Chapter 26

I visited the gym I wanted to join and spoke on the telephone with the nutritionist I'd hire to design my diet, but I could neither join the gym nor hire the nutritionist. I didn't have any money. Also, my Honda was running on fumes. I needed my own bank account.

I opened my cell phone to call my father to find out if he could meet me at a bank close to our house, but before I could dial the cell phone, the house phone rang. I answered the call.

"Hey, Eric," the caller said.

"Hey, yourself," I said, wondering who was calling.

"Are you in need of any product?"

Product? Whoa! Was my supplier on the phone?

"Yes," I said. "I'm climbing the walls."

The man chuckled. "But just think how good you'll feel."

"I don't have any money," I said.

"I figured that. You have a customer list, users at the school. I'm willing to trade."

Smart, I thought. My predecessor wasn't a complete dumbbell. No, I take that back.

I said, "I'll trade names and phone numbers but not all of them, not all at once."

"Climb the fucking walls then," the caller said and hung up.

I wanted to check caller ID, but Dad didn't have that feature on the house phone. So I pressed speed-dial number one on my cell phone. When Dad answered my call, I said, "Gotta minute?"

"Yeah," he said, a little out of breath.

I quickly told him about my meeting with the attorney, bare bones only. He was ecstatic with her prediction about what would happen Tuesday. Then I told him that I needed my own bank account and why.

He said, "I'll close up work early this afternoon and take you to my bank, Son."

He wasn't happy about the call from my meth supplier until I said, "I want to take him down, Dad, his supplier, too, all the way back to the cooker."

"Cooker?" he said.

"That's slang for the person who manufactures meth. Some cooking is involved. I learned this from the internet. I even found a recipe for meth that listed all the ingredients and step-by-step manufacturing instructions."

"Jesus," he muttered. "I'd heard that anything you wanted to know was on the web, but ... Jesus."

"The police officers that arrested me, do you think we can trust them?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you think they're honest or corrupt? If they're corrupt, asking for their help to take this meth ring down could get me killed."

"Oh! Damn, this is complicated shit. Is your attorney honest?"

"Yes."

"Ask her how to proceed."

"That's good advice, Dad. Thanks."

"That's why I'm the dad and you're the kid," he said and chuckled.

After setting a time to go to his bank, I hung up and called Mrs. Kaplan. I told her about the call from my supplier and then outlined my fears and what I wanted to accomplish. "I need some advice on how to proceed," I said.

"Do you think he'll call you back?" she said.

"Yes, probably tomorrow. He wants my customer list, but he's willing to be patient. Time is on his side. He thinks I'm strung out, which I am, by the way. He knows I'm an addict. He knows I'll cave in to his demands eventually."

"I agree. Let me make some calls. I'll call you back within an hour."

I watched the boob tube and ate snacks while I waited. Dad had to pay the cable company for the internet connection before they'd hand over the router. I'd checked. So I couldn't play poker. Hell, I was too strung out physically to play poker anyway. With a different ego in control, I think the withdrawal symptoms were less than they would have been otherwise. With me in control, I believe I avoided flashbacks and hallucinations that the real Eric Kleiner would have experienced. My supplier was right to wait.

Mrs. Kaplan called me back in forty-five minutes and gave me a name and a phone number. "I didn't know your arresting officers. I do know this man. He's an honest cop. Give him a call. He'll meet with you and set everything up."

I hung up and called the number my attorney had given me.

"Detective Newman?" I said.

"Yes."

"This is Eric Kleiner. My attorney talked with you about my situation."

"Yes, she did. Would you please meet me at..."

"My car is about out of gas," I said, interrupting him. "And I don't have any money to buy gas until my dad gets home at 3:30 this afternoon."

"How about you and your father meeting me at Ausbaugh Park at 4:30? Use the Cerrillos Road entrance to the park. I'll meet you in the parking lot. I'll be driving a light blue Toyota Camry, this year's model."

"All right, but can you make that 4:45. Dad's going to help me open a checking account before the banks close."

"4:45 is fine. What will you be driving?"

"A used white Honda Civic sedan. It's four years old."

"See you then. Make sure you're not followed." He hung up.

Detective Rory Newman was a big man, six-four or —five, relatively fit for a forty-year-old man, broad shoulders, with only a small pot belly. He was bald enough that he shaved away whatever other hair he had on his head. He reminded me a little of Daddy Warbucks, the super-wealthy hero in the Little Orphan Annie comic strip, except Warbucks was handsome and Newman looked liked he'd just swallowed a lemon without a peel.

"Were you followed?" Newman said when we slid into his Camry, me in the front-passenger seat, and Dad in the backseat.

"No," Dad said. "I had Eric take some extra turns as I guided him here to make sure."

The detective gave me a hard look and said, "You want to take everyone down from your supplier to the cooker, huh?"

"Yes. I'm going through hell. I don't want those people to put other kids through what I'm going through," I said.

"You'll be putting your life at risk," he said.

I chuckled and said, "Are you trying to talk me out of doing this?"

"No, I just want you to know what you'll be facing. This isn't that big of a deal. The police won't extend that much protection for you."

"Why do you think this is a little deal?" I asked.

"Because we've been investigating this ring since you were arrested. It's a small operation. They don't move that much product. One cooker, two dealers, maybe three. We know the name of your dealer and one other dealer. We don't know the name of the third dealer, if one exists, but it's our educated opinion that there is a third dealer. We don't have a lead to the cooker we can follow. We also don't have enough on any of them to arrest them. You were a throwaway dealer. I don't know why they contacted you again. They only need the name of one user at the school. Then the word will get around, and the other users in the high school you were servicing will go to your dealer. We don't want you involved beyond helping us put together an iron-clad case against your dealer. We'll use him to roll up the others involved."

"Okay," I said, "What do you want me to do?"

"Agree to meet with him wearing a wire. My partner and I will be in the next room. We'll arrest the dealer as soon as you complete the transaction."

"There's a huge error in your plan," I said.

"What's error?"

"He'll know me. I won't know him. I don't know any drug lingo, or the price of the drugs, or how much I should buy. I was struck by lightning two days ago. I have retrograde amnesia."

"Fuck!" he huffed. "I wondered why you waited until now to give up your dealer. Now I know." Then he sighed. "Maybe with a little coaching you can pull it off."

"Maybe, except like I said, I won't know him, and he knows me. In fact, I think that's the way we ought to play it. When he calls, I'll tell him about the lightning strike and the amnesia. I'll tell him I don't know him, but that I'm seriously strung out, and then let him take it from there."

Newman nodded. "There's more risk involved, but that might work. Do you have a list of users?"

"Not that I know about. Dad and I plan to search the house tonight. Maybe I wrote down the customer list and hid it somewhere. Although if I did, we didn't notice anything like a customer list when we searched for and found my stash. We flushed the drugs down the toilet and tossed the paraphernalia in the trash. If we can't find a list, I'll offer cash for the product when he calls instead of the list. I'll tell him I pawned something, or stole the money from Dad—something plausible. One other thing, how about installing a video camera and wiring the kitchen in the house for sound instead of me? I'll offer to let him search me for a wire, if I think the offer is needed."

"That's a good idea. We'll install the camera and microphones tonight. When he calls, we won't have to rush around to get you wired before he arrives to complete that transaction. We'll show you how to turn everything on for the same reason."

My supplier didn't call. He knocked on my door the next morning as I was about to leave for my morning run.

I didn't know who he was until he said, "Hey, Eric," when I opened the door to his knock. I recognized his voice.

"Am I glad to see you!" I exclaimed. "Come in." I turned and without looking back walked to the kitchen, surreptitiously turning on the camera and microphone as I passed the switches. He was about three steps behind me from the sound his feet were making, so I didn't think he'd seen me fiddle with the hidden on/off buttons. I sat at the kitchen table. "Wanna cup of coffee or a beer. My dad drinks beer. There's a beer in the fridge. Jesus, I'm strung out."

He chuckled and said, "I'll take a beer."

I jumped up and pulled a bottle from the fridge, opened it and asked if he wanted a glass.

"No," he said. "I'll drink it from the bottle. Aren't you having one?"

"No," I said and sat down. "Here's the deal. I don't know you. Three days ago I was struck by lightning. I have retrograde amnesia. My dad told me I was an addict and that I'd been arrested for dealing at the high school. I'm fucking wired, man, so I figured he told me the truth. Since you called, I looked all over for the list of users, but I couldn't find it, so I stole some money from my dad before he left for work this morning." I tossed out five twenties onto the table. "With amnesia, I don't know what meth costs or how much that much money will buy. Is it enough?"

"That'll buy you a gram," he said. "It's enough."

"Listen ... ah, what's your name?"

"This is fucking strange," he said.

I was losing him. "Come on, man," I said. "You can see how strung out I am. I need the fucking stuff."

He tossed a small plastic bag on the table and picked up the money.

I grabbed the bag like it was a life preserver and I was in the ocean during a hurricane. "Thank you! Thank you!" I gushed.

He didn't move.

"Go ahead. Get high," he said.

Shit. I hadn't counted on him hanging around to make sure I used some of the drug.

Then he surprised the crap out of me. He reached behind his back and pulled out a pistol. He held it in front of him twisted to the side like a gang member in a movie. He pointed the weapon at my face. "You're not stuttering. You're strung out but don't get high immediately. Go ahead. Get high, mother fucker. Get high or I'll blow your fucking head off!"

My krav maga training kicked in. I was close enough to move to the right and move inside the weapon's aim at the same time. Then I grabbed the weapon and twisted it, standing up for more leverage. The weapon ended up in my hands. I pointed it at him and backed up, ratcheting the slide on the weapon to make sure it was ready to fire. It had been ready to fire when he pointed it me; a bullet flew out to my right and clattered on the linoleum kitchen floor.

"I ought to blow your head off. You come into my house and shove a pistol in my face. That isn't nice. Face down on the floor, you bastard. Now!" I shouted. "Or I will blow you away."

He was terrified. That pleased me no end, and he flopped onto the floor as I'd demanded. "Spread your arms and legs, dammit! Good. I'm going to make a call right now. If you move a muscle, you're dead meat." I flipped open my cell phone and pressed speed-dial number two. I'd programmed Detective Newman's number into my phone the previous night. When he answered my call, I said, "Detective, it's Eric Kleiner. I have a drug dealer spread eagled on my kitchen floor. How about coming to my house and taking him off my hands?"

"How... ?"

"Now, please. He pulled a weapon on me. I took it away from him. It's taking all the will power I have not to blow him away. Now, Detective. Come to my house right now." I hung up. "If you move, you creep, I'll kill you," I said to the man on the floor. "I'll tell the cops that you tried to escape, that I had to shoot you to stop you. No that won't work. I'll tell them that you attacked me, that I shot you in self-defense. That's it. That's what I'll tell them. Now, what's your name?" When he didn't answer my question immediately, I said, "Answer me, you sonofabitch, or I'll shoot you right now and claim self-defense. What's your fucking name?"