reasonable,” Wade said.
“But—” Clayton said.
“Don't worry about it. I'll talk to Dad,” Wade said to his brother.
“You talk to your Dad,” Ricky said. He stood up and looked around the room, like he was disgusted that anyone could live that way. “Then come see us… Tuesday at two o'clock. Eddie's Vacuum Sales and Repair. It's in the Yellow-pages.”
“I'll be there,” Wade said.
“I guess I should emphasize that none of your stuff hits the street again until we figure all of this out.”
“Not a problem.”
“But—” Clayton said.
“Shut up,” Wade said. “These guys are for real.”
“Who are these guys?” the stoned girl said.
Giant-holes-in-his-ears showed us out. He stared at us with bloodshot eyes and a half-open mouth. For some reason I pictured him and the pink-haired girl having a baby, and how the baby would come out covered with earrings and tatts: totally baked without ever taking a hit.
It was so bright out there in the street. My pupils must have dilated to the widest possible aperture back in the dark of that drug house. I had to make a visor with my hand. We walked back to the car, crunching over the few patches of snow.
“The older one was all right,” I said.
“A little too polite.”
“At least no one got hurt.”
“Not yet,” Ricky said.
* * * *
There was a knock on the office door at exactly two in the afternoon the following Tuesday. There's something to be said for punctuality. When you show up on time, people take you seriously. It put Eddie in a good mood.
It turned out that Wade's old man was a pretty big name in the methamphetamine world. He came from West Virginia, but he was currently operating out of Sturgis, South Dakota, and running a huge game. His name was Griffin Shaw. One of Eddie's connections had even done business with a friend of Shaw's a few years back.
“Here's what I'm gonna do,” Eddie said. “The few weeks you've been operating are on the house. But we gotta work out some terms with your old man.”
“Why?” Wade said. “Why should we give you money?”
Eddie rolled back in his chair and looked around at the crew, a giant toothy grin covering half of his face.
“I like this kid,” he said. “He's smart. My old teacher, Miss DeWitt, always said there's no such thing as a stupid question.”
Eddie opened the top drawer of his desk. Wade Shaw reached inside of his jacket, down near his belt. Ricky and Dan the Man pulled out their pieces and aimed at the kid. I had my hand on the butt of my Beretta. The room was so quiet you could hear the rattling of the heater, and the pulsing song of a distant car alarm.
“Easy,” Eddie said. He slowly brought out a small wooden box, set it on the desk, and flipped it open. “Care for a cigar?” He held up a short perfecto with a red and gold band.
“Why not,” Wade said.
We all knew that Eddie was just going for his cigar box, but a scene like that is good for business. You have to do something big just to get all of that fear right out in the open. Guns had been drawn. The air was hot with dark possibilities.
By the time the sit-down was over, Eddie and the kid were downright chummy. Wade even placed a phone call to his old man in Sturgis and put Eddie on the line. From the laughter and quips, you'd've thought that Eddie Sesto and Griffin Shaw were old army buddies.
About a week later, Griffin Shaw flew into town, looking the way hillbillies do when they play dress up. They never quite get it right. He wore a bolo tie with a white dress shirt and black slacks. The shirt had a yellow tinge from sweat-stains that would never wash out, and the slacks were about two sizes too big. The guy was a bean pole. His face was rougher than 50 grade sandpaper and his beard was thin and gray. He was almost bald, but that didn't stop him from having a ponytail.
But Griffin Shaw was eloquent in a twangy sort of way. It was a case where the outside of a man doesn't match what's inside, and
“But—” Clayton said.
“Don't worry about it. I'll talk to Dad,” Wade said to his brother.
“You talk to your Dad,” Ricky said. He stood up and looked around the room, like he was disgusted that anyone could live that way. “Then come see us… Tuesday at two o'clock. Eddie's Vacuum Sales and Repair. It's in the Yellow-pages.”
“I'll be there,” Wade said.
“I guess I should emphasize that none of your stuff hits the street again until we figure all of this out.”
“Not a problem.”
“But—” Clayton said.
“Shut up,” Wade said. “These guys are for real.”
“Who are these guys?” the stoned girl said.
Giant-holes-in-his-ears showed us out. He stared at us with bloodshot eyes and a half-open mouth. For some reason I pictured him and the pink-haired girl having a baby, and how the baby would come out covered with earrings and tatts: totally baked without ever taking a hit.
It was so bright out there in the street. My pupils must have dilated to the widest possible aperture back in the dark of that drug house. I had to make a visor with my hand. We walked back to the car, crunching over the few patches of snow.
“The older one was all right,” I said.
“A little too polite.”
“At least no one got hurt.”
“Not yet,” Ricky said.
* * * *
There was a knock on the office door at exactly two in the afternoon the following Tuesday. There's something to be said for punctuality. When you show up on time, people take you seriously. It put Eddie in a good mood.
It turned out that Wade's old man was a pretty big name in the methamphetamine world. He came from West Virginia, but he was currently operating out of Sturgis, South Dakota, and running a huge game. His name was Griffin Shaw. One of Eddie's connections had even done business with a friend of Shaw's a few years back.
“Here's what I'm gonna do,” Eddie said. “The few weeks you've been operating are on the house. But we gotta work out some terms with your old man.”
“Why?” Wade said. “Why should we give you money?”
Eddie rolled back in his chair and looked around at the crew, a giant toothy grin covering half of his face.
“I like this kid,” he said. “He's smart. My old teacher, Miss DeWitt, always said there's no such thing as a stupid question.”
Eddie opened the top drawer of his desk. Wade Shaw reached inside of his jacket, down near his belt. Ricky and Dan the Man pulled out their pieces and aimed at the kid. I had my hand on the butt of my Beretta. The room was so quiet you could hear the rattling of the heater, and the pulsing song of a distant car alarm.
“Easy,” Eddie said. He slowly brought out a small wooden box, set it on the desk, and flipped it open. “Care for a cigar?” He held up a short perfecto with a red and gold band.
“Why not,” Wade said.
We all knew that Eddie was just going for his cigar box, but a scene like that is good for business. You have to do something big just to get all of that fear right out in the open. Guns had been drawn. The air was hot with dark possibilities.
By the time the sit-down was over, Eddie and the kid were downright chummy. Wade even placed a phone call to his old man in Sturgis and put Eddie on the line. From the laughter and quips, you'd've thought that Eddie Sesto and Griffin Shaw were old army buddies.
About a week later, Griffin Shaw flew into town, looking the way hillbillies do when they play dress up. They never quite get it right. He wore a bolo tie with a white dress shirt and black slacks. The shirt had a yellow tinge from sweat-stains that would never wash out, and the slacks were about two sizes too big. The guy was a bean pole. His face was rougher than 50 grade sandpaper and his beard was thin and gray. He was almost bald, but that didn't stop him from having a ponytail.
But Griffin Shaw was eloquent in a twangy sort of way. It was a case where the outside of a man doesn't match what's inside, and
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