THE WINDSHIELD WIPERS slapped erratically across the cracked glass, making the dark road ahead barely discernible through the rainbow smudge. Andre rubbed the back of his neck, tired from holding it at an angle so he could see out of the one strip that the blade wiped clear. The play in the wheel of the ’72 International Harvester made steering the wet, windy back roads a constant battle.

“Piece of shit,” he said, stubbing out his Marlboro in the ashtray and slapping the dashboard. In the back was most of the heroin, along with three hundred and sixty thousand dollars in cash. They had dumped some of their smack in Syracuse and gotten rid of a little more outside Utica.

Andre wasn’t going to do anything stupid, though. He knew the best places for him to unload it were up at the border where it would go to Montreal. He wasn’t going to get caught up with another Haitian deal. He was selling only to people he knew. Then, when he had his money, he could go back to New York and check out Seth Cole again to see what else he might have.

“Should have taken that fancy car of yours,” Russo said from the backseat, offering up a nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

“Shut the fuck up,” Andre said, swiping the bottle from him and taking a pull. Dani was asleep, curled up on the seat next to him. Like him, she wore jeans and a white tank top T-shirt. He nudged her.

“Whaaat,” she said in a long groan.

“Want some?” he said, nudging her still.

“Fuck off,” she said and pulled her jean jacket up off the floor and over her head.

“Bitch,” Andre said, nudging her with his elbow hard enough in the head to make her sit up and blink. “Have some.”

She took the bottle and tipped it up. Amber liquid dribbled down her chin and she swallowed until it was gone.

“I love a girl that swallows,” Andre said, and she cuffed him playfully on the back of the head.

“Where’d you find this piece of shit, anyway?” Andre asked Russo, looking at his ugly mug in the rearview mirror. “The junkyard?”

“Got it for four hundred dollars,” Russo said, frowning. “So I don’t know what you expect. You better believe I’ll be buying myself a Mercedes as soon as we get back to civilization. Hey, what are we gonna drink now? There’s no liquor stores open.”

Instead of answering, Andre focused on an all-night gas station up ahead. He pulled in and handed Russo a hundred-dollar bill.

“Go get a case of something good. Michelob or something. And ask them if there’s a decent place to get some rest around here.”

“There ain’t no Ritz-Carltons,” Russo said, hopping out. “I can tell you that.”

“He’s an asshole,” Dani said in a slurred voice when he was gone. She was staring straight ahead.

Andre looked up through the smeared windshield at the bright green and yellow of the BP sign and in a detached voice said, “I know.”

“Why’d we even bring that ugly bastard?” she asked. “He gives me the creeps. Why are we riding in this piece of shit?”

“This is America, honey,” he said. “I want to see how the real people live.”

“You’re talking funny.”

“I been talking funny for a month,” he said. “Now, why don’t you give me a kiss.”

“He’s coming.”

“So what,” Andre said, grabbing the soft part of her thigh and squeezing. “Maybe we’ll let him watch tonight.”

“You’re sick,” she said, and licked his neck.

“I think you’d like that,” he said, and swirled his own tongue in her ear.

The rear door opened. Russo slipped in, brushing the rain off his shoulders, and said, “Hey, hey, cut it out. There’s a motel about two miles up Route 12 with HBO, can you save it?”

“We might let you watch tonight,” Andre said.

Russo cracked open a can and shifted in his seat.

“You want a beer?” he said. “I got some sandwiches too.”

Andre busted out laughing and Dani did too.

“You’re both fucked up,” Russo said, sniffing the air with that big nose and tugging at the collar of his yellow Polo shirt with its tiny blue horseman.

Andre made Russo go inside the motel office and get two connecting rooms on the end. Inside, they put their bags down and met at the little round veneer table in Russo’s room. Russo set out three silver cans of beer and Andre took out some needles, surgical tube, a Bunsen burner, and a spoon. He lit a Marlboro and let it dangle from his mouth while he got to work. Dani slipped her jean jacket off, lit a cigarette of her own, and watched him, the blue flame of the burner reflecting double in her dark eyes.

“Lie on the bed,” Andre said when the needle was ready. He inhaled deeply and stubbed out his cigarette.

She stubbed out hers too, then lay down in the sagging middle of the dingy bedspread and held out her arm. Andre wrapped her upper arm with the tube, stuck the needle into her vein, and removed the tube while he shot her up. Dani’s eyes rolled up. She began to moan and squirm lazily on the bed.

Andre grinned at Russo and said, “You want to go next?”

“Sure,” Russo said, raising his can and drinking some of the beer.

After he set it down, he lit up a Newport before he looked at Andre, exhaled the smoke, and said, “Now that she’s in la-la land, I want to ask you something.”

“Ask,” Andre said, tapping some powder from the bag into the spoon without taking his eyes off it.

“I heard you say something to her earlier about her cut,” Russo said, taking a drag, the ember burning bright.

Andre looked up and noticed that as Russo brought the beer can to his lips it trembled slightly. So did the Newport.

“You giving her some of yours?” Russo asked, taking a gulp and replacing the cigarette.

Andre’s grin grew wide and he narrowed his eyes at Russo through the smoke and said, “No. I was talking about her cut. She’s with us. She gets a cut.”

“’Cause the way I see it,” Russo said, opening another can of beer, taking another drag, and studying the table in front of him, “it’s you and me are partners. I don’t see me giving part of my share to her. It was you and me all along, and now all of a sudden she’s here. And I know she’s your girl, but that doesn’t make her a partner…”

Russo looked up to see Andre studying him and said, “Well? That’s fair, right?”

“I think the liquor’s talking for you,” Andre said.

“We’re gonna make five million dollars and I want my half!” Russo screamed, banging his fist down on the table.

THE BEER CAN WENT OVER. Beer foamed out of it in a bubbling pool that started to run across the small table toward Andre. He didn’t move, even when the river of beer ran over the lip of the table, spattering the leg of his jeans. Andre just stared and smiled. Dani groaned happily from the bed.

With the cigarette hanging from his mouth, Russo jumped up and began to mop the spilled beer away from Andre as if he were hoarding gold. The cigarette fell out of his mouth and hissed out in the mess. Russo used his bare bruised arm to sweep it onto the rug, then dried it on his leg as he sat back down.

“Jesus, I got shot in that Haitian deal. You fucking shot me in the leg, man. I could have talked and gotten off and you’d be in jail,” Russo said. The corners of his mouth were pulled tight and he ran his hand over the stubble of his scalp, knocking off the black cap. “You don’t want that.”

“Are you gonna cry?” Andre said.

Russo’s face was twisting up, wrinkling that nose and making his eyes squint.

“I want my share, Andre,” he said, starting to blubber. “This is all because of me. It isn’t fair!”

Andre took a deep breath and sighed through puckered lips. In one quick movement, he reached down, pulled the gun from his waist, snapped home a round, and had it pointing directly in Russo’s face.

Russo winced and turned his head away, bringing his hands up as if he could block the bullet. Andre sprang to his feet, sending the chair clattering into the wall.