A lot of good samaritans out there.
Makes you wonder what their hustle is.
Makes you wonder what their hustle is.
Red Pop by Morgan Boyd
After getting out of the program, I get a job at a convenience
store. I’m required to wear a white polo shirt and khaki slacks. The attire makes
me feel douchy.
Mr. Barnes owns the substance abuse rehab facility I clean
up at. He also owns the halfway house I stay at, and he owns the Food Mart I
work for.
I’m thankful to Mr. Barnes for the job, even if it is demeaning
minimum wage bullshit. He helped me get clean, gave me a place to stay, and
hooked me up with a job. It isn’t ideal work, but it beats the hell out of the
crummy things I used to do. Stocking TV dinners and two liter bottles of root
beer trumps ripping off mom for a hit any day. At least that’s what I tell myself
while price-tagging plastic soft drinks.
As I slap a ninety-nine cent label on a two-liter bottle of
soda, the plastic jugs on the shelf next to me explode, followed by a deafening
sound. The blast knocks me on my back, and covers me in fizzy red pop. A man in
an orange ski mask points a shotgun at my face. Playing possum, supine in a
pond of sticky crimson sugar water, I sneak a peek into my attacker’s eyes; one
brown, one blue. The blue eye twitches as he opens the till, alleviates the
evening’s earnings, and flees.
I used to shoot dope with a murderous scumbag named Eddy
“Winky” Fisher. Winky’s peepers are identical to the yegg’s.
The police arrive and put me through the standard rigmarole.
Kindness and understanding aren’t words I’d use to describe their questioning
tactics. I tell them everything straight without mentioning Winky.
They all seem to buy what I’m selling except for a corpulent,
balding detective named Donaldson. “Dope fiend Danny! Remember me?”
He asks.
“Yeah.”
“All cleaned up?”
“Sure.”
“How’s that working?”
“How’s it look?”
“Pink’s not your color.”
“Can I go?”
“Your story’s shit. And when I prove it, I’m stuffing your
junky ass back in the can.”
“Yeah?”
“Hear me out. Your hype-headed buddy shoots up the joint. Of
course you don’t get done, just covered in pop. He gets the nightly earnings,
and in a couple of hours, you’re both higher than the price of groceries.”
“Danny! Thank god
you’re alive,” Mr. Barnes says, entering the Food Mart in a blue three-piece
suit. “When I heard about the shooting, I feared the worst.”
“I’m afraid you’re being suckered, Mr. Barnes,” Donaldson
says.
“Who’s this?” Mr. Barnes asks, dabbing the sweat on his
forehead with a silk handkerchief.
“Mr. Barnes meet detective Donaldson,” I say.
“What do you mean Danny’s suckering me?” Mr. Barnes asks.
“He and one of his druggy buddies robbed you. Right, Danny?”
“Someone almost killed him,” Mr. Barnes says. “You should be
finding the guy who did this, not blaming Danny.”
After Mr. Barnes vouches for me, the police let me go. Mr.
Barnes gives me a ten spot, and tells me to buy a new polo shirt. I get into my
pickup truck and head for the halfway house. Then I get an idea, and turn
around my 4-banger.
At each hotspot, I park down the street, scoping crack
houses, but there’s no sign of Winky. Seeing those hops scoring brings back
hard memories.
I call my stakeout quits just as Winky wanders out a rundown
apartment building and climbs into a hooptie.
I follow as he crosses the tracks into the right side of
town. Winky parks in front of a large white two-story house, walks to the front
door, and is admitted inside. I wait, but Winky never comes out. After several
hours, I get tired and leave.
On my way to the halfway house, a cop pulls me over, and
stuffs me in the back of a squad car.
“Sorry about dicking you around at the Food Mart,” Donaldson
says from the front without turning around, the back of his fat, bald head directly
in front of me. Eye contact occurs through the rear view mirror. “But you know
more than you’re saying, so I had to bust your chops.”
“I told you everything.”
“We’ll see,” Donaldson says, lighting a cigarette. “A man
comes into your shit shop and tries to blow off your goddamn head.”
“Yeah.”
“And you know the sorry sack who done it, but you don’t say
nothing.”
“I don’t know who did it.”
“Admirable you cleaned up, Danny,” Donaldson says, turning
to face me. “Too bad Mr. Barnes has a bad habit of taking out life insurance
polices on his clients shortly before they die.”
“I never signed a life insurance policy,”
“Think I’m feeding you magical horseshit?” Donaldson asks, holding
up a piece of paper. “Got a copy right here. Take a look. That’s your John
Hancock there and there.”
Leaning forward, I see my signature scribbled several times
on the page.
“Who were you following?”
“Nobody.”
“Bet it was the guy tried to kill you.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because he led you straight to Mr. Barnes house,” Donaldson
says as a ship sinks in my gut. “Ain’t it a bitch, Danny? Signing up for death
instead of life.”
Dope sick, I filled out a stack of paperwork before gaining
admittance into Mr. Barnes’ drug rehab center. I didn’t read any of it, just
signed all the dotted lines.
“Winky,” I say.
“That a boy, Danny. Got a copy of his life insurance policy
here somewhere too.”
“Can I go?”
“Sure,” Donaldson says, letting me out. “Hate to say I told
you so.”
