The Cool Room by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 45

Again, Frank sat at the bar in his usual place. Again, the man who always seemed to be carrying his ‘medicine’ approached him. But this time, the exchange would be different. The man smiled as he walked over and sat next to Frank, who had begun trembling from withdrawal – something else the man would exploit.

“Frank,” he said. “Jesus Christ, you don’t look so good. Anything I can do for you? Can I call an ambulance for you or something?” Obviously, consciousness was something he lacked. But apparently, being a drug dealer requires the discarding not only of one’s dignity but one’s humanity as well. Underneath his friendly smile, he didn’t care if Frank lived or died. Naturally, he preferred that Frank be alive and able to let him in on what would provide him with the cover he needed. Frank had only one response for the man’s cruelty.

“Fuck you,” he said.

With a broader smile, the man leaned an arm on the bar.

“Ah, a sense of humor,” he said. “I knew there was something I liked about you.”

Frank had quickly come to hate the man. He hated what he did. He hated his apparent disregard for the lives he had destroyed. For him, it was business – just business. And in Frank’s chaotic mind, this man represented true evil. But as much as he despised the man, Frank needed him to provide an almost constant flow of what it was that kept him going. It was, indeed, an unusual relation.

Sitting at the bar, Frank did his best to curtail his anger, knowing he was being exploited. But what happened next was something he did not expect and would reinforce his hatred of the man who seemed to take pleasure in supplying him with what he knew could destroy his life.

“Okay, Frank,” he said. “I knew you’d be back, so I got you some more, and you look like you could use it.”

Frank sighed in relief as he broke into a sweat. He couldn’t imagine the man cutting him off – that would be bad business.

“The usual price?” Frank asked.

The man continued with a grin on his face as he prepared to exploit Frank further. “Well,” he replied. “That’s something we need to talk about. I’m going to give two grams instead of the usual one. But this time, I’m asking five hundred dollars. That’s okay with you, right?”

Now, Frank’s anger became apparent, and, turning toward him, grabbed the man by his shirt. “Are you fucking me?” he asked. “I can’t pay that?!”

Hearing the commotion, the bartender yelled for order.

“Hey,” he said. “Take it outside!” The dealer was not amused by Frank’s response and gave him a warning of what could happen should he be arrested.

“Frank,” he said. “You’re pissing me off. So I strongly suggest you take your fucking hands off me, because if I go down, you’re coming with me. You understand that, right?”

Releasing his shirt, Frank turned away and, looking toward the back of the bar, attempted to haggle for a lower price. He was still angry, but did his best to restrain his emotions for the sake of trying to manipulate the man for what he wanted. “I can do three fifty,” he said.

The dealer was far better at hiding his emotions in order to avoid standing out, but there, everyone has limits. Getting off the bar stool, he invited Frank outside for a more intimate discussion. Not knowing the dealer’s motives, Frank’s anxiety surfaced as he followed the man out the door.

Leading him around the corner, the man turned back to Frank and motioned him into a nearby alley. “Step into my office, Frank,” he said. It was at this point that Frank’s anxiety transformed into fear. Once they reached the back of the alley, the man stopped and, grabbing Frank by his shirt, threw him against the brick wall of the bar. What frightened Frank the most was that the man’s voice was oddly calm.

“Now,” he said. “It seems to me that we need to establish a few ground rules: one, you don’t get tough with me. Two: You don’t raise your voice to me, and you never make demands. And three: you pay me what I ask for. So, let’s not have any problems here. Oh, and one more thing: never draw attention to me. I can’t afford that. Got it? And I don’t think I have to tell you what’s going to happen to you if I get busted, do I?” Frank heard his warning loud and clear, knowing that he could either lose his business or his life, and neither seemed palatable to him. His only way out was to pay the money if he wanted to continue with his ‘medication’. The other possibility was to stop. He would save his business, but at the cost of his sanity, with both withdrawal and the pain of grief surfacing at the same time. Frank was faced with a choice, but with his hands shaking, he decided to pay what the man was asking. But he also decided that once the two grams were gone, so would his addiction. The money he would have to spend was not the worst of his situation. It was the threat to his life, regardless if it was only implied.

Before leaving the alley, Frank took out his wallet and, opening it, removed five hundred dollars. In exchange, the dealer took a two-gram vial of cocaine from his pocket, and within moments, the purchase had been made.

“See, Frank,” the man said. “You had the money all along, didn’t you?”

Putting the vial in Frank’s shirt pocket, he put a friendly hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Frank,” he continued. “Everything’s going to be okay. And things will be better when we get our business set up at your funeral home. You’re with me on this, right?”

Frank handed the money over in silence. He would never allow drugs to be sold out of his business. It would simply not happen. Doing so would cost him everything – his life’s work, his dignity, his business and, of course, untold years in prison. The answer was no. It would always be no.