Narc (13 page)

“Walk,” he said, steering Morgan toward a metal staircase.

“I am walking,” she said.

He pushed her forward. “I would say you’re sort of shuffling.”

“Don’t touch me.” Morgan jerked away.

They wandered down a hallway on the second floor, and Brent and I followed them. The air was sweltering. My T-shirt clung to my back. “Where the hell are we going?” I asked.

Finch jingled a set of keys and unlocked a door. Inside was another musty room with a cement floor. The walls swarmed with hundreds of postcard-sized doodles.

“Welcome, kids,” he said, extending his arms.

I squinted at a drawing of a topless girl, splattered with something dark and gluey, like chocolate syrup. Her arms and legs were all twisted, her bazooka-sized boobs swelling out of the frame. It was scary as hell.

“Stop staring at my breasts,” said Morgan, sneaking up behind me.

“That’s you?” I blinked.

“Part of me,” she said. “Wanna buy some art?”

“How much?”

She grinned. “Ten.”

“Ten bucks?”

“No. Ten thousand. But for you, I’ll take a rain check.” She tore one of the drawings off the wall—a girl morphing into a tree—and stuffed it in a plastic baggie. “
Gracias
,” she said, handing it to me.

I tucked it into my messenger bag. Did Morgan really see herself like that, with her body all out of proportion?

“Smells like dogs in here,” said Brent. “Your place is in serious need of AC. It’s hot as balls.”

Finch led us toward the back. We snuck behind a curtain that separated the gallery space from the “sitting area,” as Morgan called it. She collapsed onto a saggy couch and kicked her feet near an industrial-strength fan.

“This isn’t helping. It’s just throwing hot air around,” she said.

“Quit your bitching,” said Finch, pulling back another curtain. I got a glimpse of pizza boxes and sleeping bags and finally put two and two together. Not only did Finch own the gallery, he lived here.

Finch returned with a plate loaded with white powder. “You want K or coke?”

Brent clapped his hands. “Decisions, decisions.”

Morgan didn’t say anything. She just stared at the plate.

Brent was the first to take a hit. He leaned in and sniffed a line. Could be cocaine or ketamine, a pet tranquilizer used by vets. The cops had prepped me, but I couldn’t tell the difference. I’d have to watch and see how he reacted. Either he’d space out or talk nonstop.

“What about you?” Finch jabbed a finger at me.

“Ladies first,” said Morgan. “It’s my opening night, remember?”

Was she joking?

“You don’t have to,” I said.

I didn’t really expect her to do anything, but she pulled back her hair, bent forward and bumped a pile. Then she flopped against the couch and sighed. I watched her chest heave beneath her flimsy tank top.

“Next,” said Finch, passing the plate.

“I’m good,” I told him. This was so shady. I’d never even seen someone snort coke before. It kind of grossed me out.

“He’s the guy you mentioned?” Finch asked Morgan. Something in his voice had shifted, all jokes and smiles gone.

Morgan said, “Let’s have a race,” and jogged around the room.

“Crazy girl,” said Brent. He closed his eyes.

Finch glared at me. Shit. Things were getting out of control. I was in for it now.

“You interested in something else?” he asked.

I studied my fingernails. “Maybe.”

“Who you buying for?” Finch asked. He fished out a pack of Camels and lit up.

“Just me.”

Finch blew smoke at the ceiling. “This ain’t how I do business.”

There was no doubt in my mind. Finch was the supplier. The alpha dog. The shot caller. Whatever you wanted to call him. This was the guy. Now I had one plan: bring him down so Morgan and Skully didn’t get dragged along with him.

“It’s all good,” Morgan said, skipping behind the couch. She slung her arms around my neck. “He’s cool.”

Finch didn’t look convinced. He took a long drag, then flicked the cigarette across the floor, scattering a trail of sparks. “What’s your name again?”

“Aaron.”

He shook his head. “How about mollies? I got some real nice pills from Amsterdam. Not too speedy.”

“Does a body good,” said Brent, snickering. “Unless they’re meth bombs.”

Finch shot him a dirty look.

“Give me a jar.” That’s what the cop told me to say. He even gave me the cash, which they had photocopied.

“Why so much?” Finch narrowed his eyes.

“Some for now, some for later.”

“Okay,” he said. “I gotta take a drive first.”

We exchanged phone numbers, then made a plan to meet in the parking lot at Pollo Tropical, a local fast food joint, in an hour. Just when everyone started to breathe easy, Finch took hold of my shoulder.

“You a cop?” he asked, keeping his gaze locked.

I faked a laugh. “Are you?”

Finch didn’t look away.

“What time is it?” asked Morgan, breaking the silence.

“Time to jet,” I said, stumbling away from the couch. I grabbed Morgan’s hand to help her up and she beamed at me.

“You can let go now,” she said.

But I didn’t ever want to let go.

13 :
Pit Stop

Finch yanked back the curtain. On the other side, a crowd of bored-looking girls had gathered. He switched gears again, turning on his megawatt smile. This seemed odd. Was he the alpha dog or just a foot soldier? It could go either way.

My beer buzz had worn off. At that point, I could’ve used another. Not that I was supposed to be drinking in the first place. I felt like the living dead.

I noticed Skully in her heart-shaped glasses, standing in the corner, smoking her cloves. She smiled and did this weird little curtsey, like a queen in an old movie.

“Hey, Double A.” She pulled me into a hug. “Let’s dance,” she said, twirling around. Her skirt puffed up, giving everyone a glimpse of her polka-dotted panties.

“I don’t dance.”

“Sure, you do,” Skully said. “Just go like this. Feel the beat.” She swung her shoulders back and forth.

I tried to mimic her movements, but I stumbled all over the place. Skully laughed. “Loosen up, Double A,” she said. “God, you should take yoga or something.”

Morgan came out and sort of sleepwalked over to us. She pulled me away, and then we were swaying together. We held each other like that for a while, our feet perfectly still.

The warehouse could’ve burned down in flames. I wouldn’t have noticed.

Then, for no reason, she pushed me away, and I was standing there alone again, looking foolish.

The girls, Brent, and I ran down the metal stairs, back into the cavernous room where the lights had dimmed. Video games flickered on the wall. People spread out on the floor, playing vintage Metroid, the final battle, where the player’s helmet comes off and you realize that inside the metal suit, the hero, Samus, is a girl.

“The sickest 2-D platform game of all time,” said Brent. “I’ll take the old-school NES over the Xbox. Those 360 games give me a freaking headache.”

As he blabbed on about alien life forms, my mind shifted back to Finch and the deal. How long would it take? I didn’t know how this stuff worked. The most hardcore thing I’d done was buy weed off Collin’s brother.

“Shall we battle?” Brent asked.

“I’m kinda out of practice.”

He grabbed a joystick. “I’ll be gentle.”

I hadn’t played the game since junior high, but I remembered all the cheat codes and tricks, like how to jump through walls. Brent was impressed. “You’ve got to teach me some tricks, man. You’re, like, the old-school master.”

I shrugged. “It’s all good.”

“You’ve got a lot of rage inside you.”

This took me by surprise. “You think?”

“It’s cool, man. My dad used to beat the shit out of me and I’d hide in my room all day, playing Quake with my friends online. Just pretending I was fragging him.”

When Brent told me this, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. I mean, I still hated the kid. But it was pretty obvious he had problems of his own.

Didn’t everybody?

When we stepped outside, Finch had already disappeared. The girls were getting restless. Morgan wanted to walk to a gas station for a Red Bull. Skully kept dancing around, pretending to karate-chop me in the face. We squeezed into Brent’s car, a black-and-white Mini Cooper that he called Nigel because it’s “the most British-sounding name” he could think of.

He sped down Biscayne Boulevard, swerving between lanes. I looked at him and wondered if he was really okay to be driving. I still wasn’t sure what he had in his system. Skully stared dreamily out the passenger window. Morgan bounced in the back seat, her long legs sprawled across my lap. Not that I was complaining.

We pulled into the Shell station near my place. It felt strange coming here with the group of them.

Brent jumped out. “Want anything?”

“I’m good,” I told him.

As soon as he took off, a truck pulled up, blasting rap anthems.

“Check out the yo-bros,” said Skully.

The guys in the truck were checking us out, too. One of them leaned out the backseat, a musclehead in a Miami Hurricanes jacket. He tossed a Fanta bottle, which bounced against the driver’s side door, spewing an orange geyser. Talk about gross.

“Ugh. That is so wrong,” Morgan said.

The guy who tossed the bottle was hooting with his buddies. I could tell they were wasted and looking for a fight.

“Just ignore those assholes,” I said. “It’s not even worth it.”

Skully popped up through the sunroof. “You homeboys want to mess with me?” she shouted. “Nice rims. What is that? Compensation? You got short man syndrome?”

The girls cackled over Skully’s joke. I’d heard that one before. In junior high, people never ran out of one-liners: “Hey Aaron. You need cash? Or are you a little short? Hey Aaron. Do you smoke weed because it makes you high?” I used to drink these chalky protein shakes, hoping it would kick start my growth hormones. Maybe it did. Or maybe Morgan was different. For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel small.

“I would define it as vertically challenged,” Skully added in the voice of a documentary narrator.

The yo-bros stared. One of them yelled, “Hey. Are you a dude or a chick?”

I caught a glimpse of Skully’s face, the hurt registering, and I wanted to pound the guy into the concrete. Sure, her hair was kind of butchy, but I would never mistake Skully for a dude.

“Fuck you,” Skully yelled.

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” he said, igniting more guffaws from his crew. He got out and strutted toward us.

“Enough,” I said, climbing out. “You guys need to step away from the car and take it easy.”

“ ‘Step away from the car’?” he said. “What are you? Highway Patrol?”

That’s when I slammed my fist into his jaw. Clocked him so hard, my knuckles popped. Almost instantly, he managed to scramble back on his feet. That’s the thing about drunks. They were always the ones to shake off a fight or a car crash.

“Oh shit,” said Brent, racing toward the car. “Get in, will you?”

I glanced back at the convenience store and saw the cashier, a straggly blond in a Playboy cap, punching buttons on a phone. Time to leave.

When I hopped in the backseat, the girls were freaking out. Morgan started to sob, and Skully stroked her hair. Brent hit the gas. We peeled down a side street, past a block of construction sites, the cranes stabbing the horizon.

Brent pulled into a twenty-four-hour bank and spun out. When I reminded him about the deal with Finch, he laughed.

“He runs on Cuban time,” said Brent.

“He’s Cuban?” I asked.

“No. I mean the guy’s always late. Don’t sweat it.”

Morgan groaned. She slumped forward, dropping her head between her knees. I was starting to get worried about her.

“Hey, sleepy. Wake up,” I said, ruffling her hair.

She didn’t budge.

“Didn’t she just knock back an energy drink?” Skully asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Among other things.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We were with Finch earlier—”

“Aaron, what did she take?”

“I don’t know.”

“How come you don’t know?” Skully said, her voice rising.

“Because I don’t, okay? Ask Brent. I saw him snort a line.”

“Only a hit,” he said. “Not enough to put her in a K-hole.”

“Maybe she did another line or something else when we weren’t looking?”

I unsnapped Morgan’s army knapsack and rummaged through it. I pulled out two Band Aids, a pair of nylon footies, lip gloss in Matador Red, rolling papers, a Lifestyles Tuxedo condom, a Hello Kitty pen with the cap chewed off, a digital camera, a South Dade Library card, and a half-melted Jolly Rancher lollipop with gobs of hair sprouting from it.