Page 20 of The Children of Eve

On a practical note, Bern had also learned that the first lesson in being a successful drug dealer was not to look, dress, or act like one. It was a lesson he had later drummed into Devin because, in his finalyears, Devin’s father, paralyzed and rendered mute by a stroke, wasn’t able to drum much of anything into his only son. Bern felt that Devin might have taken the lesson to extremes, given the cost of some of his suits, but he was forced to admit that the boy always looked classy. If you passed him on the street, you’d have taken him for an investment banker or a corporate lawyer, not the head of a criminal organization.

That was the other thing about Devin: He specialized. He ran coke, MDMA, heroin, fentanyl, and pot, the latter in both legal and illegal forms, and the quality always guaranteed, but that was it. No gambling, no whores, no protection rackets, and no construction scams. The money was laundered at a hefty premium, coming back so clean it gleamed, before being invested in legitimate businesses managed by individuals who, in most cases, had no idea that the parent firm—protected by subsidiaries, shelf companies, and enough layers of bankers, lawyers, and offshore addresses to confound God Himself—was founded on pot, pills, and powder, and their paychecks ultimately cleared thanks to the custom of addicts. It was Devin who had expanded the empire, and rarely did he put a foot wrong—until recently.

A series of calamitous occurrences, over only some of which Devin could have claimed control, had led to the present difficulties. It began with the seizure of a $10 million cocaine shipment from Mexico at a time when cash flow was already sluggish, followed by a disagreement between supplier and buyer over who was responsible for the failure of the shipment to reach its ultimate destination. It might just have been bad luck that customs agents had searched the container, but Devin was of the opinion that luck, bad or otherwise, had nothing to do with it, and someone on the Mexican side had tipped off the U.S. authorities. If it came from the cartel, then it had been authorized by Blas Urrea himself, though Bern had reserved judgment on that score until more information became available.

Then, while Bern’s investigation into the seizure was still ongoing, some new cryptocurrency had collapsed, and it turned out that Devinhad bet, if not the entire house, then at least the first couple of floors on a different outcome. Bern didn’t know from cryptocurrency, but he could have told Devin that trusting millions to kids who did business in shorts and T-shirts, and who didn’t own a proper pair of shoes among them, was never going to end well. The people who advised Devin to invest, most of whom didn’t wear proper shoes either, had assured him that his investments would bounce back, but weren’t able to say when. Might be a year, could be two. Unfortunately, Devin didn’t have two years, or even one. Combined with the loss of the shipment—and the lingering aftereffects of COVID, which had royally fucked with both the legitimate and criminal sides of their operation—Devin probably had three to six months of wiggle room before the cracks began to show. Once that happened, the vultures wouldn’t just be circling, they’d be plucking eyes from heads. The situation wasn’t beyond retrieval, but it remained an existential threat. It was important that everybody stayed calm and didn’t do anything rash—which was when Devin, unbeknownst to Bern, had decided that rash was the way to go, and moved against Blas Urrea behind Bern’s back. Now they were in St. Louis, trying to cut a deal on fentanyl, because they needed an alternative source, and quickly.

“Maybe we should call for the check,” said Bern, raising a hand to their server as he spoke. “Devin, you hearing me?”

Devin’s eyes were glassy. If Bern didn’t know better, he’d have suspected Devin was dipping a wet finger in his own supply, or what was left of it.

Devin came back from wherever he’d been.

“What did you say?”

“That we should call it a night.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You feeling all right?”

Devin rubbed at the corners of his eyes.

“I haven’t been sleeping so well.”

“You have a lot on your mind.”

“Yeah,” said Devin. “That too.”

“Too? Is there something else I should know?”

“Just bad dreams.”

Bern wasn’t surprised. Bad fucking dreams? It was a wonder Devin was sleeping at all after what he’d done to Urrea, and with what he was keeping at home.

“Take a pill,” said Bern.

“I take any more pills, I’m going to rattle when I walk. They don’t stop me dreaming.”

Bern didn’t know what else to say. Well, he did, but Devin wouldn’t want to hear it, not again. What was done was done, and all they could hope was that Urrea didn’t find out Devin was responsible. If he did, Urrea would declare war, and that was a fight they’d lose, weakened as they were.

Bern placed his right hand on Devin’s arm.

“You’re like a son to me,” he said. “You understand that, right? I told your father I’d look out for you, always, and I’ve kept the promise as best I could.”

“I know that. No one could say different.”

“But I’m getting tired, Devin. It comes with age. I have pains in my joints and my guts hurt.”

“You didn’t tell me that before. They hurt, how? Did you see a doctor?”

Bern instantly regretted opening his mouth. He took his hand away, used it to wave for the check. Anything for the distraction.

“It’s stress, is all. I take Pepto-Bismol, it helps. What I’m saying is, I don’t have energy like before. Once we were in the black again, I was planning on easing out. I was just trying to find the right time to tell you. I’d still be around to offer counsel, but on a day-to-day basis, I’d be done. Now, with this Urrea thing, and you not being able to sleep without having nightmares—”

Despite himself, Bern was singing the same song again.

“Bad dreams,” Devin corrected him. “And they’ll pass.”

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