Authors: Duane Swierczynski
Aimee Manion, 23, is a junkie. She stepped off the Somerset El platform two years ago and never quite made it back home. Wildey remembers her from earlier this year when he chatted her up during one of her more lucid moments, tried to find out where her parents might be, if he could help her home. She said home wasn’t an option. Wildey followed up on the address on her license; she was right. Aimee looks a lot closer to death than the last time Wildey saw her, which was what—March? April? Eyes sunk deeper into her face, sneer more pronounced. Not that she knows she’s making that expression. She’s nodded off into that opiate dreamworld she visits six, seven times a day.
“Honors Girl, meet Aimee. Pretty sure she used to be an honor student, too.”
No idea if this is true. She mentioned something about Catholic school at one point—or a uniform.
“Aimee, say hi. What’s that, Aimee? You can’t say hi because you’re out of your fucking mind on Big H? Gee, Aimee, that’s rude.”
“She needs a hospital,” Honors Girl says. “We can’t just leave her here.”
“What hospital’s going to take her? They don’t want to deal with her either. And she’d fight you, too. Believe me, that’s the last place she wants to go. Isn’t that right, Aimee? Y’all nice and happy here, aren’t you?”
Sarie looks away.
“Want to know how she got here? Somebody like your boyfriend started selling her Oxys. She’s okay at first, because she’s got a job, and she can afford a few. Then she needs more. Then she’s out of money, and then the prices on the Oxys go up. She can’t just stop, so she hears about how to save money and get an even bigger high.”
Again, no idea if any of this is true. Aimee wasn’t exactly forthcoming about the road that brought her to the Tracks. But it was probably true enough.
“And that’s heroin. And the honors student who grew up afraid of vaccinations is suddenly shooting up between her fingers and toes, doing whatever she can to keep scoring.”
“I don’t take pills,” Honors Girl says.
“Not yet,” Wildey says. “Even if you don’t, you honestly want to protect some guy who’d send people here?”
Sarie says nothing.
“How long you two been going out? Long enough that you feel this need to protect him?”
More silence.
“You told me you didn’t want him,” Sarie says. “You want the people above him.”
Wildey blinks. “That’s right.”
“What happens to him?”
“Same thing that happened to you. If he’s willing to help us, it can go real easy for him.”
“Can we go back to the car now?”
“Sure, Honors Girl. Say bye-bye, Aimee.”
Back inside the warmth of the car, Wildey puts the key in the ignition but hesitates before turning it. This is the moment. If this little field trip didn’t work, then nothing would. Time for Honors Girl to do her part.
“So … what do you have for me?”
Honors Girl takes a breath of cold air, then finally, at long last, says: “His name is Ryan Koolhaas.”
D. and I came up with the plan last night, Mom. Well, it was mostly his idea. I was joking when I asked him if he knew any drug dealers and he gave me a funny look.
—What is it?
D.’s eyes light up.
—How about we give your Officer Will-dee someone else.
—What do you mean? Rat someone out for real?
D. tells me the name of this guy he knows who deals stuff on campus. No, not a competitor, he insists. Just some asshole who is creepy and kind of rapey and should have been smacked down a long time ago.
—Are you serious? You want me to dime on somebody I don’t even know?
—Would you rather know them first? Trust me, the guy’s an asshole, he totally deserves it.
—No no no. That’s horrible. We can’t!
—He’s perfect, is what he is.
—The cop’s going to know he’s not you.
—I don’t think so. I bolted pretty quick.
—Yeah, you in your oh-so-stealth red chinos. You seriously want me to just rat out this poor guy instead? Doesn’t that violate some code in the international brotherhood of drug dealers or something?
—Like you said, you don’t know him. What’s the difference? You give him the name, the cop does his thing, and we can forget this whole thing ever happened.
I’m thinking no fucking way—it’s an incredibly shitty thing to do to someone. But then again, I have to give Wildey something tomorrow morning, or … god knows what was going to happen next.
You’re not going to be very proud of me, Mom.
“Ryan Koolhaas. That’s his name?”
Sarie nods.
“Spell it.”
She does. Wildey writes it down. “So just to be clear, this was the guy in the car with you last Wednesday night?” Honors Girl stays quiet, staring out of the windshield like she’s afraid to overcommit herself.
“Look, you’re offering him up. What difference does it make? Tell me how you know him.”
“I don’t. Not really.”
“So I saw a total stranger get out of your car on Ninth Street.”
“You asked me to find you a dealer. That’s what I did. Why do you need to know more?”
“Fine, we’ll take it slow,” Wildey says. “So this guy deals on campus, though, right? And gets his shit from Ninth Street?”
D. briefs me. I take notes. This is one of my weird skills: Once I write it down, it’s etched in my memory. I can read the same paragraph a half-dozen times and pick up the general idea, but not much in the way of specifics. But if I write it down I’ve got every word. A pen and paper is like a data entry system for my brain.
Ryan Koolhaas
21
St. Jude’s Townhouses, D3
(215) 419-2108
Sells pot, Addys (Adderall), Percs, some coke, or so D. has heard $5 a pill unless it’s finals week, raises the prices to 10 or 15
“I have no idea where he gets his drugs.”
“You ever see him pick up a package from Ninth Street before? You take him on a run some other time?” Sarie pauses, then shakes her head quickly.
“What else does he sell?”
“That’s all I know for sure.”
“Then how do you explain all that shit I found in your car?”
Sarie gives him a wide-eyed shrug, like, fuck if I know, Officer. Wildey glances out at the Avenue. More people out now. Guys selling works and Subs. Same scene as it was months ago. Same scene as it will always be, unless he cleans it up someday. Maybe it starts with this girl right here. Or maybe she’s feeding him a line of bullshit just to save her own ass.
“If this is real, I’m going to need you to make a buy.”
“Buy what?”
Wildey sighs. “Look, I’m going to give you money, and you’re going to buy drugs from your friend Ryan Koolhaas. Unless that would be weird, because he’s your boyfriend or something.”
Ryan Koolhaas is not my boyfriend.
But the way his eyes light up when he sees me, you know he’s thinking it might be a possibility. At least for a couple of hours.
And in that moment I recognize him. Close-cropped curly dark hair, lopsided perma-grin, raptor nose, and tall—crazy tall. Even taller than D. Koolhaas is a senior, but he was in my freshman Intro to Psych class last semester. Probably skipped it early on and realized he had to make it up if he wanted to graduate. It’s clear that Koolhaas only vaguely recognizes me.
—Hey. You’re …
—Sarie.
—Yeah, Sarie, cool. Hey, let me sign you in.
Koolhaas turns to the security guard and reaches his long fingers through the opening in the bulletproof glass to pinch a sign-in slip. He writes quick, like he’s accepting a takeout delivery. That is the way the townhouses work. Access only to the seniors who live there or their guests. Like me.
—C’mon.
I step up to the turnstile, hear a sharp click, push my hip against the rotating bar, and follow Koolhaas—it helps to think of him as just Koolhaas, my target, not Ryan or my classmate from Intro to Psych—back down the concrete pathway to his front door.
What I expect to see: bongs, stained carpets, two guys playing nonstop World of Warcraft, the aroma of fried grease and marijuana and cheese.
What I actually see: a clean, quiet living room that smells like someone vacuumed it recently. There are vacuum trails and everything.
—I’m upstairs. I’ve got a single.
He bounds up the steps. I guess I’m following him. The entire townhouse feels dead quiet. Sure, it’s a Tuesday, but it’s also 7 p.m.
—Where are your roommates?
—Don’t worry, nobody’s home.
Meanwhile I’m worried, but not for the reasons he thinks I may be worried.
Koolhaas’s room turns out to be just as neat and clean. What is up with drug dealers today? It occurs to me that maybe this guy isn’t a drug dealer, that D. fucked it up somehow. Which will be supremely awkward when I try to make a buy, not to mention make me the worst confidential informant in the world. D. wouldn’t do that to me, would he? Just give me a random name, or the name of someone he hates?
Sure enough, though, Koolhaas digs out a shower caddy with a lid, puts it on his bed, then taps the space next to him on the bed.
—You said you wanted Addys, right?
—Yep.
—Let me ask you something. I know it’s going to sound weird.
—Okay …
He’s going to ask me if I’m a cop. I’ve seen it on shows a bajillion times. I’m going to swear I’m not a cop, then boom, we do the deal. Instead Koolhaas turns to face me so that our knees almost touch.
—Look, you’re probably stressed out with finals and everything, and I know your friends probably told you that a few Addys will keep you awake and hyper-focused. But there’s something else you can do.
—What?
Koolhaas scoots back a few inches.
—Here. Put your head in my lap. Let me show you.
I’m pretty sure I give him a genuine double take here. Put my face … in his lap?
Koolhaas sees my hesitation. He’s puzzled for a second before he smirks.
—No, no. I’m not talking about that. Okay, turn around. Come on, trust me. I’m a good Catholic boy.
Yeah. Who just so happens to deal drugs out of his townhouse complex named for an obscure saint, sure. But then he’s guiding me by the shoulders and turning me around and then I feel his fingers on my back and then I realize: Holy shit, this guy is checking me for a wire.
“Do I wear a wire?” Honors Girl asks.
Wildey looks at her. “What, you going up against Tony Montana? No, you don’t wear a wire. You just go in there, you buy some drugs with the money I give you, then you come out. Boom. Possession with intent to distribute.”
She looks relieved at first, but then squints like she’s confused. “That’s it? Really? This is the big sting operation?”
“Look,” Wildey says, sighing, “all I need is proof that this guy is selling drugs. I’ll take it from there.”
“How much do I have to buy?”
“Whatever. Just a few pills will do it, to be honest, but if you can get more, go for it. I don’t want to spook him. Like I said before, he’s not who I’m after. I get him, I make him take me up the ladder.”
“Then why not just go after him directly?”
“If only it were that easy, Honors Girl. Here’s the money. Go buy some drugs.”
Turns out he’s not checking me for a wire. He’s massaging my shoulders. Like, for real.
—All-natural stress relief. Pretty great, huh?
Koolhaas speaks in soft and reassuring tones. Meanwhile his bony fingers dig into my body like he’s trying to find a hidden microchip fused to my shoulder blades or something. Jesus. What’s proper etiquette when setting up a drug dealer? Do you allow him to knead your shoulders and neck for a few minutes? Do you cut it short and insist on making the transaction as intended? At what point is it polite to tell him to fuck off?
I turn and offer up my only defense: a shy smile.
—That feels good, but you’re going to put me to sleep doing that.
Koolhaas smiles like, Duh, that was kind of the point. Or at least make you want to lie down on the bed.
—Anyway, the Addys aren’t just for me. It’s for a friend of mine, too. We’re in the honors program and really need to crank out some papers.
—The honors triple, huh? I should have known. I think I supply most of your class. Guess you heard about me from one of them, huh?
—Yeah.
D. had coached me on this point: If I called Ryan Koolhaas and he asked how I’d heard about him, I was supposed to just say something like, Oh just around. Be elusive; Koolhaas won’t press it. When I called, sure enough, Koolhaas didn’t ask. At the time.
—Who was it? I should give them a little extra for the referral.
Shit. Not only do I have no idea that half of my honors triple is popping Addys like Pez, but I have no idea who to name.
—She didn’t want me to say. She’s shy.
Koolhaas looks at me for a second, deadpan, then breaks into a wide grin.
—I know who you’re talking about. No worries.
Now I’m
really
wondering who it is. Those cheating assholes, jacking up on Adderall and cranking out papers while I’m trying to do it the old-fashioned way! I feel like a ballplayer who’s the last one to find out everybody else has been ’roidin’ it up.
—Okay, down to business.
Koolhaas flips open his plastic shower caddy, revealing Ziploc bags half-filled with pills. I ask how much. He tells me $5 a pill, but he can do seven for $25. I ask for $100 worth—what Wildey gave me for the buy—and Koolhaas makes it an even thirty. I hand over the cash, five twenties. Koolhaas hands me thirty Addys in my own little bag. My first-ever drug purchase. It’s all kinda anticlimactic.
Now comes the tough part.