Cry Revenge (5 page)

For the first time since Dan got out of the car, Curtis sat back and relaxed. Things might work out even better now. Without a partner there would be more money for him and less of a problem.

"Yeah, George," he replied, smiling briefly, "things just might work out all right after all"

FAT GEORGE TOOK the two-lane highway out of Clovis and drove into the desert night. After they had passed the small trucker's diner at the city limits, there was no sign of life anywhere. The smooth-riding car was engulfed in blackness and silence.

Curtis reached down and turned on the radio, letting the mellow sounds of Coltrane flow through the car. He slouched down in his seat, feeling better about his situation than he had for some time.

"You look mighty mellow, my man," George said after a while.

"Yeah, I dig the scene that's coming down. I've been trying to get it together for a long time, George."

George reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of fresh cigarettes. He offered one to Curtis, then took one for himself. After lighting both, he spoke. "I could see that, amigo. I been watching you myself..., you know, keeping the antennae out there for a dude like yourself who might be makin' his move"

Curtis looked at George and noticed the fat man smiling. His lips were pulled back, with the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. "You dig this scene?" Curtis asked.

"Sometimes, my man, it's shit. And then, sometimes it's mellow. I like to keep it soft and cool, if you know what I mean. Then, when the bread comes, the woman has some nice threads and the junkies stay popped."

"Yeah," Curtis replied, exhaling the smoke from his cigarette, "I dig where you're coming from."

The two men, one black and one Mexican, drove through the desert night. Curtis did not ask where George was taking him. That wasn't the kind of question a dude like himself out on his first score asked a heavyweight like George. All Curtis knew, and cared to know for the moment, was that the fat man was leading him down the trail of white powder towards that score that would set him up.

The better part of an hour had drifted by when Curtis saw the lights of a small town in the distance. He read the sign as they passed. The town of Las Vegas was ten miles ahead-Las Vegas, New Mexico, where men gambled their souls and not their money.

"What's this shit, George?" Curtis yelled after real izing what their destination was.

"What's what shit, Curtis?"

"Las Vegas, man! Shit, the fuckin' town's never seen nothin' but the brown powder from Mexico. I'm tryin' to cop the white shit and you take me to the home of the brown stuff. Shit, man!!!"

George laughed at Curtis. His body shook, the fat rolling around his neck and cheeks like small waves. "Hey, man, let me pull your coat to something..., if you just control yourself long enough to listen."

Curtis fumed. For the moment, anyway, he had thought that George was setting him up. Not that the man wasn't going to score him some smack but that he was going to score him the brown stuff. It was a bad scene for a dealer to get stuck with too much of that Mexican stuff because any junkie in his right mind could make the hour's drive into Las Vegas and settle his own accounts, without using the dealer as a middle man.

It was, always had been, and always will be the white stuff that brings the dudes crawling-no matter where a man might decide to go into business.

"You listening, baby? Or you goin' to think that maybe I'm some kind of funky dude who's out for a half-set?"

"Okay, George. You better lay it on me like it is...." Curtis stared straight ahead, not wanting to meet George's glance from the other end of the seat.

"All right, my man. That's better. Now, you know I run the stuff in Clovis, right?"

"Right," Curtis said, now anxious for George to get to the point.

"But Clovis don't have its mainline, does it? I mean, someone trucks the stuff in there all the time. So a man like myself who wants to keep his people happy and mellow twenty-fours a day has to get his stuff from somewhere. Las Vegas is the place, man. It's the mainline for this whole fuckin' part of the country."

Curtis knew that George was right. But what George had told him so far was not news. Everyone living in the southwestern desert who had a habit, or desired to make a little extra income off other losers' habits, knew about Las Vegas. It was one of those towns that somehow came into its own by passing illegal contraband between Mexico and the United States.

First, it was grass, then a little mescaline, some cocaine, and finally the heavy stuff. The police knew about it, but they didn't seem to take their jobs too seriously because the town flourished as more and more junk came through.

"But it's all brown shit, man!" Curtis said.

"Everyone else's is brown, my man, except for your man's here. For some reason the law doesn't mess with the brown shit..., but the white stuff gets to them. I got my main man stationed right here, mixed in with the brown passers. It's a beautiful little happening, Curtis."

George was pleased with himself. A smile of great satisfaction etched its way across his face.

Curtis held his breath as they drove onto the main street of the small college town. The road was lined with little chicken joints and hamburger stands. Black, brown, and white dudes slouched easily against the buildings, watching the big Cadillac cruise by. It occurred to Curtis at that moment that possibly George was fixing to set him up with his main man here in Las Vegas. Possibly George wanted him in the business, right now and without further delay.

As much as the idea would have pleased Curtis, though, he knew the odds were stacked against that ever happening. A man doesn't deal smack because he wants to donate his coin to charity. A man deals because he discovers it's easier to live off of people's weaknesses than to work for a living. But the road isn't easy, and a man like George wasn't about to hand over his gains to some nigger beginner like Curtis. No, Curtis thought, the man simply wants to show me why I should keep dealing with him. Nothing more, nothing less.

"You see, my man," George said as he turned into the parking lot of a Denny's restaurant, "it's tough to get the good stuff. Ain't no way a man can pull white powder out of brown."

George looked across the seat at Curtis and winked. Curtis knew his guess was right. The man was making a point, showing him that his connection was solid-solid enough so that he could even take Curtis this far.

"Okay, George," Curtis began, opening the door. "I dig where you're coming from. I'll cop from you as long as the stuff remains solid."

"And you'll get rich doing it, my man. Very rich."

Curtis stepped out of the car, walked around to George's window and leaned in. "How long?"

"Give me about twenty minutes, Curt. This dude is very heavy and likes to work slow. He's as solid as you can get, though, so there's no hassle."

George rolled the electric window up and drove out of the parking lot. Curtis watched the taillights of the Cadillac until they disappeared around a corner a block down the main street. He turned and walked into the garishly lit restaurant.

Curtis ordered a glass of milk and a piece of apple pie. He drummed his fingers nervously on the counter top as he waited for the little blonde waitress to bring him his food. He watched the girl-she couldn't have been more than eighteen-as she reached up above her head for the pie. The little white dress she wore rode up the back of her thighs. She was built nicely there, with a small ass and rich, muscular thighs. For a fraction of a second, Curtis caught the line running between those thighs. The chick was wearing pantyhose, but no panties.

"You're new here, aren't you?" the chick asked, setting the food down in front of Curtis.

"Naw, baby. I just never graced this joint before, that's all." Curtis knew it was a good idea to never tell the truth, especially to a white chick.

"Oh. You attend the college?" Her name was Linda Sue. That was spelled out conveniently on the small white tag that rested just above her tit.

"Thinkin' about it, honey. Not sure yet if there's anything there for me, though." Curtis was enjoying the little game. He had sized her up the minute she had opened her mouth. A white bitch, probably from the south. Her parents had probably spent the better part of her childhood telling her horrible and awful tales of the "nigras" and their sexual prowess and passion. "Why, them people jus' go 'round fuckin' like rabbits..., an' ya'll know what they say 'bout them nigra men!" Curtis almost broke out laughing thinking about it.

Linda Sue's big blue eyes were set upon Curtis, and she smiled, showing even, white teeth. Curtis thought about it but knew it wouldn't be cool to get mixed up with some white chick, especially on this night.

"I work here every night. Come on in around closing time some night and I'll show you the sights." Linda Sue was not so taken that she forgot to write out his bill.

"What I've seen so far, baby, seems mighty fine to me...." Curtis drank his milk slowly, resting his eyes on her full tits.

"They get better. Much better." She had made her point, there was nothing left to say. Linda Sue looked up from her order pad, ripped off the bill, and tried to place the paper on the counter in a seductive manner. But she misjudged and put the check directly on top of Curtis' apple pie.

"Hey, baby, if I wanted some topping, you know I would have asked for it!"

Curtis watched her fumble with the check, then slam it down angrily next to his plate. She turned away from him and walked quickly down the length of the counter. He knew he had blown her out. It was so easy sometimes that it made him laugh.

A strong, chilly wind began to rip across the desert, blowing sand and dust in swirls around the Denny's parking lot. Curtis stood sheltered against the restroom wall, waiting for the man who would bring him the start of his business.

One cigarette later, George pulled into the lot, drove up next to Curtis and leaned across the seat to open the door for him. He was grinning broadly.

"Hey, my man, what it is?" Curtis said, pulling the door shut behind him.

"Everything, just everything is groovy...." George was mellow, grinning from ear to ear. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed back down the road towards Clovis. The winds were blowing hard on the open highway, but the big, heavy Cadillac bucked them nicely.

"Here, Curtis. A little something to keep you warm." George handed Curtis a brown paper bag. Curtis opened the sack and pulled out a plastic bag that contained the purest, whitest smack he had ever seen.

"Oh yeah, baby! I can dig it! Beautiful!! !" Curtis rolled the bag around and around in his hands.

"Cut that stuff about five to one, amigo, and you'll be doing the junkies a favor!"

But Curtis had other plans. Five to one was the norm; everyone who dealt cut it that way. To start his business off on the right foot, give his customers something to come back to, Curtis had decided a long time ago that he would bomb them with a four-to-one cut. It would be the best deal in town. And besides, he knew he could pull it off because of one important fact: Curtis did not use the stuff himself. At no time would there be a desire to rip some off for his own pleasure, and there wouldn't be the temptation to cut it down so that he could shoot himself. No, Curtis thought to himself, this is one fuckin' dude who's goin' to play the game with a little class!

"Well?" George was driving with both hands on the wheel, bucking the strong winds. He smiled over at Curtis.

"It's good, my man. I believe that the black and the brown are goin' to do some nice jive together."

"How 'bout snortin' a little of the magic powder, Curtis?" George was still grinning at him.

Curtis turned down to the bag in his hands. A strange feeling overcame him. He couldn't explain it, but he had the definite sensation that George was up to something.

"Aw, come on, Curtis." There was a tone of daring in George's voice. "It ain't nothin' 'bout nothin'. You know what I mean?"

"Well," Curtis began slowly, placing the small packet into his pocket, "not this time, George. You know I don't use."

"Sometimes it ain't bad to relax a little. Especially after a big night like tonight." George reached under the seat of the car and pulled out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red. He passed it to Curtis.

"Thanks, George. I sure can use some of this...."

As Curtis took a large sip from the bottle, he had the strange feeling that George was disappointed about something. But once the mellow juice soothed his nerves, Curtis forgot about it. There wasn't anything that was going to ruin the good feeling he had. Cruising through the desert in a smooth Caddie, a full bottle of Johnnie Walker Red, and a long, empty highway ahead of them was enough. The weight of the small packet of white powder in his pocket only added to the groove.