Chapter 2-5
2039 Words
His expression clouds over. Then he starts giggling like a child, snot bubbling from his nose. “Wait!” He snorts his way into a laughing fit. He catches his breath and then settles into a massive grin. “The bathroom! Yeah, it’s there.”
He weaves out of sight, returning a minute later, waving a plastic dispenser with a Listerine logo, carrying a few more in his other hand. He tosses me the one with the logo. “Hope you like grape.”
I exchange money for product, taking possession of the five dispensers, a hundred strips total. I’ve asked for more in the past, but Reggie claims it’s all he has.
I click open each dispenser, examining the contents, making sure I’m getting a full supply per unit. The cardamom scent is subtle.
“What, you don’t trust me?”
I ignore him and shove the collection into my jean pocket. I pull out an equal sum of money as I gave him a minute ago, along with a folded printout from my back pocket. He looks at me and just blinks. “What’s this?”
“I need to find someone. Here, take the money.” He palms it, still blinking in confusion. I show him the blowup image of the knuckle with the y-shaped scar. “I’m looking for a guy who deals, Hispanic, with a scar like this on his hand.”
He holds up the printout and squints. He looks at me, then the printout, and darts his eyes back and forth several times. He stops and tosses it on the floor, along with the money. Bills spill over the dirty carpet. Damn!
Reggie points harshly at me. “You crazy, man? What’s this all about? What do you want? I don’t work for you anymore!” He rocks back and forth, anger blossoming into mental discord.
I hold up my hands neutrally. “Slow down, Reggie. I just want to know who he is, that’s all.”
His rocking gets more pronounced. “What do you want with the Candyman?”
The name rings a bell. A big-time street dealer with an even bigger ego, if memory serves me correctly. “I want to meet him.”
Reggie grunts. “That’s crazy talk, ’cause he don’t want to meet you.”
He gets his shoulders into the back-and-forth swing. Spittle flies from his lips. I’m worried he’s going to flip out on me and do something stupid.
“You know him, Reggie? You know the Candyman?”
He shakes his head manically.
I keep my hands raised, a peace offering. “It’s okay, Reggie. Calm down, buddy.”
The manic jerking continues. “No!” He keeps his eyes fixed on the sprawled printout between full shoulder swings.
I should leave, cut my losses. But he acts like he knows the guy. I pump him for information. “You see this money? It’s yours. Just tell me who the Candyman is.”
He snorts, getting his chin into the swing. “Candyman’s crazy. Yessiree. Crazy.”
“You sure he has a scar on his knuckle? Did you see it yourself?”
Spit dribbles down his chin, and his eyes are wide, as if in a trance. It reminds me of what a voodoo shaman from Haiti might look like.
“Reggie?”
He stops abruptly, gaze leveled my way, drool leaking from the corner of his crooked mouth. His voice turns gravelly. “You’re too slow for the Candyman, white boy.” He opens his mouth in a lunatic grin, revealing a missing front tooth. “Craaaazee slow.”
He’s not making sense, but I need to see where this leads. “Why am I too slow, Reggie?”
“Why?” His gaze wanders off, lost in the mess of his apartment. He drops his voice to a whisper. “Why.”
“Yeah, Reggie, why?”
He almost sounds lucid as he speaks the next couple of sentences. “Because he’s got the mojo, that’s why. The best mojo, not like yours.”
“And how to do I get a hold of this mojo?”
He flicks his eyes at me, insanity restored. “You gotta go down the rabbit hole, white boy. You gotta go deep. And when you get there, the Candyman will be waiting. Yessirree. And when he catches you, he’s gonna snap you in half, ’cause that’s what he does when you’re too slow.” He cackles, gap in his teeth wide and ugly.
He’s speaking gibberish. Pure, worthless trash. I bend down to retrieve the printout. He can keep the money, but there’s no way I’m going to leave the photo.
Reggie shouts at the top of his lungs, scaring me stiff. “Don’t touch that!”
I unclench my body. “Just grabbing my paper, Reggie. Money’s yours, okay? That was the deal. But this I’m taking.”
He shakes his head like a rabid dog. “I don’t care. You’re leaving it. Get out!”
“Look, Reggie, I’ll just take the paper and—”
He grabs what I imagine is a paper bag stuffed with garbage from the ratty credenza behind him, but when I see the g*n, I know better than to make a move. I swallow, watching his hand tremble with the revolver pointed at my chest. It’s a .357, enough to put me six below. I don’t have my vest, so there’s no point questioning whether it’s loaded.
“Okay, Reggie,” I say in a surrendering tone. “I’m going to leave, all right?”
“Yeah, you need to go.” He jabs the air with his g*n. He’s got his index finger tugging on the trigger. You have to put some effort into pulling it, but I’m not taking any chances. My thoughts filter over to Suzie and Caitlyn, and I imagine them, for a split second, crying in the hospital room as I lie on a bed with a respirator.
I back away. Reggie keeps pace with a jagged twitch to his carriage. He then tosses his head back and talks to the air, in Spanish. “Sí. El blanco hombre sigue aquí.” He laughs his twisted laugh, and it chills me to my core. My panic button goes off.
Who’s he talking to?
You can do anything through the Mindnet without the other person knowing. Reggie definitely contacted someone, either through a thoughtlink or M-text. The fact he spoke aloud just confirms it.
I’m out the door in a flash. It rattles closed, muffling Reggie’s hyena laugh. Down below, I hear heavy footsteps reverberating off the treads of the stairwell, and voices. I peek over the railing and see the Dominicans, guns drawn. One spots me and points. They break into a run. s**t!
I sprint up two flights of stairs to the top landing and slam open the door to the rooftop. The gravel on the flat roof crunches as I scamper for cover. I duck behind the industrial cooler as the door shuts, and take out my .22 pistol. The one thing in my favor is that it’s dark, with the only strong light source behind me, by the door I exited. Ahead, the roof’s ledge rises a couple of feet, blocking some of the city lights, aiding in my concealment.
I hurriedly scan my surroundings. I’m sandwiched between two apartment buildings. The rooftop of the closer one is about a half flight lower. I might be able to outrun these guys and get to the door on the other side. It’ll either be open, or I’m screwed. Calling for backup is out of the question.
I get ready to launch, quickly estimating my jump and landing. The door swings open before I take one step. I hear the familiar whistle of the lanky Dominican. “Hey blanco, oh blanco,” he calls out in a singsong voice. He claps, then makes kissing noises. From the sound of their footfall, I can tell they’re splitting up. They know I’m hiding, and I know they’re hunting. I can fire a warning shot to buy more time, perhaps create a standoff. Except, when they realize I’m using a small-caliber weapon, it will be for naught, and I will have wasted a precious bullet.
“Hey, blanco, come out,” the lanky one says. “We just want to talk.” The other one laughs, giving away his position. They’re closing in from either side, covering all angles of escape.
My heart is racing. How the hell did I end up here? Again, my thoughts turn to my family. No hospital room this time, just an image of my bullet-riddled corpse being scraped off the concrete sidewalk below. I won’t even get an honorable burial. This isn’t getting killed in the line of duty. Not even close.
I’m swelling with anger. I had no business coming here. There was a reason my supply of Switch was almost out. There was a reason why I witnessed what it did to a teenager with no priors. And there was a reason why my gut told me to leave Reggie alone and head home.
All the signs; yet I didn’t pay attention to any of them.
I yank the bundle of dispensers from my pocket. I’m tempted to hurl them toward the edge of the roof. Or better, try to barter my way out of this predicament. The product has street value, although I doubt my stalkers would be interested. As I squeeze the collection of plastic dispensers in frustration, one pops open. Reggie’s cackling fills my thoughts, and his accusation: You’re too slow for the Candyman, white boy.
Too slow.
Craaaazee slow.
My fingers go to work, hinging on a ridiculous idea. I wedge the .22 into my belt and rip the plastic sheath open. I drop the rest of the dispensers on the ground. I grab the whole stack of strips from the open container and bite down. I chomp furiously. The Dominicans are maybe eight or ten paces away. In a few seconds, they’ll have a clean shot. Saliva mixes with film, and my mouth is awash in grape and cardamom. I slosh around the shreds, feeling bits churn into a paste. I chew frantically, trying to get the mixture to dissolve in time.
Within a couple of seconds, my cheeks warm. Two more, and my face flushes.
Then something inexplicable happens.
Time slows, as if each frame of the film reel in my vision is moving a tenth of its normal speed. Yet my mind accelerates in a hundred different directions.
My eyes dart around, picking up the minutest details: bird droppings along the ledge, peanut shells in the gravel, the hoarse breathing of my pursuers, the step of each foot, the position of their bodies, and the intention of each movement.
My .22 is no longer useful, I realize. I rest it on the ground and crouch, leg muscles bunched to spring. There’s a clarity in my thoughts so bright that I could count the strands of hair on my head and still have time to measure my next move. My other senses kick in, and I pick up the scent of unwashed skin, the change in air pressure, the tang of foreign sweat.
I scoop up two large pieces of gravel, and transfer one to my throwing hand. The lanky one clears my line of sight first, just as I hurl the rock. It strikes him in the left eye, and he staggers sideways.
The second guy appears on the other side, momentarily distracted by his partner—enough for me to hit him squarely below the Adam’s apple. He drops his .38 and clutches his throat, wheezing as he steps back.
Everything is happening in slow motion.
I’m after the lanky Dominican, predator urge unfettered.
He fires a blind shot, ricocheting off the ground where my foot was a moment earlier, his good eye blinking reflexively and tearing. A second shot rings out as I dodge to the right. I shift all my weight, calculate the distance to close on him, and spring, taking to the air.
- Writer
