Ben gave Zach’s shoulder a squeeze. “You need to get ahold of yourself,” he repeated. Zach nodded once and sulked away. It was impressive work on Ben’s part.
All four of us-even Sugar-watched Zach for a few moments as he attempted to ride his skateboard and cry simultaneously. It was more difficult than one might expect.
“Poor guy,” I said.
“He’s sweet,” Tiff said, “but he’s a little on the stalker side.”
“He’s gotta nut up,” Sugar said.
I glared at Sugar. A wonderful development: Five seconds in and he was already speaking. I wondered if maybe he had a touch of ADD. Or maybe he just didn’t know how to follow directions. Tiff and Ben didn’t seem to notice or care that Sugar was speaking, but both were looking at him with something near recognition. Another not great development.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “My cousin sometimes says things when he shouldn’t.”
“It’s true, though,” Sugar said. He smiled at Tiff. “No means no, right, baby doll?”
“Right,” she said. She stared at Sugar and then smiled. “How do I know you?”
“I don’t think you do,” Sugar said. “Yet.”
“How do I know you?” Ben said. There was just a hint of menace in his voice. I liked Ben already.
“I don’t think you do, either,” Sugar said. He shifted his weight a little bit and then stared at his feet, which was good because I was drilling holes in the side of his head with my eyes.
“What year are you?” Ben asked.
“I don’t go here,” Sugar mumbled.
“You play ball? High school maybe?”
“No, no,” Sugar said. “I pretty much just stay home and keep to myself. Like to read and shit. You know.”
Sugar’s answer was met with silence. Of all the people who looked like they stayed home and kept to themselves, much less read… and shit… Sugar was among the least likely.
“He sells drugs,” I said. I let that sink in for a second or two and then laughed and clapped Sugar on the back as hard as I possibly could without actually putting him on the ground. He might have been hard to kill, but he wasn’t hard to beat up and at that moment I regretted not leaving him in the car or, better yet, the notary office. “Oh, my, my,” I said. “I can’t take him anywhere without people thinking they know him. Usually they think he’s Eminem. I personally don’t see it, do you?”
“Little bit,” Ben said.
“Totally,” Tiff said.
“I usually think he should just button up his shirt and stop dyeing his hair,” I said, “but then I’m old-fashioned.”
“OG,” Sugar said, which earned him another glare from me.
“Anyway,” I said, “we’re here to check up on my nephew. Brent Grayson.”
“That’s mine,” Ben said. “I’m A through L.” He flipped through his clipboard and then ran his finger down a page until he landed on Brent’s name. I could see that he had no names listed and also that he was in room 804. “Brent doesn’t have any approved guests listed, so unless he called a pass down for you, I can’t let you in.”
“I understand that, of course, of course,” I said. “It’s Ben, right?”
“Yes,” he said.
“And you’re Tiffany?” I said.
“Tiff,” she said. “ ‘Tiffany’ makes me sound like I’m a thousand years old.”
“Well, Ben and Tiff,” I said, “here’s the problem. Can I expect a level of confidentiality here?”
“Of course,” Ben said. Tiff didn’t look so sure, but she nodded in agreement.
“My nephew, he lives on the eighth floor, correct?”
“That’s correct, sir,” Ben said.
Sir. That was nice. I looked up the side of the building. “That’s a pretty long fall, isn’t it?”
“Remember there was a girl on the sixth floor who jumped last fall?” Tiff said to Ben. “It was the saddest thing. She got her first B and that was it. Splat.”
“So you understand the situation here,” I said.
“Oh,” Ben said. “Gosh. Brent, really?”
“He’s had a rough go of it lately,” I said. “And now we haven’t been able to get him on the phone for the last two days, so, as you can imagine, there’s some concern.”
“I could go up and knock on his door,” Ben said.
“Yes, you could,” I said, “and under normal circumstances, I think that would be more than enough. But in this case, I’m afraid he’d know that, well, we broke his confidence. How well do you know Brent?”
“I see him around the building,” Ben said.
“I don’t even know him,” Tiff said. “Do I, Ben?”
“He’s the-pardon the expression, sir-he’s the squirrely one.”
“Oh, no, really?” Tiff said.
“Really,” I said and then I tried to look hurt by Ben’s description. Squirrely. What was wrong with kids today? Couldn’t more of them be like young Mr. Ben?
“I’m really sorry,” Ben said to me. “We give everyone nicknames. You know, long hours out front and we get a little nutty.”
“I understand,” I said, “and I hope you understand how sensitive this is for all of us.”
Ben bit down on his bottom lip and concentrated on his clipboard for a few seconds. He ran a finger up and down his list and then stopped, looked down and said, “Did you say your name was Kurt Riebe?”
“Yes,” I said.
He ran his finger up and down again, stopped, looked and said to Sugar, “And you’re Delmert Boggs?”
“Naw, man,” Sugar said. “Something cooler than…”
I put my hand over Sugar’s mouth. “Yes, he’s Delmert Boggs.” Ben made out two guest passes for us and then handed us both lanyards to wear.
“I appreciate this,” I said. “Brent will, too, I hope.”
“He’s very sweet,” Tiff said.
“Just make sure Delmert doesn’t sell any drugs inside,” Ben said. “And it would be good if Delmert didn’t show back up at some later date to try to sell drugs. Like at any of the frat houses.”
Sugar looked over his shoulder, as if someone was calling his name, and mumbled something unintelligible.
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” I said.
Ben got up and opened the door into the tower with his key card and waved us in. Sugar started to talk just as soon as we were in the lobby but I hushed him until we were in the elevator.
“How’d you do that Jedi shit?” he asked.
“I don’t look like a drug dealer,” I said.
“That shit was wrong,” Sugar said. “That was some profiling shit right there.”
“Maybe don’t sell any drugs around here for a few months,” I said.
“You know what the market is out here? I could make my full nut each month just on Adderall and HGH, but I respect that this is an educational facility,” Sugar said. “Kids learning and shit. So maybe I drop a little weed in the area now and then, but it’s not like I got kids on the black tar, man.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I said.
“You know what the kids really want, though?”
“A better life?”
“Ambien. They want that crazy Tiger Woods Ambien sex now. That’s my number one growth industry. Stupid cuz you can go to the doctor, tell them you’re not sleeping and Mom and Dad’s health insurance will pick it up for four bucks a bottle. So I get a huge markup.”
The problem with talking to Sugar about anything related to his business was that it constantly reminded me of why I didn’t like him in the first place. He’d come to me not long ago when he was in a jam and I’d gone to him not long ago when I was in a jam, but this new relationship where he was the middleman to a client just opened up my antipathy for him. The sooner I was done with him and could help his friend, the less likely it was that Sugar got bullet number seven.
When you’re a spy, you often enter into business propositions with people not good enough to spit on. Dictators. Presidents. Warlords. And the occasional peroxide blond drug dealer.
The elevator doors opened onto the eighth floor and the first thing I noticed was the smell. It wasn’t death or decay or the coppery smell of blood. Instead it was a just-as-nauseating mixture of patchouli, the oversweet-smelling body lotion favored by strippers and sorority girls alike, the indiscriminate odor of young men (usually a combination of unwashed socks and unwashed hair with a couple dashes of sadness and desperation sprinkled in for flavor) and macaroni and cheese.