Then Gus prodded: “Is there some place where we can talk business?” He reached down slowly and pulled out one of the bottles of tequila. “This makes negotiations more fun.”
They ended up in a back room in the restaurant at a small table. The woman closed early and left some big pots soaking in the kitchen. She didn’t look at the men or say goodbye. Gus figured she wanted no part of what was going on. He was glad. It made things easier for him.
He set the bottles of tequila on the table, one for the Rasta and one for himself. Jose Cuervo grinned back at each of them.
They haggled over price as they took straight shots from their bottles. The Rasta brought out his dope; Gus whistled when he checked it out. The creep was doing some serious business. The Rasta had everything from weed to meth and even some OxyContin. Gus didn’t pay close attention to the Rasta, who was pretty much out of it. The whites of his eyes were a spiderweb of red veins fringing his dark, dilated pupils. Gus poked at the dope, stalling, thinking ahead, while the man talked about the Seattle women and how they couldn’t get enough of him. He made an obscene gesture and pointed to the words
With a drunken leer, the Rasta said, “Me mek woman happy.”
Gus let the silence build. Then he asked, “You score big with your weed around here? I hear some of the guys out in the homeless camp by the big church carry cash on them. Heard they made some big scores and don’t like banks.”
The Rasta sneered and took a deep drag on his tequila. “No way, mon. Me been there.” He shrugged. “Old mon try to stop me. T’ink he boss? Me fix him.” The Rasta punched the air and twisted his two hands, like wringing a chicken’s neck. He grinned with drunken satisfaction.
Gus leaned back in his chair and looked away. He didn’t want the guy to read the deadly anger in his eyes. Gus had his answer. The time had come.
The tequila had gotten to the Rasta, but not to Gus. Earlier, in the bus station washroom, he’d dumped one of the bottles in the sink and refilled it with water. The Rasta was the only one drinking the real stuff.
Gus was as sober as a judge and about to pronounce sentence.
He took the money from his bag and put it on the table. The Rasta leaned forward to count it-and then Gus pulled out the gun from his bag and pointed it between the Rasta’s scared eyes.
“Hand over the weed.”
The Rasta tried to focus, pull himself together, but he was too drunk. He fumbled for the package with the weed and put it on the table. Gus dumped it into his bag. Then he picked up the money lying on the table and jammed it beside the weed in the bag.
Gus motioned with the gun. “Stand up, scumbag, and take off your clothes.”
The guy looked at Gus, blinking, weaving on his feet.
“You heard me. Strip, take off your shirt and pants.”
The Rasta looked around, fear growing in his eyes. Slowly, he removed his shirt and then his pants.
“Underpants too, stud.”
The Rasta stood naked as the day he was born, except for his bare feet in large loafers. “Put your hands behind your head and keep them there,” Gus commanded. He could see the man was trying to sober up. But he’d had way too much to drink. The dealer couldn’t get his brain into gear; he could only let his eyes flick about, trying to find a way to escape.
For a moment, the image of Sweet Sue’s battered face and body replayed in Gus’s head. He felt like shooting the bastard weaving in front of him. But Gus had a better plan. He motioned the Rasta over to the backdoor and made him stand beside it. Then Gus opened the door, stuck out his head, and checked the alley. It was clear, and it was cold-freezing cold. The Rasta hung back.
Gus made him turn around so that he stood in the doorway, facing the alley. Then Gus cold-cocked the Rasta behind his left ear with the gun’s butt. The Rasta crumpled and sagged to the floor. Gus flipped him over and removed the handcuffs and duct tape from his bag. No ex-cop should leave home without them, he thought. He cuffed the dealer’s hands behind him. And then Gus stuffed a wad of the money in the dealer’s mouth and wrapped duct tape around it and the Rasta’s head. The man wouldn’t be running his mouth off any time soon.
Gus slipped out the backdoor and opened the dumpster’s cover, swinging it back against the building. Then he dragged the Rasta to it and, grunting, heaved the man over the side and into the dumpster. Gus looked over. It was about a quarter full. He figured the city wouldn’t be doing a pickup for at least a few days. No matter. He wasn’t through with the Rasta yet.
Gus took a deep breath in the cold air. It hurt his lungs-he wasn’t used to breathing that deep. Next, he hoisted himself up and into the dumpster, gingerly stepping into the smelly mess. He pushed aside the gunk until he’d made a place for the dealer’s body. Gus turned him over so that he lay facedown, his dick on the freezing metal bottom of the dumpster. Then he covered him with the stinky mash of rinds and peelings and other discarded food.
It was a fitting end and a lesson the dope dealer would live with painfully for a long time.
Gus climbed out, closed the lid, and went inside again. He tidied up after himself, cleaning his pants and shoes and socks. He found white vinegar in the restaurant kitchen and wiped down all the surfaces he had touched, then moved outside and wiped down the dumpster too.
He went back inside and checked around one more time before he turned out the lights, flipped the lock, and closed the door.
Gus collected the drug money that hadn’t gone into the Rasta’s mouth, and he took all the dope and stuck it in his gym bag. The money would make a nice anonymous contribution to the Gospel Men’s Mission. The dope he’d unload into the nearest sewer drain. He hoped the salmon would get a good buzz when it reached the Sound.
Gus heard the heavy motor of a truck pulling into the far end of the alley and the squeal of brakes. He ducked around the corner and looked back. It was a city garbage truck, the big kind that compacted the garbage. Gus stayed to watch. He saw the truck’s long skid arms slip under the dumpster, lifting and then emptying it into the truck. The dumpster’s lid clanged as it was lowered. Then the mechanical sound of the compactor’s motor revved as it efficiently ground up the contents.
Gus leaned back against the rough brick side of a building, hidden from view of the garbage crew in the alley. Then he bowed his head, but it wasn’t in prayer. He was staring at the realization, as clear as if printed on a poster in front of him. He could’ve stopped the truck-and the compactor. Maybe shouted or waved his arms before the terrible sound of the grinding wheels.
But he hadn’t. Now he’d have to live with that memory too. Gus shrugged.
It was a bad end to a bad creep.
Gus stuffed his free hand in his pocket and started walking. Before he caught the bus for downtown, he fed the dope and pills into a sewer grate and tossed the bag into a garbage can.
Gus got off on First Avenue and walked to Pioneer Square. He found a dank tavern and had some quick shots- he knew from practice exactly how many dulled the sharp edges of memory but still left him able to figure out next steps.
The odds were that the trash collectors would find or see something funny. Maybe the dealer’s skinny bones would jam the mechanism. Or the garbage collectors would notice a lot of blood and do some checking. Once something like that was reported, it would be carried on the local news. Probably say,
Gus welcomed the mellow numbness beginning to spread in his body. He wanted it to reach his chest, to surround his heart. Still its beating. Gus shook himself. Now was when he had to be really careful. He needed to think, and he pushed his shot glass away with a shaking hand.
Seattle PD had good cops. They might not care if a dope dealer ended up as beef stew in the city dump. But they’d follow through with their investigation. The headlines and the City Council would demand that.
A good investigator would interview all of the shopkeepers and restaurant folks around the alley. Ask the drifters and bums if they’d seen anything. The cops would sure as hell assume there was some connection between a Rastafarian and a Caribbean restaurant. And the owner could ID him. So could some of the punk kids he’d approached about buying drugs.
If they did a sketch from the cafe owner’s description and ran it over the wire, his picture might turn up. Sure as hell, his name and the fact that he’d been a cop in San Jacinto would come out. And why he’d left the police
