Narc (16 page)

“Not exactly,” I said.

“What happened?”

I could’ve lied. Or wiggle out by saying, “He flaked on me,” which was exactly what I did.

“This is a real disappointment,” he said.

I hung my head. God. Just rub it in.

“Did you get his number, at least?”

“Yeah.” I took out my cell and searched the contact list. “Shit,” I muttered. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“What’s the problem?”

“My phone died.”

The cop sat there, saying nothing. “Died in what way?” he finally asked.

“It’s not working.”

He sighed. “Did you drop it somewheres?”

This was the only man I’d ever met who said
somewheres,
as if it were plural. As if there was more than one somewhere. I shrugged and told the truth for a change.

“Sorry. I kind of broke it.”

He took the phone and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “I’ll see if we can get it repaired. You can bet he’s going to call again. Until then, we can get the paperwork started on a search warrant.”

“Wait a minute. Whose house are you searching?” I asked.

“You already told me that this girl, Jessica Torres, has an operation going out of her parents’ place.”

“No. I mean, it’s a party house. People hang out there. I saw some things that night. But Skully is clean. In fact, she’s almost straight-edge.”

The cop put a hand on my shoulder. “Aaron. You’re not protecting these kids, are you? No, you wouldn’t do that. Because if you did, you’d be going to jail. I’d make sure of it. Do you understand?”

I nodded. An all-too-familiar sickness burned in my stomach. If I went to jail, who would watch out for Haylie? Not that was doing a real good job of it lately. Shit.

“Is that clear?” he repeated.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He let go, but I could still feel his grip. “Now what about Morgan Bask—”

He couldn’t even pronounce her name.

“Baskin,” I said nice and slow for him.

“Right. She’s the ex-ballerina. Floats between cliques. Easy on the eyes.”

“What about her?”

“You told me that she’s been dealing pot to her buddies. Because of her social standing, she might even be our alpha dog.”

“Morgan isn’t much of dealer. She just ends up giving it away to her friends.”

“How do you know for sure? I mean, these popular kids … you’re not really part of their clique, are you?”

He goes right for it. My fatal weakness. My soft spot. My kryptonite.

“I’m not stupid,” I tell him. “This is my school, okay? I see what’s going on.”

“So you witnessed a transaction,” the cop said. He wanted to know: How much product? Where is it collected? Who handles the money?

I closed my eyes. When I opened them, the cop was still there, watching.

He jotted something down on a memo pad. “I’m going to look into those locations. Send a car out there.”

“She’s got a little brother,” I said.

“What did you say?”

“Skully. I mean, Jessica. She’s got a little brother. He’s a diabetic.”

“What age?”

“Midde school, I guess.”

The cop put down his pen. “This complicates things.” He stared at me. “You’ve got a younger sibling, too.”

It took me by surprise. “What does my sister have to do with this?”

He kept his gaze pinned on mine. “You’re not thinking of backing out, are you, friend?”

I swallowed hard.

“Because if you back out,” he said, “we won’t be there to protect you.”

“Protect me? From what?” I stammered.

“Oh, let’s see. You’ve already botched a deal with this guy, Finch. If he finds out that you’re a snitch—and believe me, he will, if we don’t take care of business soon—you’re not the only one he’ll be coming for.”

No way could I let Haylie get dragged into this mess. So I lowered my head and said, “I’m not backing out.”

“Whatever the case, I’m still going to keep watch on the addresses you mentioned. Maybe we’ll hold off on the search until you can actually buy—”

“Finch is their supplier. Why don’t you just search his place? I lost his number, but I think I can remember where we went to see him.”

The cop stood. He smoothed the pleats in his pants.

“Take me there.”

“It’s near a power station,” I said.

We’d been driving around Wynwood in an unmarked car, a silver Corolla, for twenty minutes. As we passed the electric plant for the third time, I started to panic.

“Sure you know where it is?” he asked.

“Yeah. I chained my bike to the fence.”

The cop smirked. “Well, it’s not there anymore.”

I stopped scanning the streets for my bike, which, no doubt, I’d never see again. The address was a blur. I couldn’t get a sense of direction. It was starting to rain—slow, fat drops that Dad would have called “spitting.”

“Okay. I’m going back now,” he said. I could tell he was pissed.

He jerked the steering wheel and we turned back onto the street. We cruised around the hand-painted signs that reminded me of hieroglyphics—a high-heeled shoe, a pack of cigarettes, a floating soda can, a giant set of steak knives.

“There,” I said.

The lead officer hit the brakes. He parked on the curb. Then we waited.

I stared at a burnt-out car in the adjacent lot. The driver’s side window was shielded with tinfoil. Somebody was curled up in the back seat, a man resting on a blanket. I wondered if he was dead.

“Is that your guy?” the cop asked.

At first, I thought he meant the man in the car. Then I saw Finch in his stupid hat, creeping around the garbage cans wearing a wifebeater and boxer shorts. For some reason, he turned and looked at us. Maybe he was curious about the car. Or maybe it was an instinct left from prehistoric times.

“He sees me,” I told the cop.

“Nah. We’ve got tints.”

Finch started walking toward us.

“I’m going,” I said.

The cop took off his sunglasses. “Where?”

“To do a little business.”

“Not a smart idea,” he said, but I was already messing with the door.

“It’s cool.” Actually, it wasn’t.

“Okay. I’m going to take a drive and come back,” he said.

“But my cell is busted. What if I need to call you?”

“Go,” he said.

My fingers slipped on the handle, but somehow I managed to push it open. I got out and Finch came over.

“You disappeared the other night. I went out of my way and you didn’t show,” Finch said, like he was my girlfriend or something.

“I got caught up in some drama.”

Finch kept looking at the car. “What’s your name again?”

“Aaron.”

“Well, Aaron. It’s your lucky day. Remember what you asked for?”

“A jar.”

“There’s more, if you’re interested.”

Was he lying? Either way, I didn’t trust him. Why should Finch make a special effort, especially after I flaked out on him?

He squinted. “Whose car is that?”

“My friend’s older brother. So when can I pick it up?”

“Now,” he said, turning back to the warehouse.

This was crazy. If I went inside, I could be stepping into a trap. I didn’t even have a cell phone on me. I looked back at the car. This was my chance to redeem myself in front of the lead officer, not to mention lead him away from the girls. I doubted that I’d get another chance like this. Still, I must have hesitated.

“You sure about this?” Finch asked.

“I’m sure.”

Another lie, maybe the biggest of all.

17 :
Carambola

Finch led me toward the back of the building. The rain had stopped and the road glistened like oil.

“Where are we headed?” I asked.

He didn’t answer.

After we’d walked a few minutes, I asked, “Is it close?”

“Chill,” Finch said. “We’re here.”

I saw nothing except an overgrown lot beside the train tracks. It would take a machete to hack through the thick jungle-like scrub.

“I’m not going in there,” I said.

“God, you’re making me paranoid. See that house?”

Then I spotted it, a stone cottage behind the vine-choked trees. The backyard was littered with rotten yellow fruit. I stepped over a husk swollen with flies.

“What is that? Mango?” I asked, remembering the rash on my feet.

Finch laughed. “You never ate starfruit before?” He grabbed a branch and shook it. The fruit toppled all around us, hitting the ground with a thunk. He took out a pocketknife and sawed into one lengthwise, showing me the star-shaped chunks. “The pioneers used to make wine from it,” Finch said, popping a slice in his mouth. “Go on. Try.”

I bit into it. The syrupy juice dribbled down my chin. “It’s good,” I mumbled.

On the front porch, a handmade sign read
Take off shoes.
So we did.

Finch kicked open the screen door. I followed behind. Who would’ve imagined that in the middle of this industrial wasteland, I would find starfruit, and now, a glassed-in room filled with more flower pots than I could count? They hung from the walls on S-shaped hooks. Others sat in wooden baskets on a picnic bench.

“This tiny one smells like dead meat,” said Finch, tipping it toward me. “It’s supposed to attract bugs.”

“Where did they come from?” I asked, taking a sniff. He was right. It stank.

“My dad auctions them off. Some of these orchids are megarare. We steal them from the Everglades.”

Talk about modern-day pirates.

“Really?” I said. “He sounds cool.”

“You can meet him, he’s right here,” Finch said, stepping behind the picnic bench. There was a hulking, bare-chested man in a straw hat, misting plant roots with a spray bottle.

“Dad, this is Aaron,” Finch said.

The man whipped off his hat. His broad skull was completely shaved.

“Call me Big Jack,” he boomed in a voice full of twang. He tugged off his rubber gloves with his teeth. “You visiting Miami?” he asked, pronouncing it My-am-uh. “You’re a god damned Yankee, eh?”

“Not exactly. I’ve traveled around a lot.”

“That makes you a citizen of the world. Like me.” He winked. “I bet you could use some Cuban coffee. Maybe a
cortadito
? I’m about to brew a pot.”

“Actually, I’ve got to get back.” I glanced at Finch, who was rocking on his heels.

“Won’t take but a few minutes,” his dad said, steering me into the kitchen.

I plunked myself down on a stool. Big Jack stood at the stove. He lit a match and the smell of gas flooded the room.

“The espresso maker is in that top left drawer,” he told his son.

Finch rustled in a drawer and found a small metal pitcher.

“That’s the one,” said Big Jack. He took his time, scooping coffee grounds from a can of Bustelo.

I stared around the room. That’s when I saw the guns mounted on the wall. Guns of all sizes, from Colt revolvers to shotguns to muskets, and even a few Civil War relics: long-barreled rifles and silver pistols with curlicues scraped into the handles.

“You collect antiques?” I asked, jabbing my thumb at the weapons.

Big Jack reached into the cabinet and pulled out a doll-sized cup. He dumped a couple tablespoons of sugar into it. “Those beauties? I inherited ’em,” he said. “Did you know that Confederate soldiers used guns imported from England?”

“Really?” I said, as the blood pounded in my throat.

“What do they teach in school these days?” Big Jack asked. He poured a trickle into my cup and stirred.

“School blows,” said Finch. “They just make you memorize the names and dates of battles and shit.”

“That’s right. It’s all about death,” Big Jack said. “Who died. When they died. Where they died.” He blinked at me. “Go on. Bottoms up.”

I took a sip. My tongue burned, but I knocked it back in one swallow.

“If you’re so curious about the guns, let Finch take you outside. Test your luck with a little plinking,” Big Jack said.

What the hell was he talking about? I was so busy thinking about death and guns, I didn’t even notice that Finch had lifted a hunting rifle off the wall. He held it in both hands, like a gift.

“Let’s fire up this bad boy,” he said.

We shot at a trio of empty wine bottles, lined up on a log. After nailing each round, Finch poured black powder down the muzzle.

“If you don’t load it the right way, it’ll explode,” he said.

I could barely hear, thanks to the wax plugs I’d screwed in my ears. Now it was my turn. Finch showed me how to lean the rifle on a rest (in this case, a musty sleeping bag). I pretended that I’d never done it before.