Dopamine

Prologue — Chapter 1 1 Peanut shells crunched under Eugene’s designer sneakers. He leaned against the carving-pocked bar, careful to avoid dipping the elbow of his custom-fit leather jacket into something sticky and unnameable. Around him, tattooed men with large bellies and larger beards swigged Jack Daniels and bragged about their horsepower beneath the blare of the jukebox. “I didn’t mean to make trouble, Eugene,” a thin young man gulped. Eugene clapped his shoulder. It might have passed for a gesture of friendship, but it wasn’t. “You cheat us, and think this wouldn’t make trouble?” He spoke fluidly, but his accent betrayed Russian origins. “It’s not just me!” trembled the fellow. “Jimmy jumped last week, and Martinez…” Eugene’s hand snaked toward the man’s neck. “Do you think Sergey and I aren’t painfully aware, Francisco? How much is the street price for loyalty?” “I… like selling for you, Eugene,” Francisco stammered. “You and Sergey, you always treat me good. It’s just…” “This new supplier’s product is so much better, right?” Francisco’s lips trembled. “Her staple is better than your samplers, chief. But that’s not the point.” Eugene’s eyes narrowed. “What is the point, Francisco?” He murmured, “She charges a fifth of your prices.” Eugene leaned in, pulling Francisco’s face to his ear. “I don’t think I heard you right. She’s undercutting us by a fifth?” “Undercutting you to a fifth. What you sell for a grand, she sells for two hundred. They say she makes it locally, chief. She grows it in a tub of saltwater or something. Like with pot. What’s it called? ‘Hydroponic?’” Eugene rolled his eyes. “Francisco, how did you get to be a salesman without knowing s**t about your product? Coca is not like hemp. A kilogram of coca leaves will only yield five grams of blow. Farms need to harvest acres of crop just to break even. You would know this if you were not an idiot.” “I’m just saying what I heard,” Francisco pleaded. “It checks out, though. Figure she’s got no import costs, no cartel dues, no Federales bribes… Maybe she knows something you don’t.” Eugene’s fingers closed around Francisco’s throat. Staring into his eyes, he hissed, “You betray us for utter bullshit?” “See for yourself!” Francisco honked through his squeezed larynx, and extended a wobbly arm toward the back of the bar. Eugene’s gaze followed his trembling finger past silhouettes of drunks. Near a pool table, the crowd simply stopped, like a sea held back by an invisible dam. There, on a tall bar stool, sat a young Asian woman drinking a fluorescent cocktail. Eugene couldn’t make out details, but, amid all the denim vests and grease-stained jeans, her sleek white dress and gladiator stilettos stuck out like a Viagra in a bag of molly. “She’s here?” Eugene grunted. He released his choke, leaving Francisco wheezing. “That’s who’s muscling in on our area?” “She showed up two weeks ago,” Francisco rasped. “She’s been using this joint for a recruiting ground. Each time she comes here, she gets more people signing up to sell for her.” Eugene squinted. A pink Hello Kitty purse nestled in the girl’s lap. “She doesn’t even look old enough to be drinking.” “She’s been growing a network damn fast,” Francisco explained. “I figured, the way she’s going, pretty soon I’d be working for her anyway. And eventually, so would you.” Eugene smacked him upside the head. “Get the f**k out of here, Francisco. Leave town. If Sergey or I ever see you again, you’re a dead man.” Sparing no time, the youth pushed himself from the bar and scuttled for the door. Eugene watched the girl keenly. Three muscular men shared the empty area with her — one by her side, the other two absorbed in a game of pool. He pulled out his cellphone. “Sergey,” he typed. “Get down here. You have to see this.” A reply dashed back. “Busy. Picking the music with Rosie for dance recital. Are you having something more important than evening with daughter?” Eugene carefully slipped his way through the crowd toward the back of the bar. He angled the phone’s camera at the Asian girl, waited for some biker to move his head, and snapped a photo. “In Renton,” he thumbed beneath the image. “Just take the Tesla, drive is less than 10 minutes.” He waited for a response. None came. Before him, the girl sat and drank, texting furiously, saying nothing to her three large companions. Occasionally, she would reach into her Hello Kitty purse and withdraw one manicured fingernail, upturned like a spoon, carrying a small scoop of fine white powder that promptly fled up her nose. Eugene glanced at his phone — still no word from Sergey. Grimacing, he rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and strode forward. The bodyguard’s arm immediately barred his approach. “I want a word with the lady,” Eugene said. “Lady doesn’t want to talk to you,” the guard replied. Eugene talked past him, directly to the girl. “Have you heard of Sergey Mukhayev?” She c****d an eyebrow and put away her phone. “Let him through.” The guard stepped back to resume his post at her side. She spent several silent seconds scrutinizing Eugene, her fingers fiddling against her cocktail glass. Her pupils were the size of dimes. “So. I figured I’d run into you sooner or later. Eugene, right? I've heard stories.” “Do you have a name?” The girl sipped her drink. “Julie. Julie Yen. Get to know it. It’ll be a household word.” From this distance, Eugene confirmed his initial impression: the girl was still mostly a child. He shook his head. “What the hell is this? Did your daddy get you a My Little Druglord playset for your birthday?” The guard beside her snarled, “Respect the lady!” “Your lady is stepping on some very big toes.” She chuckled. “Yeah. I bet I am. Thomas Edison stepped on the toes of the candle industry too. And Henry Ford pissed off a lot of horse breeders.” “I don’t know what the f**k you’re talking about, little girl,” said Eugene. “What I do know is that you are in Sergey’s territory. And that means you better start answering a lot of questions if you know what’s good for you.” The bodyguard advanced. “You’re threatening my boss, buddy. Your conversation’s over.” “Where is your source?” Eugene barked over the guard’s shoulder. “Who is your cartel contact? How are you evading Coast Guard patrols?” Julie Yen laughed haughtily. “Oh, Eugene! Dear obsolete, useless Eugene! What would be the point of explaining anything? You wouldn’t understand a word I told you.” Eugene noticed that the click of billiard balls behind him had ceased. It could mean only one thing: the two men who had been playing pool must be standing right… He ducked into a squat, spinning and kicking out. His leg connected with an ankle. He crooked his knee, sweeping the foot of one of the men behind him. The would-be assailant fell backward, arms pinwheeling, and knocked his head against the pool table. Eugene rose to deliver a chest stomp, and heard the felled bodyguard’s ribs crack beneath his heel. He turned to the other pool player just in time to see a cue swinging for his face. He leaned into the arc of the swing, grabbed the stick, and spun with its momentum, turning his back toward its wielder. An elbow jab made contact with the attacker’s gut hard enough to sink him to his knees, but the man’s grip on the stick remained firm. Eugene wrestled the cue downward against the floor and pushed until it cracked in two. Grabbing the thicker end, he rammed the butt against his attacker’s temple. The kneeling man reeled and collapsed. The bodyguard at Julie’s side approached the melee, reaching out to grapple Eugene with elephant-trunk arms. Eugene lightning-scanned the large man’s posture for weaknesses. A pair of hairy, thick-fingered hands appeared beneath the bodyguard’s armpits. They snaked up over his shoulders and joined behind the man’s head, locking his arms in a full nelson. Astonished, the guard struggled to break free from the unseen figure behind him. Eugene wasted no time. He stabbed the cracked end of the pool cue into a patch of vulnerable flesh below the guard’s ribs. The splintered wood tore through cloth, skin, and muscle — and when Eugene released the stick it remained lodged in his torso. The bodyguard emitted a powerless grunt and sank to the floor, his blood dribbling down the cue. As he crawled toward an exit, the bartender and patrons looked away furtively, savvy enough to see and hear nothing. With the bodyguard down, Eugene saw the round, rugged face and the massive, middle-aged form of the man who had come to his aid. “Sergey!” Eugene said in his native tongue. “What did you do that for? I could’ve handled him on my own!” Sergey smirked warmly at him. “Where’s this princess that’s causing so much fuss?” The pair spotted Julie cowering by the back wall, crouching in her couture footwear. She held her barstool in both hands, jabbing it at them like a lion-tamer. She had nowhere to run. Sergey regarded her, frowning. “She’s very young.” “And high as the moon,” Eugene added. “Apparently she manufactures it herself. Somehow.” Her Hello Kitty purse lay near his feet — the girl had tossed it during the scuffle. Eugene squatted down and walked his fingers into its open top to peek inside. Amidst mascara, lipstick, and a sandwich bag full of powdered cocaine, there was a plain white keycard. It bore a stylized letter W and the inscription “Tungsten Medical Technologies”. Sergey nodded. “I’ve heard these rumors. Think they have any truth?” Eugene stood back up and looked at the cowering young woman. “She says we wouldn’t understand the truth,” he said as he and Sergey closed in on her. “But she’ll have plenty of time to explain it to us.” Act I