Free A Beautiful Place to Die by Philip Craig

imagine.”
    â€œPlease . . .”
    I waited while she cried some more. Then: “Where does he get his stuff? I mean when he isn’t getting it from you.”
    â€œI don’t know, I don’t know.”
    â€œBilly likes to have people know he’s somebody important. He reminds people like the guys who work in the boatyard that his old man has money. That’s the way he is. I’ll bet that he’s dropped a hint or two about his source. Let me help you. His source is on the island, isn’t it?”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    â€œSure you do. Billy lives on the island. His contacts are here. He hasn’t been on the mainland long enough to tie into the Providence drug circles, so I know he gets his stuff here. But I need to know a name. Give me a name and you walk.”
    â€œSylvia, he mentioned Sylvia. I don’t know what her last name is.”
    â€œWhy do you think it’s a woman?”
    Julie looked at me with genuine surprise. “What do you mean? Who else but a woman would be named Sylvia?”
    It was clear that Julie and her family did not mingle with the Connecticut Portuguese.
    â€œNever mind,” I said. I got out her license and herfather’s business card and gave them back to her. Then I dug out the syringes and the vials. “Do you want these?”
    â€œNobody wants them right after a fix,” she said bitterly. “Everybody’s strong then.” She stared at her hands. “You keep them.”
    â€œGet some help. Somebody at Brown can point you to the right people.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œOr you might try trusting your father to help you. Whatever you decide, I’d change my circle of friends if I were you. You’re young and pretty and probably fairly smart, but you won’t be any of those things if you hang around Billy and his pals.”
    â€œYeah.” She got out and walked down Circuit Avenue. I wrote down the information from her license and her father’s card before I forgot it. Then I put the vial and syringes in the glove compartment and drove home.
    There I put the drug stuff in a paper bag in the fridge, put on a Willie Nelson tape, and poured myself a Rémy Martin. One of my luxuries. No jug brandies for J. W. Jackson. I wear old clothes and my car is fourteen years old, but I drink Rémy Martin, by God! Sometimes, anyway.
    Willie sang about Poncho and Lefty and about fishing and growing old and I thought about my day. I realized that I’d liked it. I’d liked nosing around. It felt good. Natural. It had been six years since I’d done it professionally and I’d never planned to do it again, but today I had and it felt pretty good. I ran everything through my mind, turned the tape over, and thought some more while Willie sang. When Willie was through, I went to bed.
    I woke early, thinking of Zee. I got up and made four loaves of Betty Crocker white bread and set it to rise. I took scallops out of the freezer to thaw. I was at the A&P when it opened and bought leeks, onions, ice cream, canned peach halves, frozen raspberries, cream, butter (unsalted, of course), and fresh asparagus. When Al’s Package Store opened across the street, I bought a bottle of cherry liqueur and a good Graves.
    Home again, I set the raspberries to thaw, then made a cream of refrigerator soup with the leeks, some butter and milk, a potato, and whatever leftover vegetables I could find in the fridge. Green vichyssoise, sort of, with salt and pepper and thyme for seasoning. Then I made a scallops St.-Jacques and flavored it with parsley, sage, no rosemary, and thyme. And basil.
    I had a beer and punched down the bread, and after it had risen again put it in the oven. By noon it was finished, and I had eaten nearly half a loaf. There is nothing, simply nothing, better than fresh hot bread and butter. When the bread was cool, I put two loaves in the