Winter Solstice in St. Nacho's (St. Nacho's #5) - Z.A. Maxfield Page 0,4
don’t you just put me up until the worst passes?”
“That’s not possible.”
No way would Tug get near my place, or my parents, for that matter. They were soft touches—just naive enough to let him move in, whereas I didn’t trust addicts. I had compassion for them, but I would never let one close. The warning was right there in the DSM-5. People with substance use disorder will continue to use in spite of negative physical and emotional outcomes, meaning they don’t mind destroying relationships. They stole, lied, cheated—even killed family and other loved ones—to get what they needed.
“Will you talk to someone I know if I can get her on the phone?”
He didn’t move or speak. I wasn’t sure he could if he’d wanted to. I’d seen this before. People, stuck in a mess, who freeze while they consider all the ways everything can go wrong.
Instead of waiting for a reply, I called Echo for him.
“Hey, Captain Oblivious,” she answered. “It’s late, and some of us have lives.”
“Sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”
“Make it up to Gayle. She’s the one who’s doing all the work.”
I winced. “I didn’t need to know that.”
“Hey, cuz.” Gayle’s shout was muffled. I pictured her crawling out from beneath the bed linens. God, I had the world’s worst timing.
“I have a guy named Tug here who needs answers.”
“Right now? Could this possibly wait until morning?”
“Special case. He OD’d in my library this afternoon. He’s pretty sick and very stuck right now. Night has fallen. I don’t know what to do.”
I let Tug hear every word. It would have been worse to let him think I’d talk behind his back.
“Figured I’d ask for help,” I said, “given the eight principles of—”
“I get it. Is he willing to talk to me?”
“Let me ask.” I held the phone out. “Are you willing to talk to my cousin Echo? She’s going to be nonjudgmental and noncoercive in helping you find the services you need. She will preserve your autonomy and your dignity. Do you believe that?”
He shrugged. The way he stared at the phone—as if he didn’t trust the instrument or the person on the other end—made the nerves in my fingers tingle. After some hesitation, Tug took the phone and the candy and headed for the parking lot.
I had a moment of real worry for my phone, but he sat on one of the planters under a security light where I could see him.
They talked while I ate oatmeal. I was going to need the coffee if I had to drive him somewhere. Beds were in short supply for the uninsured, good nonprofit programs notoriously difficult to get into.
Outside of a city like San Francisco, whose progressive social programs could be funded by the many major corporations that also spawned its biggest social problems, there was little chance of helping him out right away.
After about ten minutes, Tug returned, sticky-fingered and blue-tongued from downing Pixie Stix. My phone needed a bath as badly as he did.
“What did you decide?” I asked.
He jerked his chin at the phone, which I took to mean that Echo would let me know my part of the job.
“Echo?”
“You want the good news or the bad news first.”
“Whatever. Hit me with your best shot.”
“I can’t find him a bed for tonight. It will probably be Monday before we can get him situated.”
“Shit,” I muttered. “So, then what?”
“Get him a room at a local motel. Pay for three nights.”
“And?”
“Gayle and I will drive out tonight. She’ll assess him when we get there. It should take us two, two and a half hours. We can crash at your place after, right?”
“Of course.”
“This means you owe us, seriously—”
“I would totally owe you.” That probably meant another campaign with Gayle as the dungeon master. She was such a control freak, I kind of dreaded it. On the other hand, we were family.
“One more thing, cuz.” Gayle’s voice sounded tight. “He’s a sex worker and an intravenous drug user. It goes without saying to exercise caution, right? We’ll bring you what you need. Double glove if you touch anything sharp or come into contact with bodily fluids. Wear your glasses for eye protection. We’ll expect you to text with the address.”
“Right.”
She hung up, which left me with an oddly hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach and a dude dumping Pixie Stix into his mouth like a hyperactive toddler. He stuck his tongue out and wagged it around a little.