James is determined to provide a comfortable life for his family, but when his college degree fails to provide the goods he finds himself making deals he hadn't ever imagined.
A small pouch of gleaming crystals, shining like snow even in the gloom.
He’d heard it called angel dust, heard that it healed men’s wounds and cured their souls. He didn’t buy that. He’d seen first-hand what it did to people. Seen the haunted cast to their faces, the desperate light in their eyes when they were close to a hit.
It was disgusting. It debased them, made them somehow less than human.
Which begged the question of why he was standing here, in a dark alley at 12 a.m. Waiting to sell an entire ounce to James.
A black shape appeared at the entrance to the alley. He sighed in relief. Think of the devil.
“James!” Rats skittered away from the sudden sound. James spun to face him.
“Richard.” He loped towards the dealer, eyes fixed on the small bag in his hand. He licked his scabbed lips. “That shit mine?”
“I told you not to say my name. If the cops get to you…” It was a bullshit reason, but he didn’t feel like explaining the real cause behind his secrecy. This area was too frequented, even at midnight. If someone he knew heard the name, if news got back to his wife and daughter…he shuddered.
“But yes, I have the cocaine.” He shook his head, wrestling with himself before curiosity prevailed. “As a dealer to a buyer though, I’m compelled to ask. Why do you want an entire ounce?”
James’s eyes shifted, scared. “I got…people…after me. They want this shit, to sell it or use it I don’t know.”
Richard nodded. Gangs, small mafias, aspiring drug lords; cocaine was a valuable commodity. He almost felt sorry for the man.
“Of course, I wouldn’ mind a little for myself. Something to get me goin’ before I hand everything over.” James licked his lips. Contempt flared in Richard but he forced it down.
“I understand. I’m assuming you brought my money?”
James reached for his wallet. Richard stared at it with the same desperate intensity James reserved for the bag of coke in his hand. Like he was considering taking it at gunpoint.
Damn it. A burst of self-loathing threatened to overwhelm him. His professors at Yale had had such high hopes for him. They’d imagined him a future CEO at a prestigious corporation, using his accounting degree to help society instead of calculate the margin of profit on a cocaine deal.