Trace the Dead Eye Page 22

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  DEAL

  I went with him. A few blocks and a turn into an alley showed Jim’s destination, the same apartment complex I'd had the pleasure of visiting once before. The one where dopers danced and crack heads contemplated their souls. Coming out of the alley into the courtyard we walked by a dull grey 1959 Fairlane Galaxie. It was a hot year for ‘59 Fairlanes.

  Jim rapped on the same apartment as before and the same man answered as before.

  "Pete," Jim said. "I need a favor."

  "Why else would you be here?" the man replied as Jim entered.

  I rubbed my temples, took a breath, and followed.

  There was only one other person in the apartment; a guy in the corner, looking like a pile of dirty clothes with hair. He had a glass pipe in his hands, eyes closed, and if I had to judge simply by smell was already dead. Jim pulled a stool to the kitchenette counter as the host puffed a cigarette from the other. He tossed one to Jim after he'd indicated he could use one. He lit up.

  "Where's your hundred?"

  "Huh?"

  "You owe me a hundred."

  "Oh, yeah." Jim pulled out some bills from his pocket and threw them on the counter without counting. Pete's eyes widened as he thumbed through them.

  "This is only sixty."

  "I need your car."

  "Like hell."

  "Serious."

  "You owe me and you want," the guy said, shaking his head. "You want," he said again for emphasis.

  "You know I'm good. Give me the car till tomorrow and I'll get what I owe, plus," he added, then paused, "an extra two-hundred."

  Pete scrutinized him. "Why?"

  Jim smiled. "Tomorrow's pay day." Then, serious: "I need something else."

  "What?"

  "A present. A going-away present."

  "For who?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "No," the man said suspiciously.

  Jim looked around for no reason before speaking. "Teresa."

  "Where's she going?"

  "Nowhere."

  "I don't get it."

  "She's leaving, but she's not. Get it?"

  Jim's face held no expression. Pete hesitated, understanding "I like Teresa."

  "Me too."

  "Then why?"

  Jim blew out smoke. “I don’t like her enough.” He squashed his cigarette on the counter. "She wants to leave. She can’t. It came to me in a dream. She’ll disappear in a puff of smoke. Look, nobody will be around when it happens. It won’t get back to you. But I need something pure.”

  “Pure costs.”

  “Four hundred.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “Five.”

  Jim laughed. “What the hell do I care? And the car.”

  Pete stared into the ashes. "I don't know. It’s not runnin’ good."

  "Six.” Jim paused. “Seven.”

  Pete nodded without expression, fished in a pocket and came out with a set of keys.

  “What do you need, exactly?”

  “Whatever will do the job.”

  “Crack, pure, lace it in. That’ll smoke anybody.”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  Pete continued nodding. “Hey,” he said suddenly. "If you have so much money why don't you just buy a car?"

  Jim exhaled in disgust. "I don't even have a license."

  The guy thought about that for a moment as if on the cusp of a revelation before giving up the effort and returning his attention to the ashes on the counter.