Chapter 26.
Twenty eyes from the mutant Colombian, solicited me through a frosted fruit bowl. Sounds of progress and destruction, drummed from the building site across the street. I was still in a daze, from a torpedoed sleep, after three sleeping pills – overslept. The kind of sleep overdose, that makes you look like an habitual junkie and feel like you’ve been evicted from a coma. I’d spent the morning at Stinky Sid’s café, resuscitating my soul with comfort food and familiar faces. After two pots of coffee, my drug industry resume, was about to get a bump, to manufacturer.
I laid out my instruments of dilution on the kitchen table, like I was about to perform some noble procedure. The only sliver of nobility, was the fact that the proceeds would be going to Betty’s mom and kid. I’d finally found a legitimate use for my solid, fake marble, kitchen top. It was perfect – black and shiny, denying any hiding place for spilled bright, white powder. I grappled with the painters mask. The unadjusted rubber straps tugged at my ears and lassoed the hairs on my temples. One by one, I carefully slit the rubber pellets open with a box cutter and squeezed out the innards, into the oven-glass baking tray. The powder popped effortlessly out of it’s arrested state. The rubber slugs looked like small rodent embryos awaiting to be induced. Slit, squeeze and scrape – after the first four or five, I had a rhythm. The occasional pellet spat a sprinkle of dust, onto the black marble kitchen top. I scraped it up with a spatula and thumbed it back into the dish. The mound quickly grew into a respectable hill, in the centre of the glass tray, fenced in by a reptilian skin, of split rubbers. I leveled the mound into an even cake of powder with a spatula.
The tin of baby powder stood innocently, waiting for it’s entrance. I spooned the formula, systematically over a half inch thick layer of cocaine, to give an even spread. A Technicolor toddler, smiled from it’s tin at my progress. My skills would have garnered praise, from the average daytime TV celebrity chef – I was very meticulous. My education in cutting drugs was sparse – a few grams of English college speed, with a twist of baking soda in the seventies and some recent research on the internet got me up to scratch. With two large spatulas I churned the two layers of powder into each other – folding them over each other repeatedly, into a uniform mix. The mix needed to be perfect. I didn’t want any of Gadget’s clients complaining to Gadget about bad quality, which in turn would mean Gadget complaining to me – which would have resulted with me spending an extended period of time in hospital nursing multiple broken limbs. I used a bakers sieve and a large lemon and lime patterned ceramic bowl, to shake the mix – the debut for a discarded wedding present, from my ex-wife’s aunt. I ladled out the mix with a serving spoon into the sieve and shook the powder through the fine mesh. The white mix, coaxed with an occasional tap, fell in a shower of white powder. I repeated the process. There was a loud knock at the door – Ted. I stashed the mix and paraphernalia into the oven. There was another loud knock.
“Ok, I’m coming, I’m coming. Give it a rest,” I shouted impatiently.
I answered the door wearing only a pair of boxer shorts and a ratty old dressing gown.
“Jesus, where’s the fucking fire?”
It wasn’t Ted at the door. I was flashed two New York police detective badges.
“I’m Detective Jenson and this is Detective Browne,” the larger detective said, pointing to a much shorter detective. My lungs expelled every fraction of air.
“Are you Harold Bracco? the smaller detective asked.
“I am. Is there a problem? I asked sucking in a disguised gulp of air.
“Do you know a Beatrice Jackson?” the larger detective asked.
“Betty?..... Yes Betty Jackson. She’s a friend and also works for me part time. Yeah, Beatrice. Why?”
Adrenaline fuelled the pounding behind my eyeballs. I strained to be as normal as possible.
“When was the last time you saw her?” the small detective asked.
“Am…. last week some time. She asked me for a few days off.”
“A few days?” the large detective asked, while the small detective scratched some notes into his black flip-top notepad.
“Yes a few days. Told me she was going to catch up with some relatives.”
“Relatives?”
“Yes some family function. Why, what seems to be the problem?”
“Family function you say? Can we come in?” the large detective asked.
“Sure. I’m not really dressed for guests but come in.”
“What do you do Mr. Bracco?”
“I’m a talent agent. You know, singers, comedians, that type of thing.”
“Anyone famous?”
“Unless you’ve heard of ‘The Stuck Pigs’, and I’d bet my bottom dollar you haven’t, then no.”
The small detective scratched ‘The Stuck Pigs’ into his notebook, followed by a large question mark. He scratched a hard line under ‘The Stuck Pigs’. They both noticed my ceiling creatures hovering overhead. The painters mask sat on the fake marble counter.
“Been painting, sir?” the small detective asked, picking up the painters mask and looking at the five legged ceiling moose.
“No spraying for roaches,” I said. “Got pests. It’s these old buildings. They’re full of bugs… So, what’s up with Betty? Is everything ok?”
“Can you tell us your whereabouts exactly over the past five days?” the large detective asked.
“Yeah, I was here for most of the time. I went to see a few bands and a comedy act, but mostly here. I work from my home.”
“So you were in New York for the last five days? the small detective asked.
“Yeah, take a look around. Do I look like the kind of guy who can afford a holiday. Pest control for me is a luxury I can’t afford, so I have to medicate my unwanted guests myself.”
“Do you own a passport Mr. Bracco?” the smaller detective asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“Could we possibly see it?”
“Actually my secretary Betty has it. She said she needed it for company insurance or something. I don’t have a drivers license so she said she needed some type of photo ID. She does all my company paperwork. That stuff is not my strong point.”
“So you don’t have it in your possession right now?”
“No, like I said, Betty has it. What is this all about? Is Betty ok?”
“Why wouldn’t she be ok?” the big detective asked.
“Well let’s see, two detectives arrive at my door asking me about my secretary and my passport and my whereabouts for the past five days. I’m no Telly Savalas, but that would imply there was something up. So what is up?”
They looked at each other for a moment. The small detective snapped his notebook shut.
“Beatrice Jackson was found dead outside a retirement home in Laredo, Texas.”
I sank into my couch. I couldn’t breathe. I wasn’t faking it. The horror-show was real, stemmed from guilt and fear. It wasn’t about self preservation anymore – I had unfinished business. Hearing the reality of what happened from complete strangers brought a finality to it but I still had to maintain the act. My anxiety attack was misconstrued as shock to the little and large detectives. I buried my head in my hands.
After I was done selling the product to Gadget and getting the money to Betty’s mom, I would have been happy to be gunned down in a bloody hail of bullets.
“Are you ok sir?” the small detective asked.
“What? What are you talking about? I just saw her a few days ago. It can’t be the same Betty. Texas?” I said fearing I was going too far and beginning to look like some daytime soap cretin, called Ridge or Brick.
“We can’t discuss the details right now but we think it was a drug related crime. We believe she was murdered.”
“What the fuck? What the fuck? What are you talking about? Betty? Drug murder? I think you guys have got the wrong girl.”
“She’s been identified as Beatrice Jackson. She was found with her passport on her person.”
“Yeah but there must be tons of Beatrice Jacksons in the country. And drugs? Betty thought two aspirin for a headache was over doing it.”
“Sir, I think you should get yourself a lawyer. You’re not officially a suspect but your passport was used to cross into Mexico and back out to the United States over the past few days.”
“Sir, is there anything you think of that may have appeared out of character with Miss Jackson over the past few weeks? Did she seem different? Anxious? Anything out of character?” the smaller detective asked.
“Anxious? She was always anxious. She had a kid and a mother she was providing for. Anxiety was her day job. She had a second job at the post office, in their sorting department. I’d be anxious if I worked at the post office. It’s not called ‘going postal’ for no reason.”
“Can you think of anything at all that may have seemed unusual?”
“I did think it was odd that she asked for my passport. She never asked for it before. But you know I’ve known this woman for thirty years and would trust her with anything, so I didn’t question it. She’s always done all my business’ paperwork.”
“Ok Sir, we’ll be in touch again, should we need to know anything else.”
“Has Betty’s family been informed?”
“Yes Sir, they were informed. The body will be flown back to New York, within the next few days, once paperwork is processed in Texas. Once the family have finally identified the body, we’ll be in touch.”
They both took a long look around my decrepit apartment.
“Looks like you’ve got damp’, the small detective said straining to identify the moldy animal characters on my ceiling.
“Well if there’s anything else I can do please don’t hesitate,” I said.
Stinky Sid’s breakfast made an encore in my kitchen sink before the sound of their standard, police leather brogues disappeared into the lift. I slid down on to the kitchen floor, propping myself up against the oven door. I checked on my Colombian mix, hiding out inside the oven. There was another loud bang on my door. Fuck.
“Who is it?” I shouted.
“It’s the milkman. Open up,” Ted said in a cartoon voice.
I cracked the door open.
“Jeez, Harry you look like shit.”
“Yeah try seeing it from my side. I’ve just had two cops over here mousing about. They discovered Betty’s body in Laredo.”
“Shit, should I be here? What happened?”
“They don’t know anything. They think it was a drug related murder. My passport has been tracked in and out of Mexico. I told them that I gave Betty my passport. Hopefully, they’ll put down to a case of a desperate woman looking for the big score and got involved with the wrong people. Within a few weeks the case will be lining the bottom drawer of some detectives desk. There’s nothing I can do now but sit tight and hope for the best.”
“Yeah but what about me?” Ted asked nervously.
“Don’t worry. There is no connection whatsoever between you and Betty. We knew this was going to happen, so just stay calm.”
Ted dug out a brick of notes from his backpack.
“Here’s your end from Mexico. Have you spoken to Gadget?”
The half inch thick stack of bills was a welcome relief.
“Yeah, I’m meeting him later with a sample. If all goes well then he’ll take the two kilos off me and we’re sweet.”
“Have you had a taste?” Ted asked.
“No, I just finished the mix before Tango and Cash arrived.”
“Don’t you think we should try it? You know you can’t sell a car without taking it for a test drive.”
“Ok, one small toot,” I said.
I lifted the glass baking tray of powder out of the cooker oven.
“Holy shit, I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
Ted’s pupils dilated to the size of saucers before he touched a grain.
“Great place to hid it,” Ted said sarcastically.
“Yeah well, the last time that oven was fired up, Ronald Reagan was president. So there’s no fear of it going up in flames.”
I drew two thick white lines on the black marble top. With one snort the line disappeared into his face. I followed.
“Holy, fucking God dang, that shit is good.”
I followed with one swipe of his ratty rolled up dollar bill. It was a rocket up my nostril with a meteoric afterglow – this shit, was still rocking after a kilo of baby formula thrown into the mix. For once in my career I felt one-hundred per cent confidence in my product. Ted eyes leered for another.
“Get your grimy eyes off the product, Ted. I think it’s best you take off. I’ve gotta go and see Gadget.”
“C’mon Harry, one for the road, or in this case the highway.”
I carved out another ration for him. It disappeared up the barrel of the dirty dollar bill. His jaws clenched. He greedily rubbed the residue from the black table-top, on his gums.
“Ok Ted, now fuck off.”
“Hey by the way this guy wants to meet up, you know the guy I was telling you about?”
“Who?”
“You know the guy? The guy? The college kid I was telling you about. He’s a sociology major at NYU and he wants to use me as a case study for some project he’s doing about Facebook and Youtube and all that other online networking shite.”
“Great Ted, you’re now one cut above a lab frog.”
“No need to be such a cynical old prick. Let’s see what he’s selling before you knock it,” he said irately.
“Sure ok, but right now, I’ve got bigger things on my plate right now, than some pimply nerd’s school project.”