Chapter 10 #2
“Fabulous.” I hold the bottle up to the light, but I can’t see the actual compound through the plastic. “How quickly does it leave the bloodstream?”
Pell cocks his head a quarter of an inch to the left.
“Back in two shakes.” He slips out of our booth, pulling the baseball from his pocket and turning toward one of the tables behind him, where two smug douchebags in business suits are mid-conversation with a glowering Barb.
The dinnertime crowd is noisy enough that I can’t hear what he says when he leans over to address the guy facing me, rolling the ball across his knuckles as he talks.
The exchange is quick, and before Pell fully straightens, the guy fumbles some cash out of his wallet and flees the restaurant, his face the color of ranch dressing.
His buddy leaves just as quickly, his chair hitting the ground with a clatter in his haste to get the fuck out.
Pell winks at Barb, grabs a plate off the now-abandoned table, and heads back to our booth, lazily tossing the ball as he walks.
“Got us some more pie.” He sets the plate in front of me with a grin. “I saw you eyein’ my peach.” Then he picks up his fork and our conversation like nothing interrupted it. “My chemist says the compliance juice’ll be undetectable after two hours.”
“Great,” I say, giving up on getting any kind of explanation for what I just witnessed.
“Now, the special addition you requested.” He beams like a proud parent.
“Not only do you get compliance, your target’ll look like he’s got a shit ton of alcohol in his system.
Blood should show well above the legal limit for up to twelve hours after…
” He drags his fork across his throat, then goes back to his pie.
“Spray ’em, get ’em into position, stage an accident only a blackout drunk could love. ”
Exactly what I asked for, in other words. Pell and his mystery chemist are miracle workers.
“What about the vitreous fluids?”
Pell winces and scratches his baby-smooth cheek. “Awww, how come ya gotta go talkin’ ’bout eyeballs?”
“Because that’s my job. What’s your chemist say?”
“She’s not sure,” he admits. “Doesn’t have any peepers to pull fluid from for a test. If only we had a death investigator who could check it out in the field for us…”
She? That’s the first time he’s hinted at any aspect of his miracle worker’s identity. I file it away, but as I do, I notice him noticing me doing it. Not an unintentional slip, then.
Pell returns to his pie, and I shrug it off for now.
Pell’s reasons for doing what he does will either reveal themselves—or they won’t.
In the meantime, I have something new to play with.
I pick up the bottle, weighing it in my palm.
“Knock off twenty percent, and I’ll get you the results after I do my guy. ”
A cloud crosses his face. Pell hates haggling, hates any friction surrounding his money, so this is a risk. But after a beat, he relaxes back against the seat and uses his fork to slide the rest of my coconut cream in front of him.
“Fine. But I want every scrap of data you have.” Talking about money knocked the rest of his put-on Southern drawl right out of his voice. “And because I’m a nice guy, I included a free gift with purchase.”
The final item in the bag is a needle the size of a Sharpie with a cartridge of clear liquid in the middle and a dosage wheel on the end.
“That,” he says, “is a big-daddy paralytic. Poke your vic, and he’s completely immobile for thirty minutes.”
“Wow. Really?”
“The spray keeps ’em on their feet, the shot puts ’em on the floor.” One corner of his pretty mouth kicks up. “A li’l thing like you oughta have that in her back pocket as a last resort.”
I look at him in surprise. “Thank you, Pell.”
“Well, you’re a good customer.”
He shifts in his seat, the edge of a tattoo peeking over his low neckline. As touched as I am by his show of concern for whether I live or die, I’d rather not know what Pell loves enough to permanently ink onto his body. Hopefully it’s pie.
“Oh!” He slaps his forehead. “I’m s’posed to give you this.” He reaches into one of his pockets and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. “Dosages.”
I flip it over and see that it’s a receipt from Taco Haven with his drunk skunk handwriting scrawled on the back. “Big fan of burritos, huh?”
He raises one lazy brow. “That ain’t mine.” He sets a surprisingly well-manicured fingernail on the paper. “This tells you how many shots of fake-drunk obey-me spray you’ll need based on body mass. When in doubt, use more, not less.”
I nod as I scan the scrawled directions. “Seems straightforward.”
“Now, your big daddy paralytic’s a dial-a-dose. One wheel click for somebody your size, two clicks for somebody my size. No idea what three clicks’ll do. Maybe longer effects. Maybe death. Maybe nothin’.” He brightens. “Maybe I’ll pay a visit to Dr. Mohr and see what happens if—”
There’s a click, and we both stare down at his forearm, where I’ve just dialed a single dose straight into his bloodstream.
“I told you,” I say calmly. “No threatening my neighbor.”
The big daddy compound works as promised. Pell tries to stand, but his body locks up almost immediately, sending him flopping back down into the booth. By the time I’ve tucked my goodies back into the party raccoon gift bag, he’s only able to move his eyes. They track me as I pick up my phone.
“I’m sending your payment right now,” I tell him as I tap the screen a few times. “Since I only used one click, I’m guessing you’ll be good in under twenty minutes. Text me when you can. I want to see how accurate that is.”
Before I leave, I nudge his jaw up so his mouth is closed and slide the fork between his lips.
“No hard feelings, right? Consider it field testing.” I pat his cheek. “Happy birthday.”
I stand and toss a breezy goodbye to Barb, who waves vaguely in my direction from behind the register, not bothering to look up from her magazine. Then I sail out of the diner, having made my fucking point about respecting the duplex boundaries in a way I know he’ll remember.