own fault. But
shit like drugs and racketeering, those things create more faceless
victims than I ever care to think about...Pop would tell me not to
think. Don’t think, just do.
A black Camaro pulls up next to me, its
windows tinted. Leaning forward in my seat, I reach into the back
of my jeans and pull out my glock, holding it below the steering
wheel...ready for anything. The window rolls down on the car next
to me, and Demetrius leans over the seat.
“Follow me,” he says brusquely.
I hold my gun in one hand and steer with the
other as I follow him down the thin road and out behind a crumbling
brick building. Parking next to him, I wait for him to get out
first. He slams his car door, and I notice his hands are empty, so
I put my gun back in my pants and get out.
Each time I am in Demetrius’s company, I am
reminded of his sordid and violent past. His impulsiveness and
disregard for the rules makes him two things - feared by the
underworld...and a target.
“Come on,” Demetrius says and waves for me
to follow him.
I do.
Side-by-side we walk into the rundown
building through a dilapidated steel door. The misshapen door has
been kicked numerous times and now it bows ungracefully. It is dark
inside with only a few streetlamps casting shadows and illuminating
certain areas. It is hard to see in the dimness, but I can smell
decaying fish and mold. It is overpowering, and I cover my nose
with the sleeve of my jacket, trying to get relief from the
foulness.
A figure steps out of the shadows. I brace
myself preparing to attack if necessary.
“Do you got the stuff?” a scared voice
asks.
“Yeah. Do you?” Demetrius says bitingly.
Paper rustles and the unknown person steps
forward, handing a package to Demetrius.
He opens it gradually saying in a low tone,
“You better not try to fuck me.”
The guy in front of us is visibly shaking.
That’s not good. That’s just as bad as someone like Demetrius. This
guy could start going crazy...do something stupid. I train my eyes
on the guy, watching carefully his every move.
Demetrius licks his pinky finger and dips
into the package. He brings his finger to his mouth tasting it. He
growls.
“What is the shit?” Demetrius barks. “I told
you I wanted the pure stuff only!”
All hell breaks loose, and I am ready for
it. Demetrius tosses the shitty cocaine to the ground and pulls out
his gun. I do the same, jacking my body forward to grab the guy.
He’s skinny and quick, and he dodges my grasp and runs for the
door. I chase after him while Demetrius ducks through another
doorway, attempting to cut him off in the next room. I grab the
guy’s shirt and yank him back. He lands on the ground crunching the
broken plaster that litters the floor. I shove my foot on his chest
holding him down and train my gun on him in the thick darkness.
He pleads with me as Demetrius walks up and
hovers over him, too. The red has already formed over my eyes in
fight mode. It takes a few minutes to register what he is
saying.
“Don’t leave me with him!” he repeats over
and over.
He is talking to me, asking me, the man with
the gun on him, not to leave him alone with Demetrius. There is
definitely something wrong with this scenario. I look to Demetrius
to see what he wants to do. This is his show, not mine. He is
eerily quiet as the man on the ground grovels.
If this was my business to take care of, I’d
beat him up, and tell him to get better stuff or else. In my mind,
it seems simple enough; you can’t get clean cocaine from a dead
man. But I have never dealt in drugs, so I am not really sure
what’s going on here.
And if this kid was marked, it wouldn’t be
my business to take care of it. It would be the cleaner’s.
Then the entire bullshit situation dawns on
me.
Demetrius is a Cleaner. Fuck!
A gunshot rings out startling me, but it’s
not mine. Blood splatters my jeans and I feel the wetness soaking
through to my skin. I realize Demetrius shot the groveling kid
shit like drugs and racketeering, those things create more faceless
victims than I ever care to think about...Pop would tell me not to
think. Don’t think, just do.
A black Camaro pulls up next to me, its
windows tinted. Leaning forward in my seat, I reach into the back
of my jeans and pull out my glock, holding it below the steering
wheel...ready for anything. The window rolls down on the car next
to me, and Demetrius leans over the seat.
“Follow me,” he says brusquely.
I hold my gun in one hand and steer with the
other as I follow him down the thin road and out behind a crumbling
brick building. Parking next to him, I wait for him to get out
first. He slams his car door, and I notice his hands are empty, so
I put my gun back in my pants and get out.
Each time I am in Demetrius’s company, I am
reminded of his sordid and violent past. His impulsiveness and
disregard for the rules makes him two things - feared by the
underworld...and a target.
“Come on,” Demetrius says and waves for me
to follow him.
I do.
Side-by-side we walk into the rundown
building through a dilapidated steel door. The misshapen door has
been kicked numerous times and now it bows ungracefully. It is dark
inside with only a few streetlamps casting shadows and illuminating
certain areas. It is hard to see in the dimness, but I can smell
decaying fish and mold. It is overpowering, and I cover my nose
with the sleeve of my jacket, trying to get relief from the
foulness.
A figure steps out of the shadows. I brace
myself preparing to attack if necessary.
“Do you got the stuff?” a scared voice
asks.
“Yeah. Do you?” Demetrius says bitingly.
Paper rustles and the unknown person steps
forward, handing a package to Demetrius.
He opens it gradually saying in a low tone,
“You better not try to fuck me.”
The guy in front of us is visibly shaking.
That’s not good. That’s just as bad as someone like Demetrius. This
guy could start going crazy...do something stupid. I train my eyes
on the guy, watching carefully his every move.
Demetrius licks his pinky finger and dips
into the package. He brings his finger to his mouth tasting it. He
growls.
“What is the shit?” Demetrius barks. “I told
you I wanted the pure stuff only!”
All hell breaks loose, and I am ready for
it. Demetrius tosses the shitty cocaine to the ground and pulls out
his gun. I do the same, jacking my body forward to grab the guy.
He’s skinny and quick, and he dodges my grasp and runs for the
door. I chase after him while Demetrius ducks through another
doorway, attempting to cut him off in the next room. I grab the
guy’s shirt and yank him back. He lands on the ground crunching the
broken plaster that litters the floor. I shove my foot on his chest
holding him down and train my gun on him in the thick darkness.
He pleads with me as Demetrius walks up and
hovers over him, too. The red has already formed over my eyes in
fight mode. It takes a few minutes to register what he is
saying.
“Don’t leave me with him!” he repeats over
and over.
He is talking to me, asking me, the man with
the gun on him, not to leave him alone with Demetrius. There is
definitely something wrong with this scenario. I look to Demetrius
to see what he wants to do. This is his show, not mine. He is
eerily quiet as the man on the ground grovels.
If this was my business to take care of, I’d
beat him up, and tell him to get better stuff or else. In my mind,
it seems simple enough; you can’t get clean cocaine from a dead
man. But I have never dealt in drugs, so I am not really sure
what’s going on here.
And if this kid was marked, it wouldn’t be
my business to take care of it. It would be the cleaner’s.
Then the entire bullshit situation dawns on
me.
Demetrius is a Cleaner. Fuck!
A gunshot rings out startling me, but it’s
not mine. Blood splatters my jeans and I feel the wetness soaking
through to my skin. I realize Demetrius shot the groveling kid
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