‘It’s not fair.’ The girl has recovered by the time we return to the office. Although I am exhausted by the night’s adventures, spent and sore, she paces around the small room. Heedless now of danger, she has switched on the bright electric light and casts shadows as she walks. ‘AD has plenty of runners. Tick was never a regular. And he’s not – he doesn’t need the scat, Blackie. Not yet. Though if AD keeps giving it to him, giving it to him when he’s hungry or cold …’
She leaves the thought unfinished. I am watching her from the windowsill, washing my haunch, pressing my tongue against the bruised and swollen flesh. I find no blood. My hide is too thick to be easily broken and my fur seems to have insulated me from any worse injury. But I will feel this night and the accumulation of insults to my body.
‘The weight.’ She stops, shaking her head, then starts pacing again. ‘As a marker, but why? Marker for what?’
I pause, leg askew, and look at her. Of course, she does not know the details of the deal pending in a day’s time. I blink, unsure how to tell her. But she has heard enough.
‘He’s not cooking anymore, that’s clear. So he must be getting it – bringing some in. But why …’ She sighs and collapses on the couch. I leave my perch on the windowsill to lie beside her. She is tired, overwrought. If I can relax her and get her to rest, she will – we both will – be the better for it. I stretch out and, without thinking, she strokes me, the rhythmic pressure warm and comforting. The pain in my side dulls. Under her touch I feel my body stretch, the muscles relax and lengthen. With my eyes closed, I feel I could extend to fill this sofa, my feet up on the arm rest, my arms behind my head. It’s an odd illusion, but lying here, the girl by my side, I find it strangely comforting as I drift off to sleep.
It is that smell. That pungent, bitter smell that hits me first. The drug – the one AD manufactures. The one Tick, apparently, has developed a fondness for, although he is not yet as addicted as that poor woman in the alley. I am in the dark, the cold dark, but I would recognize that stink anywhere.
The laughter, however, is less familiar.
‘Relax,’ says a voice, male and heavy with authority. ‘You’re not giving anything away. You’re building your base. Everyone here will be clamoring for the re-up, and you’ll be the one with the source.’
‘I guess.’
I turn and see I am not in complete darkness. Rather, I am hidden. Crouched behind a stack of flimsy platforms – pallets, the word comes to me. In the spaces between their wooden slats I can see two figures. No, three, and the flickering glow of a fire. I see no faces, only bodies. Men, standing, dressed for the weather – the cold that has me shivering in my hiding space. But just from those two words, I identify one of the speakers. AD, only less sure of himself than I’ve ever seen him. Now that I have identified his voice, I can make out his scrawny form standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets. Like Tick, only bigger. I cannot remember the gang leader looking so vulnerable or unsure. ‘Only …’
He doesn’t finish. He actually scuffs his feet, and I see that they are standing in a wide, open room. A warehouse space. Despite his height, he looks small to me. Insignificant in this setting.
‘It’s not a waste, it’s an investment.’ The speaker accents the last word in a way that’s familiar to me, and I strain to see. Only, I am not as flexible as usual, for some reason. I feel ungainly. Stiff. In my dream state, I am more aware of my age, of the wear I have subjected this old body to. ‘Come on, don’t hold out.’
A hand extends toward AD. It reaches out of a coat sleeve trimmed with fur. I start and almost waken. I recall that fur. The stench of death, of fear, although the reek of the drug masks it. I shiver in my sleep. I need to readjust, to see more. But as I do, I knock against the pallet, my old limbs too clumsy with the cold. And suddenly the voices change to shouts. Commands. I am surrounded. Grabbed and dragged from my hiding place, thrown at the feet of the men standing there. I know this warehouse. I know these men. This deal. They see this knowledge in my face, and reach for me—
‘Ow.’ I open my eyes to find the girl looking down at me. Her hand is in her mouth but even so I can see the line of red where I have scratched her. I look up in mute apology, unable to express my dismay.
‘Just as well.’ She pulls herself off the sofa and makes for the desk. ‘I really need to figure this out.’
Forlorn, but also preoccupied by my strange dream, I follow, brushing against her ankles as a gesture of peace. She sits at the desk and when I jump up to join her she doesn’t protest. One advantage of being a dumb animal: we are not held unduly responsible for our actions.
‘What gets me is that AD wasn’t cooking.’ She’s talking to herself, but I listen. She is an observant one, and I am interested in her process. ‘He’s always cooking, at least small batches for the crew and all.’ She’s staring at a piece of paper – the original contract – but I do not think she sees it. ‘And the crew was scattered, as if he didn’t need them.’