Chaingang

“The case turned out to be a caseload. And they kept pulling me deeper and deeper into the jam. I stayed with this—I stayed with her. That's what's so impossible to understand now. Why I didn't just do the time, I'll never be able to explain even to myself. I did end up doing more time inside my skull. They trapped me. Of course, they had a lot of help. The thing about undercover work is—you got all that nice junk right there at your fingertips. You're not much different than a plain junkie—your life is centered around scoring—it's just that narcs are also trying to bust their fellow junkies. Other than that, we were the same as any other doper."

Mary watched him as he talked about it. His hands were moving all the time: rubbing his eye, scratching his arm, touching his face, tapping time on the steering wheel. She read the fear in his body language, and it made her even more afraid.

“Eventually you get pulled into things you couldn't imagine doing before. Hell, I was straight compared to what I'd become when she got through getting me into the scene. It's amazing how easy it is to slide from doing a little social blow to having a big-time jones. Or to slide from a couple of hits at a party to doing eight balls or slamming or basing. You just slide in. That's the problem. Your head keeps telling you how great it is."

“But you knew right from wrong, Royce. How did you ever—” She cut herself off. “I just don't see how you could believe that drugs wouldn't take you down. You're not that stupid."

“I still don't say all drugs are bad for all people. Hash ... weed ... there are some things that some individuals can handle, and they get a nice high and that's it. It's like boozers—some people can drink some things. Moderation. That's the thing. But if you've got an addictive personality, you shouldn't be doing these things. Cocaine, that's another matter altogether. Nobody handles it. Everybody thinks they can. It's so insidious. It's ‘not addictive.’ Everybody and his brother is blowin’ snow. Suddenly you've got a second mortgage on the house and you're talking kilos, dealing, and you just keep sliding."

He told her all the details of the operation against the punk Happy Ruiz, how they were going to use his vulnerability to get a big trafficker, one of the top executives for the Colombian cartel. The details of the setup:

“I was perfect for it, since this was my turf. I was a homeboy. I was a known stoner. I would start using, become this punk's good customer. Then I do some small-change dealing, supposedly. Keep buying more coke, and finally—set up a deal where I could contract for serious weight, getting our boy into as much of a bind as possible. Time it to coincide with a big shipment so they'd be anxious to move a large amount, play to their greed; only, when the punk set it up, I'd vanish into the woodwork. He'd have to use his emergency line of communication to contact the boss man."

He explained about the phone scam and how ELINT, the phonemen, could nail the otherwise invulnerable dope trafficker by the local pusher initiating an emergency contact. Everybody would fall, and Royce Hawthorne would be cut loose in the bargain.

They reached Whitetail and got out and went in the Perkins cabin. Royce built a big fire in the stone fireplace and they sat in front of it, sipping cheap wine and munching cheese.

“For whatever reason, they've decided to let me twist slowly in the wind. The thing about that is—you're in trouble, too. You're with me, and they know you're the one I—cared about. That we've been seen together a lot since Sam's been gone. They'll try to hurt you, too. I was an imbecile and a jerk to get you involved. I just didn't think.

“Now—I call ‘em at the regional office with a tip on the biggest drug lab in the history of the Western world and they like blow me off!"

“What do you mean?"

“They're not about to do anything. The head guy just goes—oh, yeah, that's very interesting. Three hundred acres of—uh-huh. Armed guards and dogs. Yeah. Okay. Cool. We'll get right on that."

“Maybe that's just his way."

“You don't get it. Look: If you're mounting a big-scale, expensive operation against an underground lab, you've got to coordinate your Clandestine Laboratory Enforcement Team; it's a major-league-type SWAT operation. You've got what they call a ‘hammer'; a HAMR is a Hazardous Materials Response, and it involves special vehicles, personnel, weapons, tactics. You don't just say, ‘Oh, yeah—what's that address again? Twenty-fourth and Plowed Ground? Okay—we'll see you next Tuesday. Take care.’ It doesn't work that way.” He took a large gulp of wine.

“What does all this mean?"