Posted tagged ‘Drugs’

Working the City – 1,2,3,4

October 18, 2010

It’s an older, inner city neighborhood. The closest shopping area is eight blocks away. The grocery store building at the corner of my block is empty. I’m sitting on money. I’ve been saving it for an eventual move to the country. Yet, as I walk past the ‘For Rent’ sign in the store’s window, I’m attracted to the possibilities. I call the listed number. Within an hour, a sharply dressed older man arrives on the scene in a vintage, maroon Cadillac. He’s asking questions. What’s my plan? Do I have first and last months rent? Utilities deposits? I flash the cash. He gives me three copies of the lease and says I have thirty days to seek a lawyer’s advice before deciding. I scan through the lease and sign all three copies. He takes two copies and hands me the keys.

I clean the store, repair the walk-in cooler, wash the big glass windows in front. Then, early the next morning, I drive my pickup truck to the commercial produce terminal. Wholesale suppliers refuse me, saying my purchases are too small. However, at the end of the loading dock I find a supplier selling smaller quantities of expensive, high quality produce. He welcomes my business. Fresh items arrive early every morning by air freight, mostly from California. I can purchase older produce at reduced prices.

People in the neighborhood are delighted when I open the store with a wide selection of fruits and vegetables. They’re attracted to my unusual assortment of sweet and juicy melons with pink, orange, yellow, and green soft textured interior fruit, each with a unique flavor. They love my bright red tomatoes, gigantic orange carrots, pearly white onions, shades of green lettuce and cabbage. Grapes, apples, pears, and bananas. I’m sold out by the end of the day.

Even at moderate profit margins, I quickly accumulate enough money for a used deli counter with a working compressor allowing me to keep meats, cheeses, and other foods cool while on display behind glass. A stainless steel slicing machine comes with the deli counter. I sell pre-made sandwiches. Customers can buy a variety of ingredients and make their own. I collect an assortment of used kitchen tables with chairs and place them around the front area of the store where the big glass windows allow natural lighting throughout the day.

My shopping trips expand to include bakery, beverage, and condiment products along with the fresh produce, dried fruits, nuts, cheeses, and meats. I hire people from the neighborhood, a woman to make sandwiches, another woman to work the counter, and a man to work the front of the store dealing with customers and security while cleaning tables and taking out the garbage.

Everything’s going smoothly during the lunch rush when a tall man wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and tie walks into the store. He’s the city’s health inspector, looking for trouble. I hold my breath while he sniffs around. He gives me a list of violations to correct and tells me I’m doing a great job. I offer him a sandwich and a beverage but he says he’d rather pay for it to avoid a misunderstanding. We sit at a table to talk. He does most of the talking. He’s a treasure chest of food business knowledge. I ask why he still works for the city. He shrugs and looks out the window like that’s not a proper question.


City departments are overwhelmed by job cuts and, in the absence of adequate police protection, the few remaining inspectors rarely venture into the neighborhoods. My store’s liquor license effectively allows me to market beer, wine, and distilled spirits in whatever manner I choose. The legal minimum age remains a priority concern for me and my employees, nonetheless.

The local gang leader pressures me for protection money. I’m able to involve him in a business scheme, giving me the confidence I need to make further investments in the neighborhood.

An empty industrial building six blocks from the store is in excellent condition. It has an attached four story warehouse and a paved parking lot surrounded by a ten foot high fence. I cut a deal with the property management agency. In the absence of other alternatives, they’re eager to work with me and my phased development plan.

Using unemployed workers from the neighborhood, including several master carpenters, I partition the main floor of the warehouse building into a mini-mall of separate stores. When the right time comes, I’ll go city wide with advertising. Until then, I stay under the radar. I don’t want inspectors coming around, going by the book.

I use the second floor of the warehouse building to support the first floor’s business activities. The third floor goes to the local gang leader who runs security operations. The forth floor is a private club with high stakes gambling.

In the large industrial bay, with its four stories high ceiling and one long wall consisting almost completely of big glass windows, I create an area for private parties with a bar, a stage, and a dance floor.

My job is easy. I’m the boss. Although the gang leader who runs security likes to think he’s the boss. He’s controlling crime and violence in the neighborhood, creating a safe environment for business, so I don’t mind humoring him.


Pau Patro, that’s the local gang leader’s name. He now runs security operations for all my business activities. I couldn’t operate in the neighborhood without him. He’s young, strong, and ambitious. He reminds me of a line from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. He of the lean and hungry look who doesn’t sleep at night. Referring to Brutus, I believe. Machiavelli’s political treatise, The Prince, also comes to mind. My greatest need is stability. Pau’s violent and sometimes cruel actions are predicated on acquiring necessary ends by any means. His methods are justified as the best way to acquire, maintain, and protect neighborhood stability.

There’s another new stadium downtown, along with casino, theater, and hotel renovations. The city’s looking good in mainstream corporate media. However, many neighborhood leaders throughout the city are lobbying for political independence, saying their specific needs are being ignored. They want to break the city up into separate villages with their own taxes and public services.

My neighborhood is a microcosm of the city. Business is good for some, nonexistent for others. Personally, I’m riding a wave of success. But I don’t want to ignore the needs of others. Referring back to Machiavellian theory, I don’t want to be hated by the neighborhood residents. They can hate Pau, not me. I share the wealth. I create jobs, business, and profits for others.

I bend the rules, yes, when they get in my way. But I bend them for others as well. I’m not Robin Hood, no, but I consciously funnel wealth from the rich to the poor. I started doing it for myself, of course, but once I learned how, a spiritual awareness came with it. There are forces at play beyond my understanding, and yet one simple rule to guide me and never bend. Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. Pau laughs when I tell him that.


Pau walks into my second floor office without knocking. He doesn’t ask if I’m busy.

I’m fascinated by his boldness even as I resent his presumption.

His presence intimidates me. He’s an archetype. An attractive warrior god. Tall, thick, muscular. Large head, dark eyes, wide set. Light olive skin. Thick dark curly hair, salon cut to collar length. His features defy specific ethnic classification. Although he’s definitely Mediterranean.

He slides a big stuffed chair across the room towards my desk, and says: “Who’s this Machiavelli cat you keep talking about?”

“Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli,” I reply, “is an Italian philosopher, writer, and civil servant from the fifteenth or sixteenth century. He wrote one book about how to apply power in the art of war. He wrote another book about how to apply it in politics. He remains famous for that last book because his methods still apply. You seem to know them instinctively.”

Pau smiles. Remains silent. I look away.

He surrounds me, suffocates me, with his presence.

“You think you can run this operation better than me, Pau? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

He hesitates, makes me wait, thinking about what I just said.

“I’m telling you I can handle the dance hall and casino operations. Have them cooking every night with private parties. Keep it under control. No cops, no city inspectors. I’m telling you I can do that.”

Our eyes meet. His smile forces me to smile.

“We can’t do it all at once,” I say: “Until we’re sure how it’s going to work, let’s move slowly. Along with alcohol, our drug sales will skyrocket.”

“I can handle it,” he says, pulling a fat joint from his pocket: “Here, try this. It’s excellent pot. I think you’ll like it.”

I take the joint, and say: “I need to get more work done first. I’ll smoke it later. But the drugs I’m worried about are heroin, cocaine, speed, ecstasy. Suppliers of those drugs will zero in on us. I don’t feel comfortable with that. I don’t want to get involved in a city wide drug war.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered,” Pau insists. He leaves the big stuffed chair next to my desk. He doesn’t close the door behind him.

With an energized awareness from toking on the joint in my office, I enter the expansive industrial bay area of the building where an overhead matrix of lights floods the dance floor, bar, and stage area with bubbles of randomly changing color and brightness while dancers move hypnotically to erotic rhythms. Male and female prostitutes are available for hire but the price of admission to this Sodom and Gomorrah excludes the casual shopper.

Pau calls my name, invites me to his table. An attractive woman sitting with him looks in my direction as I approach. Pau wraps an arm across my shoulders, and says: “Laura, I’d like you to meet Brian. He’s the real boss around here.”

Laura! Fair skin, auburn hair. Oval face, well proportioned. Greenish eyes, lined and tinted. Glossy red lips. She’s beautiful. I’m hoping she’s not a prostitute.

“Laura needs a job, Brian. I thought you could use her. You said you were looking for an assistant, didn’t you?”

She reaches out to me. I take her hand, and reply: “Yes. Yes, I did say that. I’m very happy to meet you, Laura.”

We dance. She presses her body lightly against mine. Our eyes meet. She smiles.

I’m feeling paranoid. Maybe it’s the pot. Maybe not.


Love Connection – II

October 1, 2010

Norma Jean remained active in my memory. Her eyes, her facial expressions, her voice, her touch, her embrace, her scent lingered in my neural pathways like a parallel universe. I wanted to see her again but my only connection would be through Alphonso and his only interest in me was business, a very risky business. And then there was Earl to consider.

I checked with a friend in the music industry, and he said: “Yeah, I know Norma Jean. She’s a sweetheart. But you do not want to mess with her. She’s got a boyfriend, a very big dude, and he can get nasty.” He gave me the address of the studio and I drove by hoping to see her going in or out. I didn’t notice Alphonso until he beeped his horn.

“What are you doing down here?” he said, then, without waiting for an answer, he added: “Meet me at the crib. We need to talk.”

A big shipment of powder cocaine had arrived in the city, he said, and he could get it to me at kilo weight for a very good price, if I put the money up front. I told him, even if I could cover the money, I couldn’t handle the product at kilo weight. I’d need to involve someone else who could. And that would be tricky. But, if he was interested in working with me, I could move it in smaller quantities. Which would give me a good excuse to come around and possibly visit with Norma Jean.

I felt tempted to use my line of credit from Sonny for a really large purchase but that would require a commitment to the drug business which I wasn’t prepared to make. My parole status had changed, I no longer reported for drug testing, but even a small infraction could sent me back to prison. A major bust would send me back for the rest of my life, I feared. Playing it safe by delivering no more than a few ounces of powder cocaine at a time to an assortment of trusted friends would be enough to keep me afloat. And, to account for my income, I still had my day job at the factory stacking freshly stamped gas tank panels.

I finally caught up with Norma Jean at a crowded nightclub in a downtown hotel. She put her arms around me, and whispered: “Be an angel, get me high. Can you do that? I’m performing here tonight. I’m terrified.” When I nodded affirmatively, she took my hand and led me through the hotel lobby to an elevator. “I’ve got a room on the fifth floor,” she said as the elevator door opened.

A woman was sitting in the room, a black woman, older, heavy set, attractive, well dressed. “Who are you,” she said in a husky voice when she saw me enter.

“He’s the one I was telling you about,” Norma Jean responded.

“Oh,” the woman said, leaning back in her chair, giving me the same look I had received from Earl.

I handed Norma Jean a glass bottle filled with finely chopped and fluffed pearly flakes of cocaine hydrochloride salt ready for consumption, and said: “Be careful with this stuff. A match head in each nostril is all you need. No big lines.”

“I know,” she said: “This is the best coke ever. I’m getting too fond of it. I need to ease off before going on tour.”

“Uh-huh,” the older woman interjected.

Norma Jean shot the woman a quick glance, then, turning back to me, she said: “Can you leave me some?”

“Yeah,” I said: “I can leave the bottle. I’ll pick it up later. Take as much as you want. Offer some to your friend.” When the woman responded with a blank stare, I said: “Where’s Earl?”

“Don’t worry about Earl,” Norma Jean replied: “I’ll take care of him.”

The older woman stood, and said: “How you gonna take care of Earl when you can’t even take care of yourself?” Then she turned to me, and said: “Mister, you better take that bottle with you.”

I dumped a small pile onto Norma Jean’s tooting tray, a mirror from her purse. That’s all she would need, anyway, I reasoned, and the older woman probably saved me from a mess of trouble.

While walking through the hotel lobby on my way back to the club, I ran into Alphonso. “Glad you made it, Brian,” he said: “This is a big night for Norma Jean. With recording industry executives, booking agents, and media critics in the audience, she’ll need all the support she can get. I’d ask you to our table but there’s no place for you.”

Showroom tables were either taken or reserved. I worked my way through the standing room only crowd until I had access to the bar and a clear view of the stage. A stack of electric keyboards were on one side. Electric bass, drums, and rhythm guitar in the middle. Horns and reeds on the other side. I recognized many of the musicians, all top notch pros from around town.

The band played a credible rendition of Duke Ellington’s ‘It Don’t Mean A Thing If It Ain’t Got That Swing,’ as Norma Jean took the stage. She had three female singers standing behind her on one side and two male singers standing behind her on the other, backing her up as she sang the original lyrics with the traditional melody. Then she began to stretch the harmonic structure while inventing rhythms with a musical insight Ellington would admire. She sang original verse bordering on rap with quick riffs from trumpet, trombone, tenor saxophone, and clarinet punctuated her phraseology.

The words were difficult to follow because of the reverberation between two different speaker systems serving the showroom and the bar area where I stood, plus I just didn’t understand what she was singing about. That changed as she abruptly morphed into the next number, an electrifying rendition of ‘You Make Me Feel Brand New,’ a 1970s hit by the Stylistics.

A male singer joined Norma Jean at center stage and she gave the impression there really was something going on between them, judging from her facial expressions, her body language, and the sincere joy expressed in her singing. I remembered holding her in my arms as she sang like that to me. I felt surprisingly jealous. And I wondered how Earl felt.

Love Connection

October 1, 2010

Powder cocaine supplies had dried up in the white community due to a series of major busts by the federal Drug Enforcement Administration. The only cocaine available was crack, a form in which cocaine could not be snorted or injected but required smoking. And the main source of crack was in the black community.

A friend hooked me up with her most trustworthy connection.

“His name is Alphonso,” she said: “Don’t call him Fonzie.”

We waited inside a busy downtown jazz club. When he arrived, she introduced us and then departed. I fronted him money for what I considered a relatively small purchase, playing it safe until I knew him better.

He returned a short time later, and said: “Everything’s cool. Finish your drink. Let’s go to the crib.”

The apartment opened into a hallway that went back past the front room to the kitchen, bathroom, and bedrooms. Walls and ceilings in the large front room were painted flat black. It was low budget yet theatrically decorated with an assortment of shaded lamps directing beams of light at various angles downward onto brightly colored furniture creating a shimmering visual mosaic.

Alphonso sat on a white leatherette vinyl couch, and said: “You are some kind of crazy motherfucker, Brian, do you know that? For coming down here with this kind of money. People will kill you for far less. What are you doing with all this dope? Flipping it wholesale? I could break it up and sell it in small units for top dollar, tonight. Make you some real money, splitting the profits.”

The front door buzzer sounded before I could reply.

“I got some people coming up,” he said: “Don’t nobody need to know what you and me got going here. It’s party time. Understand? That’s it.”

“Yeah, I understand,” I said, looking into his waiting eyes, acknowledging his control of the situation.

A tall, heavyset black man wearing black pants, suit coat, and tee shirt, stopped at the opening to the front room, and said: “What’s this white boy doing in here?”

An attractive young black woman in a bright green dress entered the room without hesitating, and said: “You got something against white boys, Earl?”

Earl followed Alphonso down the hallway to a back bedroom, saying: “I didn’t know you deal with no white boys.”

The young woman in the green dress extended her hand, and said: “Hi, I’m Norma Jean.” She looked young and fresh, early twenties at the most. Yet she seemed fearless and self confident as she took my hand and smiled. Then she turned to the radio, she said: “What music do you like?”

I nodded my approval as a dreamy love song featuring passionate voices and lush orchestration filled the room with its acoustical presence at low volume.

“Drink?” she said, hitting a switch, illuminating a wet bar I hadn’t noticed in the back corner of the room: “Alphonso stocks Tanqueray’s London Dry exclusively. You should hear his Tony Sinclair. Better than Rodney Mason. How do you take your gin? Poured over ice, a jigger of tonic, a wedge of lime, that’s how I do mine.”

While mixing our drinks, she sang along with the radio music, and her voice sounded professionally trained. When I asked, she said: “Oh yes, I’ve been singing all my life, in church and in music school. I’m working on a studio album right now and rehearsing for a tour. We’re almost ready to book.”

“You talking that crazy shit again,” Earl said as he entered the room from the hallway.

Norma Jean laughed, and said: “Earl ain’t got no music and he don’t respect nobody else’s music. But he’s my man and I love him. I’m going to need his muscle on the road.”

“You’re going to get my muscle up your ass if you don’t stop talking shit.”

“He’s been promising that for days. I’m still waiting.”

Earl sank into an extra large spherical poof chair with his back, arms, and head supported and his big feet extending out into the room. Closing his eyes, he said: “This is some good shit, Al.”

Alphonso looked at me, and said: “You smoke pot? Wanna try this?”

“I do,” Norma Jean said, singing the words.

The marijuana made me paranoid. Earl was staring at me. What’s going on here? Where’s the crack? Or my money?

Alphonso read the expression on my face, and said: “Earl’s my bodyguard. He’s armed and dangerous. We’re going out on the town to spread that crack around. We ain’t doing it here. I got more people coming. They’ll be here soon. Relax, enjoy yourself. It’s party time, remember?”

Norma Jean played a battery operated keyboard in perfect unison with the music on the radio, humming along and shaking her head in time. After a second gin highball cocktail, my paranoia dissolved along with my inhibitions. Four, five, six, I’m not sure how many people arrived next and went into the back bedroom with Alphonso. But right behind them, two black men, one black woman, and three white women arrived and entered the front room. They all seemed surprised to see me there. Norma Jean fixed drinks for everybody, making conversation like she was the regular hostess.

When a tray filled with small rocks and crumbs of crack cocaine arrived from the back room, everyone except me had a glass pipe in hand. Norma Jean sat down beside me with a lit rock sizzling in a glass tube. “Here, open your mouth,” she said, holding her eyes on me while she filled her lungs with a long toke on the pipe. Then, leaning over, she kiss me, and emptied her lungs into mine. As the cocaine reached my brain in a rush of erotic pleasure I started to wrap my arms around her. But then I noticed Earl watching with an unamused expression on his face and I held back.

Shortly afterward, Alphonso entered the front room, and said: “I’m going out. Wait here.”

Earl and some other people went with him.

Norma Jean filled my lungs with another kiss and this time I put my arms around her and returned the kiss.

“Let’s dance,” she said, pushing herself away and then reaching back to take my hand.

Two other couples were already slow dancing to a soulful lament while a rotating globe chandelier reflected ballroom lights swirling in the otherwise darkened space. Norma Jean fit perfectly into my arms and I wanted to make love to her. But then she began to sing, seriously sing. I had never held a woman singing like that in my arms before, I realized, and I began to sing in return, hesitantly at first, yet she inspired and encouraged me to sing expressively with emotional force. It wasn’t sex, no, but something very similar. And I could still face both Alphonso and Earl when they returned, knowing I hadn’t abused their trust, technically speaking.

Doing Time

June 5, 2010

It’s sobering, the sound of prison doors slamming closed around you, being moved in single file along with the other new inmates to the barber shop for a buzz cut, striped for a shower, inspected for parasites, then given a gray cotton jumpsuit and floppy slippers to wear while being further processed. Low security risks get sent to the work farm outside the wall. Those staying inside have two basic security classifications. Some are immediately locked down in the high security cell blocks. The remaining inmates are assigned to one of the six large, two story dormitory wings running perpendicular to the main hallway. Each dormitory floor houses eighty-four inmates, in twenty-eight three-tiered bunk beds, fourteen on each side of a wide central aisle. I arrived at K-dorm carrying my first issue of prison clothing, bath towel, bar of soap, toothbrush, and a small tube of toothpaste. From that point onward, I would be required to purchase items I needed from the prison store on my one assigned day of the week. But I had no money yet in my store account. And, of more immediate concern, I had no cigarettes.

Freelancer – Locked Away

April 17, 2010

Johnny awoke to find himself lying on a cold, hard surface in total darkness. He couldn’t remember who he was. Yet, with nightmarish certainty, he remembered where he was. And, even though his sense of time had dissolved into an ocean of timeless drifting, he blindly clung to the belief that he could endure this tortured reality and he would one day be released from his prison cell with enough sanity remaining to live a normal life. Without such a belief his existence would be unendurable. He underlined his every waking thought with that awareness. He had been subjected to isolation, sensory deprivation, and prolonged interrogations while under the influence of experimental psychoactive drugs, yet he still felt rooted in his soul; even when he couldn’t remember who he actually was in the outer world. 

A significant amount of time had passed since his last interrogation session and the psychoactive drug effects were slowly diminishing. Along with an increase in consciousness, he became more aware of physical pain. He resisted the impulse to panic and concentrated on the pain instead, willing his mind to overpower it, to seal it off from his consciousness. 

His body had atrophied through misuse, abuse, and lack of proper medical attention. If something positive didn’t happen to him soon, he could die there, he realized. Yet he refused to accept it. With every shred of pain free consciousness, he meditated on the prayers taught to him during his childhood school years by the Catholic nuns: imploring, soliciting, supplicatory prayers, seeking God’s forgiveness. 

His mind cleared slowly. He longed to return to his natural life, living free in the mountain forest. Along with memories of living in the cabin, of hunting in the woods, of bonding with wolves, a vision of Rosemary entered his consciousness. He included Rosemary in his imaginings as his mate. And he mated with her often in his mind. In fact, the more he mated with her the stronger he became, he felt. It increased his will to live, giving him the power to push his body and force himself to exercise, despite the pain.

Freelancer – On the Run

April 11, 2010

Johnny scanned the coffee shop as he walked towards the front. The cashier had her back to him while talking on the phone. He laid a five dollar bill on the counter and didn’t wait for his change. Outside, he stopped at the curb and looked both ways before crossing. Then he watched from the shadows of a dark alleyway down the street as three police cars arrived together in front of the coffee shop.

He headed east out of the city, traveling on foot through a darkened neighborhood without electricity. Many houses in the neighborhood were empty, dilapidated, and surrounded by vacant lots filled with trash and overgrown with weeds. Littered roads needed repairs and were barely passable. People living there were desperate and it wasn’t a safe place to be walking alone at night.

As he approached the bright lights of an expressway, he noticed a car with its headlights off coming slowly up the dark alley behind him. He hesitated for an instant to calculate his options. Gang members worried him more than the police, who were locally in scarce supply. He started running.

He ran into the lighted area surrounding the expressway, climbed over the fence, and then looked back. The car had stopped at the alley’s edge, about thirty yards behind him. He ran down the slope to the expressway surface, waving his arms to keep from falling.

Late night traffic consisted mostly of big trucks with only an occasional car. The trucks maintained a steady speed at a safe distance apart, making it easy for him to run between them; until a car pulled out from behind a truck and almost hit him as he crossed the next to last lane. The driver gave several loud horn blasts in protest.

Johnny didn’t stop running until he reached the top of the incline. He had no other choice but to stay on his present course, he concluded while pausing to catch his breath. Then, vowing to be eternally grateful if fate would smile upon him, he started running again. After jumping the fence and landing hard, he ran for cover, staying low to the ground. A row of trees and shrubs isolated the expressway from the adjacent neighborhood. He crawled under a clump of pine trees whose lower branches tapered down and almost touched the ground. Laying on a soft bed of pine needles, he closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing.

When morning traffic began, he got out from under the trees, brushed himself off, and started jogging across a wide patch of grass to the street. Other people were out jogging and walking their dogs on the grass and no one seemed concerned about his presence there. As he reached the sidewalk, the first rays of sunlight broke through the morning mist. He crossed to the sunny side of the street and continued traveling east out of the city.

Rosemary Royce walked into her editor’s office and said: “I can’t find anything to back up the government report on this guy, Johnny Gee.”

The editor looked up from his desk, and replied: “We’re not in the business of questioning the authorities, Rosy, just go with what they gave you.”

She started to leave, hesitated, and then said: “According to the report, he’s a homegrown terror suspect but I haven’t been able to find anything, no family, no friends, no schools, no jobs, nothing to verify his existence.”

The editor sat back in his chair, and said: “He’s an illegal, Rosy. Don’t waste your time on him. Write the story and move on to something else.”

Good journalistic practice, Rosemary believed, required her to check and double check her sources before publishing. Yet, to meet the publishing deadline, she used the unverified government information, adding balance to her article by including a paragraph on the history of government misinformation concerning homegrown terror plots. That paragraph was deleted by the editor in the final layout.

Rosemary felt refreshed walking in late afternoon sunlight through the downtown pedestrian plaza after working eight hours in her office on the twenty second floor. Seeing an empty spot in the sun by the fountain, she decided to sit and compose an imaginary interview with someone in the crowd. She turned when she heard a male voice speaking behind her.

“Hey baby, let’s smoke some crack.”

Finding the young man intriguing, she decided to engage him. With a frozen stare, she said: “You can’t do that here.”

“Why not?” he said, raising the glass pile to his lips, lighting it, and taking a lungful.

She waived her hand when he offer her the pipe, and said: “No thank you, I’m looking for information.”

“What information?”

“I’m an independent investigative journalist.”

“Investigating what?”

“I’m not quite sure yet.”

“Here, take a hit of this. It will help you with that, I guarantee it.”

Rosemary again waved the pipe away as she spoke, saying: “I’m interested in information about a character in the news named Johnny Gee. Do you know anything about him?”

The young man turned sideways, and said: “Johnny Gee? You must be crazy, girl. Let me tell you something, Johnny Gee will come after you.”

“Why? What does he do?”

“What does he do? You don’t really want to know. Here, take a hit of this and chill.”

Rosemary pulled the straps of her handbag over her shoulder and stood to leave, saying: “I should have known better than to try to talk to a crack head.”

“Come on now, baby girl, don’t you go getting angry on me. Sit back down here. Let me tell you something, Gee ain’t his real last name. It only starts with a gee-sound. It’s unpronounceable. Polish, maybe Russian. But he’s of mixed race. Along with European blood, he’s got Mexican Indian and African blood. Plus, he could almost pass for an Asian. Here’s the irony. He don’t look nothing like a white European but he thinks like one. So, wherever he goes, he almost never fits in, is never completely accepted, is always an outsider. That’s his karma.”

“How do you know all this about him, whatever your name is?”

“Byron’s the name. How do I know? We grew up in the same neighborhood. He’s a few years older than me but, everybody who worked the streets in those days has a story to tell about Johnny Gee. He’s a bad dude.”

“I haven’t been able to find anybody except you.”

“Hey, I found you, actually. I knew who you was when I came over here. Seen your picture in the paper before. Read some of your articles, too. Does that surprise you?”

“Yes, it does surprise me. And it makes me wonder why you settle for sitting around here smoking crack all day when you’re obviously intelligent enough to be doing something better with your life.”

“I am doing something better. Ain’t I talking to you? Helping you out with your independent investigation? Anyway, a few years ago, right after his release from prison, Johnny Gee got involved with organized crime. I lost track of him after that. I hear stories but I don’t know what’s true anymore. The cops say he’s a terrorist. I don’t buy that, it ain’t his style. Some people think he’s a government snitch. Either way, they’re setting him up for a fall.”

Rosemary walked away from the plaza more determined than ever to unravel Johnny Gee’s story. She immediately returned to her office to write down Byron’s comments while they were still fresh in her memory.

Once outside the city, Johnny hiked through the upland forest to the Mountain Valley Reservation. He attracted a number of curious stares as he made his way through the main village to the Tribal Chief’s office but no one tried to stop him. He had no reason to expect a welcome reception there yet he hoped they would at least treat him with respect.

“Hey, you’re the guy in the news,” the Chief said when he saw Johnny walking through the door: “What are you doing here?”

Overcome by fatigue and thirst, Johnny stood with his mouth open, struggling to formulate a reasonable explanation into words. “I’m here to surrender,” he finally spoke.

“Surrender? We don’t want you,” the Chief replied: “But you’d better sit down before you fall down. Somebody get this man a glass of water.”

Johnny sensed the Chief watching him as he drank. It felt good to be sitting. He wished he could go home and sleep in his bed.

The Chief leaned back on the front of his desk, looked down at Johnny, and said: “I don‘t know who you are or what you are. But I know you’re not one of us. And you can’t stay here. I’ll give you a place to sleep tonight but you’ll be on your way in the morning.”

Rosemary’s editor assigned her to cover the Tribal Chief’s morning press conference at the Mountain Valley Reservation updating the general public on plans to build and operate a gambling casino there. As she approached the reservation’s entrance in her car just before sunrise, she noticed a man walking at the side of the road. “That looks like the guy in the picture,” she said aloud. On an impulse, she pulled over to pick him up.

Johnny saw the car turning into the reservation and then abruptly swerve back onto the road. The woman in the driver’s seat looked nervous, he thought, like she knew who he was. When she stopped in front of him, he leaning down, looked through the window, and said: “How far are you going?”

“Get in,” Rosemary replied: “I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

He slid into the passenger seat beside her, and said: “Drive into the state forest.” She put the car in gear and checked her mirrors before pulling back onto the road. As the car accelerated, Johnny said: “Let’s talk. Why are you doing this?”

She steered the car with one hand, brushed her hair back with the other, and said: “I don’t know.”

Johnny laughed, and replied: “What’s your name? You do know that, don’t you?”

“People call me Rosy, for Rosemary, Rosemary Royce. I write for a newspaper. I’ve been researching a government report implicating you in a terrorist plot.”

“Don’t believe everything you read in government reports, Rosy.”

“What should I believe?” she said, taking her eyes off the road for an instant to see the expression on Johnny’s face.

He met her eyes, and said: “I don’t know whether you’re being stupid or courageous, but I’m an armed and desperate fugitive.”

“Why are you so desperate?”

“Why? Well, Rosy, it’s like this. I’ve been a petty criminal since childhood. They baited me with immunity from my past, a chance to start all over again. I swallowed their bait. They hooked me, used me, and then cut me loose. Now they want me dead. I know too much.”

“You know too much about what?”

“About who they are and how they do things. Like control law enforcement from the justice department to the local sheriff. And about how they stay in power, eliminating loose ends, big and small. If I tell you more, you’ll become a loose end, too. You wouldn’t want that. If they find out you were with me, that would be enough for them to suspect you know something. I’m serious. If you were to go back to your newspaper and write an article mentioning this conversation with me, that would be suicide for you, Rosemary. I am serious.”

They drove in silence for several miles, and then Johnny said: “Pull over here and let me out.” Before he closed the car door behind him, he turned and said: “Thanks for the ride, Rosy. Listen to me. Do not write that article. And don‘t go to the police. For your own good.”

“Here, take my card,” she said: “Contact me whenever you can. I’m interested.” Then she waited until Johnny disappeared into the forest before she turned around and drove back to the reservation.

As she pulled into the reservation parking lot, she could see the press conference had already begun. The Tribal Chief stood outdoors on a platform with the sun coming up over the mountains behind him. When she approached the platform on foot, a security guard stopped her, and said: “The chief wants a talk with you. Come this way, please.” She followed him into a large tent next to the platform. In the middle of the tent, a round table supported a scale model of the proposed casino. Before she had a chance to study the model in detail, the Chief came into the tent.

He introduced himself and apologized if his security guard had offended her in any way. Then he said: “Earlier this morning, two of my guards outside saw you stop for a man at the side of the road. Where did you take him? What did he tell you?”

Rosemary remembered Johnny’s warning and her heart started beating faster. She swallowed and then exhaled before answering: “I drove him up into the state park. He went hiking in the forest. He had a backpack and a sleeping bag so I guess he’ll be camping out. But he didn’t tell me anything about it. I didn’t even get his name. He wasn’t really talkative.”

The Chief silently stared at her for a moment, and then said: “Why would a pretty young woman like you give that man a ride, heading into an isolated area like that? Huh, can you tell me?”

“I thought he was cute.”

“Cute? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. What if he was a fugitive or something? He could have taken you as a hostage, or worse.”

“All I did was give him a ride. He was very polite. He thanked me.”

“He thanked you. Well you were lucky this time, young lady. Please don’t do it again.”

Rosemary collected some literature about the proposed casino along with a copy of the Chief’s press conference speech and then drove back to the city. She thought the Chief acted strange while questioning her, like he had a hidden motive, and it made her uneasy.

Johnny hiked across state owned land to the adjacent national forest. He traveled through rugged terrain to the remotest part of the mountain range until he reached a marijuana growing operation protected by a group of old friends he had met while in prison. Big Jake, the group’s leader, greeted Johnny’s arrival with an angry outburst, saying: “Man, this isn’t cool. Why did you come here? You’ll bring the fuzz down on us. They’ll be all over the place looking for you.”

Johnny calmly responded: “The fuzz already knows about you, Jake. If they’re all over the place it isn’t because of me. They have no idea where I’m at, unless you tell them.”

“Man, I ain’t going to tell them nothing and you know that. I just don’t think it was a good idea for you to come here.”

Johnny greeted the other seven members of the group who had gathered around to witness the confrontation. He recognized all of them and they all seemed happy to see him.

Returning to Jake, he said: “I was last seen about four days ago leaving a downtown coffee shop at three in the morning. I’m not being followed.”

“You didn’t get that backpack and bedroll in a downtown coffee shop. It looks like indian gear to me. You stopped at the reservation? Who else knows you were heading this way?”

“Yeah, I stopped by the reservation to pickup some essentials. I needed them. I had no choice. But those people are cool, I guarantee it.”

“You guarantee it. I question your judgment, Johnny. Your guarantee don’t mean nothing to me. What makes you think them indians won’t sell you out?”

“They know what’s going on.”

“They know what’s going on? What is going on?”

“They know how the government doesn’t represent the people. And the people need to get it together.”

“Don’t give me no political BS, Johnny. You attract major heat everywhere you go. And I’m disappointed in you for coming here. I just don’t know what to do about it yet. We’ll be shutting this place down eventually. But it’s too early for that now. What are your plans?”

“First, I’d like to buy a kilo of that bud from you, Jake. And then I’m hiking over to some private property I purchased a while back. There’s a sturdy cabin there, along with food and water. I have no plans beyond that. I’ll probably get bored eventually and be attracted back to the city. Things should have cooled by then. I’m no big fish.”

“If you’re no big fish, why do they keep showing your picture on TV? We got a satellite dish, we’ve seen it, and so has everybody else. Somebody big is after you, Johnny. That makes you a big fish.”

Johnny finished his business with Jake, said good-by to the group, and then returned to the trail. Three days later, he arrived at the cabin where found everything reasonably intact. More than a year earlier, he had stocked the cabin with the basic tools of survival, including guns and ammunition. He had also stored some basic foods, including several different grains, beans, dried fruit, dried vegetables, sea salt, seeds, nuts, and coffee beans. Then he had sealed the food and the cabin against bears, wolves, and other hungry critters.

During his first dreamlike days living there, a new discovery came with every breath. He rarely thought beyond his immediate circumstances. Through fishing, hunting, and trapping, he would have everything he needed to survive, he believed, and he quickly developed a comfortable routine.

Johnny Gee’s name faded from the news loop but Rosemary continued searching for information. The only person she could find who claimed to know Johnny Gee, however, was Byron, the crack smoking young man who hung out near the fountain at the downtown pedestrian plaza.

When she returned to the fountain area for a follow up conversation with Byron, she said: “Your description of Johnny Gee as being multiracial could have been surmised from looking at the picture of him circulating in the media. I need hard facts. Take me to the neighborhood where he grew up.”

“That place has changed,” Byron replied: “It’s always been low class but, now it’s gone from bad to worse. And we ain’t going to find him there, anyway, so what’s the point?”

“The point is, you’re all I have, except for his police record and some questionable government reports. Don’t get me wrong, Byron, but I’d feel a lot better if we could go there and talk to some other people who can verify your statements.”

“People there are afraid to talk, Rosy. About Johnny Gee or anything else. They don’t trust the police, the government, the national guard, and especially, they don’t trust the news media. Besides, how smart is it to be going around asking questions about Johnny Gee when the cops, the feds, and an organized crime gang are all out trying to find him? You don’t want that mess coming down on you. Don’t become part of the story yourself.”

“But that’s what a good investigative reporter does, Byron, they become part the story in the process of exposing it. That’s how reputations are built.”

“You might not live long enough to build a reputation, except for stupidity, if you try to expose this story. Just chill, let it come to you.”

“I can’t wait for a story to come to me. I’ll approach it from a different perspective. I’ll profile the neighborhood, not even mention Johnny Gee directly. I can research its history, its myths, and its legends. If any church congregations have survived, I can start with them. They keep records.”

“Well, it sounds like you won’t be needing me then,” Byron said as he stood to move around the plaza: “But keep me informed. I’m here every day. It’s always fun talking with you.”

It was late afternoon and Rosemary lingered in the sun by the fountain to watch Byron from afar as he interacted with a group of new arrivals. She had never actually seen him selling crack to anyone, only smoking it with them. But they smoked it openly, and she wondered aloud: “How can they keep getting away with that?”