Ferocity Summer (11 page)

Later That Week

W
illow and I sat in the dingy Pointless Pursuits waiting area while Craig was busy with a client—someone there for the shop's advertised business, not its illicit moneymaker. I hated the place. The sunlight that poured in through the dirty front window illuminated everything that was wrong with my life, but now, at least, I had an excuse for being here. I didn't like it any better than my old excuse, which was that I was Willow's best friend. In fact, my new secret assignment was making me feel pretty shitty about myself.

I couldn't tell Willow a damn thing about what was going on. When you can't tell your best friend about the most important thing going on in your life, then you know that things are seriously messed up. Worse, though, than not being able to tell her anything was the fact that I seemed to be using her—or at least my friendship with her—and this made me nauseous with confusion.

There was nothing terribly odd about me hanging out at Willow's house. I'd always done this, but now it was not just for her company. I had a job to do, and that job involved keeping track of Randy's movements and gathering Christian's precious information. When I'd arrived at her place earlier that afternoon and asked if Randy was home, she'd acted jokingly offended, and I knew that I'd hurt her pretty deep. But despite this, I didn't think twice about going with her to visit a seedy tattoo artist/drug dealer, because as far as I was concerned, I was going to turn something decent in to Christian. It may not have been about Randy, but it would still be dirt. I was going to show “good faith,” and in turn he would be compelled to help me out.

I picked at the skin on my thumb as I sat stiffly in the dirty chair. I had to tell her what was going on. There was no point hiding things from her, and maybe she would understand. If she didn't, that was a chance I'd have to take.

“Must be a pretty elaborate tattoo,” Willow said.

She kept moving around, trying to get comfortable. Her hair had grown damp with sweat. I hated myself for being so selfish. I hated myself for turning into a traitor to save my own neck while my best friend was in the act of flushing her life down the toilet using every narcotic substance she came across.

“Maybe we should just leave,” I suggested.

“After waiting this long? You're crazy. Do you have any gum or anything? My mouth's so dry.”

I had only three orange Tic Tacs, which I handed her. She chewed them up in seconds without even bothering to suck on them. They made a clicking noise against her teeth. It reminded me of a cat eating a bird or a small rodent, the bones crunching in the cat's mouth.

I remembered a visit to my aunt's house as a young girl. Her cat, Tiger Lily, had caught a baby rabbit. With the help of my aunt I chased Tiger Lily into the garage, hoping to free the baby rabbit, but before we could get her, she ate her prey. The crunching of the rabbit's bones echoed in the garage. I cried, unable to comprehend how such a sweet cat could do something so mean.

“It's instinct,” my aunt said. “She can't help it. Maybe she didn't even want to do it. She just did it out of habit. She couldn't
not
do it.”

Willow was no better off than Tiger Lily. For her, the drugs that had once been an escape, a thrill, had become nothing more than a tired habit. This was no longer something that brought her any pleasure, but she couldn't not do it. Partly, I guess, it was addiction, but there seemed to be more to it than that. It was like she was playing a role, acting out a part, saying her lines but without her heart really in it. She wasn't so much a drug-addicted teenager as she was someone playing the part of a drug-addicted teenager. I wondered what that made me.

When Craig finally emerged, he was sweating. His face was red and wet, and a cigarette dangled from his mouth. The cheap fabric of his T-shirt had been made transparent in places by the sweat that had soaked through. He smelled of dirt and stale beer and perspiration.

“You again,” he said when he saw us. When he talked, the cigarette wiggled up and down but didn't fall. “Don't you have jobs or something?”

“We don't like jobs,” Willow said. “Or they don't like us.”

Craig made a disgusting sort of gurgling noise that might have been laughter.

“I came to see a man about a tattoo,” Willow said. Their eyes met and spoke in the universal language of drug dealers and drug users. Willow followed Craig into a back room. I kept my seat. A better rat would have followed them, I suppose, but I couldn't see how my detailed description of just one more drug deal among all the millions of drug deals out there was going to help Christian become a big hero or whatever the hell he was trying to become.

I stayed in the waiting area, and when Willow emerged ten minutes later, I didn't really notice the new lines of worry that zigzagged their way across her face because I wasn't really looking for them. I didn't know anything was up until we were almost back to her house.

“Are you still looking for employment?” Willow asked.

“I was kind of planning on finding a few grand accidentally dropped along the side of the road.”

“Then I've got something right up your alley.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked.

“I'm talking about a way for us to make some decent money.”

“Does this in any way involve taking off our clothes?”

“No. It just so happens that there are ways for a woman to get paid what she's worth without removing a single article of clothing.”

“Perfectly legal ways?” I asked. Willow remained silent. “Does this job opportunity of yours in any way involve breaking the law?”

“Technically, we won't really be doing anything illegal.”

“Technically?”

“It's easy work. We don't even have to do anything, really. Just sort of stand around.”

“Cut the crap, Willow. Just what the hell will we be doing?”

“Craig and some other guys have kind of this big project they're working on, and they need someone to stand watch, make sure nobody shows up to spoil the party.”

“This isn't a tattoo project,” I said.

“Look, all we have to do is watch out for any cops or anyone who looks too nosy. It'll be a few hours, maybe four all together, and he'll pay us two hundred fifty bucks a piece.”

Many things went through my head at that point. Two hundred and fifty dollars wasn't a lot of money. It definitely wasn't anywhere near my dream of roadside cash, but when you're out of work, it sounds like a lot of money. Still, money wasn't my only incentive. I guessed that this project was something a whole hell of a lot bigger than a simple drug deal, and I might have the chance to provide Christian with some valuable information. Maybe it would be something good enough to get me my get-out-of-court-free card. The last thing I wanted to do was pass up this opportunity, but I couldn't just accept it. I would have to put up a fight or Willow would think I was crazy, or more likely know that I was up to something. It wouldn't take much in the way of acting skills—I did have my reservations.

“Do you think this is such a good idea?” I asked.

“Two hundred and fifty dollars to stand around and do nothing? Hell, yeah.”

“I mean doing something illegal, something where we could potentially get caught and arrested. Do you think that's such a good idea, when in about a month we're going to have to prove our good names before a jury that thinks teenagers are to blame for everything that goes wrong in the world?”

“I don't plan on getting caught,” Willow said. “I was just trying to be nice. I thought you could use some money.
Craig just offered me the job. He offered me $500 to stand around and keep a lookout, but I thought it would be better if I was with my best friend. If you want to wander the roadsides looking for cash, be my guest. In fact, why don't you start right now?”

Willow pulled off onto the shoulder and stopped the car. She looked at me. I stared back at her.

“Okay,” I said. “I'll do it, but if there's any sign of trouble, we take off. We disappear. If the cops catch up with us, we don't know anything. We're just innocent bystanders.”

“Well, duh,” Willow said, and her face eased itself into an almost-smile as she swung back onto the road and pounded on the gas pedal.

And so, like that, I turned another corner and edged a little bit closer to hell.

In another age, a beleaguered Civil War general decided that there was no such thing as a code of ethics in war. He turned his back on the commandments he had previously preached, and the world of warfare would never be the same.

How do they happen, these sharp turns? Desperation drives us to do the things we would not normally consider.

A Few Nights Later

C
raig drove us to the site. He said nothing during the ride. We sat in stony silence listening to the local classic rock station at low volume. A barely audible Bob Dylan sang about the injustices visited on Ruben Carter, but every time the engine got a little louder or we hit a noisy patch of road, he was drowned out. When he sang that part about taking him to a jail cell, goose bumps broke out on my arms. I felt like talking just to fill the half-silence, but I couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. What does one talk about when heading off to some sort of vaguely illegal work?

Instead, I concentrated on watching the scenery roll past the window. This was not easy. It was late, close to midnight, and Craig drove mostly on the unlit back roads. I saw trees and occasional houses. I tried to find road signs to at least get a general idea of where I was, so that I could have something of value to offer Christian, but I failed miserably. Once, I spotted a green street sign, bent at an angle so that only half of it could be seen—something-or-other Trail, which narrowed it down not at all. I had no doubt that Craig had carefully arranged his route so as to avoid all landmarks and obvious road signs. He might have even driven around in a circle or two. Maybe he didn't trust us. Maybe he thought we would go to the cops, or maybe he feared we would share this juicy information with an enterprising individual.

The nature of the project, which was deliberately not mentioned ahead of time, involved hiding a massive amount of drugs. For this, Craig and some anonymous cohort whose name I never learned had enlisted the help of about a dozen desperate-for-money young men and an equal amount of shovels, in addition to Willow and me. In a vacant field in the middle of nowhere—which was probably Sussex County but could have easily been a neighboring county or even, for that matter, Pennsylvania or New York although I don't think we crossed any bridges—the young men were put to work digging ditches. Willow and I were posted near the road where we were to watch for the approach of any vehicle.

“I don't care what it is,” Craig said. “A car, a bike, an ATV, whatever. If you see or hear it, since they might have their lights off, you send the signal.”

The signal, which Craig had already explained, was for us to shout, “Stephanie is here!” There was no Stephanie, but Craig in his clever way had decided this would be just the sort of confusing information that could play with the mind of any officer of the law. The shout was to be followed by everyone's immediate disappearance into the surrounding woods. I spent only a short while considering our odds in the dark and unfamiliar woods on a moonless night against a team of police officers with dogs and flashlights and an intimate knowledge of the local terrain. Basically, if the cops somehow caught a whiff of what was going on and showed up, we were screwed.

“We don't expect any company,” Craig said. “This is just a precautionary measure.” Unspoken but heard was the implication that maybe one of those well-paid laborers had decided he could make a few bucks by telling what he knew to local police, who could be Drug Free School Zone saints with their record one-night haul. But since our location wasn't disclosed ahead of time, the police would need to follow this hypothetical informant, and I had a feeling that like Craig, whoever had driven the laborers had taken a cautiously circuitous route and checked frequently for any followers.

“Well, this isn't so bad,” Willow said as we stood at our post. Cricket noise and darkness engulfed us. The diggers worked so silently we could barely tell they were there.

“Easiest buck I ever made,” I said. I swatted at a mosquito on my ankle.

“Next time we'll have to bring some Off.”

“I didn't know there would be a next time.” I'd kind of figured this whole weird thing was a one-time sort of deal. How often did drugs get buried in out-of-the-way places?

“Well, I don't know. Craig kind of hinted at something. You know, like if we do well then next time we could work for him or something. It's not such a bad summer job.”

“It's not exactly something I can put down on a college application.””

“Right, well, we'll probably both end up at County anyway.”

“I thought Midge was pushing Vassar.”

Willow sighed. “My father has been extremely pissed off lately. It's this goddamn trial shit. I kind of missed an appointment with the lawyer, and he flipped out at me. Said how I would never amount to anything. How he would disown me. All kinds of crap, but you know he would have to be the one to pay for college, if I went, and I just don't see him shelling out the dough. Oh shit, like it even matters. For all we know we'll end up taking correspondence courses in prison.”

“Don't say that.”

“Oh, face it, will you? We're fucked.”

Neither of us said anything for a while, and the crickets seemed louder in the silence; almost, but not quite, loud enough to drown out my thoughts. A few crunches came from our left. Footsteps.

“What was that?” Willow asked. I shushed her. Something snorted, and Willow jumped and grabbed my arm. A deer ran past us, as surprised to see us as we were to see him. “Goddammit,” Willow muttered.

“Your attorney, has he given you any idea, you know, about how things might turn out? Does he have some sort of strategy?”

“I don't know,” Willow said. She sounded like she didn't care, and I could see how her apathy could have sent her father into a fit of rage. “I only met with him once or twice, and he didn't really tell me anything. He doesn't know anything, anyway. He wasn't there. It wasn't our fault.”

“Yes it was,” I said. My voice was small and soft and quickly swallowed up by the crickets, but Willow had heard me.

“No one else was there. It was only us and Randy and Tigue. No one else knows what happened. Things happened the way we say they happened, and it wasn't our fault.”

“What about Tigue?” I asked.

“Oh, he's cool. Randy talked to him.”

“I thought he was in Europe.”

“Well, email or something, I guess. I don't know. Randy said not to worry. So, I'm not worrying.”

“Which is why you're slowly poisoning yourself?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Just stating the obvious, Willow, but then, if that's not the way you say things are happening, then I guess it's not.”

“What's with the attitude?”

“If you're not worried, then why are you doing this to yourself?”

“What, because I like to have some fun once in a while, because I'm not some straight-laced little goody-goody, now suddenly I'm some sort of drug addict who can't face her own problems?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Fuck you.”

There were more footsteps, softer ones. They came from the direction of the digging. We couldn't tell who it was until he was inches from our face. Craig glowered at us.

“Can you keep it down?” he asked.

“I think we're done talking anyway,” I said.