Elvendude (22 page)

Daryl ordered a cinnamon coffee from Spence, who was polite but said what he usually said when he was there: nothing. Adam had vanished into the back for something, and Daryl didn't know if he should say anything to Adam or not.

He turned from the bar and went back to the corner, where he spied a girl he recognized from another of Steve's parties, months back. She wasn't at the last party, and he remembered wondering why.

"Daryl!" she said, when she looked up. "I thought . . ."

At the two booths, where seven or eight grungy teens in ripped up clothing sat and smoked unfiltered cigarettes, heads turned up and regarded him with surprise and—what was
that
kid thinking?—distrust. He wondered if he'd made a mistake by coming here. The paranoia such a scenario would usually invoke was strangely absent. He sensed Mort at his elbow, urging him along, but he was more spirit now, a dim outline in the smoky Yaz.

"Hi, ah, Sharon," he said, quickly remembering her name.

"Naw. Try Tina," she replied.

Or not.
"Mind if I sit?"

At the table sat a boy wearing a black trench coat and a pair of shorts and sandals, an Asian in a Cardinals uniform, and Tina, in a fashionable black miniskirt and leather vest. They stared at him as if he were a ghost. Then it occurred to him that's precisely what they thought he was.

"Weren't you at . . . Steve's the other night?" Tina said. Daryl sat next to her and met her eyes. He didn't find the black lipstick all too appealing, but the rest of her was a knockout. Then he remembered how long it had been since he'd gotten laid. He moved closer.

"Well, yeah," he said, wondering if he should say anything, since the police were all over the place the next day. But the news was out, and if he denied anything that would look suspicious as well.

"We thought you
died,
man," the Asian boy said. Daryl had no idea what his name was, though he had met him at one time or another. The name on the uniform said
Li.

"What happened over there?" the boy in the trench coat asked. He looked paler and warmed-over deathlike than Daryl ever had, then Daryl saw that he'd used light base on face and chest to achieve the effect. "We heard all sorts of stuff."

Tina put her hand on his thigh, distracting him momentarily.

"Bad stuff," Daryl said. "Everyone got a hold of some bad rock."

Li sneered. "Then why ain't
you
dead?"

Daryl opted for the truth. "I passed out in the backyard. All the stuff went around before I got to it."

"What about the cops? Didn't they bust the place?" the other boy said. Tina's hand crept higher. Daryl squirmed.

"They gave me a hard time, but they didn't find anything," Daryl continued, his voice a bit higher and cracking. "I got rid of it all before they got there. Assholes dropped a baggie of powdered sugar on the table in front of me, scared the crap out of me, but that's all it was: powdered sugar."

Li and the others laughed. "That's all that happened?"

Daryl noticed the people in the booth behind, and in front of them, were all staring at him.

"Guys, this ain't cool," he said softly. "I'm holding."

The others turned away. He now had less of an audience in the middle of what looked like a guaranteed market. He knew that look, the hungry eyes.

They've been going without these past few days, too.

"All the rock dealers shut down for a few days, 'cause what happened," Tina said. "
You
got rock?"

"Enough. For a price. Ten dollars a bottle. Primo."

"Well, shit, man, let's
go
," Li said. "I'll buy ten right now."

Yeah, and thrown in for free, you get a little black gargoyle to keep you company and shoo the cops away,
he thought giddily.

"In the bathroom. Can't deal this in the open. Send them in one at a time."

If what Tina says is true, this rock's gonna go fast. Better dump it and get out of here.
He looked around for Mort, who had vanished.
Mort's gonna get real busy soon.

Then, like a load of crashing bricks, came the realization that he was selling Dream,
the
Dream, that killed his friends three nights ago.

Black-stoppered bottles. It had to be the same stuff. Why didn't Presto say anything about it? Wait, now, he did say something about it. This was a potent batch or something. Well, if I didn't die, must be a different lot. What the hell. Black Dream it is.

As he made his way back to the bathroom, weaving through natural wood tables, another row of booths with high backs, and past the bar, he still felt a little sickened by what he was selling. Then Mort appeared directly in front of him, and he stopped.

"You can just walk right through me, if you want," Mort said. Instead Daryl walked around him, trying to look inconspicuous, and continued to the bathroom, Mort following. "I know what you're thinking. That this batch of rock is the same that killed your friends the other night."

"I don't think, I know," Daryl whispered over his shoulder. He paused at a cigarette machine, made a pretense of digging for coins. "Were you involved with that over at the Wintons'?"

"No, and no," Mort said. The little demon reached over, touched the machine, and a pack of Marlboros dropped down. "And what you have is not the same batch. It didn't kill you, did it?"

"Well, no," Daryl said. He paused before reaching for the pack, assuming they were a hallucination like Mort, but when he touched them they were real. "But it did add you to my life."

"You don't sound pleased with my company," Mort said with a hint of anger. "I can be a great help to you. While you're in there, dealing your rock, I'll stand out here and be lookout. What a deal, huh?"

Daryl put the cigarettes in his pocket and glanced around again. Half a dozen hungry eyes were turned toward him.

"Okay. Stand guard. I'll make this quick."

Daryl went into the bathroom, a row of stalls on one side and four sinks beneath a long mirror on the other. Like the rest of the Marketplace, the rest room was appointed in natural wood floors, walls and ceiling. Even the stalls were a rustic pine. He looked in the mirror and saw death staring back at him, and suddenly he didn't feel very well. Stars clouded his vision and his head became light and fuzzy. He wished he had a chair to sit on, but made do with the sink counter.

He noticed he wasn't alone; someone was in one of the stalls. The toilet flushed, and out walked Adam McDaris.

"Hi, Daryl," Adam said as soon as he saw his friend sitting on the counter. "How're you doing?"

Daryl grunted in surprise. An unpleasant surprise, Adam figured from the wide, fearful eyes. Daryl looked like hell. He sat there, legs dangling, in grimy blue jeans and an oversized cut-off t-shirt. His damp hair hung over his face in a messy part. A thin layer of perspiration glistened across his pale and pasty forehead, even though the Yaz and the bathroom in particular was cooler than the rest of the Marketplace. It was probably sixty-nine degrees in there, but still Daryl was sweating like a pig.

"Awlright, I guess," Daryl said finally, but his voice was barely a whisper. He avoided Adam's eyes and looked as if he was up to something. Adam had an idea what it was.

If he's dealing out of the Yaz, he's in for a rude surprise.

Adam also noticed a distant, vague look in his eyes, and knew he was on something. His pupils were dilated, despite the bright fluorescent lights in the bathroom.

"I saw you come in earlier," Adam said. He tried not to let his uneasiness show; if Daryl needed help, he wouldn't open up to him if he looked uncomfortable.

Easy, now,
Adam thought.
The Unseleighe may be near, and Daryl may be involved with them.
Moira was upstairs at Skary, and Spence was at the bar. The rest were at home, hiding out.

If anything happened, the two could be at the Yaz in seconds. He should have felt pretty safe, but when he saw Daryl, and the condition he was in, he didn't feel safe at all.

If they can get him, they can get me,
he thought, though he knew how irrational that really was.
I have more protection than he ever will, particularly today, with bodyguards all over the place.

Only, the bodyguards don't know I'm in here talking to Daryl.

The kid in the Cardinals uniform came in, took one quick look at Daryl and Adam, and left. Daryl rolled his eyes, confirming Adam's suspicions.

Looks like I screwed up at least one sale,
he thought, trying not to smirk.

"So what happened over there at Steve's, Daryl?" Adam asked. "I hear you're the only one to come out alive."

Daryl shrugged and shook his head. "I dunno, Adam. I went in the backyard and crashed. When I got up, everyone was dead."

It sounded like a speech he'd been reciting repeatedly, which more likely than not was the case. Adam wondered how much he should push, and if it would get him anywhere. Lately Daryl had been retreating into a shell, closing himself off from his old friends and hanging out with the dopers and grungers. He'd even begun to mimic the other crowd, shuffling around, slouching, looking perpetually pissed off. He dressed like them, too; they wore angry clothing—ripped jeans, chains, metal studs. That was the crowd at Steve's party, and Adam wondered why he'd bothered to invite someone like himself.

Daryl was becoming one of them, but hadn't quite metamorphosed completely. He looked bad, and at least some of his diseased appearance was not an act. Despite the demeanor he was trying to affect, he still looked like he came from a wealthy family. The drugs had got to him anyway, Adam saw, and it had nothing to do with what he wore or who he hung out with. He'd aged five years since the party at Steve's. Daryl looked used and worn out before his time, like an expended racing tire.

Now he's trying to carve a niche in their society by selling them drugs,
Adam knew.
Question is, where did he get it, and who are they?

"I gotta go," Daryl said, and started for the door.

Adam grabbed his arm. Daryl looked back, surprised, then angry. When he pulled back, a vial fell out of his pants pocket.

Adam picked up the black-stoppered amber tube, held it up to the light. Daryl reached for it feebly.

"Give me that," Daryl said, but made no serious move to retrieve it.

"What are you doing with this shit?" Adam said. "What is it, Black Dream?"

Daryl looked surprised. "How'd you know that?"

"My mom's a cop," Adam reminded him, and Daryl flinched.

"C'mon, don't turn me in," Daryl said. "You wouldn't, would you?"

Adam eyed him directly, until Daryl met his eyes. "I would and I will, if I catch you dealing out of the Yaz again. No, don't deny it. You're trying to sell shit out of this bathroom."

Daryl looked away. "Yeah, so what if I am?"

"Take it somewhere else," Adam said. He didn't know what else to say; Daryl's look of determination said it all. There wasn't anything Adam could do or say to make Daryl give it up and get clean.

Hell, he's probably addicted so badly he'd need a hospital to come down. No wonder the Unseleighe got into the crack business.

"Just go," Adam said.

Daryl turned and stormed away into the noise of the bar.

"Oh, give me a
break,
" Sammi said as she stared at the photographs. "Is this a joke or something?"

They sat at Detective Roach's desk, one of about twenty gray metal desks manned with an exhausted staff in the Narcotics division of the Dallas Police Department. Though not her usual turf, Sammi had exerted a little influence—and a bit of elven magic—to get transferred here, where she thought she would be of more help to humans and elves alike. Black Dream seemed to be the key to finding Zeldan Dhu, and the closer she was to the action, the better.

She hadn't expected
this,
though. On her second day on the new job, Detective Roach dropped a bombshell on her lap.

"I kind of wish it were a joke," Roach said. He had finally gotten a decent night's sleep—seven hours—and still looked like death warmed over. Roach looked far older than his thirty-two years, a common trait among law enforcement, uniformed or not. His scruffy auburn hair needed to be cut, but such improprieties in hygiene were seldom pointed out in this department. Neatness was not something easily asked of cops who worked twenty hours a day, six days a week.

Sammi leaned back in a squeaky metal chair. "Where did you say these photos were taken?"

"About a hundred miles east of Laredo," Roach said as he drank his second cup of cold coffee. "Desert, sand, cactus. Perfect setup for a drug drop. Just wish whoever took these had been more specific about the date."

Sammi looked through six 9 x 11 black-and-white glossies. In the grainy photos, four individuals were unloading bundles of what was probably raw cocaine into a beat up 1943 Ford pickup. Rain had recently fallen, and even in the photos the subjects were clearly soaked to the bone. Each of the four had unmistakable long, pointed ears.

Unseleighe.

"So who are they, Vulcans?" Samantha said. "I don't get it."

"I don't either. Hey, I just got these yesterday. The DEA agent said an informant took these sometime around January. They sent these to us in case we might be able to identify any of these creeps."

Samantha chuckled. "Looks more like an elaborate practical joke to me. I'm surprised they passed these on."

"They insist they're legit," Roach protested, but his defense of the photos sounded weak.

"Those ears. Could it be some kind of gang trait? You know, like tattoos or body piercing?" Samantha knew she was reaching for ideas, but Roach seemed to be entranced by the pictures. This made her a tad uncomfortable.

"Nope. None that I've heard of. Piercing, huh? You know, I saw a guy with a barbell through his—"

"Did you ever run a check on that truck tag?"

Roach peered over her shoulder. "What tag?"

She looked again. Sure enough, there wasn't a tag on the rear bumper.