Jeanne Stein - The Watcher

The guy is doing some calculating of his own. His eyes sweep the length of my body. He has the look of a predator. "Didn't I just see you up on the street? With a big guy? You got him good. Big slap for such a little lady."

I draw myself up. "He deserved it, the asshole. Thinks he's such a big shit. Thinks he can treat me like dirt and I'm going to take it. I don't need the fucker. I don't need anybody."

I let a hint of desperation seep into the tirade. He picks up on it just the way I knew he would. His kind always look for weakness. It doesn't matter if it's man or vampire, the wiring is the same.

His face takes on a solicitous expression—you have to look closely to read the truth behind the mask. The eyes remain hard and cold but the voice is like a caress. "What can I do for you, pretty lady? You didn't come down here by accident. How can I help you?"

I start to fidget. "I heard I could buy what I need here."

He tilts his head, narrows his eyes. "Why here?"

I let my temper flare. "Why here? Gloria." I spit the name. “The cops know me in my neighborhood. They watch me all the time. I think David's bitch, Gloria, ratted on me. She's trying to get rid of me." I shove a hand into my pocket. "Look, I have money. Can you help me or not?"

He reaches out a hand of his own and stops me from going any further. Glancing around, he says, "Easy, chica. I can help you. Come with me to my tent. It's not safe for a girl to flash money. There are others here who would take advantage."

I haven't seen another soul except for those two kids. Still, I let my shoulders slump. "Thank you. I've never had to do this before. Not like this anyway."

He puts a hand on my arm and rubs my wrist, tugging gently until I follow him toward the tent at the end of the row. I pretend to stumble, and he helps me regain my balance with an arm around my shoulders. When he pulls me against him, I feel the gun tucked into his waistband under the oversized Western shirt.

A big gun.

His arm remains across my shoulders until we get to the tent. The second guy we saw walking with Guzman stands like a sentinel in front. My guy sweeps back the canvas covering that serves as a door, leans forward and says something in Spanish.

Great. Is he alerting Guzman that he's bringing someone in or telling him to start shooting?

He steps aside. If I balk now, it's over. I steel myself to take a defensive posture if needed and duck into the tent.

The air in the small tent reeks of dope and unwashed male. To make matters worse, it's muggy as a steam room and just about as hot. My skin prickles in revolt.

Guzman is seated cross-legged on the cardboard covering the floor of the tent. I needn't have worried about being greeted by a hail of bullets. He doesn't show the least bit of interest in me. He has a cell phone in his hand, and he keeps looking at it as if waiting for a call.

My drug-dealing friend has to bend low as he creeps to the back. He reaches into a knapsack, asking over his shoulder, "What's your pleasure?"

I fidget and scratch at my arms and chest. Junkie itch is what I'm going for but the fetid atmosphere inside the tent makes it more a shudder of disgust.

He watches and smiles knowingly. "Ah, la chiva then."

Heroin. That word I know.

He turns his back to me again as if not wanting me to see his stash but it's obvious he's shaking something into a baggie. "You got your works?" he says over his shoulder. "I can sell you a needle, too."

He's pinched the baggie closed and shoved the rest back into the knapsack. When he turns around again, I shake my head. "I'm good." I dig my hand into my pocket. "How much?"

The cell phone in Guzman's hand trills loudly. He motions for us to be quiet and snaps it open. He listens for a couple of seconds then, "Estas seguro." Another moment of silence. Then he speaks again.

He looks up at me and barks a command, voice harsh. His eyes burn.

The few words I recognize make me wonder if Guzman's cousin isn't in for a surprise. The rest seems to be an order for the dealer to hurry. Pronto translates in many languages. His expression makes ice form along my spine. I wonder if he's about to pull a gun and start blasting. One way to make things go faster.

I take a step back as he climbs to his feet, every cell in my body prepares for attack. But he pushes past me without another word.

"Two hundred."

The words pull me back. The dealer's eyes have gone as stone-cold as his boss's. Come on David, I think, make your move. My pockets are empty. How long can I stall?

"Two hundred," I whine. "What ever happened to dime bags?"

He smiles. "Supply and demand," he says. "Do you want it or do you want to take your chances with Gloria?"

The dealer's expression hardens, his hands move to the waistband of his jeans. I know I can make quick work of him but not without noise. The last thing I want to do is alert Guzman that something is wrong.

Damn it. I shift to another pocket. "No. I just forgot where I put the money."

He is neither amused nor indulgent. He doesn't drop his hand. "Rapido."

The word is a threat. If David doesn't show up soon, I'll have to come up with something besides money to offer him. Since he hasn't already suggested exchanging bodily fluids for the drugs, my options are limited.

Outside, there's an exclamation of surprise, a thump as a body hits the ground, and David's voice. "Anna?"

Finally.

My guy doesn't look to see what's going on before reacting. He goes for his gun.

I'm quicker. Once the constraint of keeping silent is removed, I tackle him. I hit him low on his body, chopping at his gun hand. He yelps and the gun falls free. But I've hit him too hard. There's a support pole in the middle of the tent and he falls against it. The pole cracks, the tent shudders, and we're wrapped in a canvas cocoon. He manages to land one good solid punch to my cheek before I pin his arms down. The punch hurt. My teeth are about to retaliate when the canvas is pulled away.

David peers down at us. He's got a cuffed Guzman lying on his stomach, his face pressed to the ground. David has one foot on the small of his back. Guzman is quiet, not struggling.

"You okay?" David asks.

I haul the dealer to his feet. "Peachy. What took you so long?"

David stares at a spot on my face. He smiles. "He got you, didn't he?"

The smile stops me from rubbing my cheek, which I was just about to do. "You don't have to sound so smug."

He hands me a pair of handcuffs. "Did it hurt?"

I yank the dealer's hands behind his back instead of answering. Mum, I snap on the cuffs and give him a shove.

David is still smiling. "Good," he says.

Since the tent is in shambles around us, we're standing out in the open. Guzman has yet to make a sound, his other buddy is out cold. The dealer I have in cuffs starts to yell in Spanish.

David grabs Guzman by the scruff of his neck and hauls him to his feet. "Let's go," he says to me. "He's telling his friends that we're robbing them."

"What about the other two?"

David motions with his gun to a scrawny tree a few feet away. "Cuff your guy to that. This one is still out. Quick. Time to go."

He says the last because we now have an audience. Heads poke out from tent flaps, men, mostly, with bad teeth and hungry looks. I don't waste any time. I shove the dealer to the tree and cuff him, press his face into the rough bark in retaliation for the punch. The scratches and trickle of blood don't shut him up. He's still yelling.

It's not having the desired effect, though. No one steps forward to help him. I'd bet they're just waiting for us to leave so they can loot his stash. I call to David, "Tell them we're calling the police for the other two so they'd better work quick and get out."