I’ve got syringes to fill.”
The hours ticked by, with Lucky hauling cases up to the pharmacy, kitchen, or general supply department.
He clocked out at five P.M. What time did Bo get off? A text message waited on his cell phone. “Dinner w/ salesman. TTYL.”
Shit. Another lonely night. Had Bo learned anything yet? What about the dinner meeting? Maybe he needed Lucky to tag along to keep an eye on things. And that’s the only reason you want to go? his conscience asked.
While some jerkoff wined and dined Bo, Lucky munched Chinese takeout, parked on the couch in his tiny apartment. Thumpa, thumpa, thumpa from the apartment next door shook the walls. “Hey! Turn your fucking music down!” he bellowed, banging the wall with his fist.
The volume fell for a full ten minutes before ramping up again. “Crack heads.” He perched his laptop on his knees. No new emails from Walter or Bo. Nothing from Charlotte. Another damned office get-together in the works. Two new shortage drugs added to the FDA website, none removed. He sighed. A quick run to the border back during his time with Victor and he’d have scored enough meds for the center to run for weeks. They might not be FDA approved, but he’d have gotten them.
Where did the salesman take Bo? Joe’s House of Pizza? Or some swanky place with linen napkins and crystal goblets. The kind of place Bo always wanted to go but Lucky said no. Was the salesman a fussy old senior, or some red-hot yuppie-type fresh out of college? Lucky formed a mental image of a charmed Bo, laughing at some two-bit pillpusher’s flattery. Maybe Lucky shouldn’t follow Bo to his meetings. If he did, he might smash in a face if the sales rep so much as looked at Bo with intent. Not that he’d be able to follow even if he wanted to, with his damned car still up on blocks while someone in accounting wrangled with insurance and paperwork issues. And with a car checked out, he’d pay hell getting reimbursed for a rental. He’d take cabs.
With nothing to occupy his time, Lucky ambled off to bed. He tossed and turned. The moment his eyes closed, a Boom! From next door jerked him awake. Meth lab explosion? Sniff. No smoke. No sirens. He turned on the bedside lamp and texted Walter. “Get warrant, arrest my neighbors.”
CHAPTER 9
“Is that all?” Sammy asked, peering into the back of the delivery van.
“Three cases,” the driver replied, handing over three Styrofoam coolers.
The clerk checked the inventory in and disappeared back into the office. Two days on the job, and Lucky had yet to hear the woman speak.
“Damn.” Sammy unloaded the coolers onto a cart. “Reggie, take this up to the pharmacy. They ain’t gonna be happy. That’s half as much as we usually get.”
Lucky rode the elevator up, staring at the coolers. Regardless of the contents, three packages of anything seemed too little for a two-hundred bed hospital specializing in pediatric cancer treatment.
The door opened and his throat tightened when a familiar head of brown hair caught his attention. Bo. Handon the small of Bo’s back, a handsome older man steered him out of a conference room.
Bo hung his head and swiped a hand though his hair. Lucky tamped down his protective instincts. Storming down the hall, knocking the man’s hand away, and demanding, “What’s wrong,” wasn’t the way to stay uncover. Others followed Bo from the room. Not a smile or even a hint of one marked any of their faces.
A woman stepped between Bo and Lucky, and when she moved, Lucky found himself staring straight into Bo’s eyes. Their gazes held momentarily, Bo glancing away first when someone spoke to him. He moved in the midst of a group past Lucky and down the hall. What the hell was going on? Did somebody die?
The rest of the day Bo plagued Lucky’s mind. That evening he took a cab to his apartment—he refused to call it home—to find new tires, new plastic hubcaps, and the same old Malibu. While heating a can of soup on the stove, he
The hours ticked by, with Lucky hauling cases up to the pharmacy, kitchen, or general supply department.
He clocked out at five P.M. What time did Bo get off? A text message waited on his cell phone. “Dinner w/ salesman. TTYL.”
Shit. Another lonely night. Had Bo learned anything yet? What about the dinner meeting? Maybe he needed Lucky to tag along to keep an eye on things. And that’s the only reason you want to go? his conscience asked.
While some jerkoff wined and dined Bo, Lucky munched Chinese takeout, parked on the couch in his tiny apartment. Thumpa, thumpa, thumpa from the apartment next door shook the walls. “Hey! Turn your fucking music down!” he bellowed, banging the wall with his fist.
The volume fell for a full ten minutes before ramping up again. “Crack heads.” He perched his laptop on his knees. No new emails from Walter or Bo. Nothing from Charlotte. Another damned office get-together in the works. Two new shortage drugs added to the FDA website, none removed. He sighed. A quick run to the border back during his time with Victor and he’d have scored enough meds for the center to run for weeks. They might not be FDA approved, but he’d have gotten them.
Where did the salesman take Bo? Joe’s House of Pizza? Or some swanky place with linen napkins and crystal goblets. The kind of place Bo always wanted to go but Lucky said no. Was the salesman a fussy old senior, or some red-hot yuppie-type fresh out of college? Lucky formed a mental image of a charmed Bo, laughing at some two-bit pillpusher’s flattery. Maybe Lucky shouldn’t follow Bo to his meetings. If he did, he might smash in a face if the sales rep so much as looked at Bo with intent. Not that he’d be able to follow even if he wanted to, with his damned car still up on blocks while someone in accounting wrangled with insurance and paperwork issues. And with a car checked out, he’d pay hell getting reimbursed for a rental. He’d take cabs.
With nothing to occupy his time, Lucky ambled off to bed. He tossed and turned. The moment his eyes closed, a Boom! From next door jerked him awake. Meth lab explosion? Sniff. No smoke. No sirens. He turned on the bedside lamp and texted Walter. “Get warrant, arrest my neighbors.”
CHAPTER 9
“Is that all?” Sammy asked, peering into the back of the delivery van.
“Three cases,” the driver replied, handing over three Styrofoam coolers.
The clerk checked the inventory in and disappeared back into the office. Two days on the job, and Lucky had yet to hear the woman speak.
“Damn.” Sammy unloaded the coolers onto a cart. “Reggie, take this up to the pharmacy. They ain’t gonna be happy. That’s half as much as we usually get.”
Lucky rode the elevator up, staring at the coolers. Regardless of the contents, three packages of anything seemed too little for a two-hundred bed hospital specializing in pediatric cancer treatment.
The door opened and his throat tightened when a familiar head of brown hair caught his attention. Bo. Handon the small of Bo’s back, a handsome older man steered him out of a conference room.
Bo hung his head and swiped a hand though his hair. Lucky tamped down his protective instincts. Storming down the hall, knocking the man’s hand away, and demanding, “What’s wrong,” wasn’t the way to stay uncover. Others followed Bo from the room. Not a smile or even a hint of one marked any of their faces.
A woman stepped between Bo and Lucky, and when she moved, Lucky found himself staring straight into Bo’s eyes. Their gazes held momentarily, Bo glancing away first when someone spoke to him. He moved in the midst of a group past Lucky and down the hall. What the hell was going on? Did somebody die?
The rest of the day Bo plagued Lucky’s mind. That evening he took a cab to his apartment—he refused to call it home—to find new tires, new plastic hubcaps, and the same old Malibu. While heating a can of soup on the stove, he
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