Free Wrong Thing by Barry Graham

free of it.

    The business lasted for about two years. There had been a delay in a consignment they were waiting for, and at around one o’clock in the morning they got a phone call from the guy who was carrying it. He asked if they wanted to meet him at a Denny’s. The Kid was tired, and Miguel had a woman in bed with him, so the Kid told the guy to just come over to the house and drop it off.
    He did. The Kid quickly drank a beer with him, then sent him on his way. He left the meth on the kitchen table and went back to bed. The woman Miguel was with didn’t know what they were into, but the Kid figured he’d get up before them and move the stuff.
    He didn’t know the guy was a snitch.
    At just after five in the morning, there was a banging on the front door. The Kid ignored it, but it didn’t stop. Groggily, he got out of bed and, naked, went into the hall and stumbled towards the door. Before he reached it, it was smashed open, hit so hard that it bounced against the wall and slammed shut before being kicked open again. There were five cops, and they had a warrant. They also had their guns out.
    They forced Miguel and his woman, Maria, to get out of bed. They herded everyone into the living room. Miguel was wearing shorts, and Maria was wearing his robe. The Kid was still naked. “Put something on,” one of the cops told him.
    â€œYes, sir,” said the Kid. He walked over to the stereo and looked at the rack of CDs. “Is Johnny Cash okay?”
    The cop punched him in the face, sending him sprawling on the floor.
    â€œDon’t do that!” Maria yelled at the cop. “You didn’t have to hit him.”
    â€œI felt that my life was in danger and used the minimum necessary force,” the cop deadpanned.
    The Kid stayed on the floor, thinking that if he got up the cop might knock him down again. He didn’t feel afraid, just hopeless. He knew his life was over. He knew there was enough meth on the kitchen table to guarantee him and Miguel at least ten years each. He felt sad for Miguel, that he’d gotten him into this and ruined the good thing he had going with his job.
    â€œGet up,” another cop told him. The Kid got to his feet, warily, and the cop pulled his hands behind his back and cuffed him. Other cops did the same to Miguel and Maria.
    â€œOkay,” said the cop who had hit the Kid. “Do you want to do it nice and tell us where the drugs are?”
    â€œWe ain’t got no drugs,” the Kid said.
    The cop shrugged. “Okay” They were led to the kitchen and made to sit at the table while the cops searched the house. The meth was right there on the table, under their noses, but they didn’t notice it as they forced their prisoners to sit there and warned them not to move.
    The cops trashed the place. They emptied drawers and closets and the contents of the fridge onto the floor, slit mattresses to look inside them. The Kid and Miguel sat and looked at each other. They looked at the meth, then back at each other. The Kid thought about telling the cops the stuff was right here, on the table, so they wouldn’t do any more damage to the furniture. He knew it wouldn’t matter much to him or Miguel what happened to the furniture—they weren’t going to be needing it where they were going—but he didn’t like seeing things being destroyed. But the thought was fleeting. Let them earn their paychecks.
    Maria didn’t do drugs, and so neither the Kid nor Miguel knew whether she realized what was on the table in front of her. She made to ask Miguel something, probably along the lines of What the fuck is going on? but he shook his head and whispered to her, telling her to just be cool and sit there and not say anything.
    As they looked at each other, the Kid and Miguel felt as though they could read each other’s minds. It was like a silent discussion. Both considered trying to somehow hide the drugs. Both