Heroine(60)

“Ewww,” Derrick says. “That’s gross, man.”

“Be glad that’s where I store ’em,” Patrick shoots back, and Derrick shuts up.

“Why, though?” Luther asks, curiosity piqued.

“If I get grabbed, I can swallow what I’ve got on me,” Patrick explains. “I make good money doing this. I get busted, I’m out. Bosses don’t need a dealer with a face the cops know.”

“You got a boss?” Derrick asks.

“You think I make this shit in my basement, bro? It’s not a one-man operation, and this ain’t exactly weed.”

“Right, I know,” Derrick says, nodding.

“Now pay attention, ’cause you only get the walk-through once,” Patrick says, his eyes coming back to mine.

And really it kind of is like homework, but not math, more like science. It feels like we’re doing a chemistry lab with our checklist—spoon, water, lighter—and the catalyst, a lump of something that looks like coal when Patrick bites the knot off the balloon. He shows us what to do, each step specific and somehow sacred under his hands, the concentration on his face reminding me of Carolina’s when she goes into the windup. Soon, four of Josie’s remaining needles rest on the table, syringes filled with what Patrick calls “a beginner’s dose.”

“You know how to shoot?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Josie says, eyes still on the needles. “What do I owe you?”

“First one’s on the house,” Patrick says.

“Dude, free heroin,” Derrick says. “You’re my new best friend.”

“Exactly,” Patrick says. “You want more, you call me. If it’s three in the morning, you call me. That’s what friends are for. Got a pen?”

“One sec,” Josie says, going to the hutch by Edith’s front door and rummaging around for one. “Um, hold on.”

She disappears into the living room, leaving the three of us with nothing to say and nowhere to put our eyes. Mine keep shifting between Patrick and the needles on the table, the only things that are capable of holding my attention at the moment.

Patrick suddenly snaps his fingers. “Mickey Catalan,” he says. “That’s who you are.”

“Shit,” I say. “You know me?”

“Yeah, my sister played for Hebron Hills a couple years ago. You faced off with them at sectionals. Hell of a game.”

“Oh yeah,” I say, remembering. “Five–two. We won, bottom of the seventh when your shortstop choked, error on a grounder that should’ve never made it to the grass.”

“That was bullshit, man,” Patrick says, shaking his head. “She had no business being on the field. Her parents paid for new uniforms for the whole team, and suddenly she’s first-string.”

“Dude, that sucks,” Luther says, and I swear he waits for a beat to see if Patrick recognizes him, too. It doesn’t happen, and I can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed.

“You were, what, a sophomore?” Patrick asks, and I nod. “This girl’s got a hell of an arm on her,” he tells Luther and Derrick. “She picked off two at second in one inning that game.”

Patrick’s gaze is back on me, even though my eyes are still on the needles because right now I’m like a kid at a birthday party, eyeing the cake to pick my piece. That’s one reason I don’t look up, the other being that I don’t want to see the question in my dealer’s eyes, the one I’ve been asking myself lately.

What happened?

But there’s another question, more urgent and easier to answer, a primitive call versus the philosophical tangle. There aren’t even words for it, just a deep, open space inside of me that’s asking for something to fill it.

Josie comes back with a pen and Patrick jots down his number—one time for each of us—pushing away Luther’s phone when he asks to add him.

“Number changes next week anyway,” Patrick says. “All I’ve got are burners.”

“Hey,” I say as he’s getting up to leave. “Do you sell to everybody around here?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Can you tell whoever shoots up in the park to pick up their shit? I heard there are needles lying around behind the dugout. That’s not cool.”

“Not cool at all.” Patrick nods like he gets it.

He tells us to stay safe and says goodbye to each of us in turn, resting his hand on my shoulder for a second longer than anyone else’s. There’s something deeply personal and almost caring about his actions, from the eye contact right down to the way he tells Josie to say hi to Jadine for him, and asks if their mom has been feeling better after spraining her ankle.

I don’t feel like I’m doing something illegal. I feel like a nice guy just brought me something I need, a friend of a friend who only wants to help me out. It’s a feeling that’s shared among the four of us as we choose our needles, Josie’s face puckering a little with trepidation as she watches the angled tip, her eyes finding mine.

That’s the thing about being a natural leader: people look to you even in situations you don’t know shit about, like just because I have absolute command of a diamond means I should make the call on who is going to shoot heroin first.