The Chemist

Chapter 4

April 17th, 11:45 p.m. The Bronx, New York City

This chapter is dedicated to author Richard Price, whose down to earth dialogue within urban backdrops inspired me throughout.

Danny wore his gray hoodie set tight around his face, both hands in the warmer concealing the knuckle knife as he strutted erect on the sidewalk, never looking down. A row of forgotten parking meters stood guard over the crumbling sidewalk along the rear of Darryl's building. No one suspected the Kevlar vest he'd donned underneath. His strident gait projected that of someone who owned the sidewalk underneath him, while his thoughts focused on any escape routes he could use at the first signs of trouble.

Parkchester Houses, a city-block sized plot with twenty three six-story buildings was always at the top of the city's worst projects list. It was a place where, Danny had been told, the Devil himself wouldn't set foot in. This particular section had been dubbed, 'Siberia', by local law enforcement.

Approaching the expansive courtyard, he could hear the unmistakable clamber of residents and buyers congregating across from Building 4's front entrance. A driveway curved around the building, between it and a small playground. The benches were lined with young men, with lines forming in front of them like patrons waiting to enter a rock concert. The entire scene had the aura of a dysfunctional block party, except no one was dancing. Three boys popped off sounds with makeshift percussive objects. One sat with a pair of drumsticks rattling away against the bottom of a plastic overturned industrial sized paint can.

After a preliminary scan of the area, he realized he wasn't the only Caucasian paying a visit to the projects tonight. He noticed several high school and college kids, either too brazen or too stupid to care about their own safety, lined up for their fair share of crack and heroin, the drugs du jour.

The undercover cops Darryl had described were conspicuously absent, but Danny assumed they were watching from above, laying in waiting for someone to make a mistake.

Danny stood in line and watched how the system ran seamlessly, like a play wherein everyone performed their part to perfection. Without a word, a customer stopped at the bench and extended a hand as if to shake, except he had held a folded deck of money which the seller palmed, then raised his left hand and waved it back at the front entrance of the building, three middle fingers curled down with pinkie and thumb extended in a Tai-Chi-like move. The seller palmed the money to one of the others, who walked to the front entrance, stooped down at the three boys banging away and stuck the wad of bills under the overturned bucket. Then, another boy walked out of the building through the solid metal door and likewise palmed the vials to the customer.

Every third bench had a teenaged boy sitting up on its back ready to sell. One group huddled up ogling a Gameboy.

He closed in on Darryl, surrounded by three others and looked straight into his eyes. "Where's Mekhi?"

"He sick, man. I doing his stash tonight." The other boys looked on in bewilderment.

"I want to see him. Now," Danny repeated as he stepped closer. "What he sold me last time was shit."

"He must be deaf or something," the second boy said, followed by muffled snickering.

"Then I want to see whoever he got this stash from. Tell me where he is."

"Don't know where. He come whenever he want to." The kid shrugged, followed by backup laughter from the group.

They all looked at each other, except for Darryl, who stared blankly back at Danny, playing the part.