compare my profession to that of the noble telemar keter.
'I need a favor,' I said to Rose. I put the statement bluntly, accentuating the word need. Not want. Need.
And since she was close to Stephen, and aware that I was tracking down his killer, she might be more apt to Jason Pinter accept the rather large, not to mention illegal, favor I was about to ask of her.
'What can I do?' she replied. Good start.
I filled her in on the details of Beth-Ann Downing's murder, and the disappearance of Helen Gaines. I told her about my conversation with Sheryl Harrison, and the confession that her mother had maintained a ruthless addiction her whole life. The silence on the other end told me that Rose was well aware of why I was coming to her.
When I finished, I asked if I could fill her in in person. She agreed, and I was on the next subway down town to meet her.
Before turning on to Rose's block, I stopped at an
ATM and withdrew two hundred dollars. I had no idea how much I'd actually need, but I figured better to have more money and not need it than need more money and not have it.
When I got to her building, I buzzed up and she rang me through. She opened the door wearing a tank top and pajama bottoms. Her eyes were weary, deep bags settling under them like squished blueberries.
'Morning,' I said.
'Is it morning already?' she asked.
I noticed the shades were all drawn, and there were no clocks in sight. Half a dozen wrapped candy bars were strewn around, as well as what looked like a month's supply of Red Bull. It looked like the apartment was stocked and prepared for a bout of hibernation.
'It's almost 9:00 a.m.,' I said.
'Huh. Didn't realize it.'
'Listen,' I said. 'I have a favor to ask of you. A big one.'
'You said that already. What gives?'
'I need you to order something from Vinnie,' I said.
'I want to know who he works for.'
Rose sat back in her overstuffed leather couch. The confident woman I'd just met looked like she'd just been swallowed up whole.
'I've been clean for a long time,' she said. 'I've put that behind me.'
'I don't want you to use anything,' I said, attempt ing to clarify things but wondering if that mattered at all. 'All I need is for whoever's playing Vinnie this week to come here so I can follow him.'
'So why don't you call him yourself?'
'They won't know me,' I said. 'They'll trust you.
I'm willing to bet that whoever these Vinnies work for, they keep a record of addresses, customers. The runners might be idiots, but their bosses never are. I intend to follow this guy, see where he goes, and I don't want to chance being recognized. They know you.'
Rose shook her head violently, as though shooing away demons that were swirling around. A pang of guilt thudded in my stomach, and I wondered if my onetrack mind in finding Stephen's killer could hurt others as well. The last thing I wanted to do was encourage
Rose to relapse, but…I didn't know where else to turn.
And I needed to know where the stream started. Or at least needed to find the next level.
'I'll do it,' Rose said. 'But I won't order anything stronger than weed, and I won't pay for a cent of it.'
'Fair enough,' I said. 'What's the smallest amount you can order?'
'You don't want the smallest amount, trust me.'
'Why not?'
'They'll know my phone number. Let's just say back in the day, I never ordered the smallest amount. Not to mention I haven't ordered in a long time. If all of a sudden I call up and ask for one tab of ecstasy, they won't believe me. Somebody who comes back to the stuff after such a long layoff, it's because they fell off the wagon. Hard. We want to make the order sound realis tic. You order a dime bag of schwag, he'll laugh in your face and tell you it's not worth his time. And then he'll never take my call again because he'll assume I'm turning on him. Cops on stakeouts are cheap. You want a real delivery, an ounce of decent weed will probably run you a hundred fifty or so, though I've been out of the game for a while so, you know, inflation and everything.'
'Really? Inflation affects drug sales?'
'We live in the United States, don't we? You think people will pay more than four bucks for a gallon of gas but won't pony up a Ben Franklin to get high with their friends? A gallon lasts until the next exit. A good high will give you stories that'll last for years-if you can remember it. I'd go with this-order a quarter ounce of mids. Decent enough stuff, probably run seventy-five bucks. Enough so it's worth the trip for them, but it won't put a big crimp in your discretionary fund. That work, champ?'
'Whatever you say. You call and order. When Vinnie buzzes up, just send a text message to my cell phone. I won't respond, but that's the signal that it's the right guy. Then send me one more when he leaves, just to be sure.' I took out my wallet, peeled off two hundred dollars and handed it to Rose. 'In case it's more than you expect. Or you need to, like, tip him.'
'Tip the drug dealer,' she said, laughing. 'Right.
I'm sure he'll take it back to the Dairy Queen and divide it up among his colleagues. What are you, some kind of nitwit? Didn't you smoke in college?'
'Once or twice,' I said, 'but I don't think anyone ever trusted me to handle the business transactions. I just assumed you tip people in the service industry.'
'All right,' Rose said. 'But after this, no more favors.
I told you everything I know and then some, and now you have me risking my sobriety for you.'
'It's not for me,' I said. 'It's for Stephen.'
'Are you sure?' Rose asked, one eyebrow arched.
''Cause I've been around a lot of users before, every kind of drug you can imagine. I've seen too many friends die because of the pipe or needle. But not every addict smokes or drinks or inhales. A lot of them get off on other things. I see a little bit of that in you, Henry.
You're a bit of an addict, too.'
I didn't know how to reply to this, but something about it didn't feel good. Rather than respond, I simply thanked Rose for helping, and went outside.
I was still thinking about what she'd said when I found a park bench to sit on that afforded me a full view of her building's entrance.
Addict. I repeated the word to myself. It was a cool, sunny day, and if I weren't tracking a drug dealer I could envision myself sitting here with Amanda, watching the families play. Young children growing up in a city that seemed to offer them brief pockets of respite, small guarded sanctuaries in between the play grounds for millionaires.
Addict.
It was an ugly word, one I never associated with myself. Yet when Rose said it, I felt an angry fire burning inside me. I wanted to argue with her, but somehow felt it would have strengthened her point.
Addict.
I watched the children play and wondered if she was right.
My eyes stayed fixed to the building entrance. Every time someone entered-old, young, white, black,
Hispanic-I would place my hand over the pocket holding my cell phone. It was set to vibrate. Every few minutes I would take it just to make sure I hadn't missed anything. Nothing yet.
An hour and a half passed, when a man wearing a
Yankees hat approached the doorstep. He pulled out a cell phone, checked it, then went up the steps. He was young, maybe nineteen or twenty. He wore baggy jeans and a chain looped around from his belt to his back pocket where he kept a wallet. And most importantly, he was carrying a backpack.
As he went to press the buzzer, another man walked up to the steps. He was wearing a dark suit with slickedback hair and sunglasses. An expensive-looking brief case was in his hand. He was a few years older than hat guy, maybe twenty-four or -five, but looked like he lived in a totally different world. Not to mention bank
