The coming storm pushed the heat before it in an unbearable crest, and even once the rain started the streets didn't have the good sense to cool down. The air got thick. Larry's brains felt stewed. Eddie wanted to buy, but White didn't want to sell.
Eddie would pay top dollar, hell, he'd out-pay whoever White was holding for.
"I don't do business like that." Larry clamped the phone between ear and shoulder, frowning at the fresh coat of paint that wasn't going to dry anytime soon in this humidity. God, but the fumes were starting to really bug him. He had to get out of there.
There are muffled voices on the other end of the line. Eddie comes back with authority, "Mike says you owe him."
Oh. So that was it. Longbeach just wanted to get some of his product back; probably bullied into giving it up for free in the first place. Larry sighs like maybe he's contemplating it. "So do I come to you, or...?"
"You fukken kiddin' me?" Eddie laughs. "Of course, man, we're making a party out of it. Watch out for flying houses." The line goes click, and Larry listens hard for the white noise of a wire tap. Adrenaline punches him hard in the gut when he hears it, an extra static that blanks out seconds after the line goes dead, no louder than a dropped paperclip.
"You sure this guy's cool?"
Orange glances over to Nice-Guy with evident boredom, curled up in the leather chair of his office with last week's crossword balanced on his knee. "Which one?"
"White. Man just got back from a trip with a suitcase full of party favors that he don't even wanna sell."
Orange looked to Longbeach Mike, who shrugged. "I never said he was cool, I said he was trustworthy. Saved Brown's ass, didn't he?"
"Yeah. Just seems weird to me, sometimes. That guy."
"Hey," Orange snaps, "Maybe he just didn't want to leave the house, you ever think of that? Man's probly never seen a tropical storm before, and you've got him on delivery like --"
"Like a professional fucking salesman?"
"Like some chinese clown with the evening's take-out." Orange is agitated. Everyone is agitated. Blue was the only one unruffled by the weather, but he was down in the parlor shooting pool with Pink and Joe. Orange uncurls from the couch, escaping Eddie's uncharacteristic grumbling before he did something he'd regret.
The methadone wasn't working so good; well, it was doing its job as far as weaning Orange off the opiates, but it wasn't the blank high of heroin and the side effects were much more uncomfortable. Cold turkey hadn't worked for him, had nearly killed him, so he was on this program and every morning was like having fresh needles stuck under his fingernails and every night was like the television stuck on loud. The heat, the storm, the stress of the approaching job, none of this did anything to help his mood.
And Orange could be a right awful fuck when he was in a bad mood.
The rain was hard and weighty, but warm. Orange almost felt like he could drown standing there, blowing the wet from his nose and mouth with each breath, nearly blinded by the downpour. He wanted to stay out there until he cooled off, until he was shivering and hungry, but the steam rose from the streets and the wrap-around driveway like hell was getting doused. Nothing cooled, only spread itself thick to the next thing. Everything smelled like something else, like the world was bleeding together.
The rain smelled like pavement. His clothes smelled like smoke. The cab was a careful yellow blur, driven by an inveterate Californian with the fearless power-cords of heavy metal ping-bopping through the rush of wind and water.
White dodged from the cab to the house's front alcove, but was half soaked to begin with and only ended up fully soaked. He turned, a tourist in a loud Hawaiian shirt, blinking silently over at Orange. Orange beckoned him as the cab pulled away.
"Junkyard Hounds" ( 10b / ... )
Eddie would pay top dollar, hell, he'd out-pay whoever White was holding for.
"I don't do business like that." Larry clamped the phone between ear and shoulder, frowning at the fresh coat of paint that wasn't going to dry anytime soon in this humidity. God, but the fumes were starting to really bug him. He had to get out of there.
There are muffled voices on the other end of the line. Eddie comes back with authority, "Mike says you owe him."
Oh. So that was it. Longbeach just wanted to get some of his product back; probably bullied into giving it up for free in the first place. Larry sighs like maybe he's contemplating it. "So do I come to you, or...?"
"You fukken kiddin' me?" Eddie laughs. "Of course, man, we're making a party out of it. Watch out for flying houses." The line goes click, and Larry listens hard for the white noise of a wire tap. Adrenaline punches him hard in the gut when he hears it, an extra static that blanks out seconds after the line goes dead, no louder than a dropped paperclip.
"You sure this guy's cool?"
Orange glances over to Nice-Guy with evident boredom, curled up in the leather chair of his office with last week's crossword balanced on his knee. "Which one?"
"White. Man just got back from a trip with a suitcase full of party favors that he don't even wanna sell."
Orange looked to Longbeach Mike, who shrugged. "I never said he was cool, I said he was trustworthy. Saved Brown's ass, didn't he?"
"Yeah. Just seems weird to me, sometimes. That guy."
"Hey," Orange snaps, "Maybe he just didn't want to leave the house, you ever think of that? Man's probly never seen a tropical storm before, and you've got him on delivery like --"
"Like a professional fucking salesman?"
"Like some chinese clown with the evening's take-out." Orange is agitated. Everyone is agitated. Blue was the only one unruffled by the weather, but he was down in the parlor shooting pool with Pink and Joe. Orange uncurls from the couch, escaping Eddie's uncharacteristic grumbling before he did something he'd regret.
The methadone wasn't working so good; well, it was doing its job as far as weaning Orange off the opiates, but it wasn't the blank high of heroin and the side effects were much more uncomfortable. Cold turkey hadn't worked for him, had nearly killed him, so he was on this program and every morning was like having fresh needles stuck under his fingernails and every night was like the television stuck on loud. The heat, the storm, the stress of the approaching job, none of this did anything to help his mood.
And Orange could be a right awful fuck when he was in a bad mood.
The rain was hard and weighty, but warm. Orange almost felt like he could drown standing there, blowing the wet from his nose and mouth with each breath, nearly blinded by the downpour. He wanted to stay out there until he cooled off, until he was shivering and hungry, but the steam rose from the streets and the wrap-around driveway like hell was getting doused. Nothing cooled, only spread itself thick to the next thing. Everything smelled like something else, like the world was bleeding together.
The rain smelled like pavement. His clothes smelled like smoke. The cab was a careful yellow blur, driven by an inveterate Californian with the fearless power-cords of heavy metal ping-bopping through the rush of wind and water.
White dodged from the cab to the house's front alcove, but was half soaked to begin with and only ended up fully soaked. He turned, a tourist in a loud Hawaiian shirt, blinking silently over at Orange. Orange beckoned him as the cab pulled away.