Thursday had arrived, and that night would be the only chance Quinlan had to surveil Trey Botty. The man was more than a dirtbag. He was a drug dealer with a cantankerous disposition, a deadly bowie knife, and a short temper. He didn’t trust anyone, and with the types of people he associated with, no wonder. It was also no wonder that they didn’t trust him either.
Quinlan had done business with the man through an associate just to find out what Trey was like. The report wasn’t good—the man was skittish and armed, never a good combination. Most customers who dealt with him were apprehensive, yet because Trey had the best and largest variety of drugs on the south side of Chicago, they did business with him, anyway.
I have to be careful so he doesn’t notice that I’m watching his every move. He’d be on me like flies on a carcass, and I don’t want to be that carcass. I intend to have the upper hand at all times.
A long day lay ahead, and thinking of Trey wouldn’t make it go any faster. Later, Quinlan would watch under the cover of darkness, a half block from the shithole house Trey rented, until he left to conduct business on his favorite street corner, where the hookers and heroin addicts congregated. He was the man of the night, the go-to guy, and their savior, the dealer who always made them feel better as long as they didn’t cross him.
Quinlan already had plenty of information on Trey, but seeing him in action was the smartest way to go. Noting people’s quirks, personality, and temperament was the best way to stay alive in sketchy situations, and the loaded Glock would make sure of it.