Imagine My Surprise! (29)

In which Bart gets popped

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PART 6 — KURT

29. If It’s Not One Thing

It took a lot of discipline to be a successful heroin dealer. Especially when you get high on your own supply. I know that sounds antithetical — being disciplined while succumbing to your addiction — but it’s possible. For a while. With that much product around the compulsion to fall into the loving grace of H all day long is overwhelming. But you have to be functional. So, you might wake up with a good strong fix to get you through the morning, then snort little bumps all day to keep the itchies at bay, finishing with one last good heroin nightcap before bedtime.

I was in the muddle of one of these sleepy nightcaps when my phone vibrated on the nightstand. I forced myself awake. The bed next to me was painfully empty without Dolly. I quickly thought it might be Franks, but I remembered him saying he was going out of town, and ever since I made that first mistake thinking he and Dolly were shacking up, I didn’t trust my instincts.

The phone continued to vibrate. I didn’t recognize the phone number, but it was local. I had a funny feeling so I answered.

“This is Kurt.”

“Kurt, Bart here. Got some trouble.”

Shit.

I could hear the telltale cacophony of jail noise behind him. “Damn, I know that sound,” I acknowledged. “I have a guy. I’ll call him.”

“It’s worse than that, man.” Bart paused. “It was, um, the start of my work week.”

“Say no more.” Literally, say no more.

“Start of the week” meant that he was caught with a sizeable amount of blow, as I’d allotted him three ounces, though I imagine he didn’t have it all with him; but it was probably separated out into half-grams, grams, and eight balls, ready for a night of selling to clubbers, yuppies, students, businessmen and assorted druggies. The kicker was that he had a prior intent to sell conviction, so he was in double-trouble. But I had a legal machine ready and waiting — a certain Larry Potts, Hobson’s lawyer, now mine; he was well equipped to handle a popped dealer.

“You down at 850 Bryant?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Kurt. But…one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“They were waiting for me.”

Pause. “What are you saying exactly?”

“I was covering for an out of town someone.”

Goddamnit. “Alright. Let’s not jump to conclusions. I’ll have you out by dawn.”

“Thanks, Kurt.”

“Keep the homies at bay.”

I hung up. My clouded mind struggled to parse the information. I reached into a drawer, found a bag of coke, scattered some on the flesh between thumb and forefinger, and snorted deeply. Way better than coffee. The mind began to clear.

Franks set up Bart? This was huge in a couple different ways. But whether or not Franks had anything to do with Bart’s arrest, Bart was facing heavy time because of the prior. A couple ounces with intent to sell is a hard wrap no matter how you finagle it. The question now facing me was who do I call first: Franks or Larry Potts? Franks was no doubt going to deny everything. I probably needed more than Bart’s estimable instincts before I accused Franks. So, I called Larry, who was still awake, was surprised to hear from me, but he assured me that it would be handled. He’d arrange the bail.

After I hung up, I sat there still wondering if I should call Franks. Clouding my thought process was the need to fix. Think, think. Finally, I dialed the Irishman and got his voicemail.

“Franks. Kurt. Bart’s at 850. Bad scene. I know you’re out of town, but you probably want to come back so you can follow through with the Plan. Call me as soon as you get this.”

Time went by. I texted Franks. Nothing. I was at wit’s end. My paranoia and fear got the better of me and I made a crucial mistake: I called Dolly. It was 2:30 AM. I still hadn’t got out of bed. Surprisingly, she picked up.

I said, “I can’t believe you actually answered the phone.”

Her voice was cranky and filled with sleep. “Oh, Jesus, Kurt. I only picked up because something would have to be very wrong before you would call me, especially at this hour. What happened?”

“I’m looking for Franks.”

I could feel the seething in her pause. “How the fuck should I know? Really, Kurt?!”

“Bart got popped. He’s downtown.”

Longer hesitation. “Shit. What for?”

“For the worst.”

I could hear the cogs turning in her head. She knew the drill.

“Are you going to do a sweep?”

“Yes.”

“How is Bart?”

“Bart is solid. He knows what I’m capable of.”

“I was asking if he was okay, Kurt.” She paused. “Everybody knows what you’re capable of.”

She was mocking me of course, because even I didn’t even know what I was capable of. I may have acted like a crime boss at times, but it was pretend. Or was it?

But I replied, “Do they?”

She ignored that. “What are you going to do?”

God, I need a fix. I lit a cigarette.

“I called Larry. He’s doing what he can.” I exhaled a plume into the dark of the room. “I need to fucking find Franks so he can batten down the hatches. I’m sorry I called you. Just me and my bullshit.”

Dolly didn’t disagree with me. I could tell she wanted to go back to sleep, but she asked disingenuously, “Is there anything I can do?”

“Naw. Not your concern anymore. Go back to bed. Sorry to bother you.”

“Okay. Hope it works out, Kurt.” Dolly hung up.

The Plan wasn’t some sort of genius escape or anything. It was just getting rid of the criminal evidence without actually sacrificing it. I moved fast. I got out of bed and put some sweatpants on, heading for my primary stash box for some encouragement. I was still drowsy from my fix three hours earlier.

After cutting a big line and pouring myself a big drink, I took mental inventory of my task: one unregistered 9mm, a half key of heroin, a full key of blow, a half-pound of grass, about eighty hits of MDMA, a quarter-pound of mushrooms, two sheets of acid, a large bottle of Mexican valium, and a small bottle of DMT. It was a real Hunter S. Thompson weekend party list, but it was the truth. The heroin and coke were business inventory, the rest was social scaffolding. Anyhow, all of it was a bust. So, drink in hand, fresh coke buzz in my head, and a large duffle under my arm, I got to work.

I put on shoes and a shirt, got my keys, shouldered this weighty bag of sin and stepped out of the house. It was everything I could do to keep my paranoia from paralyzing me. I stood on the street in near-dawn with a giant bag of contraband right after my lead henchman was arrested. Video cameras were surely rolling. But it was too late for second thoughts, so I simply walked down to the Prius, stowed the shit in the hatch, and silently drove away.

At the storage facility, the security guard let me in with nary a glance, and I went to my unit and slid the door up with a grinding clank. Everything had happened smoothly but I still couldn’t shake the idea that I was under surveillance. On top of that, I hadn’t been to the storage unit in almost a year — this stuff was mostly my mom and dad’s remaining boxes — and a realization hit me as I threw the bag amongst the past-life flotsam: my criminality was in full view of my parents’ ghosts. And while I certainly didn’t believe in ghosts then, I’m not so sure now.