“And I’m supposed to care because…?”
“Well, I heard you got a sniff of that blossom. Thought you’d be interested.”
“Street talk. If you believe that I got some magic beans to sell you.”
He giggles, then says, “Did you hear about Dingus?”
Dale Dingus is something of a legend around Newcastle, the super cop who first put the squeeze on Old Man Miller’s operation, weakened him enough that Frank was able to push him out. Then Dingus up and takes Frank himself off the street after catching him in the act of dispensing a little Pounder justice on the leader of the Red Riding Hoods over a demand for a piece of the meth trade. Dingus followed up on a tip that took him to a riverfront foundry just as Frank was dipping the errant biker boss feet first into molten lead. At least the poor bastard still had his boots on.
I already know the poop, but I let Simon tell me anyway. Dingus is local law, but his knowledge of the Flats is such that the Crabs brought him on board the task force targeting all the top guys in Frank’s operation. When they learn he’s been presenting paper trail evidence cooked up in his own office to the grand jury, the whole case collapses.
“Kinda like how your lungs will collapse,” Simon adds, “once Frank finds out about you and his sweetie.”
Maybe he’s not so simple after all. I hang up. Frank’s legal situation is still sorting itself out, but I know he’ll be released back into the wild soon. It’s time to make an appearance in the Flats.
IV
I’m sitting alone at the bar in the Sugarplum Haus, brooding on the dark walnut and the smell of wood smoke, when Dahlia finally tracks me down. She slips onto the stool next to me, grabs my bourbon and tosses it back. She must not have read the brochure on what to avoid while heavy with child. Not that I say anything. For now, I’m content to let her think it’s her little secret.
“Where you been, sailor? You haven’t called.”
I’m sure she can guess why, so I order another bourbon, and one for her so she’ll leave mine alone. When the bartender sets us up, I sip my drink and watch Dahlia in the mirror over the back of the bar. She strokes her long neck like she’s got something on her mind. I keep my yap shut, figuring sooner or later she’ll need to fill the silence.
“Remember when you told me you got sent up for that meth thing?”
“What about it?”
“I was thinking maybe you could help me out.”
I look at her like she’s a pockmarked street gretel, not a statuesque blond rapunzel. “What, you wanna score some speed?”
She rolls those big indigos like she thinks my wit matches my stature.
“So what then?”
“Well, it might be I got a line on a truckload of decongestant. The real thing, not that fake crap they sell over the counter nowadays.”
“Sufa-Dream, something like that?”
“Exactly like that.”
“Where the hell did you get a truckload of Sufa-dream?” I make my voice sound dismissive, like I think she’s full of shit. But I already know such a truck exists. The news criers on teevee glossed over it, no doubt because Drugs and Vice doesn’t want to trouble Newcastle’s citizenry with facts. But the street has been buzzing about the truck that never arrived at Pharma-City’s central ware house. A mixed shipment, everything from eye drops to recreational lubricants. And barrel after barrel of Sufa-dream. Her father boosted the truck, and now the sweet flower beside me has her hands on a hundred thousand packs of sinus medicine, one-point-two million doses of name-brand pseudo-ephedrine. She wants me to cook it for her.
I tell her there ain’t enough bourbon in all of Kaintuck for this conversation. “Besides,” I add, “I can’t believe you don’t know someone else for this. With your connects?”
She swirls her bourbon and I watch her, curious what’s going on behind those eyes. She tosses back the hooch at last. “Everyone I know Frank knows.”
And there it is.
When her pop boosted the truck, all he figured on was a big payday, something to reset his fortunes now that his nemesis was in the can. What Old Man Miller didn’t count on was Frank already had his sights on the pseudo. Had a team and a plan. Cops on the come would divert the truck off the I onto surface streets and Frank’s boys would take it under the Billy Goat Bluff Bridge. Frank was already the biggest supplier of meth on the coast. This much pseudo would keep his distributors in crank for a year.
Old Man Miller worked the deal from the other end. He knew the truck driver, or more precisely he knew the driver’s son. The kid had lost enough bullion betting the ponies at Miller’s book that he gave the kid’s father a choice: give up the shipment or give up his boy’s hands. So when the night of the delivery comes, the pseudo never makes it onto the I for Frank’s pet cops to divert. Next day, the driver turns up in the river. No one has seen the truck or its contents since.
“I don’t know, Dahl. This doesn’t sound like the kind of thing I want to get into the middle of.”
She leans into me, presses her double-barreled acorns into my back. “Come on, baby. I’ll make it worth your while.” I feel her hand run along my thigh. Stroke by stroke, I’m warming up to her touch. But I need to keep my focus.
“Answer me one question.”
“What’s that, honey?”
“How does the gingerbread man baking in your oven fit into all this?”
She catches a handful of testicles. It’s all I can do not to squeal. She’s got a grip like a tin woodsman.
“Who told you that?”
I can’t answer until she eases off a little, but when she does I gasp, “You think it’s some kind of secret? In this town?”
She ponders that, her face a chart of unexplored territory. After a moment, she withdraws her claw and sighs. Looks away. I cross my legs and take a chance.
“It’s not Frank’s, is it?”
I can actually see the anxiety in her plasticine countenance, but she only shrugs. “Could be yours for all I know.”
I don’t think she really believes it’s mine. Or at least, she doesn’t believe it’s any more likely to be mine than any number of other fellas. An active young woman, our Miller’s daughter.
“Tell me,” I say. She orders another bourbon and runs it down.
She explains that Ciconi couldn’t artificially inseminate her because she was already expecting. Not for long, but hormones don’t lie. So she’s scared, because if Frank finds out, molten lead will be the least of her troubles. Unless the kid is late, Frank could get suspicious of the timing and demand a paternity test. So she wants me to cook the meth. Even wholesale, she’s thinking she can make enough money to escape with her father, who won’t survive long himself once the truth about the Sufa- Dream truck gets back to Frank.
“I suppose you’re in a hurry,” I say.
“They won’t be able to keep him in for much longer. Another week, two at most, before his conviction is vacated. I need this done.” She looks at me, and now her indigos have gone all dim and watery. “Can you help me? I’ll split the sell with you. That’s some serious bullion.”
I let my own eyes soften and give her a smile. “Okay, bring me the pills.”
“And you can work fast?”
“Don’t worry. I have a tight operation.”
I ask for a number where I can reach her. She writes it on my hand. I think we’re done, but she leans in one more time, whispers in my ear. “So, sailor, you gonna tell me your name now that we’re partners?” Hand on my thigh again.
I shake my head. “All things considered, I think I’ll stick with anonymous.”
