Patrick cupped his hand around a cigarette and flicked his lighter until the tobacco burned red. Verbal instructions poured through his earbuds. They’d gone through the details back in the mayor’s office, and he knew his part. Theo had given him a small device that snapped in place between the earbuds’ wire and his smartphone. That, along with a newly installed app, would capture every word George spoke. Patrick just needed to stay within a few feet of George, as painful as that might be.
Jamie’s voice piped through, doing her best impression of an FBI agent. “Patrick, do you copy?” He pictured Jamie, Lisa, and Ellen perched in Theo’s cramped Volkswagen Vanagon around the corner. In addition to listening in, they apparently planned to coach his every move. He sighed.
“Patrick, if you need to, we can go over the logistics again,” said Ellen, her deep condescension seeping through the earbuds.
He spoke quietly, knowing they could hear him clearly through Theo’s speaker. “I’m fine, Mayor Salder. I got this.”
Patrick tried to block out their voices and focus his attention on the townhouse that faced him. The sidewalk in front was littered with debris. Torn wedding photos with broken frames and shattered glass lay like rubble after an errant missile strike. Charred jeans and men’s shirts were strewn over the artfully trimmed hedges that lined the front of the house.
Taking one last drag on his cigarette, Patrick dropped it on the cracked concrete, crushing the ember with the toe of his scuffed black sneaker. Squaring his shoulders, he walked up the steps to the front door and knocked loudly. A long moment passed. Finally, a shadow appeared against the opaque glass door. It swung open, and in the dim light of the hallway, he saw George. The suave businessman from yesterday was almost unrecognizable. He’d been replaced by a hungover mess in gray sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt, his eyes bleary and bloodshot. White gauze was wrapped around his left hand. In his right was a rocks glass filled with a dark liquor and ice.
Patrick formed his hand into a fist and imagined starting the conversation with a sucker punch to George’s face. Resisting the impulse, he took a deep breath, smiled, and said brightly, “Special delivery.”
“Who are you?” asked George, his voice scratchy and suspicious. He took a long drink from the glass, ice cubes tinkling.
Patrick shrugged. “You ordered some product last night. I’m the delivery boy.”
George looked warily at Patrick. “Sheila sent you?”
“She sure did. Said to treat you right. That you’re one of her best customers,” Patrick continued, a shit-eating grin frozen on his face.
George brushed past him and peered outside to check the street. Apparently satisfied there was nothing fishy, he motioned Patrick in and closed the door.
“Follow me and keep it quiet. My wife is upstairs and I don’t want to disturb her.”
Patrick followed George through a dim hallway into a brightly-lit chef’s kitchen. Shiny white cabinets lined the walls, and a full set of stainless-steel appliances gleamed. All was spotless and artfully arranged except for the marble countertop of the kitchen island. It was stained with drops of red wine. Two stemmed glasses sat side by side, with dregs the color of dried blood at the bottom of each. One was stained with lipstick in a tell-tale rose shade. As George turned to top off his drink from a well-stocked bar cabinet, Patrick discreetly erased the smear of color with his thumb.
“You’re looking a little rough. Late night?” asked Patrick.
Still pouring, George looked back at him sharply. “Just give me what I ordered and let’s get this over with.”
Patrick set his heavy messenger bag on the kitchen island next to the glasses. “This is a nice place. I bet the ladies love it.” He selected an orange from a large bowl of fruit and wandered leisurely around the kitchen. Patrick tossed the orange from hand to hand.
George followed him closely, his drink balanced on his gauze wrapped palm. “My wife certainly does.”
“Your wife, huh?” Patrick chucked the orange at George who barely caught it with his uninjured hand.
“We’ve been married for almost fifteen years,” said George, carefully placing the orange back in the bowl.
“Wow, that’s commitment. Any kids?”
“No.”
“Dude, think about it. Seriously, my buddies say it’s life affirming. But I totally understand. Your wife must be, what, in her forties, right? Maybe it’s time to upgrade. Find a nice young twenty-something.”
Lisa’s voice erupted though his earbuds. “Patrick, what are you doing?”
Patrick ignored his ex and paused at the knife block, tempted to pull one out and throw it at George like he’d done the orange. Maybe he’d catch it. Probably not. Patrick moved on.
“Wolf Range. Nice shit, dude.” Patrick turned on a burner, and listened to it tick tick tick for a few uncomfortable moments until a spark finally flared to life, leaving a strong scent of natural gas in the air. Patrick pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his back pocket and bent, lighting it on the open flame.
“You can’t smoke in here,” George said, rushing over to turn off the burner.
Patrick took a deep drag then tapped out some ash on the floor. “Fine, dude.” He went to the white enamel sink, doused the butt, and dropped it down the drain.
Patrick continued his self-guided tour, opening the Sub-Zero fridge. He pulled out a beer. It was some European pilsner, tasteless and pale.
What a dick, thought Patrick. Two-hundred-plus microbreweries in Oregon, and he buys this skunky shit. He added it to the growing list of reasons to hate George Green. He rummaged through a few kitchen drawers till he found a bottle opener, then popped the top off and took a deep drink. “You want one?” he asked.
George shook his head no.
Motioning around the room with the open bottle, Patrick asked, “How do you pay for all this stuff? You rich?”
“None of your business,” said George.
Jamie’s voice hissed in Patrick’s ear. “Get him to talk about the drugs.”
“Speaking of business, let’s get down to it.” Patrick returned to his bag and set his beer on the marble countertop next to the wineglasses. The damp bottle picked up the residue of powder otherwise hidden by the warm white of the marble. He tapped the powder with the tip of his finger and tasted. Patrick took in a sharp breath. On top of everything else, this asshole had given Lisa coke. He wiped his palms on his jeans, then cracked his knuckles.
“Had a little party last night?”
“Yeah, something like that,” said George, running his fingers nervously through his hair. “So, what do I owe you?”
“For what?” asked Patrick lamely.
“For, you know, the goods,” said George.
“I have an excellent selection of high-quality, organic coke. Consider me your personal recreational-pharmaceutical minimart.” Patrick dug through his messenger bag and dropped several small packets of cocaine onto the counter.
“Put that back. That’s way more than I ordered,” said George, clearly panicked. “I told you my wife is upstairs. She’d kill me if she saw this.”
“Oh, I bet she’s already seen plenty.”
“What does that mean?” asked George.
“Just that our ladies know all. No use hiding anything from the old ball and chain, right?” Patrick finished laying out his wares on the counter. He read the label on each. “We have ‘Like a Virgin.’ I think we can guess what that’s for. ‘Hooked on a Feeling.’ And finally, ‘Super Freak.’”
“Seriously, put that away. I already told Sheila what I wanted.” George looked slightly green.
Patrick realized he may have pushed George a little too far. He dug in his bag and pulled out a plastic bag full of weed and a packet of rolling papers. “This isn’t on the menu, but I think it’s what the doctor ordered. It’s my own personal supply of totally legal marijuana, so your old lady can’t give you a hard time about it. Let me roll you one.” He removed a pinch of dried bud and, in a moment, an impeccable joint was rolled and lit. Patrick took a puff, then held it out to George as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Trust me. This will make you feel better,” he said.
George looked warily at Patrick then reached for the joint anyway. He took a deep drag, held the smoke for what felt like just a moment too long, and blew it out with a practiced air. He stood motionless, then took another hit. “That’s good stuff,” he said, smoke pouring out of his mouth.
“Glad you like it.”
George looked from the joint to Patrick. “Maybe I should text Sheila. I don’t like that she didn’t give you any specifics.”
“Dude, seriously? Don’t get me in trouble. Here’s my pager. She sent me your digits and nothing else.”
George took the pager and looked it over carefully. “Fine,” he said, handing it back. He sorted through the packets on the counter. “I’ll take the Super Freak and that coke I had last night. What was it . . .”
“Don’t know dude, she gives it to me and I sell it. How about one of each? May as well stock up.”
George nodded.
Patrick left three packets on the counter and packed the rest back into his messenger bag. “Time to pony up.”
“What do I owe you?”
Patrick pretended to do a mental calculation, but he was really thinking about the ten crumpled hundred dollar bills he’d seen in Lisa’s purse last night. Payment for services rendered. It was more than George owed, but, he figured, why not ask for the same. “One thousand,” he said.
Unfazed, George just took another puff on the joint. He was definitely looking more relaxed. “Back in a minute.”
Patrick rolled another joint as a voice came through the earbuds.
“Patrick you’re doing great,” said Jamie. “Just get George to say he’s paying for the drugs so we can get it recorded, take the money, and you can get out of there. Mayor Salder will take care of the rest.”
“Yeah, I got it,” he said just as George returned with the navy suit jacket he’d been wearing last night.
He looked at Patrick suspiciously. “Were you talking to someone?” he asked.
Patrick calmly lit the second joint. “No dude. You’re getting paranoid. I read that’s an effect of prolonged drug use.”
George dug in the suit’s inside jacket pocket and pulled out a wallet and a DVD case, dropping the case on the kitchen island. He flipped open his wallet counting out bills. He handed the cash to Patrick.
Patrick just shook his head. “What’s the money for?”
“The drugs.”
“The pot?”
“No, the cocaine,” said George with a look of wonder at Patrick’s stupidity.
“Oh yeah, the coke.” He took the money from George, and with the joint hanging from the side of his mouth, he counted the bills out loud and shoved them into a back pocket of his jeans. “I think we got it.” Patrick could hear Jamie cheering.
The smoke from the joint burned his eyes, and he took it out of his mouth. He looked at it and considered his next move. He could leave, sure. That’s what Lisa’s mom, and that asshole tattoo artist wanted him to do. It was “the plan.” But why not stay a while, get to know the monster who’d abandoned an injured Lisa on a park bench? His morbid curiosity was getting the better of him.
“My work here is done, but dude, I’m in no rush. Cool if I chill for a few?”
“Actually, no. I have a lot going on today. I need to you leave.”
He ignored George’s protests and rummaged through a few kitchen cupboards until he found a bag of chips to go with his beer.
“Patrick, what are you doing? Get out of there now,” said Lisa.
Patrick ignored her and glanced at the DVD George had left on the counter. The plastic cover sported a stressed-looking Bruce Willis and a burning skyscraper.
“George, my man. Die Hard is literally my favorite movie of all time. You still have a DVD player? That’s so retro.”
George squinted at the DVD. He pulled a pair of reading glasses from a front pocket of his sweatpants, put them on and looked again. “Sheila gave that to me last night. Said she’d send someone over to pick it up today.” He picked up the thin case and handed it to Patrick. “Guess that’s you.”
Patrick took it from George’s hand. With an enthusiasm only partially faked, he said, “Let’s watch it.”
George shook his head. “I don’t think it’s really Die Hard.”
“Looks real enough to me. Where’s the living room in this place?” He pushed past a scowling George and stepped further into the house. A wide hallway led to a spacious living room, its polished wood floor layered with white shag rugs. A Nelson bubble lamp at least four feet wide floated above a white-leather, semi-circular sofa large enough to seat twelve. A massive flat-screen television flanked by high-end speakers dominated an entire wall. An array of components, gaming systems, and VR headsets were stored beneath it in a shiny, white media center.
“Holy shit, George. This room is amazing.”
“You can’t go in there,” said George. The sound of a heavy crash came from upstairs.
“Too late,” said Patrick as he slouched toward the sofa.
“At least take off your shoes.”
“Right on.” Patrick glibly kicked off his sneakers and lined them up carefully at the room’s threshold. He moved to the sofa and settled himself with his stockinged feet up on the coffee table, one toe poking through a hole in his sock. Patrick saw that George was eyeing his feet with disgust.
“My wife doesn’t like it when people are in here,” George said.
“Why not?” Patrick ripped open the bag of chips, careful to spill a few.
“The sofa alone cost twenty-five thousand. She doesn’t want anyone to ruin it.”
“She doesn’t let anyone sit on it?”
“Not usually.”
“Are you kidding me? This room is made for getting high and watching action films. If not, what’s the point? Speaking of which, that is an incredible television. Those babies cost, what, ten grand?”
“Fifteen. Worth every penny,” George said, looking proudly at the TV. “Mounted it on the wall myself. No visible wires.” Footsteps could be heard upstairs, and another heavy thump. George glanced up with a worried look and said to Patrick, “Listen, you really should go.”
Jamie’s voice came through the headset. “He’s right, Patrick. You need to get out of there now. Mayor Salder and Theo are about to head over.”
“Chill. It’s all good,” said Patrick—half to Jamie, half to George—and stubbed out his joint in a crystal bowl on the coffee table. “Come on, George. What else did you have planned for today?” Patrick opened a large, white-lacquered box and found a collection of remotes. He picked one at random and clicked the power button. The giant television hummed to life. “Awesome.” Sitting back on the sofa, Patrick could see George was torn between wanting to toss him out on his ass and a deep desire to just chill with an action film and get high.
George gave into his baser instincts. “I’m in so much trouble already, why not get in a little more.” He sat down next to Patrick. “Forget the movie. Let’s play Call of Duty.” George pressed a few buttons on another remote and pulled two controllers from the white box, handing one to Patrick.
“Right on, dude.” Patrick settled into the sofa, the controller resting easy in his hands. He was determined to ignore any further pestering from the Scooby Gang back in the van. He was in a sweet pad, on a comfy sofa, eating chips, and getting high on some excellent weed. As bad as the day had started, right now, life was good.