1

Blake

The corners of Blake’s lips curled upward as he lifted a snack-size baggie to the dealer’s level of vision. “Top grade icing. You got something to pour this on, piece of paper maybe? No offense, your table looks a little dusty.”

“Oh.” The dealer shrugged. “Yeah.” He went into the kitchen, came back with an eight-by-ten-inch cardstock ad, and laid it on the coffee table.

“Hey man, steady yourself. You’re gonna spill some.” The dealer’s pale, thin hands shook as he cautioned Blake. Then a muscle under his eye went into a series of twitches.

“Yeah. I get pumped before the sniff.” Blake dug his elbow into his ribs to still his hand. It was critical that the powder not touch his skin or go airborne and land in his eyes, nose, or mouth. He poured the baggie’s contents onto the cardstock.

“I get that. Top grade coke, huh. Where’d you say you got it?”

“Where the best stuff comes from. Colombia. By way of my supplier in Chicago.” A credible lie, and one his witness wouldn’t live long enough to call him out on.

The dealer pulled a couple of short straws from his t-shirt pocket and handed one to Blake.

“No time like the present, man,” Blake told him.

The dealer did not protest or hesitate. He pushed the powder in a line with the straw, bent over, inserted it in a nostril, closed the other with his pointer finger and sniffed in deeply. As he straightened, his satisfied smile faded in a flash. He collapsed before he drew another breath. The dealer’s upper body landed bent over on the table, one arm flung up, the other down. His knees pushed into the side of the table, his feet at odd angles on the floor.

Blake pocketed the unused straw, stared at the dealer, and counted to sixty. Carfentanil. No detectable taste or smell. A minuscule amount, less than a grain of salt, was enough to kill a human being. The perfect weapon to avenge the lives the dealer had stolen.

After not so much as a twitch from the body, Blake withdrew two pairs of vinyl gloves from his windbreaker’s side pocket, pulled them on one at a time, then fished out a lint-free cloth from the other pocket. He picked up the baggie and wiped it clean, over and over. Careful not to step on the dealer’s legs or disturb the evidence on the coffee table, Blake moved to the dealer’s left hand. With practiced stealth, he held the baggie in his right hand and placed his left hand on the back of the dealer’s, closed his fingers around the baggie’s bottom edge, then let go.

Beads of sweat broke out from the pores on Blake’s head and neck. Damn. He willed himself to calm down and finish the job right. He took a step back and wiped his head and neck with the arms of his jacket to catch any drops before they fell. As he did, it seemed that every pore on his body had opened to release more nasty fluid.

Move. He gathered the dealer’s right fingerprints on the baggie’s top half with the same two-step technique and laid it on the table near the deadly powder. He backed away and visually scanned the room for any sign he had been there. Blake had touched nothing in the room with his bare hands, save the baggie that now had only the dealer’s prints on it, and the straw he had pocketed.

Blake left the same way he had entered; through the back door of the ground level condominium the dealer had opened for him. He slowly peeled off the outer pair of gloves, inside out, taking care not to touch the outsides. He reached into his pocket for a plastic bag, dropped them in, did the same with the second pair, and tied a knot that sealed the bag.

Blake’s vehicle was parked on a residential side street two blocks away. A breeze stirred and blew some loosened autumn leaves around his legs and up to his chest. He pulled the hood of his windbreaker over his head and made his way like he was out for an evening walk in the dark.