Part 13 (1/2)
”Just ... to manage my consumption.” She smiled. ”This new eight ball is three and a half grams, right? So I want to separate it into half-gram bags. Then I'll just go through a half gram bag a day.”
He rubbed his eyes. ”It doesn't work. There's always an excuse to tap in to the other bags.”
”Maybe it just doesn't work for you.” His eyes touched hers as he c.o.c.ked his head. His eyebrows went up. A beat of silence pa.s.sed before she cleared her throat. ”So can I use your scale or not?”
He disappeared into his room so fast she thought he might slam the door behind him. Then he was back, plunking the scale down onto the coffee table. ”Go ahead,” he said. ”Good luck.”
She sat down on the couch and tried to estimate one-seventh of her baggie's contents. He came over with his mirror and the other paraphernalia.
”If you're gonna do it, you should do it right,” he said, pus.h.i.+ng her hands away from the scale. ”You have to zero the scale, so the scale knows what nothing weighs. After that, it'll know the weight of what you put on it.” He gestured at the yellow box of sandwich bags. ”Here, gimme a baggie.”
She handed it over. ”If you put the baggie on before you zero, you can just measure right into it. You don't have to try and sc.r.a.pe every last grain off the tray when you bag it that way.”
”Oh. Why don't you do that with Neil?”
”'Cause Neil's so f.u.c.king paranoid he thinks I'm cheating him when I do it.” He fiddled with some k.n.o.bs until the tray and baggie balanced at zero. ”Now you set it for what you want ...” He turned the dial until it was halfway to the gram line. ”... And you scoop in your stuff.”
She spooned a little of her eight-ball into the baggie. ”Thanks, Alexander.”
”I gotta go,” he said. ”I'll see you there.”
”Uh-huh.”
He shuffled around a little, gathering up his things, and then slipped out the door. Sara never looked up.
She added a little, and a little more, and the scale started to balance. When it finally stopped bouncing up and down, she had to take a little out of the baggie. Then it was right on. She'd bagged her first half gram. And she wouldn't have that except for the money her grandparents- ”s.h.i.+t.”
Had she said that out loud?
No point in putting it off. At least I can think about bagging when I'm on the phone.
She dialed the number and stretched the cord over to the couch.
”Hi, Grandma. It's Sara.”
”Well, Sara! It's nice to hear from you. We were wondering if we ever would.”
”I ... I just wanted to say thanks for the check you sent. It really helped me out.”
”Oh? Well, I'm glad the money can help you, Sara. Of course your father told us you don't even seem to want money- you haven't even sent him a tuition bill.”
”Yeah ... my interns.h.i.+p was with a really great company and ... they took care of my tuition for me. But you know, I'm running low on spending money, so I just wanted to say thanks ...”
Her grandfather must have picked up another extension. ”So what firm was that, Sara?”
s.h.i.+t!
”It's a small investment firm. Sidwell-Jones,” she said, using the first name she could think of. Julie, the waitress at work, was a Sidwell, and Jones just popped into her head after that.
”Hmm. I've never heard of it. I'll ask your cousin Ken when I talk to him. Now there's a finance guy for 'ya. Did you know he just bought himself an airplane?”
”No, I don't think I knew that, Grandpa-”
”Just a little one, you know. Not a jet. But hey, a guy just a few years out, with his own plane. That's saying something.”
”And what are you up to these days, Sara?” her grandmother said, her tone somewhere between challenging and accusing.
”Oh, just working hard. School, work, school ... you know.” She laughed. It sounded too fake. ”In fact,” she said, ”my ... my study group is coming over. I should probably get going.”
She'd bagged three more half grams! She was getting good at this. And the razor blade made nice, straight lines on the mirror, even when she only used one hand.
”You know Katherine's already finished with college, don't you, Sara?” Her grandfather asked. ”She loaded up on credits so she could start medical school early. You remember Katherine, don't you Sara? You two used to play together so well.”
”Yep. Of course I remember, Grandpa. I've really got to go ... ”
”What was that, Sara? Are you getting sick?”
Yeah, sick of you and your judgmental bulls.h.i.+t, you witch. Go ahead and pretend you could give a s.h.i.+t. I'm gonna wrap this phone cord around your neck and keep going around and around and watch you turn purple and see your puffy crepe-paper neck skin squis.h.i.+ng out between the coils- ”Oh, maybe a little, Grandma. But I think it's just the sniffles.”
She set the straw down. The other lines could wait.
”Well, maybe that's the problem, Sara. Maybe you're not taking good enough care of your health. We're all very worried about you. You just don't seem to be living up to your potential. Call Katherine and tell her you're feeling under the weather, dear. She'll get you all fixed up, I'm sure.”
”Okay, Grandma. You're right. I'd better get back to work if I'm going to make something of myself. Bye.” She rolled over the back of the couch and slammed the phone down like a basketball star, grabbing a bottle of vodka on her way back to the couch. A couple more lines made her jittery so she made her way back to Joe's room.
The lizard eyed her suspiciously. ”Renfield, ol' buddy,” she said, ”you need new water.” She moved the red light and popped the screen off the top of the cage. ”I don't know why Joe gave you such a big water bowl,” she said. ”This one's for dogs.” Something s.h.i.+fted as she pulled it out.
It gleamed dully in the red light. A gun. A black revolver with wooden grips. And a plastic bag with a handful of bullets. The gun was cold and smooth and heavy.
She caressed every inch of it, eventually sliding back the lever to release the little wheel holding the bullets. It rotated out to reveal that it was fully loaded with five of them. Strange, since in cowboy movies and cop shows they always had six. She dumped them out into her hand, finding them much heavier than she'd expected.
With the bullets out of the gun, she was able to handle it more confidently. She opened and closed it a few times, pulled the hammer back until it locked, and even pulled the trigger. Pulling the trigger without pulling the hammer back first also worked; the trigger c.o.c.ked the gun automatically, but it was harder to pull that way.
One more thing for the cops to find when they follow up on Joe's wallet.
When shaking her head didn't clear it, she reached for her snort bottle.
She sat on the edge of the bed, hefting the cocaine in one hand and the gun in the other. She took a snort. She reloaded the gun. The solid gold circlet resting on raven hair gleamed in the red firelight as she peered down from her golden throne. Wors.h.i.+ppers knelt before her, High Priestess of the Night, praying and silently begging for her mercy.
Icy blue topaz eyes flashed from the closet. She laughed, placing the gun inside a Kleenex box next to her bed. She took some more snorts, emptying the bottle and refilling it. She stuffed the baggies in her Coach bag and headed for the club.
Sara scooted back in her seat and her head instantly jerked up toward the club's dark ceiling. She'd forgotten to sweep her hair back from her b.u.t.t again. It had become so long that she sat on it these days.
A hand clapped her shoulder. Attached to it was one of the club regulars, a guy in a white oxford s.h.i.+rt, with sandy brown hair feathered back from his face. It brushed against her cheek as he leaned closer to shout over the music.
”Hey, babe,” he said, squinting as he looked around the bar. ”Where's your man?”