Buying drugs is the easiest thing in the world. At least for me. Parents of the world don’t want to hear this, but it’s true. All I had to do was send a text to one of the Dalton twins. Nothing more than a single letter usually did the trick. P for pot. M for mushrooms. E for ecstasy. O for oxy. S for surprise me.
They would then text back a time and place. 4 Chipotle for instance. I’d show up, they’d hand me something inconspicuous, like a bag with a burrito and the stuff tucked beneath the foil. Then we’d chat a bit and go our separate ways. They always operated on credit and I evened up with them in the cafeteria, slipping them cash long after the transactions took place.
It served them well. No parents, teachers, or, most importantly, cops ever caught wind. Regulars knew the drill and newbies were vetted and referred by those regulars. People got their jollies and the Daltons got richer. Free enterprise won the day, like every other day in history.
Two days after Cranberry died and I was deputized (my word, not hers) by Special Agent Carla Rosetti, it was poised to be another winner for free enterprise. I texted Jenna Dalton.
Me: A.
Her: A? What’s A?
Me: All of it.
Her: All of it? Like everything?
Me: Yep. Make me a sampler. Like a gift basket.
Her: Tough week, right?
Me: Perry. Then Cranberry. FUCK!
Her: Fuckin fuck. At least there’s no school. Can you do noon? Dunkin.
Me: I’m so there.
I would go alone. Both Tess and Dylan were with me during the texts, but it made no sense for them to come to the handoff, because I always met the Daltons alone. Not that the Daltons would be all “I smell a rat” or “pat her down for a wire” or anything, but they might notice something was off. They might not give me what I needed.
I needed all of it. Rosetti assured us that she wasn’t going to arrest anyone. She didn’t even care who was supplying the drugs. Not yet, at least. For now, she only wanted samples of the drugs most likely to be consumed by our peers.
It’s no exaggeration to say that the Daltons were the primary drug source for our school. As I’ve already pointed out, Katelyn was a loyal customer. I couldn’t tell you about Brian, Perry, or Cranberry, but if they had taken a hit off a joint in the last two years or popped a pill so they could stay up all night to dance or study—or dance while studying, for that matter—then chances are the original source was the Daltons.
The plan was that I would procure every drug they had and, if one of those substances proved to be volatile, then Rosetti would go after their supplier. “I don’t care about a couple of schoolyard hustlers,” she had told us. “I’m after big fish. Because the big fish is often bigger than you might ever suspect.”
As much as I wanted to think of the Daltons as big fish, I had to admit that big fish don’t do deals in doughnut shops with girls who show up on pink bikes. That’s right, I rolled up to the big drug deal on the beach cruiser my grandparents bought me for our annual trips down the shore. Because, again, that’s what I always did. I didn’t want to arouse suspicions.
Joe was waiting in the parking lot when I arrived, fastening a bike rack to the back of their RAV4. “Slap that bad boy on here,” he said. “We’ve got your stuff, but we’re getting the fuck outta Dodge. Cool?”
“The coolest,” I said.