Nightlife by Brian Hodge

first around to sample any. It was a new product and all, and Tony himself most definitely did not touch any of the stuff he handled. Such was the general rule among the Colombians. They were businessmen, not party boys. Let the norteamericanos wipe themselves out one line at a time. Such was their destiny, not Colombia’s.
    The green powder, skullflush, had come up through the usual channels. Six kilos, out of a refinery owned by the Vasquez family of Medellín, Colombia. Flown north to Cuba’s Varadero military airbase, a routine stopping point. Transferred to a boat and brought into the United States through the Florida Keys. Up to Miami under the wing of Luis Escobar, regional godfather in the Colombian mafia. Then transported northwest to Tampa. Mysteriously bypassing Tony’s frequent connection and superior in the Tampa-St. Petersburg area, Rafael Agualar.
    Tony had been happy enough to wet his Speedos in excitement upon learning that Escobar was running an end-sweep around Agualar. It could only mean good news for Tony. Everybody knew that Agualar was getting soft and fat, sticking his nose into his product far too much for his own good. Tony knew he wasn’t anywhere near next in line among the Agualares, but nobody could deny he was an up-and-comer. A promising one at that.
    That Escobar dealt with him directly boded well for the future. Maybe he was being groomed for takeover, seeing how well he handled the new product. Bigger deals, bigger shipments, bigger profits. Or so he had thought until last night.
    Not knowing exactly what skullflush was, Tony had wanted to try it out on a guinea pig. That’s where Trent had come in. Irritating numbnuts that he was. A good customer from the past, from Tony’s lower-echelon days of street dealing, but a real weaseldick when it came to paying. Should it turn out to be poison, he was expendable.
    Just what had it done to him?
    In the bathroom at Apocalips, Trent had really weirded out. Strutting around like a peacock, singing gibberish. All the while, his nose running like a faucet. From what Tony could tell after he and Lupo had beat a hasty retreat, things had only gotten worse.
    Whacked him out like PCP? Maybe. Turned him into some kind of werewolf? No way. But still, you had to wonder. Because nobody was in agreement on what had gone down.
    Now that Trent was dead, it was no big shakes. Except, of course, the little hitch in the plan. Trent’s friend. Justin? Yeah. Justin Gray, who had partaken of the green as well. An out-of-town rube, he was expendable too. Only nothing seemed to have happened to him. Last he saw, the guy was hanging on to a railing looking like it was all he could do to stand up. Of course, he’d hoovered only one line to Trent’s seven. Could have made a big difference.
    At any rate, he was a loose end that might have to be tidied up should things even remotely appear messy. Have to put Lupo on finding out where he was staying. Trent’s apartment? Maybe.
    All of which would take care of itself.
    Tony stood, stretched. Gazed with appreciation at the beauties on beach towels at poolside, four floors down. Sighed and ducked back through the double balcony doors. Life was grand.
    He plucked up the wireless phone from its cradle and whipped up the aerial. Time to do a little business. It was getting to be about that time, in between class periods. He punched out a number that triggered a quick pulse in a beeper a few miles away. Hung on to the receiver to await the return call.
    Tony wandered into a side room, his favorite in the entire sprawling penthouse. His sanctum sanctorum. Flipped on the light and smiled at his babies. The room was ranked on all four sides by nothing but aquariums.
    He had small ones, for fish like gouramis and cichlids. Larger ones, fifty-five and 110 gallons each, for larger, more aggressive fish such as his oscars and Jack Dempseys. And then his prize, on the far wall, a three-hundred-gallon job stocked with piranha.
    Tony