The room is thick with cigarette smoke from two decades past burned into the ceiling tiles, and it’s stinging my eyes.
Detective Kline steps back into the office and scoots into his seat. “Okay, son. Let’s hear it.”
For the next hour I recount the events of the last few days, then he asks me to go through it again. Maybe he thinks I’m guilty of something and is checking to see if my story deviates from the original telling. It doesn’t. I explain the strange substance I assume was cocaine but can’t confirm. At this point, he says that until it can be proven, I have nothing. He also yammers on that the identity theft issue isn’t a vice problem; I’d have to handle that with the fraud unit, and he knows a guy in that department who can help. Well, I hope so. I mean, he’s only been working here for close to twenty years. Or maybe I guess networking then wasn’t what it is today.
“So what about Sam Nesbo?” I ask. “That’s it? You can’t do anything?” I’m getting nervous because I’d hoped they would just cuff him and I could get on with my fancy life.
“No. Not at the moment. We call it due process.”
“What about the stacks of cash I have to keep muling back and forth? That has to be something fishy we can arrest him on.”
“Having a lot of cash at once isn’t against the law,” Kline says. “We would need more than that.”
‘More than that’ turns out to mean: they need both the drugs and the money at the same time or the drugs by themselves.
I glance at my wristwatch and see it’s after seven thirty, and I’d never made that last delivery in Trinity Heights. Also on the list of not-dones: I’d left my cell phone in my car and never checked in with Sam. I’m sure by now the angry customer has called in wanting to know where his hoagie is.* (By my calculations I figure it’s making the long, perilous, and disgusting journey through my small intestines.)
“So what about me? I can’t just go back there.” I’m verging on panic now. I don’t want to return to The Sub Shop and face Sam. Plus, he’s going to be pissed about the whole missed delivery thing.
“You’re kinda going to have to. We can’t just put you into witness protection; technically there’s nothing to prove your life is even in danger.”
My heart rate has a difference of opinion. You can die from tachycardia, right?
“Look, kid – if you can get one of those bags of cocaine or whatever it is into his hands, I can do something about that. If not, then we’ll have to part ways. Mr. Nesbo might get wind of our meeting today if he’s as connected to the mafia as you think he is.”
My colon is either bubbling in discomfort of my situation, or the hoagie isn’t sitting well at all. I’m not sure which one is the catalyst.
“I should probably leave. If I do have to head back to Sam, I’ve wasted enough time.”
“Here.” Detective Kline jumps to his feet and hands me his card. “If you ever get the chance to bring that bastard down, call.”
I take the card, rap it against my knuckles for a second, then stuff it into my wallet. “Thanks,” I say. But in all honesty I’m not sure why. He hasn’t done shit for me.
I walk out the door, not bothering to talk with anyone in the fraud department. That will have to wait for another day.
My keys have trouble unlocking my passenger door as usual.* (Perhaps it hasn’t been mentioned yet either, but the lock on my driver’s side door doesn’t work, so I’m the guy who has to crawl in and out through the passenger side.)
Unlocking my phone, I see I have eleven missed calls and two text messages waiting for me. Seven are from The Sub Shop, one from my dad, two from Chester, and – my heart flutters – one from Liz. Out of the eleven calls, there are nine voicemails. Sam is screaming on all seven of his. I really don’t want to head back there. Tony might be slipping me cash for every delivery, but I haven’t spent a penny.* (Yet.)
I listen to Chester’s message next: “Yo, El. Hit me back up. I got a supe fly idea for Zombie Jesus Day. What say we head down to Will B. and hit up the walk for some burgs, then afta’ cruz over ta’ the camp, get a few Ippas, and find a place to chillax.” * (I’ve drawn a complete blank. I don’t even know what the hell he’s trying to say, except perhaps Zombie Jesus Day might be Easter.)
When I finally check Liz’s message, my fluttering heart sinks. She apologizes for calling; she meant to call her friend Ellen, whose name is right above mine on her contact list. Damn. Still, my brain attempts to remain positive; perhaps she’s just saying that.* (She isn’t. Turns out it was a misdial after all.)
I check my text messages next. Taylor is heading back from the law firm where he interns and wants to hang at a club called Lucky’s (but everyone in the area refers to it as ‘Get Lucky’*). (75% of the time someone does. So the odds are ever in our favor, according to The Hunger Games.)
I really do need to cut loose. The stresses in my head are moving throughout my entire body and I feel lethargic. Plus, I haven’t used my fake ID in a while. On the subject of ID’s … I know I just found out my identity was stolen earlier today, but I don’t really care if that rule is tweaked if the person illegally representing myself is me.
10 In ‘Da Club
Sam takes the news better than I expect. I’m still alive, so that is advantageous to me. I explain how I had car trouble and had to have it towed to a shop to get it fixed. When he grills me about not returning his calls, I tell him the truth.* (Not that I was talking to the cops – don’t be silly. I say I left my phone in my car.)
He knows my car is a piece of junk and buys the first part of my spun yarn. As for the second part, it rolls off my tongue like it’s the gospel truth. I apologize that I need the rest of night off, because I don’t trust my Datsun to make it home. This is also a fact; I don’t trust the damn thing to even start.
By the time I leave The Sub Shop, the sun had dropped from the sky, and the moon is now sitting high above as if relieving the sun from its long, splendid shift.
Now we’re heading toward the club, and here’s a quick tidbit of information regarding Lucky’s: it’s pretty easy to find but somewhat harder to get inside if you happen to have a ‘Y’ chromosome. I find that kind of bullshit annoying. I employ my standard trick to get us inside without the wait. It doesn’t work every time, but 87% of the time it does.* (I’m not going to tell you what my ‘trick’ is, because if I told everyone, then that 87% would turn into a whopping 12%.)
The street side sign for Lucky’s is bright green. I’m guessing they were shooting for the color of the ‘lucky’ Irish. The owner has somehow very cleverly substituted a four leaf clover where the apostrophe should go. It’s cliché if you ask me, but I’ll reserve my judgment. However, because I just gave my opinion on the matter, I guess it hasn’t been reserved, has it?
Whatever.
So right now the bass of the music (if that’s what you call it) is thumping so loud my heart is threatening to collapse in my chest. I’m of the mind that the rise of dubstep is either innovative genius, or it should be on trial for murdering music. I can’t decide.
I tell Chester and Taylor that we should find a quieter corner to talk over the din. As I snatch up another Freak of Nature (which is a rather tasty Double IPA from Wicked Weed), before heading to the other side of the dance floor, I can’t help but notice my surroundings. People are dancing like drunk monkeys. I wouldn’t really consider it dancing though. The street word seems to be ‘twerking’, and I’m not positive if that’s a style or a disease. I wish this whole phase of dancing was a thing of the past. I feel the same way about hash-tagging.* (#itsjustplainterrible)
Some look like they’re having mild seizures, and others are writhing so sporadically it could be epilepsy. I don’t rush over to help anyone. I can’t really be of assistance if it’s a medical condition. As I said before, I’m still hoping I can be that renowned architect I’ve always wanted to be.* (Also, if you’ve ever enjoyed a Freak of Nature you don’t want it to go to waste.)
While T
aylor and I walk through the crowded dance floor, Chester does a combination walk-dance as he tries his luck at grinding on random women in the crowd. By the time we reach a booth, Chester has a red handprint across his face.* (Chester is part of the unlucky 25%.)
Conversation starts off with first things first: Chester’s beefs. He’s the one who seems the most discontent with the world, and for some reason he feels his problems supersede everyone else’s.
“So guess what that punk-ass Drewcifer did today?” Chester says.
Alright, so Drew Miller – or ‘Drewcifer’ as we know him – is kinda like Chester’s main nemesis on campus. To Chester’s misfortune, he shares a grand total of four classes with Drew this semester.
Taylor and I are already laughing before Chester starts the tale. His imaginings of actual reality are absolute fantasy. Drew has somehow breached the limits of what is humanly possible and has a personal espionage meter so high that it would make Ethan Hunt (that would be Tom Cruise’s character from the Mission: Impossible movies) want to hang up his gear and retire for becoming obsolete.
Chester's been babbling now for a good ten minutes, convincing us again how otherworldly devilish Drewcifer is and remains to be.
“And do you know what I got?” Chester says.
I am ever so tempted to say, ‘Herpes’. Instead I say, “Herpes.”* (Yeah, sorry – sometimes it’s just too hard to resist in the moment.)
As per mostly normal, Chester doesn’t bite on my jab. “Nah, fool. I got an ‘F’. I think Drewcifer somehow changed the answers on my exam.” He shakes his head in confusion and continues, “There’s no way I could have failed that sucker. It was waaaaay too easy.”
“For sure,” Taylor says. “He needs to be stopped.”
I raise my bottle. “To the demise of Drewcifer!”
“I’ll drink to that. Molotov!” Chester puts his straw in his mouth and takes a good-sized sip of his mojito.
You did hear right. Chester should have said Mazel tov, but this happens to be another phrase he consistently gets wrong, and we don’t bother correcting him.
A few more anger-soaked rants later, the topic of discussion at the high top table edges toward the political and legal ramifications of living in a world where Captain America: The Winter Soldier is a reality. We discuss why Hollywood hates San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge and the drastic need the film industry has to destroy it in almost every action/disaster movie. I swear I’ve seen that structure go crashing into the bay more times in the last ten years than I’ve seen boobies in the flesh my whole life. And I’ve seen a lot of them. As a matter of fact, that set from the other day comes to mind. I shudder again in remembrance. Before long our conversation drastically turns toward Liz. I don’t remember for sure how it took such a spin, but I do recall feeling depressed during our banter.
“You ain’t never goin’ seals that deal, bro,” Chester says and then eyes the sea of dancing bodies.
“I guess I just don’t get what she wants from me. I tried to come clean about everything. Maybe it’s just the way she is. She’s a Cancer.” I stare into my beer, hoping it has some answers.* (Just a little fact: alcohol doesn’t have answers; I don’t know why people keep looking there.)
I’m pulled from my haze of thoughts when Chester nudges me with his elbow. “You’re right, bro. Sometimes you gotta just cut that shit right outta your life. Hell, that’s why doctors get paid to do that.”
I’m puzzled for only a moment. “No, Chester – she’s a Cancer. As in her sign.”
Chester has that deer in the headlights clueless look. It’s kind of a staple for him.
“Like, as in her Zodiac sign. Horoscopes and stuff, man.” I’m hoping this will be the last of the verbal prodding needed to get him to understand, and thankfully it is.
“Oh, right. Yeah, I knew that. I think I’m an Aquamarine or something.”
I don’t bother correcting him on the two counts of wrong. It’s Aquarius and he’s a Libra.
When a secondary discussion regarding why Jim Carrey is no longer funny ends, my mind is left to its devices, and I begin thinking of my current drug trafficking predicament. I’m taking a long swig from my cold beer, and for that shred of an instant I feel completely at peace. It fades quickly.
“So, guys – I ended up going to the cops today,” I say, not looking at either of them for a moment.
“Well, you’re fucked. I bet they got dudes in there like dirty cops and stuff. This calls for another round.” Chester shakes his head and takes a powerful sip of his drink, polishing off the remaining alcohol from his glass. It’s his first Mojito, but it happens to be his second drink of the night already. Earlier he had downed a Mai Tai. All that sugar is why he stays fat.
“I know, I know. They said they couldn’t help anyway.” I’m about to tell them the story when Chester shushes me by placing a finger over my lips. “Shhhh. Hold on, I’ll be right back.” He rolls out of his seat and returns a few moments later with a Long Island.
“Alright, so what happened with the cops, brotha’?” Chester asks.
“I was told they prefer getting Sam with both the drugs and the money at the same time. That’s obviously the reason he’s having me do the handoffs.”
Taylor spins his Jack and Coke in the small puddle that had formed around the glass. “I think we should all skip town.”
“And what would that accomplish?” I ask. “Are we going to live off your allowance? Or maybe we can live off the land? Get real! I think I need to sit tight. As long as Sam thinks I don’t know what’s going on, the better. I just have to make sure I don’t spend a dime of Tony’s cash.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Chester says. He’s already halfway done with his fresh drink. “Cash? What cash?”
Crap. That was a slip-up. “Tony’s been handing me a couple hundred bucks every time I give him a Ben Franklin sandwich.”
Chester’s eyes seem to glaze over, and I feel like he’s mentally spending all of Tony’s dirty money. “I know what we should do. Strip club.”
“No. What’s wrong with you?”
“A lot of things. How much time do we have?”
“So help me God … look, if we spend a single cent that makes us accessories. Taylor, please talk sense into him.”
“Yeah, he’s right. If we –”
Chester cuts him off. “What about some hookers?”
“Dude, what?” Taylor slaps his hand against the table.
“Oh sorry – I meant ladies of the night. You know that darky by the newsstand near Fifth Street? What’s his name? Oh yeah – Black Darius. You know, the gay homo.”
My mind does a mental reeling as the redundancy of his statement dawns on me, but Chester is still speaking. “Anyway, he said he has a hook-up in downtown. All verified VD free.”
“Oh wow. They guarantee that, huh? Really? With what? A piece of paper?” I snap. “Do I get my money back if my dick falls off, or do I get a coupon for a free handy? I can’t believe we are even discussing this.”
“Ellis D. is right, Chester. If that money is spent it could mean serious trouble.” Taylor says, finally helping me.
“Oooooooh, looks like we got some kind of college boy over here,” Chester says, laughing and jabbing a thumb in Taylor’s direction.
“We’re all college boys, you dumbshit,” I say.
His face freezes in a stupid way for a second, then he starts right up again. “Looks like we got some kind of Boy Scout over here.” And he repeats the thumb gesture.* (Chester is already drunk. Although he has a high concentration of fat in his body, he’s an absolute lightweight.)
“So what’s the plan?” Taylor asks, trying to rein in the conversation.
“Tomorrow I have some personal shit I need to look into, but I think playing it cool for now would be best,” I say. “I got a card from the detective I talked to earlier today, so if the opportunity presents itself, that’ll be my get-out-of-jail-free card.”* (Literally.)
Anothe
r hour later, we’re still on the dance floor. I found some semi-hottie who doesn’t mind that I slow dance with her. I opt not to do anything sexually immature because I’m not that way, and I still hold out hope for Liz. I’m truly sorry about that whole situation.
Taylor already seems to have a soulmate, and she’s necking him good. If he doesn’t play it safe he might be a father in nine months. Taylor’s content to sow his seeds as long as they’re not putting down roots. I don’t see his luck lasting forever with that game plan.
This brings me to Chester, who by now is so far trashed he doesn’t seem to care he’s all over a woman who looks like a dry beached whale.
Forty minutes later I’m done for the night. As the designated driver, I get to call the shots when we leave; that’s one of our rules. I snag Taylor easily enough, and as far as I’m concerned I saved that girl from several weeks of heartbreak. It’s Chester who’s the problem. Which is normally how it goes.
Yelling over the music, I let him know we’re ready to split. He turns around, leaving the aquatic life form to dance alone.
“Don’t tell me how to live my life. I think I met my wife; I’m in love.” And his hands attempt to ‘raise the roof’. Most likely the only thing raised is his blood pressure.
“Tell Moby Dick you’ll have to catch up with her later.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, for sure. This is so serendip-tus, we have such great chemistry.” He goes back to let her know we’re leaving – and hopefully not give her his digits. Regarding this ‘chemistry’ he is speaking of … I’m praying there isn’t an explosion.
Four songs later – or maybe six, they all kinda blend together – we finally head out. I’m glad I get to drive Taylor’s Lexus for two reasons. One, it’s way more reliable than my Datsun. And two, getting Chester inside is easier than the mambo I would have had to do in mine (also, his weight stresses the suspension).* (Here’s a fun fact: Chester doesn’t own a car; Taylor has been his permanent chauffeur since a vehicular accident in high school.)