Fade In:
SLIP BACK INTO CAMI’S SKIN
Yesterday was a shit storm, start to finish. Seems the best-laid plans always get waylaid, and sometimes hijacked completely. A simple wrong-place, wrong-time scenario sent you reeling. And what’s super messed up? You have no one you can commiserate with.
What you really hate, Cami,
is how helpless you were under that table.
You can’t always be forewarned,
but you can see to it you’re forearmed,
or at least armed.
Some people would say you got lucky. That Waylon and you escaped injury, and all those evil creeps stole from you yesterday was money. Not your phone. Not a stash. No credit cards or jewelry or weapons. The only one of those things in your purse was your cell, so maybe you were fortunate, but it seemed like all they were after was cash.
Rand knows you lost a couple hundred dollars in the robbery, but he has no clue that you’re really out more. Not only that, but now you’re in debt to one of Tucson’s most connected marijuana traffickers, something you have to work your way out of today.
Everything yesterday got pushed back late, so you had to reschedule some of your deliveries. People weren’t pleased, or even understanding, despite your legit excuse. The way of drug deals.
This morning, at least, was nice. You woke to Rand’s request for lovemaking, and after the hot-hot-hot dream he pulled you from, you were happy to oblige. At nineteen, your sex drive is maturing, changing from passive acceptance to true desire. You’ve read that hunger will continue to grow, maybe all the way into your thirties.
But sometimes you worry that Rand can’t keep pace. He’s pretty damn vanilla. If he had his way, it would mostly be straightforward missionary. Experimentation? Depends on the day. For sure he dislikes when you play the aggressor. Sometimes he even recoils. You asked him about it once, when he jerked away from your indelicate touch.
“Hey. What did I do?”
“I don’t want to feel like I don’t have a choice,” he said.
“It’s just a game. Some guys like them.”
“Some guys are stupid.”
Can’t argue with that. But you wouldn’t mind more variety, no matter who initiates it. Which is why you got clever this morning, simply offering yourself in unusual ways, assuming positions and allowing him to say yea or nay. He didn’t disagree even once. So maybe there’s hope for the two of you.
If not, you’ve got options.
Your husband’s a hard worker, that’s for sure. Took extra hours today to keep your small family afloat. And he agreed to save for a trip to Disneyland. You want to go while Waylon is little, while his imagination is vivid and pure. It will be expensive. Gas to California. Hotel. Food. Tickets. Tough for a young couple on a tight budget. But now that it’s firmly on your mind, you’re determined to make it happen.
Rand’s mom wouldn’t help out if she could, but his dad is generous. Rand’s going over tomorrow to ask Jeremy to lend a hand after your monetary loss yesterday. Maybe he’d toss a few bucks into the pot?
Come to think of it, your parents would probably contribute. Your mom confessed that they want to take Noelle to Hawaii for her eighteenth. If they can afford that, perhaps they could send a little in your direction, too. Maybe for Waylon’s birthday, which is coming up soon.
You should stop by your parents’ on the way to do your run. Ask about the prospect, and see if Noelle can watch Waylon so you don’t have to lug him around all afternoon. You told Rand the house isn’t toddler-proofed, but that isn’t exactly true. Mostly, there’s nothing for him to play with there. You can always pack a few toys to take over.
You also kind of lied about visiting with Noelle tomorrow, when what you have to do is take Hector his money. Meet his deadline. Because the last thing you want him to believe is that you stiffed him. The man has ties to a big-time cartel. He’d have no problem at all hurting you.
So you can say hi to your sister today instead. Not to mention schmooze your mom and dad. If you go right now you can chill over there for a few. Play the good daughter.
You really are an ingenious girl.
Waylon’s watching cartoons. When you toss his Little People and Play-Doh into his travel bag, along with an emergency change of clothes, he asks, “Where we goin’?”
“To Grandma and Grandpa’s so you can play with Noelle. Okay?”
“Yay!”
You call to give them a heads-up, but can’t seem to rouse anyone on the house phone, so you try Noelle’s cell. It goes to voice mail. Next you try your mom’s phone. She, at least, answers.
“Hey. Where’s Noelle?”
“She should be home. Why?”
“I can’t get hold of her. I was going to drop by and say hi.”
She pauses. “Last I heard she was taking a walk. Maybe she isn’t back yet.” Simple explanation, but there’s concern in her voice. “I’m at a friend’s. I’ll head on home and make sure everything’s okay.”
“I’ll meet you there. See you in a few.”
You bundle Waylon, his stuff, and your contraband-laden backpack into your car, and it isn’t until you’ve backed out of the driveway that your mom’s words sink all the way in: she was taking a walk. As far as you know, Noelle hasn’t walked much farther than from curb to front door in years.
It’s sad, because your sister used to be active. When the two of you were little, you both played softball and soccer, and she aced you at both, despite being younger. Anything that required running, she outperformed you.
She’s always rivaled you.
You despise her when she wins.
You excelled at a couple of things. Archery and target shooting, both accomplished from a stationary position. People might assume it was your dad who taught you to hit bull’s-eyes, but it was your mom. She grew up on a ranch in New Mexico, where “rattlesnakes infested the woodpile and coyotes fought over our cats and chickens.”
It’s hard to believe the slightly built, gentle woman who raised you once fought off critters with bullets, but she did. “A girl should know how to protect herself,” she said. And she made damn sure both you and Noelle could load and point a gun, and hit what you aimed at.
You’ve never had to worry about venomous reptiles or wily canids, but if you had to, you’d take them out in a heartbeat.
Thinking about dropping a live target
gives you the shivers
and you wonder if you could manage it.
You could do it. You could.
Imagine the power.
Imagine the thrill.
The garage is open when you arrive at your parents’, but only your mom’s car is parked inside. Cradling Waylon in one arm, his stuff in the other, you don’t bother to knock. It’s still your home, too. “Mom? Noelle?”
“In here,” calls your mother. “In Noelle’s room.”
That sounds ominous.
Turns out, it’s only semi-ominous. Apparently Noelle had a seizure. She’s recovering now, prone on her bed. Your mom is perched on the edge, assessing.
“What happened?” Dumb question. “I mean, I thought your meds had stabilized things.”
“For the most part they have,” answers your mom.
Noelle looks toward you with eyes lacking focus. “Not enough sleep last night.”
“Noelle needs a nap?” suggests Waylon.
“Good idea,” says your mom. “Let’s let her catch a few winks. I’ve got cookies in the kitchen.”
Of course, Waylon’s amenable. Your mom leads him, chattering, from the room, and you take her spot on Noelle’s bed. “Was it a bad one?”
“Pretty bad,” she agrees. “Worst I’ve had in a while. Lack of sleep was only one reason.”
“Lifestyle change? Mom said you were out walking today.”
“Yeah. I want to drop a few pounds before Ha—”
“You know?”
“Mom mentioned she and Dad were discussing it, yes.”
“Did she tell you Grace is coming, too? At least, she was.”
You didn’t even realize Grace and Noelle were back in touch. Neither has said a word about it. Now for sure you’re going to push for Disneyland. It’s only fair.
“No. She didn’t mention Grace. And what do you mean, ‘was’?”
Noelle shrugs. “I’m just not sure she’ll be able to tear herself away from Daniel.”
“They do seem way too attached, but Grace has a mind of her own.” As you well know. “Anyway, who could turn down a trip to Hawaii?”
“I hope you’re right. I really want her to go. It would be a lot more fun with a friend along.”
“Try not to worry about it.”
“Easier said than done. For now, I am going to close my eyes for a few. Gearing up for the rally tomorrow.”
“Rally?”
“The immigration rally at U of A. I’m going.”
“Yeah. Gotta take a stand for what’s right at some point.”
Noelle has been full of surprises today. Exercise. Grace. And now you hear she’s become an activist, which is something you’d never expect, especially not for this particular cause.
You huff. “Since when do you care about illegals?”
“Undocumented, not illegal,” she corrects. “And I’ve cared since I’ve become deeply aware of the issue.”
“Enough to march down the street, carrying a sign?”
“That’s right.”
She’s brave.
A whole lot braver than you.
“Noelle, you’re a hermit. You realize rallies attract hordes of people?”
“Sometimes. And, yeah, it will be weird to crawl out of my cave, but this is something I believe in. Dreamers, especially, deserve the chance at a better future. They don’t know any home but America. They should stay.”
“You sound like a pamphlet.”
She grins. “I’ve read quite a few.”
You’d hang out and debate, but you’ve got appointments, and your customers have been waiting since yesterday. In fact, one of them left you a terse text message this morning. “Well, be careful. I hear it’s going to be insane.”
You give her a hug, grab Waylon’s stuff, slip out of the room, and go find your mom and son in the kitchen. Waylon holds up a gnawed cookie, smiles a gooey smile.
“Looks good, baby. Hey, Mom, can Waylon stay and play for a couple of hours? I’ve got some errands to run, and it would be easier without dragging him along. I brought toys or he could watch TV. I was going to ask Noelle, but . . .”
“Of course. Your father’s golfing, so my afternoon is free.”
Perfect. You’d like to bring up Disneyland now, but stop yourself. It’s better to wait. You’ve already used up a favor.
Before you start your car, you give Tim a quick call to let him know you’re on your way. Unlike some of your customers, he’s always got plenty of cash, so he’s not a bargain-basement shopper. He always takes a half ounce off your hands, and he’s willing to pay whatever you charge. With him, you’re fair but not overly generous.
He lives with his mom in a very nice home, in an upscale neighborhood north of the city proper. Nothing like your part of town, where houses are shoved in close together and you have to worry about soft crime—burglaries and car break-ins. Not much gang violence to speak of, and as far as you know, at least as long as you’ve lived there, nothing like a murder. But enough stuff to be concerned about.
Rand and you have discussed getting a dog. As a kid, he had a mutt he adored and he really thinks Waylon should have one. But a breed with a big enough bark to deter a burglar would cost an arm and a leg to feed. Maybe one day. In the meantime, you’ve come up with a solution that does not require food or poop scooping.
Every house in Tim’s neighborhood probably came equipped with alarm systems and security services. Your Civic looks out of place here, where BMWs and Audis are de rigueur, so you’re always a little nervous about delivering your wares to his doorstep, and you really hate bringing Waylon here, where you have to worry about him smudging fancy furniture with grubby fingers. At least that won’t be a problem today.
Apparently Tim’s mother is absent this afternoon, because he invites you into the living room, rather than up to his bedroom.
“Let’s see what you’ve got.”
You offer the premeasured twelve-plus grams. Yeah, it should be fourteen, but you always scam a little for personal stash. Not like he’s going to weigh it. “It’s awesome sativa.”
“Sample?”
“Of course. Here?”
“My mom’s gone until dinner, but we can step out in back. Doesn’t hurt to be cautious.”
He leads the way out onto their patio, an interesting geometric pattern of pretty pavers spilling into the xeriscaped sand of their backyard. You settle into a teak chair and light the joint you brought rolled. Tim always asks for a sample.
It takes only a few tokes to confirm your statement about it being awesome sativa. Just as cotton mouth sets in, Tim asks, “So are Grace and Daniel a regular thing now?”
The dude rarely has much to say beyond the usual client-dealer dialogue, so this comes as a surprise, and an uncomfortable one at that. You struggle to find enough spit to form a single word. “Wha-what?”
“Silas told me he saw them together. Like, making out together.”
Dry mouth or no, you say, “Silas. You mean the guy who’s stalking Grace?”
Tim grins. “Yeah, okay. That’s kind of weird.”
“So what’s wrong with Grace hooking up with Daniel?”
His smile dissolves. “Look. I barely even know Grace. But I do know you’re her friend, and I’m well acquainted with Daniel. If Grace is someone you care about, I’d warn her. That’s all.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know Daniel’s my half brother, right?”
This is a major blindside.
What else don’t you know?
You were aware Tim was involved with Silas putting Daniel in the hospital, but not that little detail, which seems important. “Actually, no, I didn’t. I’ve only met Daniel a couple of times. He’s never discussed his personal life. All he talks about is Grace.”
As you finish the joint, he relates a story about his father’s long-term affair with an illegal Honduran immigrant, the by-product of which turned out to be Daniel. When she was deported, Daniel came to live here, in this very house, with his dad’s legitimate family.
“Daniel idolized our dad. I mean, I loved him, but Daniel was like a puppy, following him around, licking his feet. Any time Dad would pay attention to Mom or me, you could see how pissed that made Daniel. He’d do stuff for attention, or to hurt us. Like, he messed up my bike a couple of times, and he started my closet on fire. Dad forgave everything, but once he was gone, things got worse.
“Dad’s death hit all of us hard, but Daniel totally flipped out. He’d go on regular rampages, breaking things he knew were important to Mom, like her favorite crystal wineglasses—the ones she loved because they were wedding gifts. Sometimes he’d come to the table and instead of eating he’d just sit there, like daring Mom to say something. Sometimes the food tasted funny, and on one memorable occasion, there was pee on my plate. Eventually, Mom made him eat in the kitchen and fix his own meals.”
“Wow. That’s crazy.”
“Exactly. We got so we didn’t feel safe in the house, but Mom had promised Dad she’d take care of Daniel.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t feel safe?”
“Okay, like, once she woke up and he was standing at the foot of the bed, holding a screwdriver, just staring at her and tapping that damn thing against the palm of his hand. It was two in the morning. After that, she put a dead bolt on his bedroom door and locked him in at night.”
Unbelievable. You definitely should say something to Grace. But would she believe you?
“Eventually, he split out the window. That’s why he’s on the street.”
That part you knew. The rest . . .
“After he left, there were break-ins here. Things disappeared, like a high-end camera, a lot of my mom’s expensive jewelry, a couple of firearms. We couldn’t prove it was him, but it must have been, because after Mom changed the locks it quit happening. Well, that and because Silas and I beat the fuck out of him and told him it better stop.”
And so, the plot thickens. It generally does.
“Did you ever get your stuff back?”
“Nah. The cops said they’d check the pawnshops, but I doubt they tried very hard. They said nothing turned up, that the perp had probably sold it cheap or traded it for drugs.”
Sounds about right.
“So, you think Grace could be in danger?”
“Only if she gets on his bad side. But that isn’t hard to do.”
You finish your deal, collect a bill, and take off for your other stops, thinking about Daniel, who’s all mild-mannered nerd on the outside, while under the skin lurks a whole different person. Could he turn violent? Of course he could. Because the thing is, he isn’t so different from most people.
Including you.
Fade Out