Revenant

Chapter 9

Some people think being a cleaner involves nothing more than having the nerve to shoot somebody, and then getting paid. As a matter of fact, I've even known a few 'professionals' who believed that those two particular traits were the only requirement for the job. I don't really visit them too often - I'm not all that fond of penitentiaries. Or cemeteries.

Point is, I work for my money. Some days I work damn hard.

It was starting to look like one of those days.

I'd jumped on the information about Steven's drug source as soon as I got back to my place, figuring I could get some info on his whereabouts, or at least find out when the last time he came by to score was. That thing he'd done in the alley - lifting the tattered gunman off his feet and propping him up against the wall with one hand - well, Glenn hadn't looked like a hundred-and-twenty-pound weakling, even under all those ratty clothes he'd been wearing. And even if he had weighed that little, the strength needed for Steven to manage something like that with one hand was almost certainly going to be the product of a deep, meaningful love affair with some chemical or another.

That probably meant he was smoking aces, or dusting, or otherwise taking some form of phencyclidine. There weren't many drugs out there that could allow someone to temporarily ignore the laws of biology like that, but PCP was definitely on the list. It was seriously unpleasant stuff on the way up, and it didn't let you back down very easily either. There's a reason why you've probably never heard of a recreational angel dust user.

Any guy doing that kind of stuff on a regular basis was likely really far along in his habit. Violence and psychosis were common, both during and after taking that particular drug, which was consistent with what Shoe had told me about Steven's deteriorating behavior. It also pretty much explained why Diavolo had tried to have him killed. When your underboss started seeing things and shooting the people he worked with, it was probably pretty bad for morale.

Still, I'd been hoping he'd been doing heroin. I've seen enough heroin withdrawal to be able to fake it. Someone who had a jones for phencyclidine - I had no idea.

I hugged the grubby flannel shirt I was wearing and coughed, figuring that at the very least I should be faking some sort of health problem. Especially after going to the trouble of applying all that makeup to make myself look half-dead. Every junkie I'd ever met, no matter what sort of stuff they were using, always had some chronic something-or-other wrong with them.

I hate playacting.

Sniffling and coughing, I hauled myself up the lawn and in front of the drug dealer's door with obvious effort, just in case anyone was watching. I knocked loudly, a one-two pause one-two-three cadence that sounded a tad cocky. That done, I stood there and huddled further into my flannel shirt, shivering slightly, arms wrapped around my chest.

It was then that I remembered that it was July, and balmy out.

I stopped pretending to be cold, and transitioned into 'nervous and scratchy' just as the door opened. What stood before me was a short, unhealthy looking fellow with thinning, curly black hair and an outfit that would have allowed him to blend right into the background of an episode of 'Cops'. He looked me up and down, briefly.

"I don't fuckin' know you," he said, simply. He began closing the door.

"Stevie said to come here, man," I said, trying to sound as pathetic and out of breath as possible. "I got no other connections here, man! Please!"

The door kept swinging shut, but it stopped with a few inches to spare, and he peered through the space at me.

"Stevie?" he said, looking skeptical. "Wanna be a little more specific?"