“It’s baking powder in the crates, Carlo,” Nario says. “The Albanians have fucked us.”
My stomach drops for the second time in as many minutes. I think about how quickly they left, and my inclination to check the shipment. Unbelievably, my father glares at me like it’s my fault. I glare right back. “We didn’t have time to check it,” I protest. “You were too busy offering up our—”
“Bite your tongue,” Dad snarls. “The first thing a man does upon starting a deal is to check that the product is really the fucking product. The most unseasoned boy on the streets knows that.”
He and Nario storm away. Levi approaches, sighing, shaking his head. I feel that cold rod of anger moving through me again. I think of Derrick begging for mercy. I think of Dujar looking at me like I’m an infant, laughing behind his eyes as he offers up goddamn baking powder. I think of a nameless, faceless wife holding a nameless, faceless baby, standing between me and the throne that is rightfully mine.
My rage boils.
I stride over, find what I’m looking for, and heft the sledgehammer up. It’s old and rusty, but it will do the job nicely. I walk over to the crates, raise the weapon over my head, and bring it down with a savage swoop.
The box explodes beneath the contact. I move to the next, raise the sledgehammer up again, bring it down again. Boom. Crunch. Damage. Chaos. I ignore the splinters in my palms, the ache in my back. I only stop when every single one of the crates lies in ruin.
I don’t feel better.
Not only did this deal go bad, but a wife? My father has lost his fucking mind.
2
Dani
I feel an odd sense of peace while I’m flying through the city at one in the morning in Betty. I honestly can’t say why this ambulance is called Betty. Some of the EMTs say it’s after Betty Boop, since she’s bright and red and flashy. I don’t know. It’s just one of those things. But it’s nice, tearing through traffic, sirens wailing, to know that we’re doing something good.
The only downer is my partner for the night, Ricky De Santi. He’s twenty, the same age as my little brother Wyatt, and he’s one of those jerk wads who purposefully wear shirts that are too tight for him in an attempt to show off his macho arms, thinking it’ll impress girls like me. But really, he just ends up showing off his burgeoning beer gut. Add that to the fact that he will not shut the hell up, and we’ve got the recipe for a seriously migraine-inducing night.
“A babe like you, Dani, we could really hit things off, you know.”
I sigh. “Oh yeah? Could we?”
“Yeah. I see us on a farm with a coupla kids and fields of corn or whatever. Some cows.”
We speed around the corner. I love the oomph feeling of being thrown to the side by momentum. The cars get out of our way. I’m never more alive than when I’m driving Betty, God bless her. “Who put these thoughts in your head?”
He laughs. “I’d rather be the one putting something in—”
“Ricky, if you finish that sentence, I am going to HR your ass into the next dimension. Don’t think just because you and Wyatt are friends—”
“We’re not just friends. We’re—”
“I will end your career and your life. I mean it.”
He raises his hands in mock defense. “Well, excuse me for trying to spice up this ride.”
We’re speeding down the freeway like it’s a bobsled track and this isn’t “spicy” enough for him. Not to be sexist or anything, but ugh, men.
“Speaking of Wyatt, we went ham the other night.”
I grip the steering wheel tighter. When he says going ham, he means that he and Wyatt went partying together. Ricky knows how I feel about him and Wyatt doing drugs. He knows I hate it, and yet, for some reason known only to the little birdbrain that lives inside Ricky’s head, he insists on talking about it—All. The. Time. But I know from experience that, any time I show him he’s getting to me, he just ups his game. He’s that sort of dickhead.
“Mhmm,” I say.
“Sort of wish I’d gone to college with him instead of big doggin’ it through EMT school—”
“I beat you in every class,” I remind him.
“Because, man, these girls at these college parties—no shame, I tell you.”
“Ricky, please, for the love of God: just stop talking.”
He grins. Telling him to shut his trap only adds fuel to the asshat fire. I should’ve known better.
“Wyatt was running around the place telling everyone he was on Pluto, and then he got on the coffee table and took his shirt off and started waving it above his head. Everyone was cheering and then he did a—I shit you not, Dani—he did a backflip off that motherfucker.”
“He used to do gymnastics in high school, remember?” I mutter, feeling a stab in my belly when I remember Wyatt tumbling across the gymnasium. I remember wishing so bad that Mom and Dad were there that day.
“Oh yeah, he used to wear those dorky leotards, didn’t he?”
“Ricky, I understand that your mind is empty, that you have no soul, that you are a depressing, sad little creature. But do you have to talk so much?”
As usual, he just smears that shit-eating grin one tooth wider. “Yeah, pretty much,” he says. “Ah, sweet, we’re here. I hope it’s something exciting. If I’ve gotta deal with one more lame-ass husband calling us because his whale of a wife is choking on a Cheeto, I’m quitting.”
“That happened once.” I roll my eyes as I kill the engine and climb down from Betty.
“And once was enough!”
“Anyway,” I tell him, getting the gear, “we know what it is, fish-brain. Another overdose.”
“Oh, yeah.” He flexes his fat-muscled arms. “Too much blood going to these anacondas. It’s messing with my memory.”
“Yeah, it has nothing to do with going to college parties every time you’ve got a night off,” I say, and then kind of regret it. Because maybe that was a little mean. Ricky’s a douche, but he’s not all bad. Heart in the right place and all; it just happens to be surrounded by two hundred-plus pounds of annoying.
We carry our gear toward the apartment building. The girl who called is standing outside, propping the door open, waving her arms to signal us inside. She’s probably only a few years younger than me—she looks like she’s maybe twenty—but ‘girl’ is the right word. She’s all wide-eyed, like a deer in the headlights, and I feel like shaking her by the shoulders just for being here.
It’s clearly a drug den. The apartment lobby reeks of pee and weed and the walls are covered in graffiti. She is too pretty and innocent-looking to belong in a shithole like this.
I push Wyatt from my mind as we make our way into the apartment.
The place is empty except for the kid dying on the dirty floor.
“Your boyfriend, sweetheart?” Ricky asks, using his professional voice now.
She nods, frantic. “Is he supposed to be breathing like that?”
I kneel down and glance at Ricky, holding my hand near his mouth. The kid’s breath is weak and there’s a horrible rattling sound coming from far back in his throat. We nod silently and shift him into the recovery position so that his airways aren’t blocked, and then I get the naloxone ready.