Jess Walter - The Financial Lives Of the Poets

Lt. Reese’s turn: “I just wanted to sweep you up with the other losers, but Randy here says, wait a second, I know this guy. He’s not a bad guy.”

I look gratefully at Young Randy: No! Not a bad guy! Good guy! If only they could get to know me…I used to give so much to United Way.

“Here’s what I said,” Randy jumps in. “Lieu, this guy, he’s no drug dealer.’”

I shake my head no. I’m not.

“I said, ‘In fact, maybe we should talk to this guy. I think he has goodness in his heart.’”

I do. Good heart. Goodness.

Old cop rolls his eyes. “Tell me something. You got kids, Matthew?”

Before I can answer, young cop asks, “What ages?”

And for the life of me, I can’t remember. “Uh. Ten? And, uh…the little one…eight?”

Old cop: “Boys? Girls?”

Young cop: “One of each?”

Me: “Boys?”

Young cop: “Bet they’re cute.”

Wait. I know this one. Nod.

“I don’t know.” Old cop, sighing, turns to his partner: “I gotta be honest, Randy. I’m not feelin’ it. You sure you wanna give this asshole a break?”

Yes, please. Break. Break, please.

“Lieu-” Randy starts to plead my case. Even when he frowns he smiles.

But Reese wants none of it. “It’s fucked up, Randy. This is what’s wrong with our country, this lack of responsibility. Drug dealer dads? Cokehead in the White House?”

Randy looks at me apologetically. “I don’t think Mr. Prior here is interested in our political views, Lieutenant.”

Lt. Reese turns back to me. “Matthew, you have any idea how deep a pile-a-shit you’re standing in?”

I look down at my feet to see the shit and my messenger bag.

Randy puts his hand on Lt. Reese’s arm, maybe trying to lighten him up. “What’ve you got in there, Matthew, two ounces?”

“Three.” My voice is a low death-rattle. Wait-what happened to B. through N.: coy, quiet, deny, deny, deny, they have to have a warrant? Be quiet. Wow. I’m bad at this.

Both cops sit back, maybe a little embarrassed. It’s probably not supposed to be so easy.

Lt. Reese shakes his head. “It’s the hypocrisy. That’s what’s so offensive.”

He’s right, of course. I look down. It’s the same move Franklin makes when he’s in trouble, and I picture myself in handcuffs, my boys watching the police haul their father away. My head falls into my hands.

“Hey,” says Randy. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“Give me a break,” says Lt. Reese. “We’re fifty fuckin’ miles from okay here, Randy. Don’t sugarcoat it for this delusional fuck-

stick.”

Delusional fuck-stick-right. Amazing, how you can misjudge everything, how blind you can be to the truth. The ways you fool yourself. Believing something has shifted, that the world can be benign. No, this is what it means to come apart-not gently unraveling, but blowing out, a tire on the freeway.

I have been wrong about everything.

For instance, I was so sure the older one was going to be the good cop.

S TARTING TO SEE WHY

Monte wanted to sell me

His bammy business

The Regional Drug Task Force office turns out to be within walking distance of the coffee shop, behind a door marked “R. Thomas-Clinical Social Worker/Therapist, MSS, LICSW,” on the first floor of a nondescript downtown office building overlooking the river, across the hall from an insurance company. We sit in a conference room that looks like it recently hosted a corporate brainstorming retreat, a white board covered in various numbers in columns below the phrases “Potential Funding” and “FY ’09-’10,” and I think this white board could be from any business strategy session, but of course, it’s not. It’s a task force set up to arrest drug dealers.

Like me. My coy strategy gone now, I spill it all…how I’ve been under financial stress, how I found myself getting high for the first time in years, bought a little, then realized I knew other people who would buy weed, how I went out and visited the farm and gave Monte nine thousand dollars, but didn’t get my pot, how Monte tried to sell me the whole operation. The cops don’t say much, but nod approvingly a few times. Then I open my backpack and-hands shaking-remove the three ounces of bud and hand it to Randy, who goes off to weigh and photograph it. I watch him take a small sample, which he seals in a Ziploc baggie; then he puts the rest of my weed back in my messenger bag. During this, Lt. Reese has me initial some sort of requisition form that I probably should read before signing.

“So much paperwork,” I mutter.

“I suppose that shithead had you sign his stupid contracts,” Reese says. “He knows we’re closing in. More nervous he gets, the more worthless contracts he prints up. That’s probably why you only got three ounces yesterday, because Eddie was there.”

I think: who’s Eddie?

Randy says, “He’s doing everything he can to keep this in state court, keep the feds out.”

I shrug. No idea what any of this means.

Lt. Reese is getting tired of explaining things to me. “Three ounces? Well within the state limit for medicinal use? See, you’ll never get weight with Eddie around. The medicinal dodge is bullshit, but it’ll give his lawyer something to argue.”

“Who…is Eddie?” I finally ask. “Do you mean Dave?”

Lt. Reese spews contempt. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, do you, fuck-nuts?” From another file, he hands me a photocopy that includes a mug-shot of Drug Dealer Dave, identifying him as “Edmund David Waller Jr.,” AKA “Eddie Waller” AKA “Dave Waller.”

My mouth goes dry. Dave is an Also Known As? I tend not

to have a lot of dealings with aliases. “He…he said he was a lawyer.”

“He was a lawyer. For about an hour. Worked for an old hippie firm defending drug dealers. But the bar tends to look down on psychopaths with multiple convictions.”

Psychopath? Multiple convictions? My eyes drift toward the Arrests and Convictions part of this rap sheet. Indeed, Eddie-Dave has two convictions-misdemeanor possession of a controlled substance almost a decade ago and misdemeanor assault-but he’s been charged two other times, once for intimidation seven years ago, a charge that was dropped, and another charge that, according to this sheet, is still pending-vehicular manslaughter?

Drug Dealer Dave? Assault? Intimidation? Manslaughter?

Lt. Reese sees me swallow. “You think this is the fucking PTA you’re dealing with?”

I say, weakly, “He did ask to look up my ass.”

Randy and Lt. Reese make uncomfortable eye contact.

Lt. Reese takes the file from me. “The assault charge was on a twenty-two-year-old female. The intimidation came about when he tried to…convince someone…not to testify against him.”

“And the manslaughter charge?”

Lt. Reese hands me a black-and-white photograph…a roadside somewhere…with a lump of clothes…or-

“Is that…a dead body?”

“It ain’t a pile of leaves. Dave doesn’t like leaving anyone around to testify.”

I think I’m going to be sick. “Wait. He ran over this person to keep them from testifying? Is that what you’re saying? Why…why wasn’t he charged with murder?”

Lt. Reese rips the photo from my hands. “Eddie’s a lot of things, but he ain’t stupid.”

My head’s swimming. “What about Monte?”

“Oh, he’s stupid,” says Randy.

“No, I mean, is he dangerous?”

Lt. Reese leans in. “Wake up, fuck-stick! Who do you think these people are?”

“Come on, Lieu,” Randy interrupts. Then to me: “Monte has no violent priors.”