Doe walked around a large wooden table with three hot plates, half a dozen coffeemakers, and a huge, tipped-over box of rock salt. He maneuvered around the pit- a hole ten feet in diameter, maybe eight feet deep, dug right into the dirt floor, where they poured the used lye and acid. Then he made his way back past the hulking old ice machine. The cooling process demanded a lot of ice, and Doe had decided it was too suspicious to keep buying their own. He’d heard about a couple of guys in California, where the cops were starting to pay attention to crank, who got nabbed because they bought a twelve-pack of beer and twenty bags of ice to go with it. A sharp-eyed cop saw the transaction, figured something was up, and followed them to their lab. So Doe had bought this used machine out of state. One more reason why he would last while the others fell before his mighty empire.
Behind the ice machine, which he wheeled aside, he found the spot on the particleboard covering of the wall. A quick push and the flap opened, revealing the safe. Two thoughts shot through Doe’s mind. One was that he would find the money in there, that Bastard had been keeping the money in the safe, even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to keep cash and product together. The other thought was that the safe would be entirely empty. Neither turned out to be true.
Inside the safe he found a brown Publix shopping bag filled with dozens of little plastic bags of yellowish powder. All in all, about a pound of nicely diluted meth. Without factoring in overhead, it had cost a couple of hundred dollars in ingredients to cook. He would be able to sell it for close to five thousand.
Doe did another quick pass-through. He wanted to make sure nothing was cooking, nothing hot, nothing in the works when Bastard had got himself killed.
That was the problem with this stuff. It was gold, pure profit, and the cops didn’t give a shit about it. But it could explode if you looked at it funny. You made the stuff by soaking over-the-counter cold medicine in toxic chemicals, reducing the ephedrine out of it; and the process required- and produced as by-products- shit so deadly that you could fight a war with it. He’d heard countless stories- meth labs exploding, the cooks all found dead or worse than dead from acid and lye burns, searing chemicals in their lungs that made them pray for a bullet in the brain.
Everything looked turned off, cool, and nonexplosive- no frothing chemical reactions, no smoke or burning smell or hiss of seeping chemicals. Doe got out of there, got out right quick, shut off the light, and didn’t take off the mask until he was outside and could breathe in the pure shit stench of the waste lagoon.
Back in the truck, he predicted he could have everything taken care of within a few hours. Drive off to Jacksonville, unload the product to the distributors. At a couple of places, he would need to pick up twenty-gallon containers of urine. It had been Mitch, stupid dead Mitch, who had discovered that crankheads processed meth very badly, and you could recycle their urine. They’d been giving good deals to anyone who provided a healthy quantity of the stuff, and there was a certain pleasure in getting people hooked on meth and then harvesting their own piss to keep them hooked.
Bastard had loved that part. Now the asshole was dead. Doe didn’t know what it proved, but he was sure it proved something.
Chapter 18
EVERY TIME WE WENT OUT on the road, we ended up in a motel near a Waffle House. Maybe Florida law stated that motels had to be built near a Waffle House. Anything, I was coming to understand, might be as true as anything else. I wasn’t particularly hungry, but I thought I should eat something, so after I got out of the Gambler’s room I headed over. It was probably where most of the bookmen would be eating- including, I hoped, Chitra, who I had not forgotten seemed to think I might be cute.
The Waffle House sat on the other side of the highway off-ramp, and to get to it you had to cross an empty lot full of sandy dirt and thorny weeds and huge, undulating fire-ant mounds. Fat crickets and toads the size of my thumbnail hopped out of my way as I walked slowly, making certain I didn’t step in anything that would bite me. Litter from the highway punctuated the field, and there were piles of broken green and brown beer bottle glass, and a run-down wooden shack about as long and as wide as three Jiffy Johns placed side by side. I decided to plot a course far around it in case a derelict had set up camp there.
I had nearly reached the Waffle House when I heard footsteps behind me. Ronny Neil and Scott.
They both wore newish 501s and button-downs- Scott’s was a pale, faded yellow of a heavy cotton weave, far too hot for this weather. Ronny Neil’s was white, but with stains the color of Scott’s shirt under his arms. Both wore old pattern ties that had certainly belonged to their fathers, though Ronny Neil’s was wide and short enough that it might have been his grandfather’s.
“Where you going?” Scott said.
“Breakfast,” I told him.
“Is that fucking right?” Ronny Neil asked.
I kept walking.
“Didn’t you hear him?” Scott asked. “He was talking to you.”
“How rude of me,” I said. “Yes, Ronny Neil, it is, in fact, fucking right.”
“You watch your mouth,” Ronny Neil said. “And I’ll tell you something else. You ain’t as smart as you think you are.”
“Look, I’m going to get something to eat,” I said, trying to soften things up a little.
“So are we.” Scott flashed a crooked grin. “Why don’t you buy us some breakfast?”
“You can buy your own breakfast,” I told him.
“You being a cheap Jew?” Scott asked me. “Is that it? Pinching your pennies?”
“I’m not the one asking for a free breakfast.”
Ronny Neil smacked me in the back of the head. It happened so fast that someone looking might not have been sure it had happened at all. But there was no mistaking the sting. Ronny Neil wore a ring on his finger, maybe not turned around, but he knew how to smack ring first. It hit me in the skull with a sharp crack that brought tears to my eyes.
I went stiff with disbelief and anger. I was out of high school. This sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen anymore. Despite the long hours and grueling conditions, and aside from the money, I had loved selling encyclopedias because it put me beyond high school. No one could see that I used to be heavy, that I used to be easy pickings. All they could see was the new Lem, fit, slim, good at selling. Now, with Ronny Neil and Scott, the feeling of powerlessness so infuriated me that it took all my will to keep from lunging at one of them. Both of them. Lunging haplessly and ineffectively, no doubt, but I wanted to lunge all the same.
“I keep a Buck knife in my pocket,” Ronny Neil told me. “Now, my brother’s in jail for armed robbery, and I have two cousins in there, too. One for grand theft auto and another on manslaughter, though it was really murder and he got pleaded down. That’s what happens on a first offense, which my killing you would be. You think I’m afraid to sit a few years in jail, you go on and try me.”
“You think maybe you want to buy us some breakfast now?” Scott lisped.
“Yeah,” Ronny Neil said. “You ready to buy uth some breakfath?”
When we walked into the Waffle House, there were already groups of bookmen in some of the booths. Under certain circumstances- the post-sales pool gatherings, mostly- the bookmen could be a gregarious lot, but for the most part we stuck to our own groups. The Ft. Lauderdale crew socialized with the Ft. Lauderdale crew and Jacksonville with Jacksonville. No particular reason for it, and it wasn’t a segregation in any way promoted by the crew bosses. But there was an inherent competitiveness among the crews, and no one ever got too friendly.