Storm Prey

want to have anything to do with it, anymore. You people . . .” He flicked a hand that said, You people are flies.
    Lyle Mack jabbed a finger at him: “You might have to. She got a good look at Joe. If they pull his picture, she could bite us on the ass. We need her tracked; we’ll get back to you on that.”
    “She’s on the twin-separation team ...”
    “You said that. We don’t give a fuck,” Lyle Mack said.
    “That means that she’ll be here every day for the next few days. One of the twins is having heart problems. The operation is taking longer than they thought. So ... you know where she’ll be. Every morning she comes, at the same time. I can’t help you much more than that.”
    “We’ll get back to you,” Lyle Mack repeated.
    They sat staring at each other for a minute, then Joe Mack said, “You know, Al, if we don’t get her, and she fingers me, and it’s your fault . . . well, we won’t worry so much about your fuckin’ family, then. I’d be looking at thirty years.”
    “Worse things than jail,” Barakat repeated.
    “Something for you to remember, too,” Joe Mack said. “I got a chain saw in my garage. You hang me up, I’ll cut you in half, the long way, balls first.”
    More staring, then Barakat said, “If you need some specific thing, call me. On my cell, all the time. But don’t call me from your bar, or from your houses.”
    “We got clean cells,” Lyle Mack said.
    Barakat slid out of the booth. “And don’t call me Al,” he said. He walked away.
     
     
    ON THE WAY OUT of the student union, Joe Mack asked Lyle Mack, “You believe that thing, about skinning the guy alive?”
    “Hey, they’re fuckin’ Arabs or something,” Lyle Mack said. “Who knows what they’d get up to?”
    “You know, he’s a harder guy than I thought,” Joe Mack said. “I don’t think he was kiddin’ about all that.”
     
     
    BARAKAT WALKED the bundle of cocaine out to his car, locked himself in, checked the ramp, then unrolled the sack and took out the Ziploc bag inside. Half a kilo: it looked right. And pure, crystalline white. Gorgeous. The Macks had said that it would be straight, unstepped-on; he’d believe it when he tried it.
    And he’d try it now. A terrible risk: anyone could come along. Somebody could be walking down the ramp, quietly, see him in the car ... but he was going to do it anyway.
    He took his briefcase off the passenger seat, opened it, took out a paperback book with a slick cover, closed the briefcase and put it on his lap. Looked around again. His hands were shaking as he shook a pile of coke onto the paperback. The pile was the size of the last joint on his little finger. He dipped his little finger into it and tasted it. Tasted fine.
    Still a little worried. Coke was sometimes cut with strychnine to boost the rush—that’s what he’d heard, anyway. What if they’d added a little extra? But it tasted fine ... and clean. Coke was cut with lactose, mannitol, lidocaine, dextrose, all kinds of other shit. He looked at the little pile, felt the cold sweat on his forehead.
    Mentally flicked back to the Beirut story he’d told the Macks: all bullshit, an accumulation of legends he’d picked up from kids at school. But he was worried about the Macks.
    He looked again at the pile of cocaine. Didn’t matter if there was strychnine in it, he thought. He couldn’t wait. He fished the cafeteria straw out of his pocket, made a last check, and snorted the stuff up.
    One minute later, the world had changed.
    First the rush, like electricity running through his nerves; then the power, the brightness, the focus.
    Better than sex.
     
     
    THAT NIGHT, Adnan Shaheen let himself into Barakat’s house, called out, “Alain?” Shaheen was a short man with a fuzzy, bushy mustache, dark-complected, soft brown eyes. He was wearing a parka over a white, hip-length physician’s coat. He was in his first year of residency in internal medicine. “Alain, are you there?”
    Barakat’s car was in the driveway Instead of an answer, Shaheen got a thump from the back bedroom. Like a body hitting the floor.
    “Alain?” He went back, down the hall. “Alain?” Pushed open the bedroom door. Barakat was sitting on the floor, back to the bed, his head back, eyes closed, saliva running over his lips and down his chin. He was wearing a sleeveless undershirt, boxer shorts, and over-the-calf socks. His shoes were on the floor between his legs.
    “Ah no,” Shaheen said. He grasped