The small mirror I hold in my left hand reflects the dull light straining to penetrate the dirt that coats the lens of the overhead street lamp. If I turn it slightly it catches the bright orange light which flows from the dashboard of my turbocharged black sports car. The sports car turns heads when I drive through the city, which of course is the whole idea. The exhaust is tuned to make it purr like jaguar moving through the jungle. The car says, “I’m cool and I rule my world.”
At the moment I’m not concentrating on the car or the woman draped over the taupe buttery soft leather seat beside me. Come to think of it she is like jaguar too, just in a much different way. She says, “I’m cool and I’m going to sleep with you tonight after we party and you spend lots of money on me.”
My focus is on the mirror. To be more exact my attention is what’s on the mirror, which is about a hundred dollars’ worth of Peruvian marching dust, otherwise known as blow, candy, and sometimes referred to as cocaine, but usually only by those talking heads on the evening news and very uncool people.
I watch as my right hand, holding a single edge razor blade, makes short quick chopping motions. The technique used in this process speaks volumes. It says, “I know what I’m doing. I can do this in my sleep. I’m a pro.” The woman is impressed. She makes the appropriate sounds, a soft ooh and ahh through perfectly glossed shiny lips that are parted only slightly to display her movie star white teeth.
I’m parked in a lot behind a mini retail mall with eight store fronts ranging from a convenience store to an upscale men’s clothing store owned by my good friend and drug dealing buddy, Mike. All of the stores are laundering significant sums of drug money.
The night is perfect. My plans for the evening are rolling along just the way I had planned them. Earlier I had taken the young lady to a French restaurant with modern décor that screams, “Buddy, your ass is not getting out of here for under five hundred dollars.” Then on to a dance club where we had walked by all the poor souls waiting in line, palmed a hundred dollar bill into the hand of a man five times my size, and been ushered to a private balcony. There we sipped a variety of alcoholic beverages and decided when we would descend to the dance floor so we could gyrate in pseudo sex acts that pass for dancing. By daybreak the young lady and I will be seriously entwined with one another beneath the sheets, and I will have completed one more day as drug dealer without getting busted.
Life doesn’t get much better than this.
It was then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. Probably just a stray alley cat or a large rat, but with a hundred dollars’ worth of cocaine on display and another six thousand dollars’ worth lying in the console between the seats one couldn’t be too careful.
Damn, there it was again! Definitely something behind the trash dumpster. Without taking my eyes off the dumpster I laid the mirror and razor blade down between the seats. Now that my right hand was free I reached beside my seat and pulled out my Glock 9 mm. The vibe in the car had changed, and while the little missy setting beside me would never be mistaken for a psychiatrist, she detected the change and to her credit, even noticed the gun.
I carefully placed the pistol in my waistband and pulled on the door handle. “Be cool.” I said as I pulled myself up and out of the car, “I’ll be right back.” I walked slowly toward the dumpster with two prayers on my lips. The first was for whatever was behind the dumpster that I could now hear, “Oh God please let this be a rat.” The second was, “And God whatever happens; please don’t let this damn gun go off while it is only inches away from the only penis I’ll ever have.”
It is then that I hear a familiar voice.
“Ditch the bitch.”
My first prayer was answered, it was a rat, only with two legs.
“What?” I mumble.
Slower and more distinct, like I’m a kindergartner being told to pick up my crayons, “Ditch the bitch.”
Mikey that you?
“Yeah, who the hell did you think it would be?
“Gee Mike, I don’t know. I guess I just kind of forgot that you always hang out behind the dumpster at 1:00 on a Friday night.”
“Get rid of the bitch and give me hand will ya?”
“Not on your life butthead. For your information I’ve got over a thousand dollars tied up in that babe tonight and I’m getting laid for my money. Besides what the hell are you doing back there.”
“I’m stealing my stuff.”
“Did you suddenly go deaf? I said I’m stealing my stuff and I need your help. So get rid of the woman of your dreams and give me a hand.”
“I don’t think I’m the one going deaf…or stupid. Why the hell are you stealing from yourself?”
I’ve got a shipment of blow coming in at the end of the month and I’m a little short on cash. So I’ll heist my stuff, turn it into the insurance, get the money, pay for the blow, put the stuff back, and life will go on. That is unless you stand out here in the parking lot and keep flapping your jaws until somebody finally calls the cops cause two queers can’t make up their minds what they are going to do.”
“Danny, this isn’t exactly on my schedule for this evening.”
“Look Steve, send the girl over to the bar across the street with some cash. Tell her you’ve got to help a friend for a few minutes and you’ll be right there. We aren’t moving a damn warehouse, man just the shit in my store. I’ve got a van setting right over there. It won’t take thirty minutes. Then I’ll bust out the lock on the back door which will trigger the alarm and I’ll scoot across the street and you can buy me a drink for being such a genius. It shouldn’t be too long before the police arrive. The alarm is tied directly to them. By the way is that a gun your carrying.”
“Yeah it is.”
“Jesus, I hope you don’t shoot your dick off.”
Obviously friendship can do strange things to the brain.
I trudge back to the car and open the car door. I explain a kind of, sort of emergency thingie has come up and I need her to go across the street to the bar and I’ll be along shortly. I can’t help but notice the blow is gone from the mirror and there is a small smidge of white powder resting just underneath both her nostrils. Nothing surprises me anymore. It has always amazed me how compliant a woman can be when you are spending a thousand dollars a night on her. She shimmies out of the front seat and teeters across the street on come hump me pumps while I go back to my friend.
Less than thirty minutes later we are sitting in the bar nursing our drinks as we begin to hear the sirens.
It’s just another wasted night in a life that has no reason to exist.