"Bad blood?"
"Shit yeah. Miguel used to run junk into Vermont, like a bunch of 'em do. Johnny took it over, a couple of weeks ago. Got ugly, too. Some shootings. A few people beat up. I don't know if Miguel might not get him back, or one of the other top shits around here, for solidarity. They're still pretty hot about it. Johnny might have to pay big-time if he wants to see tomorrow, you know? I mean, live and let live, but you gotta show respect."
"Right," Sam agreed, hoping to keep him rolling. "Maybe they could work something out. Is Johnny smart enough for that?"
Ricky seemed to have almost forgotten his lover routine in exchange for being the answer man. "Johnny's plenty smart. He figured out how to get a piece of the pie, didn't he? Cutting out a hunk of Vermont for himself? That's smart, if you ask me. Maybe he pissed a few people off, but now he's a big shot when he was just a street guy before, and he didn't have to face off with any of the bosses around here for stealing local turf—that really would've got him killed."
"You all but said Miguel wanted him dead."
He took his hand off her stomach and waved it dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. Miguel can't just lie down, you know? Plus the others're mad, too. They all have to save face. It's kind of like Johnny ripped 'em off a little, too." Ricky cupped his groin. "But he has cojones. You gotta respect that. They'll work something out. They always do. Maybe some people'll die, there'll be a little trouble, but Johnny's got protection, and like I said, Vermont's not the biggest deal in the world or anything. It was like he took over a side business or something. There's still enough to go around."
"But it's not settled yet, right? There could still be a fight."
He nodded seriously. "Oh, yeah. It's like they say on TV, you know? 'It's a fluid situation.' I love that. 'Fluid situation.'" He suddenly seemed to remember a forgotten line, because he slipped on the leer again and put his face close to hers. "Like us, right, baby? A fluid situation."
She allowed herself a genuine laugh then, patted his cheek with her hand, slipped down and under his arm, and walked toward the open door. "You never know, Ricky. You like older women?" she asked over her shoulder.
He took her rejection in stride, which she was only hoping he'd do, and laughed back at her. "You can't tell by now? I'm losing my touch."
She paused on the threshold, faced him, and put her hands on her hips, suddenly realizing how close this kid was to the type of man she often did fall for—a little dangerous, a little lost, dangling between being clueless and far too knowledgeable for his own good. "Don't you believe it. What's Johnny's last name and where do I find him?"
"Rivera," he said, and gave her the address, adding, "You be careful. I want you back without bruises."
Chapter 8
Gail sat at a small table overlooking the Harmony parking lot in downtown Brattleboro, nursing a cup of cold coffee. Across from her, operating from what used to be a retail shop, was a drug counseling outreach center, its former display windows now plastered with colorful art and upbeat, antidrug slogans. Both the irony and the courage to locate such a place in the heart of the town's most visible marketplace for illegal substances had made for lively discussions in this debate-happy community. Neighboring merchants hated it, advocates loved it, the selectboard waffled.
Gail, no surprise to those who knew her even slightly, was among the advocates. On this occasion, however, she wasn't sitting in admiration of other people's handiwork. She was waiting for someone to appear from the center's door.
Earlier that morning, fresh from the sleep that Joe had disturbed to check on her well-being, Gail had called on old friends and contacts in the therapy and drug rehabilitation business, until she'd found one who'd dealt with Laurie Davis. This approach from an outsider would normally have met with a professional stone wall, of course, patient confidentiality being the hallowed thing it is, but Gail had paid her dues with this group of people, through her friendships, her backing, and her political might when she'd been on the selectboard. She therefore not only confirmed that Laurie had unsuccessfully been treated for a drug dependency but also got the name of the girl acknowledged to have been her best friend—another addict, named Debbie Holton.
And Debbie Holton came to the Harmony drug outreach center for a regular appointment.
A thin, nervous girl with dirty blond hair and rumpled, baggy clothes appeared from inside the center and paused on the doorstep, taking in the parking lot before her. The Harmony lot is a unique and well-known Brattleboro icon. A large, tree-filled courtyard, accessible through an arched porte cochere at one end and a gap between two buildings at the other, it is wholly reminiscent of a medieval marketplace, walled and protected. Surrounded by buildings both commercial and residential, it is perforated by the back doors of retail businesses and thus allows for a multitude of discreet avenues to the busy streets beyond the walls.
A drug peddler's dream.
Over time, the surrounding merchants had complained and been answered with stepped-up police patrols, surveillance cameras, neighborhood meetings, and hot tip phone numbers for the reporting of suspicious activity. All to little avail. Like rodents reacting to bright light, the pushers would vanish until things settled down, only to reappear as before.
Debbie Holton stepped away from the center's threshold into this familiar territory, instantly blending into a small group of similarly dressed young people who were sitting on the curb chatting and smoking cigarettes.
Gail watched her carefully as she cadged a smoke, shared a few laughs, and took a sip from someone's Coke before finally standing up and shuffling toward Elliot Street, visible between two building blocks.
Gail got up, left a generous tip, and followed her.
Elliot is one of the town's funkier streets, especially here, in close proximity to Main. It hosts one of Brattleboro's quaintest restaurants—a tie-dye, sixties throwback named the Common Ground—right opposite Peter Havens, one of the ritziest. It has bookstores, bars, music stores, an Indian eatery, the fire department's central station, and one of the town's more dilapidated rooming houses. It also boasted the retail birthplace of Tom and Sally's Chocolates, a typically Vermont phenomenon. Akin to Ben & Jerry's ice cream—where two people blended a high-class product with the aura of its down-home, romantic home state—Tom and Sally's made a success of selling, among other things, chocolate cow patties.
Elliot is an anthropological snapshot of what makes Brattleboro the unique Vermont landmark it is.
Gail followed Debbie Holton west, studying her drooped shoulders, the way the bottoms of her jeans dragged behind her heels. She looked like a waif, only vaguely connected to the world around her, and even, Gail now realized, a little like her niece, Laurie, also pale, thin, and blond. That similarity, made Gail all the more resolved in her quest.
Holton suddenly cut through an opening in the railing to her left and made for a long, steep, open-air flight of stairs that connected Elliot to the Flat Street parking lot some forty feet below. All of Brattleboro covered or bordered three significant waterways and was, as a result, spread across a topsy-turvy of hills, gullies, steep slopes, and ravines.
Liking the relative privacy afforded by a staircase hanging between two busy streets, Gail took advantage of her quarry's choice of routes to make her move.
"Debbie," she called out, she hoped in an upbeat voice.
The young girl turned and glanced up, her expression mute at the sight of a complete stranger. Gail read in her eyes the look of a refugee—hungry, fearful, resigned, but also faintly feral.
"What?"
Gail approached, meeting her on the first landing, where the stairs doubled back on their journey to the bottom. She stuck out her hand in greeting, mostly to force Holton to make physical contact with her.
"My name is Gail Zigman. I'm Laurie Davis's aunt."
The girl barely touched Gail's fingertips with her own, which were damp, warm, and seemingly without musculature. "Hi."
She had a soft, high vo
ice, clearly lacking in curiosity.
Gail was caught slightly off guard by the bland reaction. "Well, I just wanted . . . I mean, I got your name . . ." She laughed self-consciously. "Let me start again. I heard you and Laurie were good friends."
"Yeah."
After a long pause, Gail continued. "So I wanted to meet you. Find out how you were doing."
"Fine."
"It must've been a shock, though. I mean, I didn't know she was in such a jam."
Debbie was starting to look around, as if hoping for a distraction. "Yeah, well . . . whatever."
Gail pulled at an earlobe. "Look, Debbie. I know this is kind of weird, but I feel a little responsible for what happened. I am her aunt. I should've looked out for her."
"She talked about you."
The statement came out matter-of-factly, without inflection.
"Really? What did she say?"
"That she had an aunt. A big-deal politician. That you?"
To her own surprise, Gail was disappointed. "Not really, but I suppose I'm who she meant. What else?"
"That was it. That's all there was, anyway, right? You doin' your thing, Laurie doin' hers. What's more to say?"
A silence fell between them. Gail usually prided herself on an ability to speak with anyone. This girl was proving to be an exception.
"Do you want to see her?" she finally asked.
Debbie shook her head. "See myself in someone else's body? Don't think so. I'll get there quick enough on my own."
Gail was startled at both the depth and the starkness of the comment. "Is that what you want?" she asked.
Now it was the young girl who seemed caught off guard. She looked straight at Gail—the first time she'd actually done so. "Sometimes."
Gail pursed her lips for a moment, trying to think of the right way to respond, knowing a misstep now could break the wispy, hair-thin bridge they were building toward one another.
"It must be hard."
Debbie smiled just barely. "It's what it is."
Gail nodded. "If I promise not to bug you about it—not even talk about it, if you want—could I buy you lunch?"
"Now?"
"Yeah."
Debbie Holton looked uncertain. "I don't—"
"I promise," Gail repeated, holding up her hand, as if in a pledge.
Debbie laughed a little. "You gonna put that on a Bible or something?"
She didn't actually accept Gail's invitation, but the two of them started down the stairs side by side.
* * *
"What were you doing in there?"
Bill Dancer was clearly put out, trailing behind Sammie Martens as she walked quickly toward their car.
"Getting an address on Johnny Rivera," she said without looking back.
"That's his name? Rivera? I never heard of him. That can't be good. The guy must be a punk."
She circled to the passenger side and opened the door, getting in. He joined her in the car, his face closed down with frustration and anger. He was supposed to have been the main operator here—the guy to depend on. The guy who got the girl, even. Now he didn't know what the hell was going on.
"He might've been a punk once," Sam agreed, "but lover boy in there says he's come into his own as of late."
The reference fired Dancer up again. "What the hell was that, anyway? What did you do with him?"
Sam laughed. "What d'you think, Bill? A fast fuck against the wall? I asked the man a few questions. I stroked his ego. Made him feel like a real dude. You gonna give me shit for that? So we can drive back to Vermont with nothing but the shit on our shoes? That's not why I came down here."
He stared straight ahead, not saying a word.
Repressing a heavy sigh, Sam reached over and laid her hand on his upper thigh. "Billy," she said softly, feeling like slapping him instead. "We came down here to get something going—to give us a jump start to something better. You want that to happen, right?"
"Sure," he conceded, adding, "It just made me feel weird, you know? You doin' that."
She brushed the back of her finger against his cheek. "That's sweet. I didn't know you felt that way."
He stared at her. "Shit yeah, I do. What do you think? I mean, damn. Since I known you, I told you that."
She laughed. "I thought you were just horny."
He smiled awkwardly. "Well, sure. That, too. But . . . you know."
"Yeah. I do. It's okay, Bill. Let's just see this through, okay? There'll be time for us later."
His face lightened at that, and he started the engine. "Cool. First things first. You said you had an address?"
She gave it to him, happy to have him back on track. In the long run, Bill Dancer was disposable, probably the sooner the better. But for right now he gave her the best cover she could ask for—not too bright, locally known, and with past history of purchase and sales. All she had to do was be his bimbo long enough to get in under the tent flaps.
"Tell me about all the head honchos they keep talking about," she said as he pulled into traffic. "The doorman said Johnny Rivera had stirred things up when he made his move."
Dancer was back in his element, feeling good again, at the wheel in more ways than one. "This town's run by about four of 'em, and each one's got turf spread over three areas—the Flats, South Holyoke, and Churchill, which is basically downtown. Those are the screwed-up parts of town, and the best placed, 'cause what with the Mass Pike, I-91, and I-391, complete with on- and off-ramps—not to mention the river and Chicopee and South Hadley on the other side—gettin' away from the local cops is pretty easy. You should look at a map of Holyoke, Greta. It's a laugh. The city's laid out so it looks like someone flipping the finger. I shit you not. Holyoke says, 'Fuck you, America.'"
"Cute," Sam murmured. She had seen a map. The image was there, but only if you were looking for it.
Dancer nodded, lost in his patter. "Yeah. Thought you'd like that. Anyhow, even though there's enough trade to go around, they chew on each other out of habit, you know? It's the macho thing." He lapsed into some indistinguishable accent. "Hey, man, you dissin' me? You insulting my mudda?" He laughed at his own theatrics. "So they cut each other and try to steal each other's turf. Kind of like warlords. Each head guy has maybe thirty or forty street guys, depending, and some of the street guys have people, too. They work it different ways, but it's the corporate thing all over again. Friggin' AT&T. That way the boss never gets dirty, never puts his hands on the product, and supposedly never gets busted. Course they do—all the time. Cops grab 'em for one thing or the other. Never sticks for long, but it keeps things stirred up at ground level. I don't know this Johnny dude—probably an independent, 'cause there's a shit-load of them, too—but I bet that's how he did his thing: moved when the powers-that-be were busy, if you get my drift. Happens all the time. They huff and they puff. They do some drive-bys and rough a few competitors up. Sometimes it works and sometimes it don't. Maybe somebody gets killed now and then. But it's all showing off. There's so much money changing hands, nobody has time to fart around with a real gang war. Plus, sounds like Johnny did it the smart way, grabbing business that nobody owned in particular."
He pulled over to the curb. "Here we are."
Sam looked around. "Pretty nearby."
"Whole goddamn town's pretty nearby. Shit, I mean two of the bosses I was talking about? They live a block and a half apart. The turf's pretty clear cut, but you can see one from the other. Holyoke's a small place. Oh, oh—here we go."
He was looking out his window at a short, stocky, twenty-something man who was approaching them from one of Holyoke's interchangeable brick housing blocks carrying a metal baseball bat. Instead of chains, this one had opted for fat shiny rings on all his fingers.
Bill rolled down his window. "Hey, man."
"What're you doin' here?" the bat wielder asked.
Sam leaned over to look up at the man, allowing him a view down the front of her V-neck sweater. "We're here to see Johnny. From Vermont."
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"He know you?"
"Miguel Torres knows me," Bill answered. "I used to do business with him. Word is Johnny's the new man, so screw Torres, right?"
"Yeah, well, screw you, too, you don't have no appointment."
"Hey," Sam protested in a high voice. "Come on. We're lookin' to buy quantity here. Johnny's setting up business. We're here to help him do it."
"He don't need no help."
"You sure about that? You telling us to bring our business someplace else?"
She kept her eyes glued to his, driving home the implication.
He blinked. "Get out of the car."
They did as ordered. The man escorted them into the lobby of the building, where a number of others were standing around looking watchful. The hands-against-the-wall routine was followed again, but with none of "Don Juan's" blatant self-interest. This doorman was all business.
"Follow me," he told them afterward, and led them deep and high into the building, not just along staircase and hallways but also through several wall openings that had clearly been made with sledgehammers. Sam had no idea where they finally ended up, or even which wing of the block they were in, but she had a good notion they were at the heart of a modern day fortress, specially customized to both ward off attack and create a multitude of ambushes. If Johnny's enemies were interested in putting him out of business, they'd have to do it away from here.
Their escort finally knocked loudly against a steel-reinforced door. It opened a crack, he exchanged a few words in Spanish with a man inside, and then the door swung back.
The room they stepped into was square, small, window-less, and had five young men in it, all armed with semiautomatic weapons, all decked out in jewelry and designer clothes nobody could appreciate. They said nothing to the new arrivals, and Bill and Sam kept silent, waiting for directions about what to do next.
A door on the wall opposite them opened, and a slim, attractive man in jeans, a designer shirt, and a single thin gold chain around his neck appeared. He smiled pleasantly, nodded to both of them, and said in a quiet voice to Bill, "So, you used to work with Torres."
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