Suckers (21 page)

Moss looked at the screen, then back at his book. “Nope.”

Dan flicked through the channels. The news was showing a fire on one station, a neighbor dispute gone violent on another. CNN was talking about Hamas. He didn’t want to hear about any attacks here in the States, wanted to pretend they didn’t exist—just for a few hours. He clicked the TV off.

Unless they could find a decent pool of people not more than a thirty- or forty-minute drive from Manchester, they were going to have a problem. Moss wasn’t going to keep agreeing to these impromptu trips, and if they happened frequently enough, Debbie would figure out that there were no Dan-and-Ray acoustic shows going on. It didn’t take more than a quick check of the band’s website or social media accounts to work that out.

Jesus, they didn’t even have their guitars with them.

The last stop was Brattleboro, Vermont, another three-hour-and-some drive, but after this one they were driving straight home. Back in their own beds tonight.

In the car, Moss said to Ray, “What do you do for a living?”

“What do you mean what the fuck do I do for a living?”

“If someone asks you what you do for a living, what are you going to tell them?”

“Fuck, whatever.”

“I’m trying to avoid what happened last night at the goth shop.”

“So when someone says, ‘You know who you look like?’ in the future I should say, ‘I’m a mechanic’?”

“Mechanic’s good,” Moss said. “Unless they’re having a car problem.”

“Shit.” Ray propped his elbow on the edge of the passenger window.

Dan pulled himself between the seats. “Do something boring. Fix copy machines or something.” Getting that close to the other guys made his head swim—something he’d been trying to tell himself was his imagination. He gripped the back of the seat to ground himself.

“Yeah?” Ray said. “What do you do?”

“I’m a vampire. He’s a nurse.”

“Well, I guess I’m the vampire wrangler then.” Ray rubbed his mouth. Dan knew he was itching for a smoke.

He took another deep breath, got another prickly rush in his head, and dropped back in his seat. The medic bag was right by his foot. All he had to do was crank open the bottle. He closed his eyes. This couldn’t be happening this quickly. They didn’t have another donor lined up after this one. “Any new responses on the ads?”

“Just a sec.”

A second came and went, then a whole string of them. Finally Ray said, “One that I might be able to work into something.”

One
.

Might
.

They got into Brattleboro too early, nothing but time to kill. Dan stayed in the car while Moss and Ray stretched their legs. He nudged the medic bag with his toe. Closed his eyes again and recalled how much was left of Esmy’s blood. A lot, but Vin’s was completely fucking gone already.

He took a sip—one sip—and got out of the car for some fresh air. The rain was gone, leaving a bracing wind behind. Dan zipped his jacket. Ray’s cheeks turned a roughened red. Moss, unaffected, had his jacket hanging open, his hands tucked in his pockets.

There wasn’t much to do downtown if you weren’t into galleries and bookshops.

Ray slipped his cell phone out every few minutes to see if it had gotten much later yet.

They ended up back in the car too soon, Ray huddling beside it to finish one last cigarette.

“I guess we’ll go find the place,” Moss said as Ray dropped into his seat, bringing a whip of frigid air with him.

“Might as well.” Dan slouched. He tapped his fingers to the song banging in his head—METZ’s “Negative Space.” Stuck there all morning. More appropriate to how he felt than anything Two Tons had written. He had a feeling that when they got back to songwriting, their catalog was going to take a turn for the fucked up.

Another five minutes, and Moss was saying, “That’s it.”

Dan straightened. Dunkin’ Donuts. He hung an arm on the back of Ray’s seat, chewing the side of his thumb while the light turned green and Moss eased them into the lot.

Two cop cars were nosed up to the side of the store.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Dan said.

“What? It’s a doughnut shop. Of course there’s cops,” Ray said.

Through the plate glass, between posters for the latest coffee concoctions and doughnut deals, Dan made out three officers—two at the counter along the inside of the window and a third by the cash register.

“I’ve still got a bad feeling.” He checked the car’s clock. “We’ve got ten minutes. Let’s park and wait. Maybe they’ll leave.”
Please fucking leave
. He needed this donation.
They
needed this donation—without it, he’d back to relying on Ray again.

Ray shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

Moss found a spot far enough away, Dan hoped, for the cops to not notice they were sitting there, waiting.

“You think they have Wi-Fi?” Ray asked.

“Dunno,” Moss said.

Ray beat a rhythm on the dash, watching the windows.

Dan rubbed his temples. Why the
fuck
they agreed to meet at a doughnut shop…

When he looked again, the cops were still inside. He propped his elbows on the front seats and stared—as if by staring hard enough, he might get them to stuff their doughnuts in their faces faster, or maybe they’d get a call to go out and arrest somebody.
Somebody
had to be out there committing a crime.

All his sitting up near the front did was bring back that unsteady feeling. An ache at the base of his skull. His throat tightened.
Please do not let this be happening
.

A minute ticked by.

Another.

“Shit,” he whispered.

“I’m telling you,” Ray said, “the place is just a cop magnet. They’re getting their sugar on. They don’t give a shit about us.”

This felt off.
He
felt off. He grabbed the paramedic bag off the floor.

Ray glanced back.

Dan uncapped his bottle and chugged three swallows. He put it away and sat forward again, between the seats, feeling much better in the head and much worse in the gut, knowing what he’d just done, how much he’d just drank.

“It’s a minute till,” Moss said.

Dan chewed the inside of his cheek.

“How about this? We go in there, go up to the counter. Order some coffee. Act like everyday normal citizens. See how it goes.” Moss looked back. “We don’t have to do anything if you’re still not good with it.”

Dan nodded, eyes on the cops. “Okay. But leave the bag here.” It was how they’d told people to recognize them: the nurse’s smock and the orange medic bag.

“Okay. Ready?”

“I’ve
been
fucking ready.” Ray popped his door open and stepped out.

The wind hit Dan in the face as he climbed out. He slammed his door and shoved his hands into his pockets.

The three of them strode stiff-legged across the parking lot. Dan ducked his head, as though he could go unnoticed if he didn’t look up.

He and Ray came to a stop at the counter, Moss right behind. A girl who looked like she was still in high school asked what she could get them, her smile cheery and bright.

Ray ordered a large black. Dan said, “Regular,” and leaned away to let Moss give his order.

As she went to get their drinks, Dan drummed his fingers on the counter, his back tense from the three pairs of cop eyes he was sure were staring at them.

He made a fist and coughed into it.

The door opened behind them, lashing the back of his neck with a whip of cold. His shoulders itched: he wanted to turn and look. He read the labels on the doughnut trays instead. Bear claws, glazed, old fashioned—

“Hey,” said a guy behind them. “Are you the guys I’m looking for?”

The tips of Dan’s ears flushed with heat. He fought to keep from turning his head.

“Excuse me?” Moss said.

The girl set two of their coffees on the counter. Dan reached for his, pulling it close, peeling back the tab in the plastic lid. Trying to keep his hands steady.

“I’m supposed to be meeting some guys here,” the guy said. “I thought you might be them. You a nurse?”

Moss didn’t say anything.

“Which hospital you work at?”

The third coffee came, and the girl turned to put Ray’s jelly doughnut in a paper bag.

“I work at a nursing home,” Moss said. “Excuse me.” He got his coffee from the counter.

“I was supposed to be meeting a nurse and another guy here tonight,” the guy said, “right about now. You sure you ain’t them?”

Ray had his wallet open, swiping his credit card.

“Sorry, I can’t help you,” Moss said.

“Ready?” Dan said.

Ray grabbed his coffee and the doughnut bag. “Yep.”

“Let’s go.”

The guy who’d been talking up Moss had short, dark hair, an unsettling smile as he nodded at Dan and Ray.

The cops’ eyes followed them as they walked out, the weight of their gaze on the back of Dan’s neck.

“Fuuuuuck me.” Ray dropped into the driver’s seat and yanked the door shut. “If the cops
weren’t
there for a sting—and I still don’t think they were—that guy I’m sure got their attention.”

“That went not so well,” Moss said. He fitted his coffee into the cup holder hanging from the window. “Are they still watching? Or are they talking to that douche?”

Dan flicked a look toward the lighted windows. “Yeah, they’re watching us. God that sucked.” He pressed his forehead against Ray’s seat.

The car rolled forward, and they put Dunkin’ Donuts behind them.

“I came this close”—Ray held up his thumb and forefinger—“to turning around and saying, ‘Do you see a fucking orange bag here, moron?’”

“You did not,” Moss said.

“I was thinking it. I need a smoke.”

“You’ll have to wait,” Dan said. “It’s only an hour and half, an hour forty tops.”

“Fuck.”

“We need to figure out the next donor.” He curled his fingers until his fingernails bit his palm. And that wasn’t enough either.

“We’re getting some others lined up,” Ray said. “It’ll work out.”

“Yeah. Like this one did,” Moss said. “This one went fucking fantastic.”

“It’ll work out,” Ray said.

Dan shut his eyes.

The drive seemed the longest on their trip, all three of them quiet—no music playing, nothing but the rhythm of the windshield wipers. Southwestern New Hampshire slipped by, unremarkable in the dark. Dan’s thoughts tumbled over themselves: How long would Esmerelda’s donation last? What if he didn’t get any more? What if Moss said he wouldn’t do this anymore? What if they got caught next time? Or the time after that? What if their faces were in all the papers? “Rock Musicians Drink Fans’ Blood,” alongside their mug shots. “Former Paramedic Assists in Procurement.”

He pressed his hands against his eyes, grabbed hold of his hair, and tried to force his brain to shut up, because panicking wasn’t going to help.

After an eternity, the car glided to a stop in front of Moss’s house. Dan got out to offer his hand. “Thanks a lot for doing this.”

Moss nodded.

“It really means a lot.”

“I’ll see you,” Moss said.

“Sure.”

† † †

He slid into the passenger seat.

Ray put the car in gear.

Dan wanted to ask, “What if we lose Moss?” but at the same time didn’t want to tip the balance into making it a reality. He also wanted to say, “I think we’re in big trouble,” but his throat clenched around a hard ache every time he worked up the courage for it.

As they turned up Dan’s street, Ray said, “I’m gonna get right on it, okay? As soon as I get in the door.”

Dan nodded.

“I mean it.” He slipped an unlit cigarette from his mouth.

Dan nodded again and picked up the medic bag. He pushed his door open. A blast of cold air swept in. He pulled up his collar, his insides roiling as Ray pulled away.

At first he’d gotten by on a teaspoon. Now he was taking it in gulps—and that was just to take the edge off.

He collected three days’ of mail from the row of mailboxes on the first landing and headed up the stairs. The apartment was as he’d left it: a little lived in, a little abandoned. He hadn’t told his mother he was going out of town, so she hadn’t snuck in to straighten up and stock his fridge.

He set the medic bag on the table and took out the last of Esmy’s blood. Fighting an urge to top off, he stuck it in the fridge. He’d let that need get to the edge of bad before tapping into his supply. A half-gone six-pack of Dos Equis looked like a reasonable alternative.