Chasing The Dragon (6 page)

She started walking to her car when someone called, “Good morning, miss!” Shading her eyes against the sun, she saw a squat, overweight man with a mess of greying hair on the porch. He was moving a broom back and forth noncommittally in dungarees and a Brooks & Dunn t-shirt that had long sweat stains under the armpits. He leaned the broom against the wall and walked toward her. The rubber soles of his sneakers squeaked annoyingly with each step.

“Morning,” she said. She hoped that whatever he wanted, the conversation would be quick. She didn’t have time for this.

“Roy Dalton’s the name,” he said when he reached her. He sounded out of breath and something rattled in the back of his throat. “Owner and operator of this fine establishment.” His giant, meaty hand engulfed hers as he shook it. His palm was sweaty and callused. “Just wanted to make sure everything’s all right with your room. My boy, Wilbur, he’s been working the office for a while now, but he’s still young; he forgets things.” He coughed and cleared his throat. “He doesn’t have that attention to detail you need in the hospitality industry.”

“Everything’s fine, thanks.” She opened the car door.

“Good, good,” Roy Dalton said. He cleared his throat again. It was obvious he had more to say. Georgia waited by the open car door. She wished she could just ignore him, get in and take off, but it wasn’t a good idea. That kind of rudeness would be remembered. It was better, she knew, to be pleasant and forgettable. “We don’t get many visitors in Buckshot Hill, especially single gals like yourself,” he continued. “Anyways, with the missus away visiting friends up in Santa Fe, I’ve got a lot of free time on my hands, so if you need anything, anything at all, you just let ol’ Roy know, okay? I aim to please.” He smiled, and she saw several of his upper teeth were gone on one side of his mouth, the bottom teeth mashing up against the empty gums.

The missing teeth made her think uncomfortably of entropy. She forced a quick, thin smile, lowered herself into the driver’s seat and closed the door. Roy Dalton leaned into the open window on his elbow. A fat droplet of sweat rolled down his arm. She could sense him trying to peek down the neck of her t-shirt. “Hold up a moment,” he said.

Georgia sighed, her key halfway to the ignition. Now what?

He wiped his forehead. “You got a look about you, miss, if you don’t mind me saying. One I’ve seen enough to recognize by now. Bags under the eyes, jitters. You looking to score?”

Shit.

Rattled, Georgia feigned righteous indignation. “Excuse me?”

Pathetic. Everything about her voice sounded like a lie.

“It’s all right if you are. I ain’t judging. I’m just saying I can help you out.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She put her key in the ignition.

“Got a brother who likes a taste of the hard stuff now and then,” Roy said. “He wears that same look you got now when the jones comes over him. I know where he gets it, if you’re interested.”

Georgia didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him, but she didn’t turn the key either.

“Thought as much. See now, what’d I say? Customer service is all about attention to detail. You got nothing to fear from me. I ain’t gonna turn you in. I’ll tell you where to go, who to ask for, even. I’ll make it easy as pie, and all you gotta do in return is give ol’ Roy some attention. Show him some gratitude. That doesn’t sound so bad, does it?” He grinned and licked his lips.

Georgia felt sick. For a moment she thought of sweet, shy Wilbur, so awkward around girls. The boy would grow up to be just like his father, she realized, and that made her angry. She revved the engine. Roy backed away from the window and waved with a big, fake smile like he wasn’t some scumbag looking for a little junkie tail while his wife was away.

She pulled her car out of the parking space, hoping she might accidentally run over his foot, then left the motel lot and drove back into town.

Without Roy’s help, though, she didn’t know where to go, so she drove through Buckshot Hill with her eyes peeled. She’d been scoring long enough to know what to look for. Cornerboys with shifty glances, cars parked together in groups for no discernable reason, lone musclemen standing guard outside unmarked doors. But after half an hour she still didn’t see any of the telltale signs and began to wonder if the town was dry.

No, it couldn’t be. Roy had said his brother scored in Buckshot Hill. She just had to look harder. But time was running out. The Dragon could already be on the move. If she lost the Dragon now, there was no telling how long it would be before she picked up the trail again. She didn’t have time to wander aimlessly.

She thought of the vision, her dream-father’s words —
She’s killing again
— and the sight of all those screaming faces. The Dragon had struck again sooner than expected. The crate she’d seen in her vision had been from a company called Bristleman Corp. in Buckshot Hill. But that didn’t make sense. The Dragon never struck twice in the same place. It was how she stayed off the radar. Why change that now?

First things first
, she thought, trying to clear the jumble in her head. The heroin took priority. Without it . . . she didn’t even want to think about what would happen without it. Then, she promised herself,
then
she’d go after the Dragon.

There was still no sign of a dealer. Was she going to have to go back to Roy and take him up on his offer? Jesus. Even Zack had never asked her to trick, though in the darkest days of her addiction she probably would’ve been willing. But now? The thought of Roy Dalton’s hands on her, his half-toothless mouth, repulsed her.

There was one more place she could look. She turned the car in the right direction as best she could remember and passed through the small downtown area. The tables in front of the ice cream parlour were empty now. Bits of trash blew and tumbled in the breeze where the young couples had sat. It filled her with a sudden and inexplicable sadness. She kept driving, past the quiet little houses, abandoned now for work and school. A few minutes later she found herself back in the warehouse district. Her last, best chance.

She slowed as she drove past the wide, boxy buildings. Boards were nailed across the doors and windows, the walls spray-painted with everything from simple tags to a block-long mural of a lasso-spinning cowboy on a winged horse. Someone had sprayed what looked like a Chinese character on the horse’s rear end.

Unsure of where to go, Georgia drove up and down the streets between the warehouses, looking for any sign of drug activity. She didn’t see anything. She felt itchy. She thought of the screaming faces from her visions, of the Dragon getting away and killing more people, of Roy Dalton’s hands all over her, and she started to panic.

Rounding a corner, she spotted someone walking at the end of the block and slowed the car. It was the hobo she’d seen last night, swinging the same Dunkin Donuts coffee cup in his hand. She tailed him, driving slowly and staying far back so she wouldn’t spook him. She followed him for three more blocks until he came to a warehouse with yellow cement walls and boarded windows. She stopped the car and watched. The hobo tapped on a metal door at the corner of the building. It opened a moment later, and a kid who looked like he couldn’t have been older than thirteen stepped out onto the sidewalk. His skin was pale white, as if he didn’t spend much time outside. His skinny body swam inside an oversized Lobos basketball jersey. Gold chains hung around his neck. He wore a yellow bandana on his head, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses that were too big for his face. When he spoke, something in his mouth gleamed in the sunlight.

The hobo tipped the coffee cup into his hand and passed the pile of coins over to the boy. The boy counted them and stuffed them in his pocket. He disappeared into the warehouse for a moment. When the boy came out again, he shook the hobo’s hand, and Georgia smirked. It was an old dealer’s trick. Shake hands and slip the package into the buyer’s palm, in case you were being watched.

After the hobo left, Georgia got out of the car and walked toward the warehouse, her purse slung over her shoulder. The boy saw her coming and glanced back at the door nervously, but he didn’t bolt. Instead, he nodded at her and said, “’Sup, girl?” He smiled, and the sunlight reflected off a gold-plated grill across his front teeth.

“You holding?” she asked.

Blue eyes peered at her over the top of his sunglasses. “Who’s askin’?”

“I’m not a cop,” she said.

He laughed. “Girl, please. Everyone knows ain’t no cops in Buckshot. Nearest we got is the State Troopers out past the exit ramp, and they don’t give a shit what we do. Only time I ever see ’em is when rich folks get hurt.” He looked her up and down and said, “So what you lookin’ for, girl? I got whatever you need. Pot. Meth. Coke. You scorin’ for your boyfriend? You got a boyfriend?”

“Horse,” she said.

“Horse! Now
that’s
what I’m talkin’ about!” he shouted, punching the air. “Girl likes to
party
!” She noticed a Chinese character tattooed on his shoulder, the same symbol she’d seen on the cowboy mural. A gang tag.

“So do you have it?”

He nodded, stroking the peach fuzz on his chin. “Yeah, I can get it for you, no sweat.”

She felt the last of her panic drain away, replaced by a jittery anticipation. “How fast?”

“Pssshhhhh, two shakes. It’s right inside. Gram’ll cost you two.”

“Two
hundred
?”

“Hells yeah, girl. There a problem?”

“That’s twice what I normally pay.”

The kid sucked his teeth. “What can I say? Times ain’t normal. There’s been a market adjustment. Ain’t no competition anymore. We can charge whatever we want. Take it or leave it.”

She opened her wallet. Her parents’ faces swam up to meet her from the photograph inside, judging her with their silent smiles. Georgia avoided their eyes and did a quick count of the bills she’d taken from the diner. The two hundred dollar price tag would clean her out.

“We’re the Shaolin Tong,” the white kid said, puffing up his skinny chest proudly. “Our shit’s the best there is, girl. Worth every penny, trust me. They call me Egg Foo, and I’m big around here, real important, you feel me? Ask anyone. I wouldn’t steer you wrong. So, you want that gram of horse or what?”

Sighing, she handed him the money. She didn’t have a choice. The clock was ticking. Egg Foo counted them, then stuffed them into his jeans pocket.

“Wait here,” he said. “Like I said, two shakes.”

Egg Foo disappeared inside, closing the door behind him, but it banged against the jamb and instead of latching properly it swung open again. A single bulb hung from the ceiling just inside the doorway. A lone brown moth fluttered and tinked against it until wisps of smoke rose from its wings. Cool air wafted toward her on the low hum of an air conditioner. In the distance, she saw Egg Foo strutting toward a door in the far wall with the chipped remains of the word MANAGER stencilled on the frosted glass. From where she stood, it looked like it said ANGER. Egg Foo appeared tiny from behind, just a skinny little kid in an oversized jersey, and suddenly she got the joke of his name: Egg Foo, as in young.

A moment after the boy disappeared behind the door, a large blonde woman stepped into Georgia’s field of vision. She was squeezed into a black tube top several sizes too small, her belly drooping over her belt like the top of a muffin. In her hand was an enormous Slurpee cup. The same Chinese character was tattooed on her wrist.

“Are you here to kill us?” she asked. Though she looked to be in her late thirties, her voice was that of a child, high-pitched and innocent, but also lazy, as if it took too much effort to pronounce every word. Bright red lipstick stood out against her pale, pasty skin. Apparently there were no actual Asians in the Shaolin Tong.

“No,” Georgia replied. “I’m not here to kill anyone.”

The woman smiled around the straw of her Slurpee. “Then you can be my friend. Come in out of the sun.”

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Immediately the air conditioning enveloped her, and Georgia, grateful to be out of the heat, felt the sweat drying on her body.

The woman beckoned for her to follow, leading her across the bare cement floor of a large room. The cinderblock walls were covered with posters of old kung fu movies,
Five Deadly Venoms
,
The Kid with the Golden Arm
,
The 36
^th
Chamber of Shaolin
,
Drunken Master
. A poster for
Enter the Dragon
was tacked up over a window, the sunlight shining through and making Bruce Lee glow like he was radioactive. An ash-stained pool table stood in the middle of the room. The floor was littered with cigarette butts and old pizza boxes. Empty bottles of Jack Daniels and Crazy Horse cluttered the corners.

The woman stopped in front of a door decorated with glittery stickers of rainbows and stars. “This is my room,” she said.

Up close her eyes looked unfocused, dreamy, and Georgia realized she was high. The woman swung open the door, took Georgia by the hand and pulled her inside. A plush blue carpet ran the length of the floor, and two standing lamps in opposite corners painted the ceiling red and green with their coloured bulbs. An aquarium tank atop a small table glowed blue from an internal light, turning the fish into dark silhouettes that swam in lazy circles. A glass crack pipe lay next to it, its stem marked with the same garish red as her lipstick.

The woman went to the window at the far end of the room, where the boards nailed to the outside cut the sunlight into strips. “I like my room because it has a window and I can look outside. I don’t get to go out very often.” She turned away from Georgia, and her tone became quiet, confidential. “I saw shapes out there last night. I thought it was the Inkheads. Sometimes they try to rob us. But that wasn’t it. Whoever it was kept moving.”

Georgia stiffened. Inkheads. She’d seen that name in the vision:
Inkhedz
scrawled on a wall during the Dragon’s attack. The screaming faces. “Tell me about the Inkheads,” she said.