Squall

chapter one

Friday, January 18, 1:35AM

“Fucking brother of yours,” Ronnie Saxon said, the coke revving her up, making her aggressive. “Treats you like his errand boy.”

Dale Knight drove the big Dodge Ram without looking at her, knowing the eye contact would only make her worse. He flicked the wipers on, fat snowflakes melting as they struck the windshield. Outside, Asian district neon reflected off the accumulated snow, drifts of it smothering the city.

Ronnie said, “You should be partners by now. Look at him, king shit in that big house in Rosedale. Where are we? Cabbagetown. Half a  duplex with a plugged toilet, those fucking rappers upstairs playing that street shit half the night.”

She paused to do another hit off her coke mirror and Dale said, “It’ll come, Ronnie. Ed’s just showing me the ropes. He came up this way himself, doing runs for Copeland. It’s how it works.”

“The ropes,” Ronnie said. “Listen to yourself.” She hefted the gym bag out of the footwell in front of her, 250K worth of Randall Copeland’s heroin. “I was you? I’d take this shit and start up on my own. Someplace fresh. Miami, maybe.”

Dale took the bag from her and tossed it on the back seat. “You’re talking shit now, Ronnie. This is Copeland’s dope. Randall Copeland? Remember him?”

A long-established independent in the Toronto Area drug trade, Randall ‘Randy’ Copeland had managed through sheer force of will to maintain a healthy percentage from almost all of the rival factions that had sprung up over the past few decades—the Jamaican posses, the Eastern European bratvas, the Asian triads, even the American biker and youth gangs—mostly by providing safe and reliable distribution, his vast clientele far more terrified of Copeland than they were of his competitors.

Dale said, “My brother told me he watched the man split a guy’s tongue with a pair of tin shears for lying about putting a ding in his Beemer. He’s the last son of a bitch we want to fuck with. Why don’t you just mellow out.”

Ronnie only stared at him, that hard shine in her eyes that made Dale nervous, giving him no idea what was going on inside her head. It made him realize how little he knew about the girl. He’d met her through his brother—one of Ed’s discards, a hand-me-down, like a sweater—and six months later they’re engaged. True, she was fine: that black leather coat flared open to show a little cleavage above a tight red top; legs that went all the way up; all that thick dark hair. But she never talked about her past, only hinted at its flavor, almost like a threat when she got pissed at him and wanted him to know it: “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Dale, so I suggest you just back off.”

He said, “Listen, we’re almost there. I’m gonna go inside and do the deal, you’re gonna wait in the truck. Ten minutes tops. We’re late, so I’ll probably have to put up with some shit about that.” Late because Ronnie’s ‘quick’ stop for blow wound up costing them an hour.

“You saying it’s my fault?”

“We could have picked up your blow after the drop, like I suggested.”

“The day I had, you expect me to wait?”

Letting it go, Dale said, “When I come out we’re gonna take the money to Ed, collect our two grand and that’s the end of it. Fucking coke, makes you hyper.”

Ronnie said, “At least I’m awake,” but the edge was gone from her tone, something else on her mind now. She slipped the smeared coke mirror into her bag, her trim body moving to the Santana tune on the radio.

Dale slowed the Ram and turned left, then left again into an alley behind a closed Korean take-out joint. He parked beside a black BMW and killed the engine, pocketing the keys. He reached over the seatback for the gym bag and Ronnie leaned into him, manicured fingers squeezing his thigh.