I had the most bizarre experience last week.
Cindy invites her Trusted Lieutenant Smith over to the house this afternoon to talk business. There’s a strange woman with him. MUCH hotter than he usually manages.
I’ve always been a bit suspicious of Smith. You know when someone’s just too good to be true? That’s Smith. He’s WAY too good at this stuff to be working for a couple of amateurs like us. I had her ask him where he picked it up and he told her he’d worked for other dope organizations for the last 15 years. This is his profession. Actually money-laundering is his profession. And even though that’s not what we need right now, he also has the skills we do need.
Cindy: “Who’s she?”
Smith: “She’s my boss.”
Cindy:”Whaddaya mean *she’s* your boss? I’m your boss.”
Smith: “Mmmm… Not exactly…”
At that point I figure we’re both about to get shot. I’ve seen all those 1970s dealer movies. I know what the Godfather does when the Plucky Independents start cutting into his bottom line. He sends his Trusted Lieutenant to shoot them in the head.
But no. Smith’s purpose with us really is what he says it is. He really is helping us out. He’s just doing it on someone else’s orders. I never heard of anything like this. We eat into the mob’s business and they send one of their top guys to *help* us? I’m still processing this. Don’t get me wrong, I’m real happy I didn’t get shot that day. But still, this *is* weird.
I found out why they’re so interested in us. They’ve never seen a panic like the one that hit when our stuff ran out. Apparently nobody has. I just heard of somebody’s last gram (that I sell for $500 an ounce) going for $300 and somebody else’s going for $50 a tenth.
Also really cool watching Smith’s hot boss tonight calling other dealers and telling them, “Whaddaya mean you can’t tell me exactly which fentanyl analog is in your China White and exactly how much there is? This is 2017! You HAVE to give the customer that information!” We started that a few months ago, it’s now officially become a thing.
A couple-three days ago, Cindy’s former Trusted Lieutenant, Mark, shows up on our doorstep with this guy we’ve never seen before. This was exactly the behavior that made Cindy fire his ass in the first place. Anyway, he presented Sam as being in the landscaping business and we talked about that for a bit. I only ever worked at landscaping for one day, but even that was enough to get that Sam didn’t know the first fucking thing about it. Next day Sam comes back on his own. There’s no pretense about landscaping this time. He’s a smack dealer (Big surprise there, I don’t remember the last person in my home who wasn’t. It may have been before moving out here.) and he operates in the burbs. He really thinks we’re wasting our time in the hood selling to Mexicans, meth-heads and bikers. I noted that he failed to mention “niggers” in his list of undesirable clientele when the guy he’s trying to be without a doubt would have said it, filed that one away for later and kept listening. In fact, he says, we really ought to relocate and set up shop in his territory.
Wait, what? Who in the fuck invites the competition into their turf? Especially when we have (hope to have again, anyway) a product better than his that we can sell for a third the price. We can eat his lunch and he knows it. There’s got to be another shoe about to drop. A few more minutes, the big reveal comes out. He’s passing. His father is black and he’s passing. This is supposed to throw us off balance and if we were from here, it would have. While we’re pretending to process it, he gets his ask ready. Directing to me he says “It would really be for the best if you prepared Mark a hotshot. Would you be willing to do that?” I just growled at him “I didn’t hear that and you didn’t say it.” Then, the absolute gall of this guy, he directs the same question to Cindy sitting two feet away, like it hasn’t just been asked and answered. Cindy won’t cut me down in front of a stranger (Nor will I do the same to her) so she repeats what I said, word for word.
Then he says “You’re leaving me no choice. Is it OK with you if *I* cap him?” Now while neither Cindy nor I are murderers by nature, we’re also not going to stand in someone’s way unless we like you at least a little. That’s just… not our business. And the truth is, I never had any use for Mark, and Cindy has given him every chance in the world. So we both assured the guy we sure weren’t standing in his way. “Do what you need to do,” we both said. “That’s your thing. Now don’t get us wrong, it wouldn’t break our hearts if this happened, but we do not want anyone to do it for our benefit. That said, again, we’d shed no tears if it did in fact happen!”
Next morning, Cindy’s whole crew is here. I’m lying in bed trying to decide which end of it to puke off of. That’s how dry it is these days. I don’t know a single dealer in town who’s even able to feed his own habit right now. Anyway, yeah, my wife has a crew now. She never lied about what she was before I married her. First movie we ever watched together was Johnny Depp playing George Jung in “Blow”. She needed me to understand who I was getting involved with.
Then Mark shows up at the door. I have to figure at this point, he’s either clearly trying to goad me into fucking him up, or else legit does not have the basic social skills that say “You don’t show up unannounced at a woman’s door after sending them angry texts, nasty crank calls, and talking shit all over town about her.”
Panic ensues. If he sees the crew here he’s going to decide he was right all along that this was a big huge fake drought we’re pulling to try to cut him out. I get up slowly, open the door and tell Mark “you wait right fucking there I’m getting my boots,” and then bark at Cindy, “Get me my boots, wallet and car keys! I’m going to fix this once and for-fucking-all!” At this point I have to do the fake badass routine. This is the midwest. If I let another man disrespect my wife like this, nobody here will take me seriously. Ever. I’m furious he’s put me in this position and feel like death warmed over at the same time. But in a few seconds pissed off at this asshole wins out over sick, so I get my boots, keys, and wallet, and walk out.
I stagger outside and lead Mark to my car. Predictably, he starts spewing his schizo-paranoid bullshit at me. Usually I got no patience at all for that shit, but today it’s going to lead Mark right where I need him to go. So I play right back at him. “I’m taking you someplace safe. I’m parking you at Frank’s place for the day. You got a kid in Portland you never saw, right? In a couple of hours, someone you thought you could trust is going to give me a one-way bus ticket to Portland and a wad of cash to get you set up when you get there. Now, do you understand what happens next if you don’t take it?” He says yes.
I tell him, “I’m not sure you do. I know you’re a tough guy. You’re not afraid to die. It only hurts for a minute. But think about me. I’m a fucking amateur! I’m a little rich-kid pussy! I just wanted to sell some dope and make some money. I never cut up no dead body before! I never drove around with fucking body parts in the trunk of my car before! I know *you’d* never run from a fight, but think about me!”
Frank was none too happy when I showed up on his doorstep and even less happy when he saw I had Mark with me. Frank is a bigtime importer. None of these little street pissants want to get on his bad side. But how he maintains that is by not letting the street into his home. I’m asking him to change what’s worked for him for years. I begged, he agreed — until sundown. And I owe him a big one to be claimed later. Ha! Six hours? My dog could pull this off in six hours. Nothin’ easier! Before I drive off, I shout to Frank “Don’t let him make any phone calls. I don’t want anybody to know he’s here.” More to the point, I want him isolated so he can’t check my story and find out what a line of bullshit I just fed him.
I get the bus ticket. One way to Portland, as promised. Mark never told me his last name, but I overheard it once, so I got it printed on the ticket. Back to my place, tell Cindy’s crew what I’ve done, pass the hat around. Or try to anyway. But imagine this, the elite of the Midwest’s dealing scene is assembled in my home and not one of them has two nickels to rub together much less one to give me. Myself, I got maybe 20 bucks left on my card.
Alright, no cash. Pigfuckers that they are, I will remember this. I’m taking a man who never asked for a chemical timebomb to go off in his head, and I’m sending him to a city where he’s never been, where there’s exactly one person who knows his name and exactly zero who want to talk to him and I’m sending him there with lunch because that’s all my card will handle right now. Three granola bars, an apple, a banana, two bottles of water, a pack of cigarettes and a mickey of Southern. I asked the cashier to put the booze through separately because I wasn’t sure I had enough to cover it.
Take him to the bus station. Departure minus 45 minutes. If he’s going to have a brain-blow, now is the time. I’ve been keeping his ticket in my pocket as a mind-game. I made it something he has to want and ask for instead of something being forced on him. Now the whole fucking crew shows up, minus Cindy. Cindy could forgive Hitler, once, if he begged and was super sorry and sincere. But there’s a reason her favorite t-shirt reads “Sweet as sugar, cold as ice. Cross me once and I’ll shoot you twice!” So I’m not a bit surprised she didn’t show up.
Now everybody wants to be my best friend and Mark’s. Fuck ’em in the ear! If they can keep Mark distracted for 45 minutes until final boarding call, I’ll take it. But by no means will I confuse that with doing the heavy lifting where they left me on my own. Tick, tick, tick, and finally it comes. Final boarding call for Chicago, New York and points east. I put my arm around Mark and start fast-talking the busdriver. “My friend’s been on the street for a while, he hasn’t got ID but the ticket is legit, I myself paid cash for it, paid it to that woman behind the counter, she’ll remember me…” Driver buys it. Lets Mark board the bus. Then there’s a half hour delay for God knows what. I plant myself against the window looking out at the bus, and brace my arm against the sill so I don’t fall down. But I need to see it. This ain’t done until the bus pulls out of the lot with Mark on it. And I need to see it happen.
The station security guard doesn’t like what I’m doing. I’m not breaking any rules, but it’s still suspicious as hell. I give him the Manson stare and he finds pressing business in a back room. Finally, finally, could not have happened at a better fucking time, the bus leaves. I walk out with it, just so I can see it disappear into the distance with our problem on it.
Back to the house, they tell me I saved Mark from another hit, besides Sam’s threat. Maxie — the horse veterinarian chick with the horse-sized habit — has money, and she paid some meth-head to cap Mark. Note to self: Maxie needs a talking-to if she wants to keep hanging around my house. I bet she never even looked at what the murder clearance rate in this town is. It’s 86%. And what characteristic do the other 14% share that she doesn’t have? I’m going to guess the ability to threaten a shooter already in police custody with a fate far worse than lethal injection is part of it.
The truth of it is I was told Mark was greenlit three times, not twice. It just so happens I know a bit more about the third story than the guy telling it to me. Yeah, we sold some dope to a Son of Silence, yeah, they probably got a “no hypes, no pipes” policy like most bikers do, yeah the guy was found dead with a needle in his arm and our dope in his bloodstream. All of that’s true. But he left a note. “Goodbye cruel world! I don’t want to live after my girl left me. And so I’m deliberately slamming my entire supply. Right now.” Couldn’t have cleared me better if I wrote it myself. I let it be known I was ready to go talk to the Sons and explain myself. But they already had the note. His handwriting, his signature. They accepted it at face value, didn’t think I could tell them anything they didn’t already know.
All our dealers have strict instructions to report even the slightest health problem of any customer up the chain and if one of our customers dies — of any cause whatever — no detail is too trivial or extraneous for me to want to hear it. We’ve reformulated our carrier medium twice, just to help the IV users avoid skin infections. We tried telling them to just snort it but realized in a matter of weeks that once people get used to needles they inevitably go back to them. It’s this bizarre thing where they basically forget there are other ways to get dope into your bloodstream.
I found a scientific paper from 1914 that cross-indexes all the common bugs, including staph and aureus, the two worst skin infections, with all the common sugars, and I picked the one that no bug you’re likely to find in your skin can eat. It’s an obscure wood sugar, similar to xylose, but Wal-Mart sells it as an artificial sweetener under the name “Truvia”. Much safer than the lactose/mannitol cuts the industry has been using since forever.
We’ve had three false alarms, including that biker. We got one late night report from an hysterical woman that we’d poisoned her brother. The morning paper gave the cause of death as multiple gunshot wounds. The truth didn’t make her happy, and I never thought it would… but it got her to stop talking shit about us. We got another saying Mark had called 911, and then bolted when a cancer patient overdosed. Not cool in a state with a Good Samaritan law. The guy who phones in the overdose is un-fucking-touchable, no matter what he sold to who. We were able to establish that the building doorman saw cancer guy walking around the lobby six hours after the supposed overdose, so that one’s not on us either. We’ve had two overdose incidents that should not have happened, that are going to force some more changes in the way we do things, one where the guy was tagged and bagged before he woke up. But both times, the guy came all the way back. We’ve sold 2-3 thousand grams without killing a single person. We are on our way to proving what we set out to prove — that supernarcotics can be sold without killing anybody.