Page 11 of Tell Me Pucking Lies
Not satisfaction. Just practicality.
“You coulda offed him and been done,” Oxy says, shaking his head. He’s pulling a joint from his pocket, already lighting it. The flame flickers in the wind, then catches. “Dealer doing his product is a big problem. And if you just did it. He’d be one less problem.”
“Then who delivers tomorrow?” I grind my heel into the dirt, turn away from the dumpster. The alley stinks—rotting food, piss, something metallic. “Don’t make me start a body count on move-in day. We need workers, not headlines.”
Oxy laughs, low and rough, the kind of sound that only comes from someone who’s seen too much and stopped caring. “Fair.”
He takes a long drag, holds it, then exhales a cloud of smoke that hangs in the cold air. He passes the joint to me.
I rub my knuckles first. There’s dirt under my nails, a smear of something dark across the back of my hand. I wipe it on my jeans, then take the joint, inhale deep. The smoke fills my lungs, sharp and familiar. I hold it for a three-count, then let it out slow.
The tension in my shoulders eases. Just a little.
We move deeper into the shadows behind the rink, where the stadium lights don’t reach. There’s a spot back here—a loadingdock that hasn’t been used in years, rusted out and forgotten. The perfect place to disappear.
I lean against the brick wall, feel the cold seep through my jacket. Oxy stands opposite me, still smoking, watching me with that lazy half-smile he always wears when shit goes down.
“We need to reconsider the supply chain,” I say, breaking the silence. My voice is steady, clinical. This is business. “Too many hot hands. Too many kids who can’t keep their mouths shut.”
Oxy nods, flicks ash into the snow. “You thinking the bus route?”
“Route seven. Two-thirty drop. Gym locker seven.” I tap ash onto the ground, watch it disintegrate. “Two-man only. No exceptions.”
“What about the new contact?”
“Unreliable.” I take another drag, let the smoke curl out of my nostrils. “He’s late twice now. Third time, we cut him loose.”
“Literally?”
I glance at him, deadpan. “Figuratively. We’re not animals.”
He snorts. “Could’ve fooled me.”
I don’t respond. Just finish the joint, flick the roach into a puddle, and watch it sizzle out.
My pocket vibrates.
I ignore it.
It vibrates again. Persistent.
I pull out the kid’s phone—Axel’s phone—and glance at the screen. More notifications. I scroll through them, cataloging everything.
Payment apps. Cash tags. Timestamps.
One notification catches my eye: a username I don’t recognize, linked to a bank transfer. The amount is significant. Too significant for a college kid selling dime bags.
I snap a picture of the screen with my own phone, save it.
“Name. Cash tag. Timestamp.” I tuck Axel’s phone into my inside pocket, feel the weight of it settle against my ribs. “We follow the thread.”
Oxy watches me, waiting. He knows better than to ask questions when I’m working.
A campus security cruiser idles at the edge of the alley, headlights cutting through the dark. The engine rumbles, low and steady. I can see the cop inside—middle-aged, balding, probably ten years from retirement. He’s staring straight ahead, pretending not to see us.
Smart.
But I don’t like being ignored.
