The Chemist

Chapter 2

April 17th, 1:30 p.m. The South Bronx, New York City

This chapter is dedicated to drug counselor Noel Cruz of United Bronx Parents, Inc., whose first hand experience helped me bring some realism to the story.  

They came here through no fault of their own. That's what they told Daniel Strong, when he started working here. He'd just led a group session for teen addicts at the Caring Sanctuary of New York Rehab Center in the Bronx.

The Center insisted the staff call them clients, but Danny thought more of them than that. He was one of the few counselors who had made it a point to speak with any of the teens in one-on-one sessions he had scheduled, which they more often than not blew off. The office was a cramped, windowless space he shared with five others. Governmental issue metallic desks and chairs were arranged into pint-sized cubicles with weathered and ripped gray plastic dividers. A 1990s desktop computer that still took floppy disks sat on a vacant desk.

Almost three years to the day had passed since Danny had moved to New York City. He eked out a living both as a drug rehabilitation counselor and as a personal trainer for a gaggle of uptown fitness clubs. He once told himself that he needed a change in his life, to move away from his familiar southern roots. The job seemed like a natural progression; helping others overcome the demons that had almost devoured him in the wake of depression, a consequence of grieving the death of a loved one.

On his way out, Danny noticed that everyone else had left for the day. Walking five blocks to the Fordham Road bus stop, he passed two boarded up bodegas, rows of walk-ups and some multifamily buildings. The City never got around to paving this section of street or replacing the crumbling and uneven sidewalks. In a word, it was desolate, making it that much easier to hear the hurried and uneven footsteps that followed about forty feet behind him.

He turned to look back and thought he caught a glimpse of someone darting behind a stairwell of one of the walk-ups. The sound of the footsteps vanished, but started again when he resumed his journey, so he quickened his pace. The footsteps sped up in time. When he got to the corner, Danny stopped again. He started to turn back, but froze, eyes darting to his right. Again the footsteps stopped. The block ahead was covered with scaffolding, a green dumpster parked about midway against the curb. The sidewalk was blocked off and rerouted along the street side of the dumpster.

Danny crossed the street and followed the makeshift path, then made the sharp right that led back to the original sidewalk along the short end of the dumpster. The sound of footsteps still moved toward him. When Danny made the turn, he paused, and waited.

When he heard the footsteps approach, he pounced, grabbing his pursuer by a dark gray sweat jacket and pushing him against the dumpster. A red polyester book bag landed on the ground with a thud. Danny released his grip when he realized who it was. "Why are you following me?" he said, pinning the assailant against the dumpster.

Darryl, one of Danny's clients, straightened quickly for someone who had just been slammed into solid metal. "Hey, Mr. Strong. I never meant to do nothin' to you."

"Oh yeah, what then? Something you want to tell me?"

Darryl looked away.

"Look at me, Darryl." Danny noticed at his feet a thick wad of twenty dollar bills held together with a rubber band. It had jarred loose when he grabbed Darryl. He judged the wad to amount to about two grand.

He reached down and held the wad up to Darryl's face. "You've been doing more than smokin' the bottles."

He knew there had to be a reason Darryl had wanted to follow him. A bit more coaxing was necessary. "I can't help you unless you're straight with me now."