Read Online Back To The Stars: ROMANCE: ALIEN (Alien Invasion Abduction SciFi Romance) (Fantasy Anthologies & Collections) by Clare Morgan - Free Book Online
Authors: Clare Morgan
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unlucky and too stupid to figure out that you don’t borrow money from a gangster.
There were sometimes when I would go solo on a job. Usually it was when I had to deal with the college set.
The college set was the nickname Junior used for anyone we did business with who was under twenty-five, and there were a lot of them. And there were a lot of them who didn’t do business with us, but should’ve been. Kids who were going behind Junior’s back and scoring from one of his competitors, or kids who had no idea Junior even existed and were just trying to score a few extra bucks and some free dope. I never liked dealing with these kids, and it happened a lot more than I’d like to admit.
If Junior got wind of some trust fund hippie who was floating a few dime bags in one of his neighborhoods, he’d have me go by and pay them a visit. I would knock on their doors, decked out in my standard issue Italian gangster suit (I usually wore Italian on my own accord, but when I was out on my runs for Junior, I kept my suits extra sharp. Usually I’m pretty rough on my clothes, like I fall asleep in them or I forget to change out of them for two or three days. But on the job, I always wanted to look professional.), and the bulk of the kids I dealt with would go ghost pale thinking I was one of two things: Either a cop, or the white boy equivalent of Jules from Pulp Fiction getting ready to recite Ezekiel 25:17.
Most of the kids who thought I was a cop were usually the ones who would give into me right away. Most of the time they would promise me they would never sell dope again and then give me the money they’d made along with the rest of their drugs. I liked these kids because you knew they were just playing around with being a dirt ball and they would be on the straight and narrow for the rest of their lives, and I would get to pocket the money and the dope. All Junior ever wanted was for them to knock of the shit, but if they wanted to keep doing what they were doing, they needed to kick back to him, and with most of them just wanting to be left alone and never having to see my face ever again, Junior didn’t ever expect for anything to be coming back to him. God knows I needed the extra cash, because my position with Junior was indeed full time, and I had zero time to pick up any PI work.
But occasionally when I dealt with the college set, there were guys who didn’t want to hang it up, or become partners with Junior. It was a couple of dipshits like this who got my ass sent to Arizona.
The kids were operating a couple of blocks north of the University Of Chicago. They lived in a real nice place that was obviously being paid for by their parents. They lived on the ground floor, and when I knocked I knocked, it took somebody practically ten minutes to make it to the door. While I was waiting, I pressed my ear to the door and all I could hear was the television turned up to 11 and what sounded like a couple of monkeys cackling at the top of their lungs.
When they finally opened up, I was greeted by a young kid wearing dreadlocks and laughing so hard his face had turned blue and he’d pissed his jeans. I followed a few feet behind him and shut the door behind me. The kid lead me into the living room, which was littered with fast food wrappers, crushed beer cans, cigarette butts, and shattered glass pipes. From the looks of the place it looked like I was dealing with tweakers. The kid flopped down on an equally filthy couch next to another guy who looked like his twin brother. The only difference was that this kid had crapped himself instead of pissed.
I walked to the TV, which was playing an episode of Breaking Bad at top volume. It was the episode where Gus gets blown up, and Jesse’s foster kid gets poisoned by Walt, so there was no reason the kids should have been laughing the way they were, other than the fact that they were high as kites. I switched off and turned around and faced them. They knew something was up
There were sometimes when I would go solo on a job. Usually it was when I had to deal with the college set.
The college set was the nickname Junior used for anyone we did business with who was under twenty-five, and there were a lot of them. And there were a lot of them who didn’t do business with us, but should’ve been. Kids who were going behind Junior’s back and scoring from one of his competitors, or kids who had no idea Junior even existed and were just trying to score a few extra bucks and some free dope. I never liked dealing with these kids, and it happened a lot more than I’d like to admit.
If Junior got wind of some trust fund hippie who was floating a few dime bags in one of his neighborhoods, he’d have me go by and pay them a visit. I would knock on their doors, decked out in my standard issue Italian gangster suit (I usually wore Italian on my own accord, but when I was out on my runs for Junior, I kept my suits extra sharp. Usually I’m pretty rough on my clothes, like I fall asleep in them or I forget to change out of them for two or three days. But on the job, I always wanted to look professional.), and the bulk of the kids I dealt with would go ghost pale thinking I was one of two things: Either a cop, or the white boy equivalent of Jules from Pulp Fiction getting ready to recite Ezekiel 25:17.
Most of the kids who thought I was a cop were usually the ones who would give into me right away. Most of the time they would promise me they would never sell dope again and then give me the money they’d made along with the rest of their drugs. I liked these kids because you knew they were just playing around with being a dirt ball and they would be on the straight and narrow for the rest of their lives, and I would get to pocket the money and the dope. All Junior ever wanted was for them to knock of the shit, but if they wanted to keep doing what they were doing, they needed to kick back to him, and with most of them just wanting to be left alone and never having to see my face ever again, Junior didn’t ever expect for anything to be coming back to him. God knows I needed the extra cash, because my position with Junior was indeed full time, and I had zero time to pick up any PI work.
But occasionally when I dealt with the college set, there were guys who didn’t want to hang it up, or become partners with Junior. It was a couple of dipshits like this who got my ass sent to Arizona.
The kids were operating a couple of blocks north of the University Of Chicago. They lived in a real nice place that was obviously being paid for by their parents. They lived on the ground floor, and when I knocked I knocked, it took somebody practically ten minutes to make it to the door. While I was waiting, I pressed my ear to the door and all I could hear was the television turned up to 11 and what sounded like a couple of monkeys cackling at the top of their lungs.
When they finally opened up, I was greeted by a young kid wearing dreadlocks and laughing so hard his face had turned blue and he’d pissed his jeans. I followed a few feet behind him and shut the door behind me. The kid lead me into the living room, which was littered with fast food wrappers, crushed beer cans, cigarette butts, and shattered glass pipes. From the looks of the place it looked like I was dealing with tweakers. The kid flopped down on an equally filthy couch next to another guy who looked like his twin brother. The only difference was that this kid had crapped himself instead of pissed.
I walked to the TV, which was playing an episode of Breaking Bad at top volume. It was the episode where Gus gets blown up, and Jesse’s foster kid gets poisoned by Walt, so there was no reason the kids should have been laughing the way they were, other than the fact that they were high as kites. I switched off and turned around and faced them. They knew something was up
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