Hole in My Life by Jack Gantos

thought he was retarded in some way. I figured a person could not invent himself into a “Crooked Jerome,” but had to be born that way.
    Jerome’s money connection hadn’t arrived and nobody knew why, especially Jerome. He made a few calls from his crooked wall phone and kept assuring us the guy was coming. “It’s legit!” he said, and pulled nervously on his long black beard as if it were black taffy. “I swear. It’s legit.”
    So we waited, and waited, and waited, until we thought
the deal was crooked. But Jerome convinced us to spend the night. I was suspicious. His house was crooked, he might be, too. Maybe he was as crazed as Charlie Manson and would kill us in our sleep. I was getting paranoid—not about the drugs, but about the people who used the drugs.
    In the middle of the night I woke up on the couch. It was pitch-black. I staggered across the uneven floor and caromed off the walls and furniture. I spotted a sliver of moon through a window. That was good enough for me. I climbed out and staggered off into the bushes until I figured I was lost and nobody could find me, even if they wanted to drive a twelve-inch knife into my belly. I sat down against a tree and fell asleep. The next morning no one seemed to be out looking for me so I sneaked up on the house fully expecting to find a bloodbath. Instead, everyone was up and smoking hash for breakfast. I was tired of that. I smoked a cigarette and had a cup of coffee. Not long after, Jerome’s friend arrived with the money and we were all relieved and happy as we counted out the cash.
    On the way back to New York we got caught in a thunderstorm. The rain was blinding. The traffic slowed to a crawl. Hamilton kept checking the rearview mirror.
    â€œWhat’s up?” I asked.
    â€œWe’re being followed,” he replied, and abruptly turned the wheel. We went off the road and slid into the grassy median. Already the rainwater had collected and we sped like a
ski boat down the swale. I was frozen with panic. We couldn’t see a thing but sheets of water rushing over us as if we were a sinking ship. I kept thinking we were going to hit a bridge abutment and flatten up like a smashed beer can. We wouldn’t be arrested. We’d be buried.
    â€œSlow down,” Rik said. “No one is following us.”
    â€œBloody hell if they aren’t,” Hamilton spit back. “The same car that followed us up to Jerome’s is behind us again. When we pulled into the gas station to meet Jerome yesterday, it pulled in behind us.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you say something?” Rik asked.
    â€œDidn’t know if we were being tagged until just now,” he said.
    Hamilton kept plowing through the water and when the rain lightened he veered up the side of the median and screeched back onto the highway and kept going. “I think we lost them,” he said, and smiled thinly as he patted his beard into shape.
    â€œYou’re paranoid,” Rik said. “There was nobody back there.”
    â€œBloody hell” is all Hamilton said then, and “Bloody hell,” he said more viciously when we returned to the marina. As soon as we parked the car the manager came running toward us.
    â€œJust to let you know,” he said breathlessly, “during the
storm your boat broke away from the dock. I was going to go pull it in, but before I could do so two men came up in a launch and boarded her. They tied her back up and I think they threw another anchor over, too. Were they friends of yours?”
    At that moment I knew my fears were real. We were doomed. The extra anchor was in the fo’c’sle next to five hundred pounds of hash. Whoever got that anchor knew what we were doing. Something was up, and I could only think it would get worse. I started looking around the marina to see if I could spot the cops.
    â€œThanks,” Hamilton said coolly to the marina owner, and we pulled