"Like a catchy name," he suggested, clearly groping.
She paused to let him soak up her condescending roll of the eyes. When she resumed, however, she didn't elaborate but moved the conversation along. "That's a start. But there's an attitude, too. You have to show people you're a winner."
Sam purposefully let a drop of beer fall from the can to her sweater, and made a small show of stroking her breast, ostensibly to wipe the moisture off. His eyes followed the action longingly.
"Which is what brings me here tonight," she added, drawing his attention by waving her hand where he could see it.
He flushed and self-consciously stared her straight in the eye.
"I need your help, Bill."
"Sure. Anything."
"Remember when we worked together on the mountain? All the dope that was floating around?"
He smiled. "Oh, yeah. Lots of good shit."
"Right," she agreed, "and lots of money being made, too, but not by you or me."
Again, he gave her a blank look.
"Come on. That's what I'm talking about, Bill. Turning the tables. People like us doing dope, getting nowhere fast. Time to play the other side."
She could almost see him pull back. "I don't know, Greta. I run some stuff-"
"I'm not talking running, stupid," she cut him off. "I'm talking dealing."
"Oh, shit. That can get dangerous."
Sam stood up quickly and took a step toward the front door. "Yeah, you're right. I'll go find someone else. I was just looking for a name, like a reference, but hey-no sweat."
To her disappointment all he did was hang his head and say, "I'm sorry I wish I could help."
Her hand rested on the doorknob. But that was it. He seemed crestfallen. She switched tactics.
Leaving the door, she crossed over to him, fitting herself between his splayed-out knees as he sat on the barstool. "Am I moving too fast?"
He looked up at her, not sure what to do with his hands, which from their resting place on his knees were almost touching her waist. He swallowed. "You've been here five minutes. It's hard to get used to."
Her fingertips brushed against his upper thighs. Her face was inches away from his, making her grateful he'd taken that breath mint. "I'm sorry, Bill. You know what it's like when you've been waiting for something a long, long time, so that when it finally arrives, you can barely control yourself?"
"Sure."
Sam dropped her voice to a near whisper. "It's like sex. The person you've been after is right where you want them at last. They're spread out, clothes off, can't wait to get it on, but waiting is the one thing you can't do. You're too worked up. The moment of a lifetime is ruined."
Her fingers dug into his legs. She leaned forward so that their noses brushed and their lips almost touched. "Ever had that feeling?"
His forehead was beaded with sweat. With agonizing slowness, his hands slid off his knees and just barely touched her hips.
She slipped free of his legs, ostensibly to retrieve her beer from the arm of her chair and take a swig.
He could barely breathe, much less respond.
"Well," she resumed, "that's what this is like for me. I can't wait to get laid, but instead of a guy, I'm talking money I want to get rich so bad, I can taste it."
"What can I do?" he just managed, his throat constricted.
"A name, Bill. I want to find out how it works, learn the ropes, you know? Be an apprentice or something. Maybe Holyoke'll have the person I'm after." She crossed the tiny room and put her hand back on the doorknob.
Out of the mess of mixed messages she'd thrown him, he latched onto the one key word. "I know people in Holyoke."
She moved back toward him, but not as closely as before. "You're kidding. See? I knew I was right to come here. You think I could meet them?"
Dancer looked nervous. "Greta, I want to help. But these guys are really dangerous. I can work with them. I've been doing it for years. But even so, I have to be super careful. For one thing, being white counts against you, big time. They hate our guts. If I tried to set you up with one of them, no telling how it might end up."
Sam made a baffled expression and once again slid in between his knees, taking his face in her hands. "Bill, I wasn't talking about going solo. I want you to be with me. I want us to do this together." She touched his lips with her fingertips.
He could barely sit still. She could feel the heat coming off him as from a radiator. "Greta," he half moaned, "you never gave me the time of day before. I can't-"
She kissed him very lightly. He leaned forward to get more, his hands landing with more confidence on her waist, kneading her through her thin sweater. She pulled back enough to address him. "That was then. I didn't know what I was doing, and maybe I don't now. But I want to try. I'm tired of my life. I need a change, and I need your help."
His face flushed, he managed to say, "I've done stuff for one of them-been a help. I can make a phone call."
She rested her palm on his chest. "Thank you, Bill. I knew you were the right man for this. What's his name?"
"Miguel Torres. He's one of the big movers down there. They only have three or four, so that means something. He's real good."
She gently stepped back once more, smiling and grateful. "You're a sweetheart. I wish I could stay."
He looked like she'd just stamped on his foot. "You can't?"
"Not tonight. I told you, I only dropped by for a little while. I'm so sorry, though. I didn't realize we'd hit it off so well, so fast."
"Fifteen minutes," he suggested, almost pleading.
She returned to the door, but this time she opened it and stood on the threshold, from where she blew him a kiss. "I'll call you tomorrow. See how you made out. Okay? Don't let me down."
"No, no," he said, standing awkwardly. "I'll make sure you can meet him."
She closed the door and walked into the night, crossing the wrecked front yard to her car rapidly, before he had time to summon any questions. The trick to these things, she knew from past experience, was to let the contact come up with most of the story.
She fired up her car and drove a few miles north before pulling off the road and dialing Joe's home number on her cell phone, unable to resist sharing her success.
"Hello?" Gunther's voice had the false sharpness of someone who was trying to sound wide awake.
"It's Sam. I just left Bill Dancer's place. Pretended I was Greta Novak. I think I just got an interview lined up with Torres in Holyoke."
There was dead silence on the other end.
"That's our in with the task force," she explained, surprised and a little disappointed. "Like you said, we bring an inside connection to the Holyoke crowd-something they've never had before."
"Okay," her boss said slowly. "I see what you're saying. You set a date and time yet with Torres?"
"Dancer'll call him tomorrow and nail it down. I hope."
Gunther seemed relieved at the qualifier. "So it's not a done deal. You moved right in on this, Sam-without backup."
It was her turn to pause a moment before saying, "You said time was wasting."
"Right. Well, get some sleep and we'll talk in the morning. I'm glad you didn't get in trouble."
* * *
Joe remained holding the phone receiver after Sam had hung up, staring thoughtfully into the darkness of his bedroom. He'd been short with her, which he knew she'd take hard. But he didn't feel bad about that. It was typical of Sam to charge off this way, almost in righteous pursuit. She was ambitious, obviously, but she was also one of the true believers, and that, he'd often pondered, could be dangerous-depending on the circumstances.
And these circumstances were not of his choosing.