“Come clean or we will move on to worse things.” I turn his head towards the old wooden toilet plunger beside us. One foot kicks his ass, X marks the spot. He eyeballs the chipping paint, the splinters on the plunger.
“I swear I swear—”
Bounce again. Back in the bowel. Drags. Exhale, making leaps. He didn’t know her; at least not intimately. No restraining order showed up when I checked her out. Nicky is trying to avoid whatever dope involvement there is. Must be a good reason why.
He might think I’m a rival dealer looking to squeeze him. Or Delilah’s new man.
He comes out.
“Do you remember Benny in there?”
Gasping. His head tries to nod against my fist bunching his hair.
“All I had to do was stand on his cock and he squealed everything. Everything. Stop trying my patience. You want to avoid what I will do next,” I say, leaning in close enough to smell that whoever pissed last was very dehydrated.
I crack my neck; tilt my head side-to-side. Eyeball him.
“Talk.”
“Please, mister! I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
Back in the toilet he goes. I don’t have all night. When my Rum Coast is ready to be put out I yank his head back into the world.
“Know what I’m talking about yet?” I ask, the final bit of my smoldering cigarette tip staring at his eye. I lean it in enough to singe his frantic, fluttering eyelashes and just as I’m making contact with his cornea he screams: “Alright! Alright! She pawned a shit ton of my dope off on a rival dealer and I’m lookin’ at a turf war! A motherfuckin’ turf war! ” He screams. I think he’s crying now. I pull the smoke back just enough to encourage his cooperation.
“Why? Is she a street pusher of yours?”
“No! Here’s the score, alright? No lies, I swear! I met some broad named Candy Layne at a strip joint, okay? Bouncers over on Topping by the old grain wharfs. The bitch was hot and hooked on my shit. I let her fuck me for free dope.
“Well, she was a friend of a friend of Delilah’s and one night after blowin’ me Candy was goin’ go to a party over there and she wanted me to come. Said I could probably deal some small shit on the down-low to some partiers. I was in a good mood. What the hell, right?”
Rivulets of blood are coming out of the wound above his teeth. Every word puffs the droplets out of his mouth and pepper the toilet lid. He’s crying. Maybe it’s because I threatened to rape him with a toilet plunger. Maybe because my cigarette is burning a half inch from his eyeball.
“It wadden’t a gold mine or nothin’ but I made an easy wad of cash. So we came back. The Delilah bitch seemed real happy with a houseful of strangers. Like she was winnin’ a popularity contest or somethin’.
“People started talkin’ hush-hush like and pretty soon I was meetin’ folks. Just one or two dudes lookin’ to do business. So we made a date and used her party as a cover. I rolled up with ten pounds of Big Fry—”
Unbelievable:
“Ten pounds?”
“I swear! No lies, I—”
“Where would some shitbird starving artist like you get that much dope in a single drop?”
“I got an operation! I got people! I got muscle! Now if the people you represent want to do business you know what I can produce and treatin’ me like this is just goin’ get your families killed you bullheaded piece of shit—”
Bounce.
“I represent no one.” I say, looking down at his now out of alignment nose. “Still want to make threats?”
Sobbing.
“I never said stop talking.”
“Oh God...oh, someone help me...”
I light a new smoke.