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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Operation"  "I wanna skip this month," says Tanner Evans. He means, of course, that he doesn't want to purchase his usual allotment. Still, though his meaning is plain, you can hardly believe your ears. "The fuck do you mean by that?" He licks his lips. "I mean, you said on Friday that the month was blown--" "I didn't say the month was blown, I said there was a problem." "You made it sound like--" "You're sounding like a pussy, Evans. The fuck do you mean that you wanna skip this month?" "I can't pay you," he says. "I haven't— When I heard from you, I spent the money on some other things." "The fuck did you—? Every month, you give me twenty-four dimes for one of these." You brandish one of the large baggies, which contains six of the smaller ones. "That's the fucking deal." "I can still hold it for you, if you need it held--" With your left hand--your awkward hand--you clip him across the nose. "You're fucking with me? Seriously, are you fucking with me? You'll hold six eighths without giving me any fucking security?" A little stream of red trickles onto his upper lip, and he puts his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You won't lose out anything, Chen, I swear! I'll hold it and I'll sell some, I sold all of 'em last month! You can tap me for the money, and what's left at the end of— Jesus, it's not like I can bug out on you! End of the month, you'll know where to find me, you'll get back everything I owe you!" He shivers and shrivels under your stare. "Three-sixty," you finally say. "End of the month you give me thirty-six dimes and whatever you haven't sold. You sell all of them, you give me thirty-six instead of twenty-four. You sell none of them, you give me thirty-six and the eighths you were too fucking stupid to deal." "What if I can't get thirty-six for them? I mean, even if I sell all six, that's, uh—" "Sixty an eighth. Christ! You either get the money from someone else, or you raise the price of what you're selling. I wanna see if I can raise the price point anyway, and it looks like you just volunteered to test the market. Am I clear?" He nods and winces as another trickle runs out his nose. "Good." You gather up all your stuff. Only after you've got it packed, and haven't left a baggie for him, does he point out that you've not given him a supply. "I'll give it to you Wednesday," you tell him. "You can start late, too." * * * * * You make two more stops, dropping additional baggies onto Joe Thomason and George Mendoza, and since they're not sad little shits like Evans, they give you twenty-four dimes for each. Chen only keeps one baggie for himself handy at school at any one time—an amount just under the limit that would put him in lock up if he got busted—but by dropping baggies on these cronies and insisting they carry them to school, he can tap a larger supply if the day's demand exceeds the six eighths he's brought for the day. And he can spread his net wider than if he were handling it alone. But you've got one last place to go before you can go home. David Kirkham smiles—a sneering, lopsided thing—as you hand him a baggie; and since he's Kirkham, you don't ask for any money, and you don't expect to ever get any, either. "Nice," he says softly, as he says everything softly. "I knew you weren't the cockup you were claiming to be." "Well, your boy Evans has a cock up his ass, or something," you reply. "Whose? Yours?" "I wouldn't fuck that sick-making little douche if it got me a ticket inside a cheerleader. He says he's not taking a set this month." "So why are you telling me? You can sit on him." "He's your little cunt. Him and Mendoza and— Fuck, I'd drown 'em in a ditch as soon as look at 'em, but they're the ones supporting your end of things. You wanna know the sad fucking truth? At least a third of what I sell each month goes through them. And if they get it in their heads that this is all, like, voluntary, what am I gonna be left with?" "Alright, I'll talk to him," Kirkham sighs. "You do more than talk to him, fucker. I wanna see blood on his face when he begs me to give him some bash to deal. I'm giving you sixth eighths a month—sixth eighths without overhead, you faggot, that you can smoke or you can sell—and me, I'm only netting six hundred a month even with those three motherfuckers helping out. We're basically partners, you and me, and I'm doing the work while you're collecting a third of the profits." "I said I'll talk to him." "Good. And feed him one of his own balls if he gives you any bullshit stories about how he is on tap for the month. He's just dumb enough to think he can get away with a fucking lie like that." A faint smirk crosses Kirkham's face, and you guess that he guesses you already straightened Evans out. But he nods all the same, for he understands that bullshit like Evans tried to pull can't be tolerated. Not if it endangers his own supply. * * * * * Did you tell Kirkham that you're only making six hundred dollars a month dealing marijuana? Well, that's all he knows about, that's approximately the profit on what you deal yourself and what you hustle through the others. He has no idea that you sell even more than that to Gardinhire in one giant drop at the first of each month, and he has no fucking clue that you sell more at the university than you do at Westside. Six hundred a month? You told Caleb the truth: It's forty-six hundred a month and change. Too bad four thousand of that sum goes toward clawing back the debt to Karol Mathis, and the remaining goes into the family bank account. When you get home, you get a close up look at what it goes to paying for. The Chens live in a house that would need at least another two hundred square feet to even be considered "dinky." There are two small bedrooms in the back, but one of them has been done up as a very small sitting room, whose fold-out couch Gary gets to sleep in each night. That's because the real living room has been turned into a sick room for his grandfather. You get an eyeful of it when you come in the front door. The room is dominated by a king-size adjustable bed that's raised its withered occupant into a half-sitting position. He's on a respirator, and a couple of monitors are attached to him. A portable toilet, still faintly stinking from its last use, is on one side of the bed. A chair is on the other. At the moment, Gary's mother is sitting there, but during the day it's usually occupied by a nurse. Grandfather really should be in a nursing home or even a hospital, but Gary's father won't stand for it. And so, despite his holding a middle-manager position at a bank, his family is reduced to these circumstances so that they can honor the old man by taking care of him here. Mrs. Chen looks tired, but her eyes are sharp as you come in the door. "Are you finally home? Where's your homework?" "I'm on my way to do it now." "Only now? What have you been doing?" "I got started on it, I only need to finish it." She turns her head so you can kiss her on the cheek. "I was doing some of the rest with friends." "Let me see." You don't hesitate to open the backpack, for you hid the busted metal briefcase in the back seat of the Jeep, and the stash and cash are in the small strongbox that you and Macauly soldered to the underside of the chassis last year. You take out a notebook and open it to some math that Gary did yesterday as insurance against just this kind of demand. She squints at it. "Why are you working with friends on this? Do you need help? Don't you understand it?" "I totally understand it, but I have to help them with their math so they'll help me with English." "Where's your English homework?" "I don't have any this weekend." "So what do you have to finish?" "A little Physics and some Marketing." You suspect you could teach Mr. Peters more about marketing than he could teach you. "You practice your viola yet?" You glance at the old man. "Isn't it too late?" "As soon as you get home tomorrow, then" "I have work and other homework after school." "Two hours Tuesday." "Yes, mother." "And a boy stopped by, looking for you," she says as you turn toward the bedroom. "Was he one of the ones you were studying with?" Your heart skips. "I don't know. What was his name?" "Dane Matthias." Her eyes narrow. "He smelled funny." "No, he wasn't one of the guys tonight. What did he want?" "He didn't say. He wanted to talk to you." Her tone turns aggressive. "I didn't let him stay." You bet she didn't, and you wonder if Gary—under Dane's mask—was shocked, relieved, or heartbroken when she turned him away. Now, should you call him? Go to his place? Or wait to see him tomorrow, which you undoubtedly will? Next: "The First Day of Another Life" |
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