Gatekeeper (11 page)

The door was open. They saw a man sitting at a rough wooden table, calmly apportioning white powder Sam guessed was heroin from one package into a series of much smaller pale blue baggies. The scene reminded her of when her mother used to put the sugar she bought in bulk into several glass jars. Except that the room here was a pigsty.

"I help you?" he asked, measuring carefully. He was wearing chains, too, the seeming accessory of the moment.

"Hey, Carlos, it's me," Bill said, entering with a faux-familiar swagger, designed, Sam thought, solely for her.

Carlos looked up, both surprised and at a loss to remember who Bill was.

Sam smiled and couldn't resist explaining, "Bill Dancer, from Brattleboro. He said you'd sold him stuff a couple of times."

Carlos nodded. "Right—Bill. You want some more?"

Sam figured now was as good a time as any to step out from behind Bill's shrinking shadow. "Much more. I want to talk with Miguel about setting up an operation in Vermont."

Carlos's reaction was unexpected. He sat back in his chair as if pushed and stared at them under furrowed brows. "Set up an operation? In Vermont? Who're you trying to fuck with here? Johnny send you two assholes?"

Bill threw his hands up. "Jeez, Carlos, lighten up. I don't even know anybody named Johnny."

But Sam picked up on the implication. "What's wrong with dealing in Vermont?"

Carlos considered them a moment in silence, before stating, "You guys really are as dumb as they say. Get the fuck out of here."

He returned to his measuring as if they'd already left.

Bill opened his mouth to say something, but Sam laid her hand on his arm. "Come on, Bill. Money's no good here."

As they walked back down the hall, Bill shook his head. "What the hell was that all about? What a loser. And what's this shit about Johnny?"

"Shut up, Bill," Sam said quietly as they approached the lobby "And keep it shut while I find out. In fact, wait for me on the sidewalk, right at the bottom of the steps, okay? Not too far off."

Bill looked at her in confusion. "What're you talking about?"

The man who'd greeted them at the door reappeared from outside, having heard their voices. He smiled at them, once again focusing on Sam. "Hey. So soon? That was fast business. You're a quick operator."

Sam smiled back. "Little do you know." She turned to Bill. "Wait for me. I want to talk to . . ." She glanced at the young man in the gold chains.

"Don Juan," he leered.

"Don," she finished. "I'll only be a second."

Doubtful and clearly put out, Bill followed instructions, looking over his shoulder as he left. "I'll be right out here."

"Whatever," Sam murmured, just loud enough for the young man to hear. He laughed. "What's a slick bitch like you doing with such a yo-yo?"

"He drives the car," she said, leaning back against the wall. "You really named Don Juan?"

A small flicker of the kid leaked through as he admitted, "Nah. It's Ricky." He placed a hand against the wall beside her head so his body was almost leaning against hers. The flicker was gone. "But I can be Don Juan to you."

She quelled the obvious rejoinder inside her head and answered instead, "Yeah, I bet you have your moments." She reached up and hooked one of his chains with her index finger. "This is pretty."

"Not as pretty as you."

Christ, she thought, what thirteen-year-olds have you been hanging out with? "You should know," she said. "You got a good enough feel."

"You complaining?"

What the hell? she thought. Since we're replaying bad movies: "You didn't do any harm. I like a man who knows what he wants."

"Damn," he said softly. He placed his other hand against her stomach and leaned in to kiss her ear gently.

She rested her fingers on his wrist to stop him from moving up her torso. "Doesn't mean he always gets what he wants. Right away. Who's Johnny?"

He straightened, caught off guard. "What?"

"Carlos told us to go see Johnny," she said, expanding a bit on the actual message.

His eyes widened. "He did? No shit. Must've been bullshitting you."

"Why's that?"

Ricky leaned in to touch her neck with his nose. "You smell good."

I bathe, she told herself. "He a bad guy to work with? I don't want to get in trouble."

He gave her a less lascivious look. "You going to work with him?"

"I'm from Vermont. That's where Carlos told me to go."

Ricky tilted his head appraisingly and then laughed softly. "Yeah, well, that's right. Vermont's Johnny's turf now. I'm just real surprised Carlos sent you there, 'cause Johnny, he's like shit around here."

"Bad blood?"

"Shit yeah. Miguel used to run junk into Vermont, like a bunch of 'em do. Johnny took it over, a couple of weeks ago. Got ugly, too. Some shootings. A few people beat up. I don't know if Miguel might not get him back, or one of the other top shits around here, for solidarity. They're still pretty hot about it. Johnny might have to pay big-time if he wants to see tomorrow, you know? I mean, live and let live, but you gotta show respect."

"Right," Sam agreed, hoping to keep him rolling. "Maybe they could work something out. Is Johnny smart enough for that?"

Ricky seemed to have almost forgotten his lover routine in exchange for being the answer man. "Johnny's plenty smart. He figured out how to get a piece of the pie, didn't he? Cutting out a hunk of Vermont for himself? That's smart, if you ask me. Maybe he pissed a few people off, but now he's a big shot when he was just a street guy before, and he didn't have to face off with any of the bosses around here for stealing local turf—that really would've got him killed."

"You all but said Miguel wanted him dead."

He took his hand off her stomach and waved it dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. Miguel can't just lie down, you know? Plus the others're mad, too. They all have to save face. It's kind of like Johnny ripped 'em off a little, too." Ricky cupped his groin. "But he has cojones. You gotta respect that. They'll work something out. They always do. Maybe some people'll die, there'll be a little trouble, but Johnny's got protection, and like I said, Vermont's not the biggest deal in the world or anything. It was like he took over a side business or something. There's still enough to go around."

"But it's not settled yet, right? There could still be a fight."

He nodded seriously. "Oh, yeah. It's like they say on TV, you know? 'It's a fluid situation.' I love that. 'Fluid situation.'" He suddenly seemed to remember a forgotten line, because he slipped on the leer again and put his face close to hers. "Like us, right, baby? A fluid situation."

She allowed herself a genuine laugh then, patted his cheek with her hand, slipped down and under his arm, and walked toward the open door. "You never know, Ricky. You like older women?" she asked over her shoulder.

He took her rejection in stride, which she was only hoping he'd do, and laughed back at her. "You can't tell by now? I'm losing my touch."

She paused on the threshold, faced him, and put her hands on her hips, suddenly realizing how close this kid was to the type of man she often did fall for—a little dangerous, a little lost, dangling between being clueless and far too knowledgeable for his own good. "Don't you believe it. What's Johnny's last name and where do I find him?"

"Rivera," he said, and gave her the address, adding, "You be careful. I want you back without bruises."

Chapter 8

Gail sat at a small table overlooking the Harmony parking lot in downtown Brattleboro, nursing a cup of cold coffee. Across from her, operating from what used to be a retail shop, was a drug counseling outreach center, its former display windows now plastered with colorful art and upbeat, antidrug slogans. Both the irony and the courage to locate such a place in the heart of the town's most visible marketplace for illegal substances had made for lively discussions in this debate-happy community. Neighboring merchants hated it, advocates loved it, the selectboard waffled.

Gail, no surprise to those who knew her even slightly, was among the advocates. On this occasion, however, she wasn't sitting in admiration of other people's handiwork. She was waiting for someone to appear from the center's door.

Earlier that morning, fresh from the sleep that Joe had disturbed to check on her well-being, Gail had called on old friends and contacts in the therapy and drug rehabilitation business, until she'd found one who'd dealt with Laurie Davis. This approach from an outsider would normally have met with a professional stone wall, of course, patient confidentiality being the hallowed thing it is, but Gail had paid her dues with this group of people, through her friendships, her backing, and her political might when she'd been on the selectboard. She therefore not only confirmed that Laurie had unsuccessfully been treated for a drug dependency but also got the name of the girl acknowledged to have been her best friend—another addict, named Debbie Holton.

And Debbie Holton came to the Harmony drug outreach center for a regular appointment.

A thin, nervous girl with dirty blond hair and rumpled, baggy clothes appeared from inside the center and paused on the doorstep, taking in the parking lot before her. The Harmony lot is a unique and well-known Brattleboro icon. A large, tree-filled courtyard, accessible through an arched porte cochere at one end and a gap between two buildings at the other, it is wholly reminiscent of a medieval marketplace, walled and protected. Surrounded by buildings both commercial and residential, it is perforated by the back doors of retail businesses and thus allows for a multitude of discreet avenues to the busy streets beyond the walls.

A drug peddler's dream.

Over time, the surrounding merchants had complained and been answered with stepped-up police patrols, surveillance cameras, neighborhood meetings, and hot tip phone numbers for the reporting of suspicious activity. All to little avail. Like rodents reacting to bright light, the pushers would vanish until things settled down, only to reappear as before.

Debbie Holton stepped away from the center's threshold into this familiar territory, instantly blending into a small group of similarly dressed young people who were sitting on the curb chatting and smoking cigarettes.

Gail watched her carefully as she cadged a smoke, shared a few laughs, and took a sip from someone's Coke before finally standing up and shuffling toward Elliot Street, visible between two building blocks.

Gail got up, left a generous tip, and followed her.

Elliot is one of the town's funkier streets, especially here, in close proximity to Main. It hosts one of Brattleboro's quaintest restaurants—a tie-dye, sixties throwback named the Common Ground—right opposite Peter Havens, one of the ritziest. It has bookstores, bars, music stores, an Indian eatery, the fire department's central station, and one of the town's more dilapidated rooming houses. It also boasted the retail birthplace of Tom and Sally's Chocolates, a typically Vermont phenomenon. Akin to Ben & Jerry's ice cream—where two people blended a high-class product with the aura of its down-home, romantic home state—Tom and Sally's made a success of selling, among other things, chocolate cow patties.

Elliot is an anthropological snapshot of what makes Brattleboro the unique Vermont landmark it is.

Gail followed Debbie Holton west, studying her drooped shoulders, the way the bottoms of her jeans dragged behind her heels. She looked like a waif, only vaguely connected to the world around her, and even, Gail now realized, a little like her niece, Laurie, also pale, thin, and blond. That similarity, made Gail all the more resolved in her quest.

Holton suddenly cut through an opening in the railing to her left and made for a long, steep, open-air flight of stairs that connected Elliot to the Flat Street parking lot some forty feet below. All of Brattleboro covered or bordered three significant waterways and was, as a result, spread across a topsy-turvy of hills, gullies, steep slopes, and ravines.

Liking the relative privacy afforded by a staircase hanging between two busy streets, Gail took advantage of her quarry's choice of routes to make her move.

"Debbie," she called out, she hoped in an upbeat voice.

The young girl turned and glanced up, her expression mute at the sight of a complete stranger. Gail read in her eyes the look of a refugee—hungry, fearful, resigned, but also faintly feral.

"What?"

Gail approached, meeting her on the first landing, where the stairs doubled back on their journey to the bottom. She stuck out her hand in greeting, mostly to force Holton to make physical contact with her.

"My name is Gail Zigman. I'm Laurie Davis's aunt."

The girl barely touched Gail's fingertips with her own, which were damp, warm, and seemingly without musculature. "Hi."

She had a soft, high voice, clearly lacking in curiosity.

Gail was caught slightly off guard by the bland reaction. "Well, I just wanted . . . I mean, I got your name . . ." She laughed self-consciously. "Let me start again. I heard you and Laurie were good friends."

"Yeah."

After a long pause, Gail continued. "So I wanted to meet you. Find out how you were doing."

"Fine."

"It must've been a shock, though. I mean, I didn't know she was in such a jam."

Debbie was starting to look around, as if hoping for a distraction. "Yeah, well . . . whatever."

Gail pulled at an earlobe. "Look, Debbie. I know this is kind of weird, but I feel a little responsible for what happened. I am her aunt. I should've looked out for her."

"She talked about you."

The statement came out matter-of-factly, without inflection.

"Really? What did she say?"

"That she had an aunt. A big-deal politician. That you?"

To her own surprise, Gail was disappointed. "Not really, but I suppose I'm who she meant. What else?"

"That was it. That's all there was, anyway, right? You doin' your thing, Laurie doin' hers. What's more to say?"

A silence fell between them. Gail usually prided herself on an ability to speak with anyone. This girl was proving to be an exception.