Deadly Assets (Badge of Honor 12)

“What?” she said, and then saw a rough-looking white male, tall and walking with a stoop, approaching the playground. “Is that guy going to do something?”

One of the mothers, a Latina of medium build, saw the man, went over to a park bench by the playground, and picked up what looked like a large glass jar. She carried it toward the man.

“What’s with the jar?”

“The deal is,” Bones said, “since you can contract HIV and hepatitis from reusing a dirty needle, the free clinic gets funds to distribute sterile ones. We give out plenty, but there’s still room for guys like Jumper there.”

“That’s his name?”

“It’s what he goes by. You’re gonna come to know, over time, many of the park’s regulars. Some of them are not much older than you. He’s one. And you’ll learn it’s common for many to hide behind street names—there’s Jumper, and over there are Ace and Wildman”—he pointed to them—“and then there’s others who go by regular names—that’s quote Amy and Bud unquote on the bench there—but that’s not their real names. Because they’re really embarrassed to be out here, they use an alias.”

Piper Ann looked at the couple. “Amy” appeared to be asleep.

And it’s the middle of the day, she thought.

“So Jumper there,” Bones went on, “he works the system. He’s a dealer. Those young mothers? They bring rubber gloves and a jar to collect the used needles from the park so their kids don’t get stuck by them. Some mothers will just toss the jar of dirty needles in the trash can. But Jumper will buy them.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because he knows that the free clinic will swap old needles for new sterile ones. Sometimes he’ll do the needle exchange when our mobile clinic van comes by. But if he goes to the actual clinic, where we offer counseling and free medical care, he can get the doc to prescribe Sub.”

“Suboxone? The methadone-like pill?”

“Yeah, for fighting the symptoms of withdrawal from the opiate. Jumper can get a three-month supply, then sell the pills on the street for ten or so bucks each, pocketing about a grand. And for those doing dope, he sells ‘the works’—the sterile needles—for a buck each.”

Piper shook her head.

“That doesn’t seem right.”

“The addicts are too lazy to do it themselves. Or too fucked up—pardon my language.”

She waved her hand.

“No worries. I’ve heard the word a couple times. It seems appropriate here, I guess. But they could get their needles for free.”

“Sure they could,” Bones said. “But Jumper provides a service. Sells the smack for ten bucks, then the needle for another buck. Kinda like, You want fries with that? Capitalism at its best.”

Piper Ann grunted derisively.

“Maybe I’ll bring the needles,” she said, “and give them away.”

“Uh, I wouldn’t do anything until you learn more. Depending on the person you’re cutting out, doing that could get you killed.”

Piper Ann met Bones’s eyes, made a face, then nodded.

“Like I said,” Bones went on, “the park’s not anywhere near perfect, but it’s better than it was.” He motioned at the SEPTA station. “Used to be, just to avoid the drug-dealing and drug-using there at Somerset Station, people would walk the dozen or so blocks to the two other nearest stations, Huntington and Allegheny.” He chuckled. “Hookers are a big problem at Huntington, but I guess that’s easier to deal with.”

“What’s going on with Amy?”

Bones looked toward the park bench. He saw that Bud just sat there. But Amy was now awake and clearly trying to hold her head upright. She was unsuccessful. Her chin dropped to her chest, and then she did not move.

“What do you mean?”

“Is she hypoglycemic?” Piper Ann said.

“That’s not a diabetic shock. She’s been doing it almost ten minutes. And look at Bud. He’s not worried. If it was suddenly something new she was suffering—and there’s a lot of that these days—he’d be screaming bloody murder.”

“Then what?”