“Have a seat.” Natalia pulls out a seat in front of her father’s desk, gesturing for me to park my ass in it. She seems to have forgotten about my gun. Either that, or she’s placing a great deal of trust in me, and she doesn’t expect me to shoot her father where he stands.
“Sorry it’s so dim in here,” she tells me. “My father has very sensitive eyes. Normal fluorescents bother him.”
“That’s okay.” I sit down, watching her as she goes and sits in the seat Fernando must have occupied a moment ago. Sliding open a drawer, she produces a small silver mirrored plate, along with a narrow metal tube. It glints in the half light—a solid gold blow pipe.
I know what’s coming next. Sure enough, she places a small wrap of paper down onto the desk in front of her and begins to unfold it. “I’m sure you’ll want to sample our current product, yes?”
“Oh, that’s not necessary.”
She looks up at me, frowning. “No? That’s normally our buyers’ motto—try before you buy. People are normally ripping this stuff out of our hands. Not cheap.”
“I’m sure that’s true. But it’s also bad business. I’m not here to enjoy myself. I’m here to make a deal. If I’m out of my head, how can I have a proper conversation with your father?”
Natalia smiles, splaying her fingers on the table in front of her. She studies her fingers, each and every one, before she speaks again. “Mr. America, you had better stick this pipe up your nose, and you had better inhale deep. If you don’t, my father is going to have your hands removed, and he’s going to mount them on the wall of our living room. Is that what you want?”
Well. When she puts it like that…
I hold my hand out, and she places the blowpipe in it, smiling. “A good choice,” she advises me. The coke is already pre-cut and fine as icing sugar. She scoops a healthy amount out of the pile with her fingernail, and then she taps it out onto the silver plate, passing it to me. I’ve done coke before. It would have been impossible to avoid, living a life like mine. I’m hardly a seasoned pro when it comes to snorting narcotics, however. I already know how hard I’m going to have to work to prevent the top of my head from blowing off once the drugs hit home.
Sliding the pipe up my nose, I hold the other end to the small silver plate, and I inhale. Fireworks light up the inside of my head. Fuuuuuck. My head automatically kicks back—it feels like my nose is bleeding—and lights flash and flare behind my closed eyelids. A crushing wave of euphoria hits me hard. My body feels like it’s been transformed, turned into silk, into the softest cashmere. My pores prickle and my head hums, my ears whistling as the cocaine gets to work. By and far the cleanest, most impressive buzz I’ve ever experienced.
“Is it good, Mr. America?” I open my eyes, and Natalia is leaning across her father’s desk, eyes narrowed, watching me intently.
I sniff, shaking my head, trying to piece myself back together enough to form a sentence. “Yeah. Fuck yeah. Damn.”
She laughs. “What does it feel like?” she asks.
“I’m sure it feels the same for me as it does for you.”
“I’ve never taken cocaine.” Her voice is calm and collected. She says this as if it should be obvious—that there’s no way she would ever do such a crazy, reckless thing.
I blink at her. My vision seems to have sharpened. Everything in the room has focused, the light growing to blinding proportions, the colors so much bolder and brighter. “That is the strangest thing I’ve ever heard. The daughter of a cocaine dealer, never having taken cocaine. Just seems so…”
“Unbelievable?”
“Yeah.”
Natalia smirks. With the drugs coursing through my veins, she’s even more beautiful, even more vibrant and alive. “My father forbids it,” she informs me.
“I see. And you always do what your father tells you?”
The smile grows bigger. “Always.”
“You should probably rebel every once in a while. It’s good for you.”
She just shakes her head, scooping another bump of coke onto her fingernail and sprinkling it onto the silver plate. “Rebellion is called mutiny in Ecuador, Mr. America.” She passes me the drugs. She doesn’t let go of the plate. For a moment, we’re both holding onto it, and she’s giving me a pointed look that penetrates deep. “And mutineers get shot at dawn.”
She lets go of the plate.
“I’ll bear that in mind, then.”
“See that you do.”