corn-liquor pee. Yes sir, he whizzed away inta Sarah Dawn Slade's head fer a good long time, he did...
........
It's... the motherlode, Cummings thought.
"It's 10 keys, 80 percent pure," Dutch said matter-of-factly. He sat down in a beaten recliner, popped open a beer. Inside the shack, the humidity felt thick as broth. "I told you our point orders would be getting bigger."
Spaz was giggling aside. Cummings just stared. On the table lay a veritable mountain of bagged cocaine.
"You get five grand for the run," Dutch said. "Just do like you usually do. You and Spazzie load it up into your little police car and drop it off on our guy in Big Stone Gap, then come back here and you get five grand."
Cummings struggled to clear his head. He had to play the game right. A swig of beer, then he turned poker-faced to Dutch. "This is a huge run and you know it. I'll take the cash up front or it's no deal."
"Somehow, Stew, I knew you'd say that." Dutch tossed a wad, which Cummings caught in the air. Fifty rubber-banded $100 bills.
"See, Stew, I'm a businessman. Since I hired you to drop for me. I haven't lost a single order. And when that happens, my distro goes up and so do my long-term points. We'll be getting an order this big every week And you know what that means?"
"What?"
"You just got yourself a raise to twenty grand a month."
Cummings was sweating. All this time he'd been waiting for his ship to come in. Well here it was: the fuckin' Queen Mary. Twenty grand a month for making one drop a week. That was serious money. That was one sweet deal.
But the universal rule came back to haunt him.
Cops on the take never last long...
Cummings wasn't stupid. He could drive point for a few more months, rake in some dough, sure. And every day was another chance to get burned. This was the moment he'd been waiting for; he'd known that all along, just hadn't really admitted it. These 10 keys were an initial drop, and Cummings knew that Dutch took half in advance. And he also knew this: there was only one way for any cop on the take to get out clean and fat.
"Okay, Spaz." he said. "Let's get this blow in the car and get moving." When Spaz grabbed the first couple of bags, Cummings shucked his off-duty Webley .455. and—
BAM!
Spaz' head erupted like ripe fruit. Dutch rolled out of the chair, ducked, then sprang up with a cocked Glock 9mm. But Cummings was expecting this, and—
BAM!
—caught Dutch in the throat before he could get off a single shot.
Silence, then.
Hot fumes tickled Cummings' sinuses. The entire move was so automatic it nearly surprised him. He kicked the Glock out of Dutch's hand, squeezed off a point-blank headshot to be safe, then reholstered his piece. The Webley's irredeemably large projectile reverted Dutch's head to a plume of pink-red crap blown across the floor. I just killed two guys, the realization unfurled, and I don't care.
He checked the windows. Nothing. Then he looked back at the cocaine. Ten keys would have an astronomical street value, but there was no way he could handle that. He'd made the right move, he knew. This was his clean break. Besides, it wasn't the coke he was after.
Yeah, that fucker takes half on delivery. I know he does.
He searched the place. It didn't take much effort. It's the Queen Mary, all right. In the back room was a gym bag—full of banded hundred dollar bills.
He kept his cool, lit a Lucky, stood a moment to think. His future was set. Never again would he have to sweat Kath's pharmacy bills, and never again would they ever be in want. He'd have to be careful how he spent it, just a trickle at a time, and he knew he couldn't put it in the bank, for that would alert the IRS. Be smart, he told himself.
He couldn't leave the cocaine, either. He needed this to look like a dope hit, and hitters would never leave 10 keys of 80 percent blow on the table. So he threw the gym bag in the trunk, then loaded up the coke. He'd used his Webley to smoke
........
It's... the motherlode, Cummings thought.
"It's 10 keys, 80 percent pure," Dutch said matter-of-factly. He sat down in a beaten recliner, popped open a beer. Inside the shack, the humidity felt thick as broth. "I told you our point orders would be getting bigger."
Spaz was giggling aside. Cummings just stared. On the table lay a veritable mountain of bagged cocaine.
"You get five grand for the run," Dutch said. "Just do like you usually do. You and Spazzie load it up into your little police car and drop it off on our guy in Big Stone Gap, then come back here and you get five grand."
Cummings struggled to clear his head. He had to play the game right. A swig of beer, then he turned poker-faced to Dutch. "This is a huge run and you know it. I'll take the cash up front or it's no deal."
"Somehow, Stew, I knew you'd say that." Dutch tossed a wad, which Cummings caught in the air. Fifty rubber-banded $100 bills.
"See, Stew, I'm a businessman. Since I hired you to drop for me. I haven't lost a single order. And when that happens, my distro goes up and so do my long-term points. We'll be getting an order this big every week And you know what that means?"
"What?"
"You just got yourself a raise to twenty grand a month."
Cummings was sweating. All this time he'd been waiting for his ship to come in. Well here it was: the fuckin' Queen Mary. Twenty grand a month for making one drop a week. That was serious money. That was one sweet deal.
But the universal rule came back to haunt him.
Cops on the take never last long...
Cummings wasn't stupid. He could drive point for a few more months, rake in some dough, sure. And every day was another chance to get burned. This was the moment he'd been waiting for; he'd known that all along, just hadn't really admitted it. These 10 keys were an initial drop, and Cummings knew that Dutch took half in advance. And he also knew this: there was only one way for any cop on the take to get out clean and fat.
"Okay, Spaz." he said. "Let's get this blow in the car and get moving." When Spaz grabbed the first couple of bags, Cummings shucked his off-duty Webley .455. and—
BAM!
Spaz' head erupted like ripe fruit. Dutch rolled out of the chair, ducked, then sprang up with a cocked Glock 9mm. But Cummings was expecting this, and—
BAM!
—caught Dutch in the throat before he could get off a single shot.
Silence, then.
Hot fumes tickled Cummings' sinuses. The entire move was so automatic it nearly surprised him. He kicked the Glock out of Dutch's hand, squeezed off a point-blank headshot to be safe, then reholstered his piece. The Webley's irredeemably large projectile reverted Dutch's head to a plume of pink-red crap blown across the floor. I just killed two guys, the realization unfurled, and I don't care.
He checked the windows. Nothing. Then he looked back at the cocaine. Ten keys would have an astronomical street value, but there was no way he could handle that. He'd made the right move, he knew. This was his clean break. Besides, it wasn't the coke he was after.
Yeah, that fucker takes half on delivery. I know he does.
He searched the place. It didn't take much effort. It's the Queen Mary, all right. In the back room was a gym bag—full of banded hundred dollar bills.
He kept his cool, lit a Lucky, stood a moment to think. His future was set. Never again would he have to sweat Kath's pharmacy bills, and never again would they ever be in want. He'd have to be careful how he spent it, just a trickle at a time, and he knew he couldn't put it in the bank, for that would alert the IRS. Be smart, he told himself.
He couldn't leave the cocaine, either. He needed this to look like a dope hit, and hitters would never leave 10 keys of 80 percent blow on the table. So he threw the gym bag in the trunk, then loaded up the coke. He'd used his Webley to smoke
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