The Cool Room by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 39

Walking up North Main Street, Frank arrived at the bar. Although he was looking for the man who dropped the glass vial into his pocket, he didn’t want to seem obvious about it. Finding the stool he had previously sat on, Frank tried not to attract too much attention when the bartender walked down and asked him what he wanted. It wasn’t even noon yet, but as people tend to slip deeper into whatever hole they’ve dug for themselves, they also tend to medicate it earlier in the day and bar owners aren’t there to be social workers.

“I’ll just have a beer,” Frank replied. As the bartender walked away to pour Frank’s beer, a man walked in, and approaching Frank asked what he thought to be a casual question. “So,” he said. “What did you think?” Although it was his goal to find the man, Frank was startled by the suddenness of his approach.

“Jesus Christ,” he replied. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Sitting on the stool next to him, the man put a hand on Frank’s shoulder as if to establish friendly camaraderie.

“So,” he said. “Felt pretty good, huh?” Frank wasn’t there for small talk and didn’t want to be in the bar any longer than necessary, and was already becoming impatient.

“Look!” he replied. “I’m not here for conversation or bullshit.”

The man interrupted as the bartender walked up with Frank’s beer, while momentarily stopping to address the as-yet-nameless man. “Get you anything?”

The man’s response was quick and sent the bartender back to the other end of the bar. “No, I’m good.”

Interlacing his fingers, he brought his hands up, resting them on the edge of the bar. “So,” he continued. “I take it you want more?” With the realization of what he was about to do, Frank glanced around the room and, taking a deep breath, made a request.

“Can we do this outside?”

The man was not accustomed to ‘doing business’ in the light of day and preferred instead to conduct his transactions in the shadows, places where being seen would be less likely.

Both men knew what would happen should they be caught – the nameless man selling a controlled substance and Frank buying it. The consequences promised to be both severe and very public, but Frank tried to discount the results of the local authority’s involvement. Once outside, the man made his request.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he said.

Stepping out of the bar, Frank was led around the corner and down to the intersection with West Ninth Avenue. From there, they walked across the street, and standing behind an abandoned building, the man reached into his pocket and revealed a glass vial. It was larger than what he had surreptitiously dropped into Frank’s pocket only a few days ago, and contained far more of the substance Frank was craving.

“Now,” he began. “This is a gram. It’ll get you through a couple of weeks. Then, if you want more, you know where to find me.”

The sight of the vial and the powder it contained brought a thin sheen of sweat to Frank’s face. The man who was quickly becoming Frank’s dealer had seen this many times and knew what it led to, and they always came back.

“Alright,” Frank replied. “How much?” The nameless man always knew an opportunity when he saw it and was happy to exploit the addictions of those who sought him out. “Well,” the man replied. “Seeing that you’re a new customer, I’ll only charge you fifty bucks.” It was practically a steal – almost something for nothing. And with a wallet full of cash, Frank was too eager to pay what he thought was a meager amount and be on his way. But the words ‘a new customer’ rang bells of alarm in his mind. But later, when he returned to the funeral home, he made time to apply another band-aid and soon the bells ceased their toll and faded into the distance of Frank’s mind. Although temporary, the band-aid healed the wounds of grief and pain long enough for him to function and maintain his business and his income. Business was already lacking as the population of the town continued to tumble, and too many days off during the week could be catastrophic. Should his business collapse, the only competition in town would thrive, and Frank would have none of that.

Frank paid the money and, slipping the vial into his pocket, started the walk back to his place of business. But before he approached the street, the man made one more tempting offer. “Hey,” he said. “If you ever want some weed, I can hook you up.”

Frank actually thought about it, but the smell would not only fill the air inside the funeral home but also permeate his clothes and foul his breath. While tempting, Frank realized that the burning plant he had been offered carried the potential to soil his reputation, and he quickly passed on the offer. Businesses are much like empires; they rise and fall mostly on reputation, and like a well-armed military, a business also succeeds based on the weapons it brings to bear against its competition. Victory, however, is won when the competition begins to waver in its financial gains, and though not publicly displayed, a good businessman can tell when his competitor is beginning to taste the vomit of defeat. And while Frank did not want to see his only competitor fall, he did want to succeed beyond them, knowing that if they failed, he would quickly be overrun with more work than he could deal with. This could also bring his business to a screaming halt. Dealing with one's competition is often a fine balance. Both must stay above water, but only one must carry the life preserver, and it was Frank’s goal to always have an advantage, even if it meant using a substance to stay in the lead.