Inside Passage. Burt Weissbourd

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      He buzzed Lester. He would know where they stood with her.

      Not that Corey could prove anything…and now, she’d had a taste of what could happen, and she had kept her mouth shut so far…but…but—whenever he looked over his shoulder—there she was, a scorpion with her venomous tail in the air. No! No, you can’t have that! Not while you run for state attorney general. No, sir.

      He heard Lester’s cane in the hallway. When he first met him, twenty-one years ago, Les was an L.A. deadbeat with a bamboo cane. Nick, an undercover cop with an eye for the jugular, had caught the so-called deadbeat brokering a nine million dollar deal between South American businessmen and Iraq, trading U.S.-made bomb fuses for oil. Lester was a method-of-payment specialist, an expert in rough diamonds. He gave him a choice: ten to thirty in prison—or a quarter of, say, fifteen million dollars in diamonds. Then he bought him a new cane and a nice suit he never wore. Soon after, Lester told him about his epiphany—Nick was going to be king of something. Lester had been his right hand ever since. Nick swiveled in his chair, knowing Lester would get right to it.

      “We own her PO,” Lester got right to it. “Riley held his feet to the fire. The guy—”

      Nick raised a palm. He didn’t want to know. Riley, a short guy, could go too far. “So where are we?”

      “Her PO has a past. Now, he’s like a good guard dog. He’ll bite her, we tell him to.”

      Nick didn’t say anything.

      “Her kid’s pushing dope. He buys from an older kid in his foster home, Big Jimmy Raiser. We can lever that any way we want.”

      He glanced out his window.

      “I saw her. Planted a seed. Told her you wanted her to work for me or disappear. My idea is we make her run, then tell the corrections guy to reel her in, send her back to prison. Two-time loser. No one listens. Whatever she says.”

      Lester rarely saw the easy way, especially if it meant being helpful. He didn’t care; he didn’t need Lester for that.

      Lester handed him a file. “Here’s the detail, who she sees, what she does. I got two people on it, and every now and then I touch her myself.”

      Touch her? He could only imagine. Lester had a gift for intimidation. He perused the file. Yes, Lester was hitting his marks just so. Something caught his eye…a name he recognized—Abe Stein. The guy was doing her psychiatric evaluation. Abe Stein?

      Abe Stein. Dammit. Jesse’s son. Clumsy, awkward guy looked like he couldn’t do anything. Still. Bad luck? Coincidence? He loathed coincidence. Nick could feel his forehead heating up.

      Lester was standing there, cloudy eyes unfocused. Nick watched Lester and stewed. Two, three minutes, easy. Lester’s face gave away nothing.

      “Les,” he eventually said. He rarely called him that. “We’ve got a problem. We’re going another way on this. I think you’ll like it.”

      In the alley behind Billy’s foster home, there was an abandoned shed where Big Jimmy hid his stash. The shed’s rotted-out back wall sat against the alley, and under the corner Big Jimmy had dug a deep hole, set a wood plank over it, then covered it with dirt and rocks. In the hole Big J kept a green plastic garbage bag with one ounce baggies of marijuana inside. Billy would arrange to meet him in the shed to buy his weed. Jimmy was big—maybe 230 pounds—and old, almost eighteen. He had lived in the foster home forever. Billy was sure their foster mother made him pay rent, or maybe she got a cut from Big Jimmy’s deals. Same difference.

      Every week Big Jimmy would replenish his stash, usually Purple Kush or Blueberry. Sometimes he had BC Bud, down from Canada. Billy never knew where Big J got his dope. He just knew that one day, maybe three weeks after he moved in, Jimmy had given him an eighth of an ounce to sell. After Billy sold it, he came back for more. Since joining the Chargers, he bought a one-ounce baggie every week.

      Billy could buy one ounce for $250. He would divide that ounce into eight smaller eighth-of-an-ounce baggies that he could sell for $50 each, or $400 for that same ounce. At the Blue City he was such a reliable provider that his new friends fronted him enough for an ounce every Friday. He only did business, though, with Morgan or Dave. That was his rule. They would buy for the whole crowd: five baggies every Friday; three more baggies on Monday. They never even asked about his cost. Four hundred dollars a week was no money for this crew. He had seen Morgan buy a dress at Betsy Johnson for $495.

      It was a sweet set-up. He was sure he could sell more but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to be a drug dealer. What he was doing was helping his friends get high. And making enough money to keep up with them.

      On Fridays, the Chargers practiced from 3:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m., so he and the other guys didn’t begin arriving at the Blue City until around 6:00 p.m. Tonight, Billy, Morgan, and at least ten of her friends, were going to her house to get high, eat pizza and hang out. Morgan had a great old house on Federal, and her parents were leaving at 7:00 p.m. for the weekend. When he arrived at the café, Morgan kissed him, putting her tongue in his mouth.

      Billy kissed her back, glad that Morgan knew what she wanted and went for it. He was sure she had been with other guys. He’d had one girlfriend, an eighth grader who let him touch her breasts. That was it. And he’d been with an older girl one time. She made him come with her hand. It happened pretty fast. With Morgan there had been lots of kissing and touching, but it always stopped there. Still, he had bet she’d had sex, more than once, and tried things he had never done. So he let Morgan take the lead, cool, like sex was no big thing. Which was totally untrue.

      “Good day?” she asked when they had finished a second kiss.

      Billy liked how she was so thin and still had nice breasts, and her shoulder-length blonde hair always smelled good. At the foster home everyone had B.O. “Okay,” he answered, not wanting to tell her that he had slept in a squat near the U last night. That he skipped school today. That except for his stop at the stash in the alley, he hadn’t been near his foster home in two days. He had worked it out to shower at a teammate’s house. He yawned. “Tired, though.”

      “Wake up, baby. ‘Miles to go before we sleep.’” She ran her fingers along the nape of his neck.

      He wanted to ask her what she meant by that, but Russ and Dave, two of the Chargers, sat down at their table. “Hey, Billy.” Dave rubbed his shoulder. “You’re the man.”

      “You coming to Morgan’s?” Billy asked.

      “I’m there.” Dave tapped his fingers on the table, a drum roll.

      Under the table Billy discreetly handed him an envelope.

      Dave pocketed it, high-fived Billy and moved on.

      Morgan turned to Billy. “Where can we go before the party?”

      He liked this idea. He also liked how Morgan always had a program, something bold. “Your house?”

      “If we go to my house, my parents will make us clean up the basement for tonight. Besides, I’d like to see where you live,” she said.

      Billy could feel his neck tense up. “It’s pretty far.”

      “Where?”

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