"If that is what you want, yes," she said, almost a reproach. And there was that look, the same look she gave me sitting on the toilet that day, that scared look as if I had that something that would make her life end like a movie, as if it was up to me to give her the elixir that would right all the wrongs and give her peace. The money and the dope went out of focus. Debbie looked frail, scared, in need, and I didn' t know what to do.
"What do you want?" I asked in a whisper. She swallowed hard and looked straight ahead.
"Does it make a difference?"
She started crying.
My everlasting awkwardness with women manifested itself and I just sat like a frozen stick, unable to do a thing. After a few minutes of sobbing I managed to say I was sorry. I was not sure if that is what she wanted to hear or what I was sorry for but it did the job. She stopped crying and wiped the tears off her bruised face.
"I' m sorry too." She looked away from me.
What was she expecting me to say? Let' s split together, go to Las Vegas and get married? She a whore, a junkie, a killer? The derisive terms against her turned against me when I realized that I wasn' t much better than her: a drug smuggler, a soldier for a drug king, the one who buried friends and lied to their families. My head spun. I didn' t know if I was angry, or happy to be alive, or worried to death, I just didn' t know if I should crawl under a rock or grab Debbie and kiss her in the mouth, and I didn' t know if I wanted to kiss her because I cared for her or because she had saved my miserable life. But at the end I did nothing, I just sat there and waited for the turmoil in my mind to settle and let my head cool because a cool head is what I needed to stop getting deeper into the hell I was getting sucked into.
"These people in Texas, can we trust them?" That was a stupid question, when it came to drugs, and could I really trust Debbie? Of course I could, to a point, she and I were emotionally tight beyond comprehension and reason. Some fools may call this unseen bond love. For me, it was just some spiritual link that I could not describe. If it were love, I wouldn' t know, such thing had never happened to me. But she was a dope head, and that chemical pull had no loyalties and recognized no master but itself. Be aware, I reminded myself.
"Yes, we can. If you don' t try to screw them they won' t screw you."
Mailing a gym bag leaking coke was not a good idea. Shipping a bag full of money wasn' t as dangerous. An idea started to form, a workable idea that perhaps might work and might let me off the hook with Ortega.
"Listen then," I said to Debbie. "We sell this shit to your buddies, fair market value. That money is ours. The money here, ” I patted the briefcase between us, “ is Ortega' s, and I' m going to mail it to him."
"Go on," she said, knowing well that there was more to the story.
"I will take my cut from his money, what he had promised me for the delivery. It seems like a fair and square deal to me."
"You want to cover your back, don' t you?"
"I do. I' m not sure if that will keep Ortega from coming after me, or my dad, but it is worth a shot."
"It' s your shit honey. Do what you think is best."
"What do you think?"
She shrugged as if money was not the issue. Splitting with me was, but what did I have to offer to a drug queen and a prostitute? I had nothing. A promise for a better life as thin as a razor blade and as liable to hurt her.
I cranked the truck and we headed west with our drugs, money, fears and hopes. I kept on looking in my view mirror for blue lights chasing after us. It would be a long trip. Lost in my selfish thoughts I didn’ t bother to ask Debbie if she wanted any Ibuprofen for her swollen face until we were almost out of Louisiana. Sometimes I can be a prick.
Done Deal
Debbie had not bullshitted me and the deal went down as a transaction among gentlemen. I took Ortega’ s money, took my cut plus a little bit more, put Ortega' s cut in a box – mostly all of the money- and special delivered the damned thing through the mail. The Postmaster General bitches about sending cash in the mail, but out of all my latest crimes, this was the lesser one. The money from the sale of the hick’ s dope I’ ll split with Debbie.
I stand in front of Debbie. Now that she is back among friends, her eagerness to split and go with me seems less obvious. I don' t know and I' m not sure about that. I cannot read other human' s desires. My guesses are at best somewhere near the mark when they are not completely off.
"Here is your dough," I say, and I give her a huge wad of cash, no small bills. She takes the money with one hand and holds it behind her back. Didn' t bother to count it or even look at it. She looks at me again as if I were the master of her destiny. I' m just a scared to death schnook that wants to get out of this criminal life in a hurry and for good. We are standing outside, next to my truck, under an early morning big sky dotted with lazy nimbus clouds drifting east. This is one of those decisive moments that has the peculiar and unique characteristic of showing itself as such in the present. I know that what I say or fail to say will determine the rest of my life, and her life too.
I' m looking at Debbie while my mind gets clobbered with what if' s and why nots and doubts. A whore and a junkie; she was there for me when it really mattered; a junkie and a whore and a criminal. Look who is talking. Dad, meet Debbie the hooker. She snorts coke for a hobby. She saved my life. Damn it; I don' t know what to think. Perhaps I shouldn' t think and should let my emotions take over instead, do something from my heart and not my brain. I remember Tony and my brainless decision to follow in his steps. This is not the same thing, I say to myself. Yes it is, you dummy. As the minutes go by common sense gets the upper hand over the emotions (oh God, I want her by my side; I want her to smile at me every morning of my life).Living with a junkie is not living.
She lowers her eyes. Perhaps she has seen in mine what she didn' t want to see.
"Good bye Debbie, and thanks," I say.
"Good bye," she says. "And thank you too." She is now looking at me again, with sad eyes. I resist my urge to embrace her and kiss her, kiss her on the mouth. I walk to my truck and I feel her eyes burning on my back, pleading for what I cannot deliver, for what my cowardice won' t let me do. I drive away from her and we wave good bye to each other. I see her in my rearview mirror, still standing on the street, both hands behind her back and it feels like some part of me has been left back there with her. A junkie and a whore, good God. I hit the gas and leave Dallas in a hurry, not wanting to look back, afraid of what I may see.
Life and Death in the Fast Lane
The narrow county roads north of Dallas are fun with so many curves. Debbie down shifts before entering one. The engine revs up and the little MG convertible grips the road on almost two wheels. Before the car is out of the turn, she accelerates and when the car is again facing a straight road, it already has picked up good speed. She up shifts and watches the speedometer go up. There is a buzz of speed in her head, mixed with a buzz of booze and coke. Life is grand.
Her blond hair flies in the air and whips around her face. The money Ken gave her has paid for the car, and the booze, and the drugs and many other things already used up and gone but she doesn' t worry about money spent because there is always more money when drugs are involved. Ken is gone and so is her idea of splitting and starting anew somewhere else. Still, despite the money and the fun, there is an emptiness inside her, a hole where friendship and love and care for others is missing. All she knows how to do is to take but to Ken she wanted to give, she wanted to run the risk of being fooled and taken for a ride because she felt that Ken wouldn' t do that to her. The thought of sharing her feelings and exposing her heart scared her to death but still didn' t stop her for wanting it.