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  "I'm standing here," she countered.

  He watched her quietly for a moment before nodding approvingly "So you are. You wanna take a load off?"

  He turned and headed back toward where he'd come from, leading her down a narrow canyon formed of opposing piles of scrap metal. At the end of it, there was a small wooden cabin, looking as if it had been flown in from some Louisiana backwater. She half expected an alligator to be tied to a chain on its narrow front porch.

  "Real homey," she commented, impressed at what a dump it was.

  He looked over his shoulder. "Ain't it? Built it myself. Good place to get away from it all."

  She glanced about, thinking it was an even better target for an avalanche.

  "Come on in."

  She walked up to the threshold and stopped, trying to adjust to the darkness inside.

  "Have a seat."

  Slowly, she made out a small room with a table, two armchairs, a couple of filing cabinets, and some shelves laden with odds and ends, from magazines and catalogs to unrecognizable engine parts. There were piles of debris in every corner, and a pungent odor of stale human being.

  She looked very carefully at the seat of the armchair she'd been offered before sitting down.

  "It's okay," he said. "That's the guest chair. It doesn't get used much."

  She didn't comment.

  "So," he continued, settling down comfortably, "what's on your mind?"

  "A merger, a partnership, if you want."

  "I don't want. Why should I?"

  "More money, more drugs, better security, a guaranteed revenue source, and a chance to expand beyond anything you've dreamed of."

  He looked surprised. "Drugs? I thought we were talking the car business here."

  She pushed herself back out of the chair and looked down at him, disappointed. "I knew this would be a waste of time. It's been a real treat getting a glimpse of the good life."

  He waved at her to sit back down. "Jeez. That's some short fuse you got. Is it going to kill you to take a little time here? We just met and you're talking building a drug empire or something. Give a guy a chance."

  She sat back down. "We don't have to be buddies. I want to get this thing going."

  "Fine, fine," he agreed. "We'll talk. How 'bout something to loosen up, first? I got some good shit here." He reached over to the nearest filing cabinet and pulled open the bottom drawer.

  She shook her head. "Maybe later. I don't want to do this with a buzz on."

  He closed the drawer and gave her an enigmatic smile. "Right. I didn't think so. Why don't you give me your sales pitch, then?"

  A small tingle of concern flickered in the back of her brain. "Like I said, it's a merger, or whatever you want to call it—a way to get us all organized so we can stabilize the market, streamline our supply sources, and work together to keep the cops off our backs. You gotta admit, things could be better."

  "Everything in life could be better," Meiner agreed. "Doesn't mean it will be. Sometimes the cost is too high."

  She leaned forward in her chair. "But that's the beauty here. Your costs will go down. Only the profits'll go higher."

  "Isn't that wonderful? And all because I'm such a nice guy."

  "I don't care if you're a flaming asshole," she said. "I just want you as part of the solution here, not part of the problem."

  "And you would be the queen of the solution? The boss?"

  She shook her head vehemently. "No. There'd be a council. We could structure that any way we wanted, once we all got together. The key, though, is to get everything out on the table, eliminate wasteful competition, and build a structure with some element of security."

  "Right now I want security, I take care of it myself."

  "Exactly, and so does Stuey and so did Jimmy and everybody else. What's the point? What I'm saying here is just Business 101. It's not like sending a rocket to the moon. People in this line of work only think from day to day. This is a really simple concept. It'll work."

  "What would I have to give up?"

  "Aside from this fancy lifestyle? Nothing."

  "Don't shit on my lifestyle, lady. I'm my own man here. I'm not so sure what you're selling would be an improvement there."

  She sat back, crossed her legs, made her voice slightly less friendly. "Ralph. In the long run, it may not be a choice. You know how Wal-Mart does it?"

  "Yeah, yeah—the big fish eat the little fish. You know, this is just a wonderful idea, assuming I had any knowledge of the drug business, which, of course, I don't. But, speaking of big fish, what would you do about the ones upstream? There're a few people in Holyoke that might not like your screwing around in their business. You wouldn't look much like Wal-Mart to them. Think how Jimmy ended up."

  Sam went out on a limb. "Jimmy was dumb. He tried pushing his weight around here before he had things lined up down south. Me, I'm talking for those same people, like a representative."

  Ralph Meiner was caught off guard. "You work for Torres?"

  She tried not to show her own surprise. "I work for Rivera. He took the business away from Torres. Where've you been?"

  "I never heard of Rivera."

  She recalled the scuttlebutt about how many of the dealers had pulled in their horns following Hollowell's death, waiting for new players to show themselves. Meiner's ignorance may have been a sign of his lying low. "You will soon enough, unless you get in on it now."

  Meiner pushed his lips out thoughtfully. "All right. I'll think about it. Now, how 'bout a little something to seal the deal?"

  She stood up. "When we seal it, we'll see. Right now I got other people to talk to."

  Meiner didn't move. "You a vegetarian, too?"

  She looked at him. "What's that mean?"

  "It means I feel like a meatpacker who's just been pitched by a vegetarian. Why do I get the feeling you're not so hot on the product?"

  Sam felt her frustration growing. She'd been almost out the door. "I told you, I don't want a buzz on when I'm doing business."

  Almost nonchalantly, he removed a pistol from his pocket and laid it on his lap. Its barrel was pointed vaguely at her knees. "Which is exactly the kind of excuse a cop would use."

  The tingle she'd experienced earlier spread like an electric current. She feigned astonishment. "A cop? You think I'm a cop? What the fuck's that? Did I try to sell you anything, or buy anything? Cops don't talk about making a drug business work better. Jesus, Ralph. That's why I don't do any shit when I'm working. It scrambles your head."

  "Sit down," he said, his expression grim.

  "Why the hell should I?"

  He lifted the gun so it was pointing at her. "Call it a show of faith. We do a little dope together, my faith in you improves."

  She sat back down. "This is a pretty piss poor way of beginning a partnership."

  Keeping the gun on her, he reached out and opened the filing cabinet again. "I don't think so. Name your poison."

  She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Fine. Give me some weed. I could do with a little mellowing out, if the others're all going to be like you."

  He pulled out a shoe box full of pill bottles, small boxes, twists of aluminum, and small pale blue baggies. "Fresh out," he said, not even looking. "What's your number two choice?"

  Sam had no time to hesitate, and knew she couldn't stall. His refusal to give her marijuana showed that he wanted her to commit to something weightier. Narcotics officers face this choice commonly enough—it was both the druggie's equivalent of sharing a beer with a pal and a way for them to separate the undercovers from the real users.

  Except that it wasn't foolproof. The courts had held that if an officer took drugs under threat of mortal danger, such a transgression was allowable.

  Ralph's gun certainly helped there.

  All that was left was for Sam to make a choice she hoped she could live with. Or she could just pretend to take one of his offerings, assuming he left her a split second loophole. The latter possibility enc
ouraged her to choose a pill. "Got any E?"

  He smiled. "That I do, although I would've pegged you for a cokehead."

  "Used to be. I had a bad experience."

  He was rummaging around in his box. "Not that I'm complaining. I like a little E myself when I'm feeling frisky. I might even join you. Maybe we'll get something going."

  She gave him a warning look. "I wouldn't count on it. I'm a one-guy girl, and right now that guy is just across town, complete with bad attitude."

  "What he don't know won't kill him."

  She raised an eyebrow and he laughed in response. "Right," he said. "What a waste. Anyhow—here we go."

  She held out her hand to receive the brightly colored pill, about the size of a large aspirin, but Meiner shook his head. "Open your mouth."

  She scowled at him. "What? And close my eyes? I don't think so. Give me the damn pill."

  He watched her carefully. "Listen, missy. You do this my way or we don't deal, okay? Call me finicky, but I don't like my gifts to be wasted. Open your mouth. I don't care what you do with your eyes."

  Reluctantly, unsure of what she'd exposed herself to, Sam did as ordered and felt the Ecstasy tablet drop onto her tongue. From the taste, it was no breath mint.

  "Here," he said. "Wash it down with this." He handed her a half-empty bottle of Scotch.

  Feeling the pill dissolving already, she took a swig and swallowed hard, trying to remember what the side effects of Ecstasy were supposed to be. She knew it was the rave drug of choice, supposed to flood the brain with serotonin and release inhibitions. She also knew most such claims for illegal drugs didn't tell the whole story.

  She returned the bottle. "Thanks. You wouldn't have a few more for down the line, would you?"

  "Not so reluctant all of a sudden?"

  She frowned. "Look, Ralph. We all got baggage to carry, okay? I try to do one thing at a time, and do it right. I know how messed up I can get. This deal means a lot to me—it's kind of like my one shot, as I see it, and I don't want to screw it up. I've done that enough times already."

  She got up and walked to the grimy window and looked out on the narrow canyon of junk outside. "You're a guy. You can take what you want in life. Me, it's always been the shit end of the stick. I want a change."

  She turned and looked at him. He'd just finished taking a pill himself and washing it down. The gun was no longer in view, and he'd put three more pills on the arm of her chair.

  "You said part of your plan was to streamline our supply sources. I think that's the words you used. What did that mean?"

  She was struck by the change of subject. Had her ingestion of a single Ecstasy tablet turned the tables? "Just what it sounded like," she answered him, pocketing the extra pills. "Right now it's catch-as-catch-can. You got a bunch of competing bigwigs in Holyoke, a few more out of upper New York State, some from Canada, a shit-load of one-shot wonders working street corners—"

  "I know one who deals right out of her vagina," Ralph interrupted. "Little wet bags of the stuff. You ever do that?"

  She ignored him. "There's no control. Everyone looks at this as a really ripe market, 'cause the prices are so good compared to Massachusetts or New York, but that misses the point. It's short-term thinking. If we set up a dependable, consistent pipeline, and enforce it to keep everyone else out, think how that would change the business."

  He looked skeptical. "That works both ways, though. You're saying we should do all this through Rivera. What's to stop him from jacking our prices up? Right now we can shop around for the best deal."

  Her heart gave a triple beat for no reason, and she felt an odd wave of warmth run through her. She sat back down, brushing it aside in the interests of making her point. "It's a monopoly, Ralph. You pass the costs along."

  "Meaning we're right back where we started, at the same profit margin."

  She was shaking her head. "Wrong. You forgot the consistency advantage. You got more product and more clients as a result. Even if Rivera doubles his price, forcing you to do the same, you'll still be selling to four times more people, if you do this right. Plus, we plan to go outside Rutland and push this till it covers the state. There is an element of the top dog winning out, but that's you already, right? You're one of the top dogs in town."

  Unsurprisingly, that last comment proved the most effective. Ralph smiled broadly and settled back into his mildewy armchair. "You could say that. Sure you don't want to fool around?"

  Sam was feeling hot, her heart was beating more rapidly than made sense. The drug was kicking in and making her nervous, even slightly paranoid. But she also had energy to spare all of a sudden, and a strong desire to get things done.

  She stood up. "Sorry, Ralph. Not in the mood. And I gotta get crackin'. You in or not?"

  "I'm not in or out. I want to think about it."

  She opened the door and looked back at him. "Okay, but the clock's ticking."

  "I got a question for you," he said unexpectedly "What happens if Torres and the others don't take kindly to this?"

  "They've been dealt with. I told you."

  He gave her an enigmatic look, his face washed by the anemic light slipping in through the open door. "I like you. Otherwise, I wouldn't waste my time. But Jimmy Hollowell thought the same thing. Maybe you should ask yourself what happened to him."

  Chapter 18

  Sammie kept trying to concentrate. She knew she'd heard something important while talking with Ralph Meiner, but she couldn't get hold of it. Instead, she was distracted by everything she saw passing by the windows of her car—lights, trees, endless rows of buildings. Although slightly blurred and a little stuttery, as in an old silent movie, it all took on an intensity, a beauty, and a mysterious serenity that she'd never before noticed. She found herself unexpectedly walking across a broad stretch of park, out of the car, not remembering having left it, totally attuned to the smells and sensations around her. She felt happy, even euphoric, tingling with sensuality. She dropped to her knees and and placed her hands on the ground, curling her fingers through the grass as if it were a lover's hair, grinding her teeth with the passion, before finally stretching out to feel the resonance of the earth against her body. In an unexpected shift, however, that same sensation led her back in time to when, as a child, she'd press her ear against a wall to distinguish the muted murmurings on the other side. Now, as back then, she was confronted with messages she couldn't decipher—except that this time it was a dilemma she found pleasantly seductive, even sexually stimulating.

  By the time the effects of the Ecstasy wore off, she was tired, dirty, disoriented, and let down. It was late and dark, and it took her half an hour to locate her car at the park's edge. As for the overall experience, she was caught between worrying about any long-range consequences and the strong, lingering memory of having tasted something unimaginably appealing. She realized with a shock that had she been on the drug the night before, when standing so close to Manuel in the basement, she wouldn't have hesitated entering his embrace—a thought that troubled her beyond anything else.

  * * *

  "I was stupid."

  Joe reached out and took Gail's hand in his own. "You were trying to make amends for something you shouldn't have felt guilty about in the first place. It still doesn't mean it wasn't worth the attempt."

  "She took me for a patsy, and she was right. I played right into it."

  "I'm glad you didn't shoot her boyfriend," he said, half as an aside.

  Gail thought about that for a couple of beats. "I didn't even see him. All I saw was the other guy's face."

  The other guy—to Joe's knowledge, she hadn't spoken her rapist's actual name in years.

  "But you stayed in control. You did what you thought was right, realized you were being had, and you corrected the situation. Take that for what it is, Gail. You were not stupid."

  She smiled thinly. They were in her living room, her more pawnable possessions still gathered near the double doors where either Debbie
and Nelson had piled them up or the cops had placed them after cataloging and removing them from Nelson's rust bucket of a van.

  "You say the nicest things," she said with irony. "I just wish it made me feel better."

  "How's Laurie doing?" he asked.

  "The same. I called Rachel a while ago." She'd been staring at the floor but now fixed him with a direct look. "Joe, I'm sorry I shut you out."

  "You had a lot on your mind."

  She shook her head. "I'm not sure I did. I think I had only one thing on my mind—to turn back the clock somehow. You know, the funny thing is that I never much liked Laurie. The little time I spent with her, all she did was complain about her life, which for my money was pampered and privileged and overindulged. And yet she whined about how bored she was and how terrible her parents were. I didn't know what she was doing in Brattleboro because I took no interest. I had a Post-it note on my computer—'call Laurie.' I saw it every day until I finally threw it out. Never called her once."

  "You think anything would've changed if you had?" he asked gently.

  He gave her credit. Someone else might have flared at that. Gail merely nodded acceptingly. "Probably not. I still wouldn't have liked her. And she never saw me as anything other than her mother's sister, anyhow."

  "That may not be true," he countered. "She ever say that?"

  "No," she admitted. "We never had that long a conversation."

  Joe sensed they were past the worst of Gail's self-recrimination, certainly far enough for him to ask, "So why did you go after Debbie so hard, if Laurie meant that little?"

  He'd overplayed his hand a bit. She looked at him sharply. "We didn't have much in common—but I still loved her. Love her."

  But he didn't back down. The question floated between them.

  "All right," she conceded. "I've been feeling out of sorts lately. Not sure that what I'm doing is what I really want out of life. It's thrown me off and made me doubt a lot of things—my job, my goals, even the two of us sometimes."