– Jesus!

A Mexican kid in greasy dishwasher whites comes out. The bartender points at the scene outside.

– Clean that shit up.

Jesus stares at the carnage taking place beyond the window and nods.

– Si.

The bartender walks back to the bar, picks up the remote and turns up the volume on his show; the slot couple punches in another song and “Saturday in the Park” starts playing; the old-timer shakes his head and mutters something about Goddamn fucking college kids; the cocktail waitress goes back to cleaning out the votives that she’ll be setting on the tables soon; the guy knocks back another Jager and bangs it on the bar. I take a last look out the window just in time to see Two Cups start puking, too. The boys watch, laughing and high-fiving each other.

Then the guy gets up and goes to the bathroom.

Jesus is standing by the glass with a mop bucket, waiting for the kids to leave so he can do his shitty job. I follow the guy into the bathroom so I can do mine.

HE’S PISSING LOUDLY into one of the urinals. I edge past him into a stall, close the door and pull the handful of tiny coke-filled glassine bags out of my pocket. The urinal flushes and I pinch one of the bags open and drop it along with several others onto the floor, most of them scattering out under the stall partition.

– Shit! Oh, shit!

I slam my shoulder loudly against the stall as I get down on my knees and start scrabbling under the partition for the dropped bags. I peek out and see that the guy has moved to the sink and is washing his hands and ignoring me. I scoop up the bags and flick the open one with my middle finger. It skitters across the tiles, leaving a thin trail of white powder, and comes to rest at his feet.

– Fuck! Oh, fuck!

I stand up, jerk on the locked stall door a couple times, bang it open and stumble out. The guy is just straightening, the open, now almost empty, bag pinched between his thumb and forefinger. I shuffle toward him, the rest of the bags peeking from my fist.

– Um, that’s mine.

He stands there, a couple inches shorter than me, balding, flashy tasteless clothes, pinkie ring, a bulky upper body that’s settling into his midsection but still powerful around the shoulders. The same build my body is starting to develop. He looks from the bag to me.

– Yours?

– Yeah. So, you know.

I put out my hand.

He points at the bag.

– This?

He points at me.

– Is yours?

I shrug.

– Yeah.

He shakes his head.

– Well.

He reaches for his back pocket.

– Looks like this might be your lucky day.

He pulls out a wallet, shows it to me, and lets it fall open, revealing the LVMPD badge within.

– Except it ain’t.

– You actually staying here?

I squint up at the sign for the Happi Inn Motel as we cross the parking lot it shares with the Jackalope.

– Yeah.

– Place sucks.

I don’t say anything as it kind of goes without saying that a place called the Happi Inn Motel sucks. Besides, I’m busy. I’m wondering if this is it. Did they finally get sick of me fucking up? Have they set me up?

Is this the guy who’s going to kill me?

I get out my room key and the guy puts a hand on my shoulder.

– Wait up, hoss. You got anyone in there? A partner, maybe?

I look at the pavement and shake my head.

– Naw, just me.

– Uh-huh. Well, you go ahead and unlock that door, but don’t open it.

I turn the key, the lock clicks open and I step back from the door. He puts one hand on the knob, tucks the other one up under the tail of his silvery jacket and rests it on the butt of his piece. He looks at me again.

– Last chance. Anyone in there, now’s the time to tell me. I see someone I’m gonna go bang bang.

I shake my head again.

He nods.

– OK.

He pushes the door open, makes sure it lies flat against the wall so he knows there’s no one behind it, then nods me in. I step in and he follows me, closing and locking the door behind us. He goes to fasten the chain, but it’s broken, so he puts his hand on his gun again and looks the room over, peeking under the bed, looking in the closet, and sticking his head in the bathroom. Then he claps his hands and points at me.

– OK, hoss, let’s see it. On the table there.

I stick my hand in my pocket, dig out the twenty or so gram bags of coke and dump them on the table. He presses his lips together and shakes his head.

– Not good, hoss, not good. That’s a very felony-looking pile there.

He fingers the bags.

– You got enough weight here to cause you some problems right out the chute. But all packaged up like that? Shit, that looks like intent to distribute to me. What do you think?

I look at the floor and shrug.

– Uh-huh. You got any more? Better tell me now. I gotta take this room apart I’m gonna be irritated.

I nod.

– Yeah.

– You got more?

– Yeah.

– How much?

– A half.

– Half ounce?

– Kilo.

He blows Jager-scented air out his nostrils, pulls a Kool from his breast pocket and lights it.

– That is some serious weight. You got it here?

– Yeah.

– In this room?

– Yeah.

– Uh-huh.

He blows a cloud of smoke.

– Where?

I tilt my head at the bathroom.

– Toilet tank.

He smiles.

– I tell ya what. You got a half kilo in the shitter there, and this might turn out to be your lucky day after all.

He puts a finger under my chin and tilts my head up so he can look into my eyes.

– You get me, hoss?

Great. Better and better. A dirty cop. And I have such a good track record with dirty cops.

– Yeah. I get you.

He drops his finger from my chin.

– But you fuck with me, hoss?

He slaps me lightly on the cheek.

– And I’m gonna school you. Get me?

– Yeah. I get you.

He gestures for me to lead the way to the bathroom.

– So why the sad face? Let’s get happy.

I slouch past him to the open door of the bathroom. He stands close behind me, blowing smoke over my shoulder.

– You go ahead and take the lid off, but don’t you go reaching in there or anything. Just take that lid off and step to the side.

I nod, lift the lid from the tank and step to the side. He points at the lid.

– Set that on the floor there.

I set the heavy lid on the floor.

– There ya go. Ain’t no one wants to get whacked with one of those mothers. Now step on back.

I take a step back toward the shower. He shakes a finger at me, winks and looks into the tank. He glances at me, looks in the tank again, and crooks a finger.

– Come here for a sec, hoss. Got something to show you.

I step over for a sec, knowing what I’m gonna see, and look into the tank that’s empty except for the standard hardware. I start to open my mouth and he grabs me by the back of the neck and slams my face into the mirror. I’m lucky today, it doesn’t break.

– What the fuck, hoss? You messin’ with me? You fuckin’ with the law?

He presses my face harder into the mirror. My luck may be wearing out.

– This a setup?

He sticks his cigarette in his mouth and uses his free hand to pat me down.

– You wearin’ a wire? You fuckin’ IAD or somethin’?

My mouth is smashed against the speckled mirror.

– Nu-hugh.

He plucks the cigarette from his lips and thrusts it at my right eye. The scar is dead and feels nothing, but there’s a sudden flash of heat on my eyelid as I close it. He holds the cigarette close to my closed right eye, and from my still open left eye, pressed to the mirror, I see a dark blur reflected behind him. He touches the cigarette to my eyebrow and I smell burnt hair.

– So where’s the fuckin’ half key, shithead? You tell me the deal or I’m gonna burn a hole right through your fuckin’ eyelid.