Текст книги "The Call of the Mountain"

Автор книги: Sam Neumann

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

34

Damon picked me up at my apartment at the usual time, and I told him.

“It was heroin; I’m sure of it,” I said as the car rolled west down I-70. It was a risk, but I had to take it.

He had a look on his face; glazed over eyes and sweat forming on his temples. I watched him closely as I told him, to try and pick up cues. If he knew about it, he would have a tell. A twitch, fake bewilderment, something. So I watched him closely, to see if I could identify these things. I couldn’t. He was the one I trusted the most; we had become friends, even if only out of convenience, and when he told me he didn’t know the exact contents of what we were hauling, I believed him. He seemed credible. It was a stupid thing to do, to tell him like that. For all I knew he would immediately call the boss once I got out of the car and I would be dead before morning. But I took the leap. I needed an ally.

“There’s no way,” he said, eyes wide and fixed on the road.

“Is it really that hard to believe?” I asked. “Look at the facts: they purposely keep the cargo a secret. They pay us way more than they should to drive a car for a few hours. If Vince was hauling normal freight, wouldn’t it be in semis or something? We drive sedans and pickups.”

He shook his head. “Shit man. Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“I know,” I said.

“Fuck. There’s no way.”

“There is. It doesn’t take that big a mental leap, when you think about it.”

“Listen man,” he said, putting a hand on his head. “I’m not as smart as you man, alright? Big east coast stockbroker and all that. I’m from Leadville, man. I don’t think about shit the way you do.” His voice rose. It was sinking in.

“I thought you were from Arizona.”

He shook his head. “Born there, yeah. But I grew up in Leadville. I’m a mountain boy, that’s it.”

“It’s not that I’m smarter,” I said. “You just didn’t think about it. I’m more nosy, I guess.”

He shook his head. “No man. That ain’t true at all. Fuck. How could I be so stupid?” he yelled.

“Thinking that way won’t help us,” I said. “We’re both in this. We have to figure out what to do.”

“Fuck,” he said again, and shook his head. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“You don’t think,” he said, pausing to look around the car, then lowering his voice, “you don’t think the car is…like…bugged?”

He exited and parked on the side of a frontage road, and we both got out.

For ten minutes we both searched the inside of his car, neither of us knowing what we were looking for. We looked under seats, beneath the floor mats and on the roof. He emptied the glove box. I ran my hands along the door jambs and trim, feeling for signs of foul play. There was nothing.

We gave up and rode in silence the rest of the way. When we reached our destination, we got out and stood in the dim light of that industrial warehouse district. He looked at me, confused, waiting for me to figure out how to get out of this mess. An Oldsmobile Cutlass and a Chevy Malibu sat parked a few spots down, waiting for us. Mocking us. Damon looked at the cars, then back at me.

“Here’s the plan,” I said, and made it up on the spot.

We would get in the cars and drive east like usual, because they could be watching. We would drive—Damon following close behind me—until we reached the spot I’d pulled off and parked last time. There, we’d open the trunk of his car and examine the contents. This would alleviate any lingering doubts he might have about my story, and seal his allegiance to me. Then we would complete the run like normal, and regroup the next day to work out a long-term plan. At this point, we were knowingly committing a felony, but I didn’t see another viable option. We couldn’t abandon the run without risking a disastrous backlash from the management, the nature of which I did not know and did not want to find out. Furthermore, we had both committed this felony numerous times—me, dozens, him, hundreds, probably. Legally, we were so far up shit creek already, a few more strokes of the paddle wouldn’t make much difference.

This plan—though hastily arranged and moderately risky, with us diverting from our route and snooping through the trunks—went fine, at least the part we discussed. Damon followed me down I-70 until the exit and frontage road, which the memory was still fresh enough to find easily. I checked my mirrors often. My hands began to sweat when we turned down the dirt road, now deep in the woods. I imagined he was on edge as well.

The contents of the first trunk were eerily similar. It still baffled me they weren’t locked, but once again I pressed the trunk release button and it popped open, flooding light into the darkness of the mountain night. I instructed Damon to do the same, and we peered into the trunk of his Malibu.

“Speakers,” Damon said, motioning toward the scattered boxes that lined the bottom of the trunk. Probably two dozen of them; small, desk-sized speakers.

“It’s always electronics on top,” I said as I shoved them to the edges, clearing a space in the trunk. I found the handle for the spare tire compartment—placed a foot from the last car I’d driven—and pulled up.

Spare tire. Car jack. Tire iron. Brown heroin. Bricks of it.

Damon needed a minute. He paced around and came to terms with the fact that he was a felon, facing decades in federal prison if caught, ignorance be damned.

When he was ready to go, I patted him on the shoulder and assured him we’d figure out a way out of this, as if I had some master plan. I did not, of course. We got in the cars again and took off, me in front, him in the rear.

When I saw the flashing lights, it was like a dream. We were no more than ten miles down the freeway from where we’d pulled off when my rearview mirror lit up with a maelstrom of blues and reds and whites. I was numb immediately, filled with the sinking feeling of impossibility. This could not be happening. There was a police officer behind me, and he was going to pull someone over.

I glanced down at my speedometer. Eleven miles per hour over the limit; my speed had crept up to try to make up time lost by stopping. That stupid. Stupid.

Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid

The lights got brighter and I slowed down, at once resigned to the fact that I’d been caught and fabricating flowery scenarios in which I wouldn’t get caught. I pulled to the right shoulder and realized he was pulling over someone behind me. The police officer with the flashing lights was pulling over another car, and not mine. My heart leapt.

It was Damon. My heart sunk.

My car now idling on the shoulder, I saw clearly in my rearview that it was Damon. The officer’s spotlight shone brightly on the Malibu, illuminating its burgundy paint job.

He was screwed. Or he wasn’t. From an outsider’s perspective, there was nothing to indicate Damon’s car held thousands of dollars worth of heroin. Unless the officer had a dog, there was no way to tell. Perhaps it would be a routine speeding ticket. Perhaps Damon would play it cool, be polite, crack a whimsical joke, and send the officer on his way.

Perhaps.

I got back on the highway and drove. It was all I could do—sticking around would only raise suspicion. I carefully stayed under the speed limit until I reached the drop point, where I waited for Damon.

35

He never made it. I waited for an hour, insisting to the handler he would show up any minute. They got agitated, those faceless individuals who received the cars at that shadowy location in the hills, then the handler drove me home. They were always stoic and mute, going about their business with focused intention, but that night, they were agitated. They asked me questions that bordered on interrogations. Where was he? What happened? Was I involved? They were not used to things going awry.

Initially I considered lying to them, telling them I didn’t know anything, but I thought better of it. If he was really in trouble, they might be able to help. Vince might be able to use his influence somehow, and make this go away. So I told them about Damon getting stopped, and that was when they started freaking out. A young, skinny guy put his finger in my chest. Another man dialed his cell phone and walked into the shadows. This was not normal.

Eventually they took me home. I wanted to wait—he would be there any minute, I said—but they insisted. Whatever the problem ended up being, there was nothing I could do to help. A blonde man—who looked no older than twenty—drove me to my apartment in silence. I slept two hours, unable to get the image of those flashing lights out of my head. Then, around 3 a.m., Damon called.

He was in jail, and he was frantic.

“Just what in the fuck am I supposed to do?” he asked me, breathing hard into the phone and trying unsuccessfully to keep his voice down. “I’m fucked. I’m so fucked.”

“Ok, calm down,” I said.

“Seriously dude, fuck.”

“Alright,” I said. “Okay. What happened?”

“Well…fuck. The dude pulled me over. Asked if I knew why he did, but I can hardly even talk straight ‘cause I’m freakin’ out so much. I’m all sweaty and twitchy and shit, ya know? ‘Cause I know I just need to be cool and everything’ll be fine, but I was still jacked from seeing that shit in the trunk or whatever, so I was all messed up before he pulled me over. Then when he did…man, when I saw them blue lights, I just freaked. So I’m tryin’ to answer his question, but dude can obviously tell somethin’ ain’t right. So he talks to me a little more, tells me I was speeding. Meanwhile I can’t do nothin’ but nod. That’s it: just noddin’ along. So he tells me to get out of the car, and that’s when I knew I was fucked.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah so I get out, can barely balance to stay up ‘cause my head’s so messed up. He looks around a little, shines his flashlight into the windows and shit, asks whose car it is.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Told him it was a friend’s. Told him I was driving to meet him, in Frisco. Just made some shit up. He says okay, can he look in the trunk? And that was like…that was like a knife into my side or something. But I tell him yeah.”

“You told him yes?”

“Yeah! The hell was I supposed to do? Tell him no?”

“Yes!”

“Jesus, Julian, I didn’t fuckin’ know what to do. I figured dude would arrest me on the spot if I told him no.”

I sighed. “Alright. So what happened?”

“I’m like, listen, my dad always taught me, you get pulled over by the cops, you just go along with what they say. You just be polite, say ‘yes, sir,’ do what they ask, and you’ll be alright. So man, that’s what I was tryin’ to do. I tell the dude yeah, you can look in the trunk, ain’t no problem, figurin’ maybe he’ll just see the speakers and say alright. But right when I pop the trunk, another cop pulls up, this one even meaner. He sees the speakers, then they pull up the bottom. And I’m like, fuck, man, my life is over.”

There was a pause.

“So they found it?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, “they found it. And they were like, total dicks about it, too.”

“So they cuff you,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“And they drive you to jail.”

“Yeah.”

“And then what.”

He inhaled loudly. “Then I tried to explain myself.”

My head sunk. Fucked indeed.

“You told them what, exactly?”

He inhaled again. “Told ‘em the truth, sorta. Told ‘em I didn’t know that shit was back there, which up until today was true.”

“And when they asked for the name of your friend, who owned the car?”

“I didn’t give ‘em no names. I ain’t real smart, but I know I’m not supposed to tell ‘em that. So that’s when they got pissed, when I wouldn’t give ‘em names. And now I’m in a cell, and this is my phone call.”

“You didn’t name anyone?”

“No, dude, no one. Don’t worry, you ain’t involved at all.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” I said.

“Yeah, whatever.”

There was a long pause.

“Julian,” he said, “you’re a smart dude. I’m countin’ on ya here. What am I supposed to do?”

I thought quickly. “We need to get you a lawyer.”

“Alright. How do we do that?”

“Did they read you your rights?”

“My rights?”

“Yeah. Miranda rights. ‘You have the right to remain silent.’ That shit.”

“Yeah, they did that.”

“When?”

“Right when they cuffed me. Outside the car.”

“Fuck.”

“Is that bad?”

“No, just…you need a lawyer. Alright, when this call is over, next thing you do, before they ask you any more questions, you tell them you want a lawyer. They you don’t say shit until one gets there, alright?”

“Alright.”

“Not a damn word.”

“Got it.”

“I’m gonna make some calls. You sit tight until you hear from me again. If they try to ask you questions, just keep telling them you want to talk to a lawyer.”

“Cool.”

“It’s gonna be fine.”

“Alright.”

36

It was early morning by the time I got a hold of Vince. The sun came through my blinds, and a thin layer of frost melted down my window. Outside I heard a crow call echo through the trees.

Initially I texted Suzanne to get Vince’s number. She didn’t respond, which was understandable; it was late, she was probably sleeping. I then called her, twice, to no answer as well. Eventually I worked up the courage and sent Adeline a text, not because I wanted to—at all—but because it was the only real option if I was to get in touch with him. Surprisingly, she did respond, and didn’t question why I needed to speak with him so urgently. She simply relayed his number. I tried him five times and nothing. Hours passed and I paced the room, trying every 15 minutes. A pot of coffee sat warming in the kitchen when the call came in.

“Hello Julian.” The voice was firm and clear.

“Vince,” I said, my hands shaking and my voice erratic. I’d been drinking coffee for hours. “Damon got in trouble.”

“Yes, I heard.”

I stopped pacing. “You did?”

“Yes. Busted for speeding, I believe.”

“Well, yeah…but…they arrested him. He’s in jail.”

“Indeed. Unfortunately these local police can be quite disagreeable.”

I waited for more of an explanation, and received none.

“Well…we have to get him out.”

Vince chuckled. “I appreciate your concern, Julian. And I imagine Damon does too. But not to worry; I have it taken care of.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I’ve handled the situation.”

I looked around the room. “So Damon’s fine?”

“Of course. It was just a routine traffic stop, remember?”

I nodded. “Of course.”

“I have to run, Julian. Glad we could clear this up.” He hung up.

Taken care of. So Damon was out?

I spent the day calling Damon’s cell phone every thirty minutes and being sent straight to voicemail. If he was out, his phone was still off. This continued until 3 p.m., my self-imposed cutoff time, when I called the jail and asked about him. They told me they couldn’t give out inmate information over the phone. So I drove there.

Eagle County Jail. Another stupid decision. Showing my face and giving my name to the people who arrested Damon for committing the same crime I’d committed, with him, that night. Dumb. But I needed to do something. Bad decisions weren’t affecting me like they used to anymore. I had decided there wasn’t always a good decision and a bad decision, a right way and a wrong way. Sometimes there were only wrong ways, and you just had to pick one.

The drive took an hour and I walked right in. The jail was tiny, connected to the larger Eagle County Police Department. I wasn’t nervous, but I figured I was out of nerves. It was easy; there was a small, bland reception area through the front door, just like a normal office. The only difference was the receptionist; a young man in uniform stood behind the front desk, fit and straight-standing, short blonde hair neatly pushed to one side. He was fresh off the assembly line.

“Hi,” I said, approaching, “I need to ask for information on an…inmate.”

“Sure,” he said, bright smile and glowing cheeks. “What’s the name?”

“Damon Peters.”

He clicked around on a computer and frowned.

“Can you spell it?” he asked.

I did. He frowned again.

“Problem?” I asked.

“Not showing up in our system.”

“Ok. Well can you tell me when he was released?”

“No,” he said, looking up at me, “that means he’s never been here.”

I wiped my hands on my jeans. “Huh.”

“You sure you’re at the right jail?”

“Eagle County?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“Maybe…maybe he was never formally arrested.”

He shook his head. “Shouldn’t matter. Anyone comes through those doors, they go in the system. Long as they’re charged with something, I mean. Not people like you.”

“Right,” I said. “Is there anyone else I could talk to?”

“You could,” he said, “but it wouldn’t do you any good. They’re lookin’ at the same screen I am.”

I said nothing and processed the information.

“You want me to call the guys over at Summit County?” he asked. “Could’ve been just a simple mix up.”

“No,” I said, “thanks.” I knew I was at the right place. I left through the front door.

In the parking lot, I tried Damon’s cell phone again. Straight to voicemail. Expected. Something was off, again. I’d been right about the drugs, and I was right about this. I knew it. I didn’t trust a single damn person.

I zipped up my fleece and walked to my car. The parking lot was nearly empty; not a lot of action on a weekday afternoon at the Eagle County Police Department & Jail. The tree leaves shook in the gentle breeze, most already having turned striking reds and yellows, and many falling to the ground.

On my drive back through the canyon, I was reminded of the beauty of this place. Those autumn colors lined the highway underneath a deep blue sky, like some desktop wallpaper. There was a heart to the Rockies, a crisp earnestness, a far-off wonder. And now there was an infection in it, something that started small and innocuous but grew dangerous. Something I should have caught earlier, but I didn’t want to catch. And now I would have to treat it, because it was inside me. I had let it get out of hand, and now I had to be careful, and I had to treat it.

I was tired, physically and mentally. My mind was exhausted. I felt like a wet animal outside in the cold. I was out of worry, and out of fear. I didn’t give a shit. I called Vince, and the son of a bitch actually answered.

He sighed and greeted me. “Hello again.”

“Vince. Listen. Okay, just listen to me for a minute. Something is off. Something is fucked up. And I don’t know what’s going on, but it isn’t okay. It isn’t.”

“What’s wrong, Julian?”

“Damon,” I said, and then I told him what I knew. Told him about the jail and the database and everything, how it didn’t add up. He let me speak without interrupting, and when I was finished, he invited me to his home.

“We shouldn’t discuss this over the phone,” he said.

“Why not?”

“There are things I can tell you, Julian. I probably should tell you. And I probably should have in the first place. Come up this evening, and we’ll hash it out. I promise you, it will make sense then.”

I told him I’d be there in an hour.

A quick stop at my apartment and a change of clothes, and I was on the road again, gaining elevation. Before I walked out my front door, I surveyed my apartment. I looked at the half-filled duffel bag, still sticking out from under my bed. I considered taking it. Having a go-bag ready, just in case things went sideways. I was tired, but I was still alert. I shook my head, and grabbed the three-inch camping switchblade off the kitchen counter and stuffed it in my pocket. I knew it was silly, but it put me at ease, at least a little.

37

At the door of Vince’s mountain chateau, I raised my hand to knock, but before I could the door swung open. It was Adeline.

“Come in,” she said with a smile. She wore a loose, stylish wool shawl and form-fitting jeans. My adrenaline, already running, spiked when she spoke. I hadn’t seen her since she’d left my apartment. She stood in the doorway and beckoned me inside, wry and knowing, in control. Always in control.

I kept my gaze at eye-level and followed her inside. It struck me as I entered the house that I hadn’t seen her and Vince in the same place since the night I met her. She grazed my shoulder with her hand, and I pulled away.

“Vince is in his office,” she said. “I’ll walk you down there.”

We walked through the living room and down the hallway, to his office at the end. He sat behind his desk when I entered, just like last time, and smiled when he saw me.

“Thank you, Adeline,” he said, and she left us alone. She brushed my side as she walked away.

Vince motioned for me to join him. I sat down across from him, just as I did the last time. This time, he drank coffee. He offered me and I declined.

“You’re spooked,” he said to me. “I understand that.” His demeanor was kind, authentic. He smiled honestly. His gaze was soft. Different from before. He was a powerful man, able to flip a switch and convey whatever he wanted. I almost trusted him.

“Well,” I said, “it’s concerning.” I made a promise to myself on the drive up to avoid hyperbole, or extremes in the conversation. Downplaying would be best. “Damon gets arrested, and calls me from jail. And then hours later, he’s gone, and they have no record of him. Just doesn’t add up.”

“I see,” he said.

“And I know I’m not supposed to ask too many questions and mind my own business and all that. But it’s kind of becoming my business. He was the guy I always worked with, and now I don’t know where he is. And if something like this can happen to him, why can’t it happen to me, you know?”

“Right,” Vince said. He sipped his coffee. “Let me do my best to explain the situation to you, because I owe you that.”

“I’d appreciate it,” I said.

“First, I apologize for the stress all this has put you through. You didn’t deserve it, and it should not have happened.”

“Thanks.”

“Now, Damon was pulled over for speeding and arrested last evening. As I understand it, you were near when it happened.”

“I was,” I said.

“The police took him into custody, and I was immediately notified. Believe it or not, this is not the first time one of our drivers has had a run-in with the police. The I-70 corridor is very sensitive. So I got in touch with my contacts on the police force, and worked out a deal to get Damon out of jail. Very simple. This is a procedure we’ve used multiple times now.”

“So, you…paid them off?”

He smiled. “Julian, I’m sure you can appreciate that while I want to be as forthcoming with you as possible, there are certain nuances on which I cannot go in to specific detail. This is one of those nuances. I can tell you that ‘paid off’ is not the accurate way of describing it.”

“Okay, so you somehow just talked to the cops and they let him out of jail.”

“I’ve been working in these mountains for a long time,” he said, the smile fading temporarily. “I have considerable influence around here. That affords certain luxuries.”

“Alright,” I said, “good enough. So where is Damon now?”

“Now?” Vince looked at his watch. Rolex. His smile returned. “I can’t know exactly, but on a highway somewhere, far from here.”

“Far from here.”

“Yes. Damon’s on his way to Phoenix. He has family there. As part of the…agreement I’ve brokered, he needs to be out of Colorado.”

“Temporarily?”

Vince shook his head. “Damon will not be working with us anymore. An unfortunate necessity to make the arrest go away, but an easy decision to make.”

I nodded. “Which is why his phone isn’t working.”

“Correct.”

“And why it won’t work.”

“Correct. He’ll get a new number, but none of us will know what it is. We’ve seen the last of him.”

Quick, surgical, and heavy-handed. But a no-brainer.

“Makes sense,” I said.

“I’m glad.”

“Here’s the thing though: why was he even arrested?”

Vince smiled and took a sip of coffee, his large hand engulfing the cup. “Ah yes,” he said. “And we arrive here.”

“That’s kind of an important part, no?”

Vince thought about it and shook his head. “No. Not for our purposes.”

“I disagree.”

“It’s not important,” he said, “because you already know the answer.”

And there was the sweat. And the adrenaline. And the clammy palms and the increased heart rate. Time and time I thought I was out of these things, that the tank was empty, and each time they returned.

I said nothing, and felt for my knife.

“You know we aren’t just hauling electronics in those trunks, Julian. And I know that you know, and I would venture a guess that you know that I know that you know.”

I did not know that he knew that I knew.

“Heroin,” I said with a dry mouth. It was poker, we had both placed our bets, and I had laid my cards down on the table.

He nodded and looked at the table. “Mostly. And now we reach the part in which I owe you a second apology, for willfully deceiving you about the contents of those cars. I do it to all of my drivers for reasons you can probably understand. But most of my drivers are average in intellect, and do not run the risk of putting themselves in harmful positions by inquiring and investigating. You of course are not this way, which I knew when I brought you in and which was also the reason I had a plan for you.”

“A plan?” I tried to swallow but could not.

“But that’s neither here nor there, at least not now,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Now I must tell you I’m sorry I deceived you, but what’s done is done. The two of us must handle the situation presented to us.”

“How did you know…I knew?” I asked.

He waved his hand again. “Please. If I can get a narcotic trafficking charge completely removed with no legal maneuvering, I think I can monitor my own operation.”

I nodded.

“But now,” he said, “we must be very careful about what happens next.”

“I think I should leave,” I said, probably too quickly. “Just quit the job altogether. It’s probably the best solution. I could even leave the area if you think it’s necessary. It’s…you know, it’s compromised.”

He frowned and shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not a possibility.”

“Which part?”

“Any of it.” He waved his hand. “You see, I understand why you’d like to just cut ties. From your perspective, that would be the best solution. But you and I are in this together now, like it or not, and we must find a solution that works for both of us. You up and leaving, unfortunately, does not work for me.”

“I’m sure you can find plenty of other qualified candidates to drive a car from Grand Junction to Summit County.”

“Of course,” he said. “But the matter doesn’t simply end there. Your knowledge of my operation puts me in a problematic position.”

“Meaning?”

“Do I really need to connect the dots for you, Julian? You were a stockbroker in a previous life.”

I inhaled deeply. “So your saying you’re afraid if I leave the operation, I’ll go to the police.”

“The police, a friend who will go to the police, a family member. There are just too many inherent risks.”

“I see,” I said.

“It’s unfortunate,” he said.

“But if I wanted to go to the police, wouldn’t I have done it by now? Why does it matter if I’m working for you or not?”

Vince took a sip of coffee and smiled. “He won’t stop until he has all the answers. No stone unturned!” He raised his fist in mock jubilation. “For one, you’ll be engaging in the same activities as me. You implicate me, you implicate yourself. Two, I’ll just say it’s easier to control the things that are under your umbrella. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

I didn’t understand the last statement, totally, which was his intention. A vague threat is an effective threat.

“So,” he said, “this is the situation in which we find ourselves. Unfortunate, certainly not ideal for either party, but necessary for the time being. We’ll continue on as we have been, for the immediate future.”

“And then what? How long is the immediate future? How long does this have to go on?”

He shrugged. “Until you and I repair the trust between us. And once that happens, we’ll decide how to proceed.”

Repair the trust. Right.

“In the meantime,” he said, “I’d like to move things forward on the right foot. No more secrets. And please, let me take you to dinner. The two of us, and our women.”

And our women. As soon as he said it, the sweat came back.

“Sounds nice,” I said, “but I’m not sure. Suzanne’s not exactly my woman.”

He waved his hand. “Understood. Labels aren’t important. But knowing Suzanne, I’m sure she’d enjoy a private table at the Otter Ridge Steak Room.”

“She’s not too happy with me right now.”

Vince leaned forward, smirked, and motioned toward the living room. “She’s happy with me about once a season.”

We both shared a laugh, and in that moment, if only briefly, we were nothing but buds. A couple of guys, talking women troubles, relating to one another. It was fleeting, but it was real. And it was dangerous.

As we chuckled, Vince began showing me out.

“I’ll make a reservation,” he said. “Tomorrow night. The women will love it.”

He patted me on the back, and I felt myself slipping into his warm, comfortable incubator. I felt it, engrossing my body like a shot of morphine. I could give in. I could play the game. I could be one of the guys. And one day, before long, I could be his apprentice, or better. It could be easy; I could just keep making runs, working a handful of hours a week and making good money, and spending the rest of the time doing whatever the fuck I wanted. It could be easy. I could just keep doing it, keep playing the game, keep not saying anything, until the money grew and so did my influence. I could be him. I could have her. It could be easy.

It flowed through my veins and warmed me, all in seconds. I understood. I understood everything he wanted me to understand, and nothing more. I was smart and strong but so was he, and so were wealth and power. They were slick bastards, and they’d taken better men than me.

He walked me to the door of his office, and the pull came back. It came suddenly, just like that morning in New York when Ray Lamontagne sung on the radio. It arrested my thoughts, my feelings, instantly, and put an end to the warm embrace of wealth and power. It was like methadone to the heroin he injected into me.

It told me to fight, while I still could.

“You know,” I said, stopping in my tracks and turning toward him, “I could just do it anyway. I could just go to the police.” My voice was low and my eyes were narrow, and we stood in the doorway to the hall. I needed to show strength. The tone in the room turned easily.

He didn’t look concerned, at least not right away.