Stain (Stain #1)(14)

“Been here.” He’s lost in concentration counting the bills in his hands. There are already four stacks of wrinkled cash on the coffee table, along with seven small sandwich bags filled with weed. Three 9mm Glocks are set next to an empty box of latex gloves. Looking at the mess surrounding Wynn on the floor, the fingers on the gloves she’s cut up have been thickly packed with the newest product. SKY. A scientifically modified version of ecstasy on crack. It sold great with the high school and college crowds. Weed is still the number one seller but SKY is gunning in at a very close second. SKY is where the money is right now. With the twist of the top and pull into a knot, Wynn sets down the last lump onto the small mountain she’s created before moving on to her next project.

The large, silver tray is topped with heroin. The box of starch, bottle of baby powder, and can of Ajax are a clear indication the batch on the tray has already been cut.

“You put on a hell of a performance, Maxie. Maybe you and I should get in front of the camera. Give you a taste of a real woman.” She looks up at me with a leer, and her half smirk is teasing.

Finishing off what’s left of my cigarette, I flick it outside the window. “Let me know when you find one.” I head to the kitchen to put down the nearly empty bottle of whiskey.

“You little shit.”

I chortle, “Yeah…that seems to be the consensus.” I should get that tattooed on my ass. “What do you got for me, Dro?”

“Got a runner. Baz in Dresden Heights has been skipping out on me. Two months, no payments. We’re tracking him down tonight.”

***

Going after a runner is going to put things back in perspective. It’s exactly what I need to get rid of that little bit of conscious that wanted to pop up earlier. Runners are unpredictable. It’s either a hit or miss with them. From what I know, Dro has ten dealers working under him, including myself. Of those ten, I know of three who’ve skipped out on paying Dro his cut since he took me in. From the beginning, he’s taken me along to see how this part of his drug business worked. The dirty part. The part that’s all adrenaline, pain, and blood. I’ve seen him gouge an eye out with a hot spoon. Sick curiosity has me wondering what sort of creative torture he’s going to use this time around and whether he’ll let me participate.

Ten minutes later, we’re out of the apartment. He left Wynn inside. He told me once to never trust a bitch. Apparently this one is different. Guess she’s the sort of * who’d take a bullet for her man. Fucking stupid if you ask me. We take the gray concrete staircase down to the first floor. There’s a perpetual stench of piss, vomit, and other bodily fluids that hits you the instant you round the last staircase and head to the back of the building. You get used to it after a while.

“Take your truck. Got business in Dorchester I gotta take care of after.”

A little TLC over the last few months has my Chevy purring like a kitten. It’s still a piece of shit though compared to Dro’s souped-up, old school black Mustang. I follow behind him, weaving in and out of lanes until we jump off the expressway ramp and take the Dorchester exit. It’s the next town over from Trenton. We park a block away from the row of red brick buildings standing tall against the night sky. Walking side by side, we don’t talk. It takes us roughly ten minutes to get to the second building. When we enter, we head straight for the elevator. There’s a family waiting. A mother and her two children. One looks to be around ten while I’d put the other one around my age. Once the elevator doors open, Dro and I step inside. The family doesn’t follow. The mother holds onto her younger child and while the older kid moves to get on, she whips her arm out to stop him from taking another step.

“Coming?” Dro’s inquiry sounds like a threat. He’s a big guy. And standing at 6’4 with a bald head and half his face covered by a chest-length full beard, he looks intimidating as f*ck. He’s not quite as decorated with tattoos as I am, but the Hannya mask covering his bald head is disturbingly frightening at first sight. There’s also the fact he’s carrying a crowbar and impatiently tapping against his left leg waiting for an answer.

The mother shakes her head. “We’ll catch the next one.”

A shrug comes off from his massive shoulders. “Suit yourself.”

A very small part of me appreciates her oldest son’s glare at us, and I smirk back at him as the elevator doors close shut. It smells like curry and BO in the hallway of the twelfth floor we get off on. Not pleasant, but I’d take this smell over piss and vomit, any day. The green door at 12D is a little dented up, like someone took a baseball bat to it. At the cock of Dro’s head, I slightly lean against the opposite side of the doorframe while he stands a little out of sight of the peephole positioned in the middle of the door. He doesn’t immediately barge in like I assume he would, but gives a courtesy knock. Three slow, but firm, knocks that’ll alert the f*cker we’re here. No big surprise when he’s met with silence.

“The f*ck you knocking for?”

Instead of answering, he gives another knock, “Baz, you’ve got sixty seconds to clear your little girl out of the room before I get inside.”

The bit of shock I experience at Dro’s show of compassion in wanting to spare this little girl the sight of violence that’s about to take place quickly disappears at the sound of muffled crashing inside. That spurs Droski into action. Wedging the flat head of the crowbar between the jamb and the knob, it takes him three hard, forceful jerks of his hand before the door pops open. Honestly, I could’ve been spared the f*cking sight of Baz’ lily-white ass trying to climb out the window. There’s another man present and while the lower half of his body is relatively covered by a bed sheet, it didn’t take much at all to see the outline of his dick. Still hard.