She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,94

black night. “Your friend, Duncan Bellino, is into some nasty business. I’m sure you know that, I’m not sure you understand the full extent, but at the very least, you know who he works with.”

I opened my mouth to protest, and he raised a hand. “You don’t have to say anything. It’s probably better you don’t, not right now anyway, just listen. You’ve seen us watching your building. We rotate, we try to stay out of sight, but inevitably we get made. We’ve got photographs of you watching our vans from the building. Even got some audio of you and Bellino talking about them—”

“Audio?”

“You shouldn’t say anything, just listen. Self-incrimination, and all that.”

I nodded.

“When we started watching your friend, we weren’t really after him. We were after his boss, Henry Crocket. You know how that all works, you watch TV—we nab your buddy on something, get him to roll, give us something or someone bigger.” Horton rolled his hand through the air. “Keep going until we get the top dog, sometimes even the top dog’s boss, work with other agencies like the FBI or DEA, try to take down the whole mess. Crocket has been on our radar for nearly ten years. He started out just like all the other ones, working for someone else, learning the ropes, then branching off on his own. Usually that doesn’t work out well for the someone else.”

Horton paused for a second, choosing his words. “See if this sounds familiar to you. He started with small-time stuff—pot, some prescription drugs, then a little meth and heroin. Dealt on his own in the beginning, then wised up and started using kids. Some as young as ten years old, peddling his shit on playgrounds and street corners. We bust them, they’re back out in a few hours. Kids never talk. They know they can’t get in much trouble. Crocket actually gives, well gave, them a bonus if they got busted and didn’t talk, couple extra hundred bucks in their pocket. Nice scratch for a little kid, even nicer for the parents who usually knew exactly what was going on and let it slide—they needed that money too, mouths to feed, bills to pay. Many have a habit, and when they let their kid work for someone like Crocket, they get the employee discount on smack. None of this is new. This is how the drug trade works around the world, every city and town, Pittsburgh’s no different. Some of these guys are happy keeping the business small—they make great money, after all. Why get greedy? They can take home a solid six figures per year. Others, though, others like Crocket, they catch the bug, they’re all about expansion, diversification, they gotta build the business, grow.”

Horton looked down at his dirty tie, mumbled something, then tugged it off, and used it to wipe at the soot on his shirt. When he realized the stains were only spreading, he gave up and shoved the tie in his pocket and turned back to the window. “Last year alone, Henry Crocket was responsible for nearly 30 percent of the drug traffic in this city. 10 percent of all the nastiness in Philly, he branched out. Recently, he’s been sniffing around Chicago, too. I don’t care much about that, busy worrying about what’s happening here in our city. Last year, twenty-three of his customers died, overdosed. Doesn’t matter much, though, because plenty more stepped up to fill those shoes. He merged with at least four of his competitors. And by merge, I mean he had them killed and took over their territory. So, more of a hostile takeover. Until this morning, he was well on his way to owning 40 percent of Pittsburgh’s drug trade by year’s end, a 10 percent bump over last year. Maybe more. Some of his remaining competition has been bowing out of the trade altogether—better that than merging like the others. Things were going well for Mr. Crocket, right up until today when a car with four armed men rolled up and filled him full of bullets, took half his head clean off, in that diner.”

The image of Crocket’s head popped into my mind, his ruined body slumped over the table. “Normally, I’d drop some pictures in front of you at this point, try to spook you with the images, but I know you saw him, and real life is far worse than a picture. You get the benefit of those other senses, smell, touch. Your