Free Blood on the Bayou by Stacey Jay Page A

tea bags into my palm. There are five. “Let a bag sit in boiling hot water for ten minutes and then chug it as fast as you can. You’ll pee clean for at least six weeks.”
    “Wow. This is generous.”
    His expression takes on an ugly edge. “Fuck yeah. I’m on your side. I mean who the fuck do these people think they are? I’ve worked for the FCC for four years and never had a goddamned drug test, and now, all of a sudden there are dickweeds in iron suits out here every few weeks making me piss in a cup? That’sbullshit.” He emphasizes the point by kicking his desk hard enough to make the phone rattle. “I do my job fine when I’m high. Shit, I do it better .”
    So he’s being tested, too. It eases my mind. A little.
    At least this isn’t an Annabelle-only policy. They must be cracking down on all the people they suspect of having a habit. Jin-Sang thinks I drink too much and knows I occasionally take more Restalin per night than recommended by medical professionals. If he put that in his monthly report, it could have been enough to get me on the drug-abuse radar. But I’m cutting back on the Restalin and alcohol isn’t going to show up in a test. Unless I’m drunk at the time, which doesn’t happen during the day anymore.
    At least . . . not as often.
    Still, there’s no way I’m going to turn down Ferret Face’s tea bags. I might need them, and besides, drug abuse is bringing us together.
    I lift my hip and tuck the bags into my back pocket. “So is that why you met me with a gun? You decided to shoot the next asshole who comes looking for a pee sample?”
    He grunt-laughs again. “We just don’t like unexpected company. You know how it is.”
    “Sure. I heard there were highwaymen on this road.”
    “Fuck them. I ain’t scared of them.”
    “Then what are you scared of?” The second the question’s out, I know I’ve pushed too hard. Ferret Face’s mouth hardens and his eyes start to glaze over.
    He shrugs. “Nothing.”
    “So this is a safe place to work?” I ask, trying to steer us back into lighter territory. “I’m serious about that transfer. You seem cool.” I gesture to the pocket where his tea is snuggled in tight. “I could use a change. Sample collecting sucks it and the money is shit.”
    “Oh, the money’s good out here.”
    “How good? Like FCC good, or like . . . serious cash good?”
    “I don’t get you.”
    “I’ve got debt. I had some problems a few months back,” I say vaguely. “I owe a few different people. I’m not going to be able to pay unless I get a better job.” I sigh and pick at a frayed seam on my jeans. “At this point I don’t even know if I can stay with the FCC. I’m thinking about going downriver, seeing if the guy running the cotton plantation needs a pair of hands.”
    “I heard his people do pretty good.”
    “Yeah. It just stinks. I feel like I should stay with the FCC, but how do they expect us to make a living?” I ask with a tortured bat of my eyelashes. “They don’t pay us half what we’re worth. I swear, this is why people turn to a life of crime.”
    Ferret Face smiles an ugly, yellow smile. “Don’t try it.”
    “Try what?”
    “Don’t try to work me.”
    “What?” I lift my eyebrows and feign innocence.
    “I know why you’re here, and it ain’t because you want a transfer.” He leans back in his chair, hand drifting closer to his rifle. “I don’t like being fucked with.”
    “Okay.” I let my eyes go as cold as his. “I know you’re skimming the shipments. I want in.”
    “Fuck you,” he says with a laugh.
    “Fuck you,” I say, finding it easy to take offense with his dismissal. “I’m immune, I’ve got connections in this parish, and I’m a hell of a lot more motivated than the homeless men you’ve got selling your shit right now. I could help you expand your business.”
    “Is that right?”
    “That’s right, Ferret Face.”
    He grins again, less ugly than before.