Bad Chemistry: A Patrick Evans CIA Thriller by Tom DeGeorge

Author:Tom DeGeorge [DeGeorge, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aethon Books
Published: 2024-03-12T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY

I parked next to the old white beater still squatting in front of Michael Bell’s office. The day was fading to dusk, and it was just dark enough to take the ugly off the neighborhood – enough to redeem the once well-kept houses and to silhouette the big oak trees that had seen the street when it was livable.

The discount store had plenty of business, all foot traffic, no cars out front. I didn’t see Grant, the homeless guy, around, so I went into the liquor store.

People will exchange information more freely if you’re handing them money, so I picked up a bottle of Hornitos I didn’t need and shuffled about until the only other customer left.

At the counter, I asked, “Do you know Grant? Black guy, hangs around here regular?”

The clerk didn’t like me, and didn’t mind showing it. “Everyone comes in here is black. Except you. I don’t ask names, and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Thanks.”

I put my wallet away and left the bottle on his counter. Asshole – racists come in all colors.

Grant was coming down the sidewalk along the storefronts as I stepped around the liquor store. He was carrying two bags of chips and a liter of generic grape soda.

“Hey, Grant. Is that dinner?”

“Breakfast. I get hungry early, before they open.”

“You remember me, right?”

“Sure, yeah. Patrick. Twenty-dollar bill Patrick. I’m an addict, not a retard.”

He didn’t look any worse. Not any better, either. I was glad he wasn’t posturing – we were past that. Trying to imagine him before the drugs was too hard. I couldn’t pull it off.

“I need some technical help, someone who knows cars, and other tools. Very early tomorrow morning. The pay is good.”

“Is it legal?”

“No. Does it matter?”

“Not really; it’s just hard being in jail when you’re hurting.”

“In the morning. Can you work then? Tell me now – I can work around what you have to do.”

“You mean you can wait until I’m not high, right?”

“That’s right.”

“I can be straight in the morning. I can work. What’s the pay?”

“Two hundred. And dinner tonight, a hotel room, and breakfast.”

“It’s worth more than two hundred, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is. But I don’t want to kill you either. Two hundred is a lot of drugs.”

“Pay me after. I have what I need tonight. Buy me dinner, the hotel room, breakfast, all good. Just pay me after.”

I wanted to bark at him – if you have that kind of self-control, then try rehab! Try saving your life! Try! But I didn’t. Instead, I used him. Like I had too many others.

“Okay, if that’s what you want. Four hundred - after.”

“Yeah.”

Grant wanted Italian – craving carbs, he said. He wasn’t looking too shabby; he’d showered and shaved at the Lutherans that morning and got some clean clothes. We ate at Ledo’s in College Park, near the University of Maryland. There was a chance I’d see old friends there – I remembered a girl from high school who had lived in College Park – a sweet friend I cherished.

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