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?"
Argh. I tried to recall the stuff I'd read on the information sheet. Willenskraft. People didn't throw their last names around in places like these, however. What had that handle been again? Shoe had used it once.
"Uh . . . Steve-o?" I asked.
He grunted, opening the door about a foot. "Steve-o ain't exactly my favorite person right now. If you're a 'friend' of his, you'd best be telling him to settle up. That means no selling to any of his friends, neither . . . not 'till he pays me for the horse he already took off me."
Heroin?
"He, uh . . . he sent me to, you know, handle things. Settle up. He's got something going on, wouldn't tell me what it was, right? Needs some of the usual - enough for two. I got money," I said, trying to sound like I was pleading for him to believe me. I had money on me, probably more than enough to cover what Steven owed this guy. And there's nothing quite as friendly and talkative as a drug dealer who's just been paid what he's owed.
His eyes narrowed, and he looked me up and down.
"You? He trusted you with eight bills?"
Eight hundred bucks . . . that wasn't too bad.
"Plus a little extra, like I said." I gave him a sheepish smile. "He wants the same stuff as the last time he was here. Enough for two," I added, hastily.
"Well, hate to break it to you buddy, but that boat has sailed. Long time ago." He shook his head, sadly. "Never did have good timing, but I did think he was a little smarter than that. Last of that particular batch got sold and packaged out almost two weeks ago. Got some nice tar from down South, though . . . best batch I've seen in a long time. He'd probably be interested in a piece of that, hey?"
Heroin again. Mixed with angel dust, maybe? Not unheard of, but hardly anybody actively looked for heroin that had been cut with that stuff.
"Whatever you figure he'll like, man. I'm just riding along. If he's happy, I'm happy," I gushed.
He looked me up and down, then gave me a contemptuous chuckle. "Let's see it."
"He wanted to know exactly how much," I said, thinking fast. "Like, was that eight with interest?"
"What? Nah, he knows I don't charge extra for my regulars . . . although I was maybe starting to get tempted. You tell him that three weeks is a long time to leave someone hangin'." He snorted his amusement. "I'd figured him for dead, to be honest."
This wasn't what I was expecting. Not at all.
"I thought he scored more recently than that," I said. "I mean, that's what he told me, anyways."
The guy's eyes narrowed further, and he gave me a completely new look. He was clamming up . . .
"Who did you say you were again?" His hand went behind the door, like he was grabbing something. "I thought I'd met all of Steve-o's friends. You a cop?"
"What? No, no," I said, "I'm just a buddy of Steve-o's!"
"Yeah, sure. Didn't even gimme your name - like I'm gonna trust anything you say. I'll let you settle what he owes, if that's what he wants, but you tell him I don't sell to 'friends' unless he's down here vouching for 'em. In person."
Time to wrap this up - he was done talking. On the plus side, I probably didn't have to fork over eight-hundred bucks now.
I quickly considered how to leave things. A junkie wouldn't want to leave empty handed, and a cop would try to get him to name a price. Time to raise his suspicions a little.
"Please, man, I'll get him down tonight I swear! I walked for over two hours just to get here, and he said you'd be cool with it! Just tell me how much for the tar, okay?"
"Fuck that," he snarled, retreating further into his abode. "Do I look like a complete moron to you? You pay what he owes, and maybe I'll consider it."
"Hell with that! You'll just take it, not give me anything. I ain't a cop! C'mon, please! Just enough to shoot up here! I brought my rig - I'll even do it in front of ya!"
"Get lost, asshole!" He slammed the door in my face. I heard a couple of bolts lock in place.
I made a point of pleading through the door a couple of times, swore loudly, and then stole away through a nearby alley, heading back to where I'd parked my car.
Interesting. Not good, and certainly not what I'd expected, but interesting nonetheless.
Three weeks since he'd last seen his dealer. That was really odd. Stranger still was the fact that his dealer thought it was odd as well, like it was out of character for him.
Had he hooked up with a new source? Perhaps left his usual dealer in the lurch? Possibly - heroin addicts weren't exactly known for their ability to plan for the future. A new source then, maybe one that wasn't as concerned with quality product? That meant that the PCP-superhuman-strength angle was still on the table. However, it also meant that Steven probably wasn't going to be visiting his regular dealer anytime soon.
So, this place was a wash as far as staking him out was concerned, damn it.
I hate dead ends almost as much as I hate playacting.
My beige mini-van was where I'd left it, and after a quick check to ensure I wasn't being watched, I unlocked it and got inside. Time to head back to my apartment, prepare for tonight. Another one of the addresses from the file Diavolo gave me was a quick drive from here, but I wouldn't be visiting it today. Not in this outfit, at any rate.
The drive back to my place was uneventful, aside from a brief encounter with a police cruiser. The cop on the passenger side was staring through the side window at me, and it took me a few seconds to understand why. Once I did, I yawned hugely so that he'd figure the pallor of my skin and the dark circles under my eyes were due to lack of sleep. Then I turned my head to the side and gave him a sleepy smile and a respectful nod. That seemed to placate him - the two drove away without incident.
I'd have to remember to wash off this makeup right away once I got back.
After parking my vehicle in my usual spot behind my building, I took off the ratty flannel shirt I was wearing, tossed it in the seat behind me, got out and walked around to the front of the bar. A fairly nice Dodge Viper that was parked in front caught my attention, and I let my eyes wander over it appreciatively before heading in. I didn't actually notice anything unusual until I was at least a half-dozen steps inside.
Nate was looking a warning to me. I gave the rest of the bar a quick inspection.
Empty, except for one guy. A guy sitting at my table.
He was young, but he dressed like someone who might actually be able to afford the sort of prices I was charging for drinks. I mean, everything was meant to stand out and impress. His suit was shiny, not in the 'wow, that's really tacky' sort of way, but in the 'wow, that's probably really expensive' sort of way that really, really nice suits did. His shoes reflected the light like black mirrors. His hair was coiffed. I don't even really know what qualifies hair to be 'coiffed' in the first place, but I knew that whatever it was that was required, his hair had done it.
Sitting back in his chair - my chair - he took a sip of a triple-scotch rocks that had to have cost him a small fortune, and smiled at me. A big, white, perfect sort of smile. The kind that you saw on the cover of fashion magazines.
I looked back to Nate, and I stopped. He was carefully holding a glass with his right hand, and was cleaning it with his left. He saw my expression and nodded imperceptibly.
Armed. Nate had seen a gun on this guy.
It was then that I realized who this fellow had to be. Just the sort of dumb-ass theatrical bullshit I should have been expecting, really. It just fit.
The other hitter from the alley.
I watched as he slowly stood from my table, doing up the top button of his suit jacket as he did, and then walked over to me while wearing an expression of amused condescension.
"Howdy, Pops. Call me GQ," he said, not bothering to offer his hand. He inspected my face, and he frowned a little. "Wow, you look like hell. Must have been a rough night last night or something. So anyways - to business." He idly inspecting his fingernails, "I figured you and me should probably have a bit of a talk."