The Heart is a Poor Judge Ch. 07

Unhurried, he climbed from the car, folded his arms on the roof and watched Miguel work. "Where's all that headed?"

"South, mostly," said Miguel. "Some of it to your hood. And there's a big order this week for Allentown."

"Your hood."

Miguel smirked. "Once upon a time."

"Did you hear about the people who ODed last night? A bunch of kids out by Eddie."

"Of course," Miguel said absently. "I had to turn off the TV. It's all anybody wants to talk about."

"Well, it's big news." He paused. "None of them made it."

"Four rich white kids? You don't need to tell me that's big news. There was a double-homicide in Midtown, too. Did you hear about that?"

"No."

"That's because no one's covering it. I had to find out from my neighbor who knew a guy."

"Homicides aren't on the rise. You can check the numbers."

"No, probably not. Not the ones that get reported, at least."

"But people dying from overdose—"

"I know," said Miguel. "But there's no way it came from us. You know that, right? Remember when all that weak stuff flooded the market from Jalisco? You get a bunch of tight-asses trying to save a buck...winding up with a mess of impurities, and they mix in god-knows-what to try and get the same kick. And...well—it gets ahead of people. They don't get the feeling they expected, so they take more...and it just gets out of hand. You understand what I'm saying?"

"I don't care if it came from us or not."

Miguel said nothing, pretending to focus on the contents of the trunk.

"Does it honestly make you feel better that the shit we're putting out is pure? Does it make you feel proud?"

"I mean, a little, yeah," said Miguel.

Gabe scoffed. "How nice for you."

Slowly, Miguel's shoulders fell and his features softened, like a boxer giving up mid-round. "Come on, we've already talked about this."

"I know."

"So what are you going to do? Quit?"

"Of course not." Quitting was the furthest thing from his mind. He could never make such a drastic decision while still completely in the dark about the things that mattered most. His was a problem of exposure. It always had been—he knew that much. These days, there were fewer horizons left to chase, but this remained one. "I have to know for myself what it's like. I can't just keep going on—" He stopped himself. "Look, I need to know how difficult it would be for a few doses to fall off the truck."

Miguel stared at him, motionless for a second or two with a box in his hand. He carried it away and placed it in a bin. He came back, apparently still deep in thought. Then, in his bygone warehouse voice (which Gabe had suspected he might never hear again), he muttered, "Not very difficult."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

Gabe swallowed. "So how would you do it?"

"There's extra right now. Just a little, but it's plenty. I had to reconfigure an order and it was left over. It happens, sometimes. Normally I would get clever about working it in somewhere else, but I can make it go away from the books, if you really want it."

Gabe's heart pounded. He had spent the past few hours in agonizing dread, anticipating resistance above all, and claims of unfeasibility that would be impossible for Gabe to vet.

But Miguel was willing. If that was the most startling part of this, the easy logistics were a close second. He swallowed again, attempting to wet his dry throat. "I don't want to try it alone."

"Fuck no, you don't."

"Then you'll do it with me?"

"Jesus, Gabe."

"What?"

Miguel heaved a sigh. "Nothing." He scratched the back of his head. "Yeah...okay, fuck it. You want a partner in crime? I'll do it."

Shame tugged at him in that second, due not to the questionable ethics of his plan, but because of the shift it Miguel's demeanor: unhesitating is his devotion, wholeheartedly complicit in all of Gabe's dealings now that they were bonded forever.

—

Four more days passed, half of which Gabe spent alone at his childhood home. He was growing impatient for it to sell. His real estate agent had warned him that without renovation, it might sit longer on the market. But the truth was that it hadn't been very long...it only felt that way.

His room remained mostly assembled, as it could be emptied at a day's notice. Overstuffed bookshelves occupied an entire wall and half of another. All news of the outside world funneled through the eleven-inch screen of a Sony color TV: Fred Trump was dead at 93; US Marines held hands with the children of Kosovo. Gabe's world felt small, especially back in this room. A place of consistency and refuge his entire life, somehow he was neither sentimental nor anxious about dismantling it, once the time came.

Miguel had made a suggestion one night after the birth of the plan. He wanted to be somewhere out of town when they first tried it. Gabe had countered that it would be safer to be someplace more familiar, perhaps at his place or Miguel's, but Miguel doubled down. The experience would be, in his words, "purest among nature."

Gabe had laughed at the phrase before reluctantly agreeing, on the condition that Miguel come up with a location where their solitude would be assured, since he doubted his wits could bear an encounter with a stranger. Miguel had instructed him to perish the thought.

As Friday night rolled around again, Miguel unfolded a map of Southern California like a blanket over the warm hood of the car. "Here," he said, finger accusing a spot deep in the forest green of a mountain range to the north. "It's private land. I got permission."

"Who's permission?"

"Alice's. She inherited it—long story—and she took me there once. I'm telling you, we didn't see a soul—not one person, the entire time. Trust me, it's perfect."

And just like that, Miguel had come through.

—

Saturday, July 31st, 1999

Gabe left his home the next morning at eleven, on schedule to pick up Miguel at noon outside his building. He took the elevator down to the parking garage, slumped into the driver's seat of the aging Accord, threw an overnight bag into the back seat, pawed the shifter into neutral, started the car. He opened the sunroof to clear out the stale air before driving off.

During his slow, lurching trek down miles of congested surface streets, he thought again about Miguel's words. Purest among nature. They reminded Gabe of some bad copy he had read recently on a piece of junk mail (ironically a brochure for a drug rehabilitation center), but as silly as they seemed, he had since come to agree with Miguel's point, at least in general. Abandoning both desert and city meant leaving behind the only familiar surroundings he had ever known—including all the sinister things that resided there. Miguel was right: There was purity in that. In fact, he thought, as he swiftly changed lanes around someone turning left, thank God Miguel had suggested it. Thank God Gabe hadn't put up more of a fight.

Two minutes past noon, after placing his camping gear in the trunk, Miguel climbed into the passenger seat. His hair was still wet and sweet-smelling from a shower. "Goddamn, for a minute there, I thought Eddie was going to have me meet with a dealer. But we're good. He's coming in Monday instead."

"How often does that happen?"

"Saturday meetings? Pretty often. But I didn't have any lined up this weekend. That's why this worked out so well."

The windows were shut tight, air conditioning set to max. Gabe was eager to find an onramp for the freeway leading northeast, and Miguel, tracing his index finger along the crinkled pages of a city map, navigated them to the nearest one.

After merging, Gabe selected the innermost of four lanes. He sunk his foot into the accelerator. The car crept up past eighty, then eighty-five.

"You want to get us pulled over?" Miguel tapped his right pinky and thumb alternately against the small front pocket of his backpack, snug in his lap. "Don't forget."

Gabe slowed the car to seventy-five, moved over a lane to allow cars to pass. "What about all of them?"

"They're not two mutts in a used Honda."

Disapproving of Miguel's derogatory use of the term, Gabe did not reply. But he had only to recall his previous run-in with the law to grasp the truth of the sentiment.

"Besides," Miguel continued, patting the bag, "it would be a shame to prove them right, wouldn't it?"

Gabe slowed down to seventy-three and clicked on the cruise control.

—

They surged north like a bubble rising up through water. Gabe experienced the same peculiar feeling he had on their trip with Eddie, venturing far from home for the first time. Only now, it was stronger. At least when they had crossed state lines into Arizona, the landscape looked much the same as it had all across California. Desert was desert. But here, everything was different. Agricultural fields burst with endless rows of alien crops. Suburban neighborhoods butted right up against the freeway, their pastel homes corralled loosely onto plots even larger than Eddie and Lydia's. The hills melted into flat, rolling oddities that glowed far too green a hue for the hot season.

Gabe knew such signals of a brand-new environment—inhospitable, God willing, to the demons that haunted him—ought to be a comforting thing. He was beside himself to witness, right in front of him as he lived and breathed, a new land he'd only ever read about, or seen in magazines and on TV. But that novelty brought with it a disquieting sadness. It was proof of the smallness of his life, a reminder that he had managed, after eighteen labored years, to hollow out a cavity only large enough to fit one city, an adjacent desert.

"It's beautiful," he said.

Miguel looked at him. "What's beautiful?"

"This," he insisted, sweeping his hand left to right.

"Oh. Haven't you been up here before?"

"Never."

"Really?" Miguel sounded unconvinced. "What do you do—take the coast when you go north?"

Gabe paused, considering a more palatable (and less truthful) revelation. But this was Miguel. "I don't go north," he said. Another pause. "I don't go anywhere."

"What's that mean?"

He became aware of a cold layer of sweat between his hands and the steering wheel. "The farthest I've ever been from home is where we went with Eddie."

"What about down to Mexico?"

He shook his head. "Other than that trip, and the desert runs, I've never left the city."

Miguel was clearly doing his best to act unsurprised. "I guess the city's a pretty big place. Big enough to never leave, that's for sure. Hell, I bet I've met a bunch of people who—"

"You don't have to do that, Miguel."

"I'm not doing anything."

"It's no way to live, I know."

"No one can say how anyone else should live."

"Well, I don't think it's any kind of way to live a life."

Miguel turned away. He hugged his bag tightly to his chest. "Hey, at least you're getting out now."

Two hours passed. By now, conversation came easily. Miguel had let down his guard every bit as much as Gabe. Silence came easily, too, no longer jutting uncomfortably into the space they shared. He had sensed early in the game that Miguel was particularly bothered by silence in social situations. But apparently not anymore, not when it was just them.

They stopped for gas and provisions in a small foothills town utterly dominated by the backdrop of a mountain, itself only a smalltime player within the snowcapped range extending north. How late the sun must rise here, thought Gabe as he opened his wallet by the pump.

"Put that away," Miguel demanded, stepping in front of him and inserting his card. "This was all my idea."

Gabe silently accepted and stepped gingerly around the car, taking in everything new. Directly across the street, a miniature lighthouse—at least fifteen feet tall—stood over an artificial pond encrusted with glimmering river rock. He looked across a manicured expanse of lawn to realize the entire spectacle formed the elaborate signage of a single business—Lighthouse Dental. The strip mall on the opposite corner, beneath a gleaming forest-green metal roof and adorned with layers of amber-stained cedar, looked straight out of a movie set. Unlike the sad fragments of civilization they had passed through in the desert, this was a town possessing both a clinical concern for outward appearances, and, clearly, the money to do something about it. He couldn't imagine what local industry could possibly support all the excess, picturing instead a stampede of Range Rovers and M-Classes departing each morning, whisking buttoned-up businesspeople to their climate controlled offices within a sprawling corporate park, down in the valley below.

Up they rose on a narrow, twisting mountain road, enshrined by dense woods composed of a small variety of conifers.

"The gate should be up here on the left," said Miguel. "Not much farther."

"And it's Alice's?"

Miguel nodded. "Just wait 'till you see it. Forty whole acres. Worth a ton of money, I bet—it's here. Stop here."

Gabe stood on the brake, stopping the car almost in place.

"Jesus. Here, watch the bag. I'll check it out."

Gabe watched Miguel approach the brown metal gate with a strange air of caution. He reached out, shook it once, then turned back toward the car in defeat.

"What is it?"

"Padlock."

"Alice didn't mention it?"

Miguel grinned, reaching in through the open window, unzipping a small side-pocket on his bag. "I'm just fucking with you. I've got the key right here."

Gabe reached out and smacked his arm. As he left again to unlock the gate, Gabe felt the cool, dry air tumble in through the gap his window, tracing its foreign fingers over his neck.

Miguel waved him through with a motion he'd perfected over so many nights at the warehouse—a million miles away now.

They rode up a steep trail barely wide enough for the car. A front tire lot its grip momentarily, sending a small stone noisily up through the wheel-well.

"Don't worry. We just need to get this thing out of sight from the road. We can walk in the rest of the way after that."

Gabe parked the car, still steeply inclined, around a small curve. He banked the tires sharply, set the handbrake, left the transmission firmly in gear. With all the risks he seemed to be engaging in these days, why leave yet another outcome completely to chance?

They unloaded they trunk. Gabe cinched up his old high school backpack, then bundled in his arms the tentpoles, his sleeping bag and pad. Miguel shouldered the rest, and they set out. The narrow dirt lane quickly leveled off. For a few minutes, they stepped along a near-silent corridor of fir trees, the air dark and cool, muted, punctuated only by birdsong. Creeping plants poked their tendrils out over the trail, reclaiming the forest floor.

"Wow," said Gabe.

"I know. It's surrounded by state-owned land. That's why there aren't any cabins or anything." Miguel pointed ahead. "Just wait until you see what's up here."

The trail became more overgrown the farther they walked in. Soon they stepped between trees only a few feet apart. The rocky foot trail banked sharply right, leading right up to the edge of a narrow ravine. By night, and without Miguel's lead, Gabe would surely have fallen in. No more than ten feet spanned the gap, after which the ground resumed, nearly level with where he stood. He peered down a sheer cliff to a stream, burbling fifteen feet down. "Whoa, look at that," he told Miguel.

"I know."

"It's perfect—this place is perfect."

"I wasn't about to let you down, my friend."

They pitched the tent in a small clearing, set back from the cliff's edge. Gabe had wanted to sleep down by the stream, but Alice had warned Miguel against it, citing the occasional flash flood. Once they finished hammering stakes into the ground, Gabe removed his shoes and scrambled inside the tiny multicolored structure, dragging his sleeping bag and pack behind him. Miguel followed with the rest of the supplies. They finished setting up, unrolling their bags and inflating the mats. They lay silently next to each other. The open tent flap fluttered in the cool breeze. Small splotches of sunlight dappled the teal nylon wall, turning it a shimmering yellow.

Miguel interlocked his fingers behind his head. "Not a bad start."

Gabe looked over. "Thanks for taking me here."

"You took me."

"I can't stop thinking about the other night."

Miguel coughed. "And?"

"I'm glad it happened."

"Me too." After a pause, Miguel said, "I'm going to hold you to what you said about this being forever. You know that, right?"

"Of course."

"Because I've been down this road before. More than once."

"No you haven't," said Gabe, riding a sudden wave of conviction. "This isn't any road you've ever been down. This isn't like all those other times." He looked over. "And I think you know that."

Miguel lolled his head to the side, stared at him with piercing those brown eyes. "I think I do."

Gabe rolled over, crawling halfway on top of Miguel, nestling his face near his armpit. A few stray brown hairs tickled his nose. "I'm scared."

Miguel kicked his backpack. "Of that?"

"Yeah."

Miguel's chest heaved with a sigh. "It's never too late to back out."

"I know," said Gabe. "But my mind is made up. It's going to happen."

"When?"

"Before it gets dark."

"Okay."

"I think we'll know when it's time."

"All right," said Miguel, drawing his hand from beneath his head and dragging it slowly down Gabe's back. "And what are we going to do in the meantime?"

Gabe held his breath as the hand ventured lower. "Pretend we're the only two people in the world."

Miguel used his strong arms to move Gabe the rest of the way on top of him. Gabe's legs fell to each side of Miguel. He propped himself on his arms so that his face hung over Miguel's, only a few inches away. Slowly, he lowered himself until his lips just barely brushed against Miguel's. Their breaths came out hot and quick. And then he went in.

—

Gabe would look back and remember, with a private smile, that the next few hours really had felt that way: like there was no one else in the world but them. He had offered it to Miguel as little more than a throwaway phrase, something he'd read in more than one romance novel. It wasn't that he didn't mean the words—just that he never imagined they could come true.

With each event that followed, they played sole inhabitants to the universe: finishing on one another, exiting the tent (sweating and shirtless), picking their way down a tiny, plummeting trail to the stream in the bottom of the ravine, building a small fire under an enclave in the cliff at the shore, frying pre-cooked hotdogs in a cheap pan with a plastic handle that warped in the flame. It was only Gabe, and it was only Miguel. It had always been that way, always would be, occupying the entirety of both past and future—because Gabe spared not a single thought to either. Only now.

That was how he knew it was time.

He sat cross-legged on the down tuft of his sleeping bag. The sloped tent wall brushed against the bare skin of his back. He watched Miguel move intently and with an odd stiffness, unzipping the smallest pocket of the backpack, drawing from it an opaque brown ziplock bag followed by a slim red and white drinking straw cut to half its length, sliding a polished stone cutting board from the larger pocket, black and smooth as glass...and finally, producing a razor blade from his wallet.

"Alice gave me a run-down."

"She's tried it?"

Miguel shook his head. "Coke. But what's one white powder from another?"

Gabe released a nervous laugh. His research foretold a vastly different experience from that of cocaine, including one detail which helped to ease his mind—that snow dox permits, even helps its user to sleep.

"There's more than two doses in here," said Miguel. "Almost four."