut and thick glasses. All broken out and greasy. Standing in the hallway, a tall guy. Long-ass jean shorts, boxers billowing out, no shirt, hair all up and crazy and covering his eyes. More noise from behind him, from one of the bedrooms. Very loud. “Shit, man, shit, man, the fuck!”

  “Get out here!”

  “Fuck you! We’re not scared of you. Comin’ in here like The Man.”

  “If I have to come back there, I will beat the living shit out of you!”

  A head popped out from the door at the far end. A beefy neck. Kid was built. He stepped out into the hall in tighty-whiteys, hands flexing at his sides. Bit of a roid rager. Football player, something like that. He took cautious steps until he was behind the skinny one.

  Ferret thought, these guys really hate clothes.

  The fat one’s dick had retreated back in on itself, but whatever had been going on in the bedroom left the roid rager hard and long in his briefs. Good Russell used his pipe like he was a traffic cop. “Over there, all three of you now, on the couch. Sit on the couch.”

  The fat guy kept standing, but the skinny one did as told. Mr. Muscles used the kid as a shield, his eyes on that pipe the whole time like he was about to snatch it out of Russell’s hands. Russell had this little grin, like, Try it. Like, I dare dare dare. Like, You have no idea.

  None of the kids looked older than high school, but Ferret thought kids looked younger every year. He couldn’t tell seventeen from twenty-seven anymore. The haircuts, the clothes, the way they mumbled and cursed more than talked. They were all “Leave us alone, bitch,” and “The fuck” this and “The fuck” that like it was a magic word that would keep them safe from harm. Even worse: “nigga.” Three white boys from North Dakota saying “nigga” over and over like they were down with it.

  Looked like Russell had them in check, so Ferret headed down the hall. Dumbass thing to do, but he didn’t want to get popped by some high-schooler hiding back there with a .22. He gave his useless golf club a twirl and eased step by step towards the other end of the trailer.

  Ferret walked slowly. The hallway was flush against the outer wall, so he only had to worry about the two doors on his right and the one at the end of the hall, already opened. But first, the bathroom. In the sink, a glass pipe, smudged and burned. Three plastic lighters. A sandwich bag with a bit of crystal meth in it, Ferret guessed, because except for TV, he had never seen the stuff up close before. On the edge of the bathtub, a big value-sized bottle of baby oil. Probably lube, what they were using it for. Shit, the smell, the greasiness. The lid was up on the toilet, the darkest yellow he’d ever seen, streaked with blood. Same thing in the bathtub, yellow and brown.

  Next bedroom, the one where the muscles had been, was a rumpled mattress on the floor and the smell of ass. Some burnt foil with residue. A blanket with deer on it, one of those microfiber jobs. A small closet, no door.

  Some whispers from the front room.

  Shit, you weren’t supposed to—

  —you didn’t say! You didn’t fucking tell us—

  —He knows, idiots!

  Last room, at the end of the hall, that would be the surprise, right? The one where the kid with the gun was hiding? Or a chick with the knife? Or something bad. Just bad. Bad plus. He did that thing where if you stood real still and closed your eyes, maybe you could have super hearing. And damned if there wasn’t...something. A mumble. A snort, like when your nose was running, a moan.

  Fuck it. He didn’t need this. Ferret backed down the hallway, his eyes on that far room. In the front, more razor sharp whispers, louder and louder.

  —Tell me you did what I told you—

  —Are you calling us liars? Are you serious, you don’t trust us?

  —Jesus, man, he knows, didn’t you hear him?

  —She’s here, isn’t she?

  More moaning, sniffling, rattled breathing. That back bedroom.

  “All right out there, Russell?”

  “Yeah, come on out.”

  “Wait, there’s one more—”

  “It’s fine. Just these three. Get the fuck out here.”

  “There’s someone else.” He raised the golf club.

  “Ferret! Don’t!”

  Ferret slammed his back against the door and rode it to the wall in case someone was hiding behind. But no. Another bedroom with a sheet for a curtain, a halogen lamp, and another mattress. On the mattress, Ferret didn’t get it. It took a moment. A bad fucking moment.

  It was a woman. He could tell because she was naked. But she was a woman bruised up and down, pale, in arm chains, propped up against the wall with too many pillows and a Velcro strap. Her head wasn’t shaped right. The top left was just flat, man, under a mat of fucked-up hair. That side of her face was stretched or swollen, some shit. Burnt. Her left eye bulged, on the verge of popping out. The other, wi
nking, spasming.

  “Jesus!”

  “Ferret, come on!” Russell was stalking the hall now, grabbing Ferret’s arm again. He’d done that too many times that day. Ferret held onto the doorframe. The girl in bed, he didn’t know if she could see him, if she could hear him. She seemed numb to the world. Drooling, moaning. But then he saw it, her other eye. Staring right at him. The normal eye.

  Good Russell and the beefy kid were both pulling on Ferret, trying to pry his arm free, the kid punching him right on the bone until he let go and let himself be dragged off. In the living room, the beefy kid give him a shove and sent him into the TV. It fell off the plastic bin it had been sitting on, the screen cracked down the middle.

  It didn’t hurt. Ferret was up and on the kid with the club, right on him, drive after drive after drive, the kid shielding his skull from the blows while Russell yelled at him to stop. The goddamn club was better than expected. A crack and an echoing ping after every shot. The fat one wanted to flank and come from behind, but Ferret gave the club a big swing that sounded loud and whoosh and pinged the fat guy on his elbow with a bad crack.

  He was cornered, breathing hard, the beefy kid turning purple all over his arms and face, the fat one screaming and hot-stepping all over the room. Good Russell with his pipe ready, samurai style.

  “Who was that? Get her some help, goddamnit!”

  “Easy, Finn. Calm down. I’ll call for help. I will. I promise.”

  “Who was that? What’s wrong with her?” Then at the boys. “You raping her? She’s chained up?”

  “Finn,” Good Russell, calm and collected. “Really, Finn. Easy. Give me the club.”

  “We’ve got to call the police.” Which sounded stupid before he even got it out of his mouth. Russell didn’t even have to say it. Meth lab, underage idiots, chained-up retarded girl in the bedroom. Jesus.

  “Just chill out. I delivered our message. It’s time to go.”

  A thin voice from the kitchen, the skinny kid. “Nuh uh, he can’t, he’ll tell on us. We’ve got to kill him.” And he came out into the living room with his arm out holding that fucking .22 pistol Ferret knew would turn up, he just knew it. Ferret put up his hands, turned away like he was trying to dodge a punch.