Filed to story: Return of the Reaper Story
“And nobody knows you,” the guy said.
“You think I’m a cop.”
“What am I supposed to think?”
Isaac held out his hands. They were big hands on thick wrists and rough with layers of callus.
“Ever see a cop with hands like that?” Isaac said. He’d worked two years of construction with Wiley and Manners before moving into security two months prior.
“So you’re not looking for someone. But you’re looking for something. Am I wrong?”
“I’m looking to buy.”
The guy studied Isaac’s eyes, searching for some kind of truth in them. He nodded and took his back off the door.
“Give it ten minutes and come on out to the picnic tables,” the guy said and left the room.
The scent of spiced pork still hung in the air even after the barrel grill was shut down for the night. The portico was outside of the lake of white glare a single pole lamp created on Hattie’s lot. The only illumination from inside was the glow of a cigarette. Isaac took his time walking to the picnic tables, allowing his eyes to adjust to the change in light.
The guy from the men’s room sat at a table with another man and a woman. The other man was an older, heavier biker with a dense beard and brittle gray hair held back with a leather-thonged pony tail. The older guy said something and the woman got up and wobbled back to Hattie’s, carrying longneck empties.
Isaac stood regarding the two men. A scuff of boot soles on gravel behind him. He held his hands out from his side as hands expertly patted him down. They came to the long slide in a pancake holster at the small of his back.
“That stays where it is, hoss,” Isaac said, eyes on the older man who nodded. The hands left him.
“Sit your ass anywhere,” the older man gestured. A patch on his leather vest read DUTCH.
Isaac straddled the bench across from the older man, keeping one foot outside. The third man, the patdown man, leaned on a table top off to one side. The guy from the men’s room stayed, taking pulls from a Coors longneck.
“Dougie tells me you want to buy. What are you looking for?” Dutch said.
“A half pound to start. Price depends on quality. If it’s good I’ll want a lot more.”
“We’re talking ice, right?”
“I want anything else I’d be somewhere else.”
“How’d you hear about us?”
“Jungle internet. I hear I should go to Cotton Lake if I want to buy weight. My only question is quality,” Isaac said.
“It’s Mexican. You can’t get weight domestic. Too many restrictions on the goods,” Dutch said.
“That’s been our problem. No supply.”
“Seven kay for a half pound.”
“Five kay. We can up it to twelve for a full bag if the shit is what I’m looking for. I can use five pounds a month to start,” Isaac said leveling his gaze on Dutch’s eyes.
Dutch blinked at that. Sixty thousand a month. He smeared his Marlboro out on the scarred table top.
“You local?” Dutch said.
“I’m down from up north. Rust belt. Way outside your market.”
“You come off 75? There’s a Cracker Barrel at the next exit south. Have breakfast there tomorrow.”
“That’s it?” Isaac said.
“That’s it. Bring the five kay. Don’t worry about the bar tab.”
And that was goodbye.
He drove back to 75 and took a room at a Red Roof near the Cracker Barrel.
The next morning the guy from the men’s room the night before slid into the booth across from him at Cracker Barrel. He plucked a breakfast link off Isaac’s plate like they were old pals. Isaac gestured to the waitress to fill his friend’s coffee cup. The guy wore a print shirt loose. His hair was road whipped.
“You got something for me?”
Isaac placed an envelope of bills on the table. The guy took it with a grin for the waitress who loaded up his cup from a carafe. The envelope went under his shirt. The guy took a sip then put a cell phone on the table and slid it to Isaac. It was new. A pay-as-you-go burner.
“That’s it?” Isaac said.
“You’ll get a call then you get your stuff. We don’t know you.”
“But I know where to find you.”
“That’s right.” The guy grinned showing missing teeth. He got up and was gone.
Isaac finished his breakfast and paid the check. The cell buzzed as he was walking to his truck. Dutch was on the other end.
“Your goods are under the front seat of your truck.”
“This James Bond shit is getting tired.”
“We’ll get to know each other better. Maybe I’ll let you fuck my sister.”
“What about the weight we talked about?”