We were hanging out at Pete's place. Tom was watching some dumb ass TV show.

The fridge was stuffed with beer -- cheap american crap that tasted like water from a clogged toilet. But what the hell? I needed to get the edge off and fight back my incredible horniness. Getting a good drunk on would do the trick. That was preferable to my fall back: downing a half a six-pack and enjoying loudly a little lonely but frictional time with Mr. Right.

While checking out the sad selection of brew, I discretely checked Pete's "special" compartment in the freezer. His inventory drew an immediate reaction: my blood pressure hit the floor and my mood instantly lifted. If I could scarf a teeny bit of Pete's Harry Jones by night's end, I'd be floating for hours. Pete's shit was always that good.

I snatched a beer off the shelf with a snap to my step and cracked open the top. The whoosh of carbonation escaped. I took a swig and remembered why I was here. The exigencies of my day hadn't turn out as planned. But do they ever for addicts? The dissemination of information would be necessary, requiring the use of language, and therefore my mouth. I downed the rest of the beer and then grabbed another. I could feel my jaw losening up.

The deal turned out to be more sophisticated than we'd expected. I suppose it didn't help that I made it more complicated by trying to close it while coming down from a speedball. Or the Poppers. Maybe it was the crank.

I started to speak up but Pete burst in the apartment through the front door. Like so often, he had the common sense to show up drunk. I was jealous. He must have been four beers ahead of me. Knowing him, it wasn't on cheap American fecal water.

"I thought you were in Atlanta", Pete said, banging against the couch in a jocular way.

Tom grunted, but it was hard to tell if the genesis of the grunt was from Pete's bump or the fountain of blood erupting from the hairy samurai villian on TV.

I sat down. "Brandeis has to look at the new contract. 'Til then, I'm out."

Pete said nothing, but then again, that was his way.

Tom fell into giggling at the TV. I looked at the screen. An ashen-faced Chinese boy had tears streaming down his face.

"Why is that funny?" I asked.

"Because it's a comedy, you dumb fuck." Tom kept giggling, unable to turn away from the screen, even when the phone rang.

In an instant, Pete snatched the receiver off the hook. Pete's always been quick for a drunk. "Anti-Osmosis Corporation, this Pete speakin'. How may I direct your call?"

It always amazed me how smooth Pete could be, even tanked up. I guess that's why he was able to swing owning his house and cobbling together deals that seemed doomed from the onset but that usually played and payed out well.

"Danny? " Pete's head tracked my way and he gave me a curious smile. " Why yes ma'am, he is here. One moment please."

Pete gave me a girlish wink and handed me the phone.

"Pete knows, doesn't he?" I instantly recognized the female voice. It was Susan.

"Knows what", I asked, then looked over to Tom who was still glued to the TV. "Just a second," I said into the phone. "Tom could you get me a beer? Please?"

Tom didn't move or act as if he heard me. So I did what any abnormal person would do: I pitched my empty beer bottle at his head, hitting his noggin with major league percision. Tom fell to the floor howling. "What the fuck! Why did you do that?"

"Don't be a whiner. I said, please. Can you get me a beer please? Look: I'm on the phone."

Tom looked to Pete and Pete looked to me with the phone against my ear. "Danny's got a point," Pete said. Those simple words sealed the deal. Tom finally got off his ass and headed into the kitchen.

From the phone I heard Susan say "You can be such a sick dick."

"I know. I can't help it. It's my condition."

"Pete must know you've fucked up. If I were you, I'd get out of there and lay low the next few days."

"Would you now?" I took the beer handed to me by Tom and was surprised he even had the decency to pop the top before handing it over.

Susan droned on: "The Mexicans won't do business until the dust clears. Our window of opportunity will close within the next twenty four hours."

The melodrama was thick in her voice. But if I told her so, she'd no doubt translate "how melodrmatic" into "what a twat". That would not be a misunderstanding, but it would get me nowhere. No blowjobs, no randy, loud, wild sex in some cheap hotel room. You could even forget about boring straight sex that wouldn't even make her Priest blink or touch himself inappropriately in the confessional. I let her go on.

" If we don't find a buyer within that timespan, we should all just lie down and stop breathing."

I stiffled a laugh and pictured just that: all of us on the floor of Pete's living room with brand new tennis shoes. Pete would be passing out rubber bands, plastic shopping bags, and 10 tablets apiece of phenobarbital. Barber's famous Adagio would be on the sound system. But I couldn't quite picture the phenobarbital chaser. Brandy or Cognac might work. But something bit more celebratory would be better. Champagne, perhaps. Yes: Chapagne. After downing the 10 tabs of phenobarbital, we could have a nice glass of the Grand Dame, and then we would move on to hugging and shaking hands, saying good-bye, and covering our heads with the plastic bags, and finally fitting the rubber bands around our necks before reclining into a restful sleep. Minutes afterwards we could prove Susan right as we moved on to oblivion.

"I'm just trying to help," she said. I appreciated her concern, but there was no way she could help me. Not now. "Thanks for the heads up. I'll call you later," I said. Then I hung up and finished my beer.

"Where is the gemütlichkeit?" I said too loudly. Tom actually looked up from the TV at me. "Have you looked up your ass lately?" he asked. I guess I deserved that response. I wondered how I had gotten us into this. No one acted scared, then again, why should they? They had no idea. Unless Susan was right. Maybe Pete did know.

Tom kept giggling, watching the show. "You've gotta watch part two, I'll just tell you two things: One: testicles. Two: a piece of string!" His giggling was really getting on my nerves. He turned up the volume. Japanese synth pop with weepy strings.

Somehow Pete had made it to the front window and was peeking through the curtains down on the street outside: pure barrio at the intersection of crib and crap.

Pete glanced back at me and asked: "Hey, Danny boy. Shouldn't you have parked the truck somewhere else?"

I tried to move my jaw to speak, but it was still not working right. Before I could answer, Tom switched off the TV and looked up at me. "You parked it out front? Smooth move, dumb shit."

"Listen ass wipe, " I suavely responded. "If you know of a better parking spot, then have at it." I threw Tom the keys to the truck. The dim wit caught them by his forehead with a loud "ouch!"

"We've got to think about this," Pete said, turning away from the curtains and pulling out a plastic baggy from his shirt pocket. Pete moved to the coffee table and poured out a nice long line of cocaine from his baggy. He cleaned up the line with a Sears credit card, and gave me a short glance. "What did Susan say about the value of the truck load?"

Nobody of us knew excatly what was in the truck. We didn't care. We were a value team -- only caring about price points. The Mexicans wanted the truck. They told us they would pay big if we delivered -- more than our usual fee. Only this time, rather than stealing a truck and bringing it north across the border, the order was to steal a truck and take it south across the border.

We just wanted to steal one to sell it to the mexicans, who right now didn't want it anymore. Susan had informed me about the cargo. She told me what it was and that its probably tagged with a tracking device. Back then I was still calm and wondered why she knew all this stuff. I often marveled what was more worrisome -- her past or my future. Right now I know exactly which one of us is doomed. I could already hear the FEDs knocking at our door.

"She said 2 Million." Pete looked up, snorting. "Well then lets get to work." He was half down the hallway when he finished the sentence. I took a quick snort and followed him into the blinding sunlight.
_____________________________________________

The way Pete acted when leaving our house I figured that both of them would be capable of taking care of the truck. I had to see Susan. Ten minutes taxi drive, banging the bell for another five and her sister opened the door. Susan and Cherry shared the house of their grandmother. From the looks I could instantly tell that she had a long night. Her face showed a slight sign of recognition when she saw me. "Come on in." she uttered in a voice that was about to crack in the middle of the sentence. She turned around and made her way back into the house. "Susan 's not here." - that caught my attention. I was standing in the middle of the living room or what I identified as such. This place was quickly heading down the drain - getting worse every time I got here.

I tried to figure out my next step, but I was running high on cocain and the way Cherry wriggled on the sofa, only dressed in a slip and a bra, turned a knob in my head. The premordial parts of my brain took over. The way Cherry enjoyed the next half hour, told me that she felt the same. The sex was furious and out of this world. I got dressed and used the kitchen sink to splash some cold water into my face. My head started to clear a bit. Regret and pity for myself boiled up to anger and I felt the need to hurt someone. The natural choice was to leave Cherry twisted on the couch in the living room without a gesture or word of compassion. The dream of every married man - leaving home like that in the morning. The thought just made my day. She was a woman, she was ment to be hurt by that. I just couldn't figure out who felt more pain - me or her. At least she could take it, like she always did.

On my way out I checked their clipboard. A single note informed me that Susan had a meeting with some guy called Raúl in the evening. I snatched the keys for Susan's pickup truck. She wouldn't mind.

When I stepped outside I noticed that the sunshine wasn't that blinding anymore, not like an hour ago, when I left Pete's place. It took me a minute to notice that I had my sunglasses still on. "Did I even wear them, when banging Cherry?" the question spun around in my head. I got in the truck and turned on the radio. One of Susan's CDs was in. Pink Floyd's "Crazy Diamond" - I recognized the melody almows instantly. "What a way to start the day" I said to the guy in the rear mirror who drove Susan's truck down the driveway heading for down town.
_____________________________________________

My thoughts drifted away for a minute. I felt suspicious. The paranoid feeling when having consumed too much dope. A battered truck came speeding down the boulevard, honking, pedestrians screaming, police cars in pursuit. I waited dutifully in front of the red traffic light and slipped a little bit deeper to be covered by the dashboard while the parade passed by. Something hit the hood and the car went dead. Sparks where dancing around a little metallic bolt. I jumped out of the car. "What the f...?" "I've seen this before!" "Pete?"

This day was getting worse than I expected. I gave Pete a call on his mobile. He answered: "Hi this is Pete. Sorry I'm kinda busy right now! If you've got a solution for getting rid of a dozen police cars chasing my ass then go ahead, share the knowledge with me. Otherwise fuck off!" He hang up. "Well getting rid of cops, love to do that" I headed to the trunk of Susan's truck, which was now a big speed bumper that had been disabled by a misguided taser projectile. I had no idea whether the cops or Pete had been shooting these things around. I figured the cops would be more skilled and gave Tom the credit for this. The trunk sprung open. "Susan, I love you!" I took the shotgun, turned around and tried to find myself a new car.

... to be continued (hell yeah)