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 ~Attempted Murder~

Chris was a dealer I knew through my girlfriend Jan over on the coast. He was a small-time wholesaler in weed, acid, and coke. He offered weed by the pound, acid by the jar of one-thousand count, and coke by the ounce. Sometimes I would get him to front me enough dope to break down into baggies of weed, individual hits of acid, and grams of coke. I did it for the highs I could skim off the top, and make a little beer money. One time I thought I would try and be somebody so I got Chris to front me five pounds of weed, a jar of acid, and an ounce of coke. No money down. I was going to sell it all for such and such a price, give Chris what I owed him, and pocket the mark-up.  I was going to make some real money for a change.

Well, about two months later, after I had smoked, sniffed, swallowed, drank, gambled, and partied it all away, Chris found me at my sister's apartment in Redwood City on a Sunday afternoon. I was sitting on her couch watching TV munching Saltine Crackers with peanut butter on them when I saw Chris and a big guy walk past the apartment window then heard the knock on the door. My heart pounded like it wanted to get out and run. I went to the door and opened it.

"Hey, Chris. How's it going?" 

"I'm fine, Dan. You have my money?"

My sister was in the bedroom with her baby. I hollered to her  "I'm going somewhere, Bobby. I'll see you later." Then said to Chris "let's go talk about this."

Fear, in partnership with Saltine Crackers and peanut butter dried up all my saliva. My mouth and tongue felt like they were coated with dry cotton. This made it very difficult to speak quickly and clearly. I had to come up with a good story about what happened to all the product. Telling the truth was not an option.  If I told them what really happened my broken body would likely be dumped in the hills somewhere. "Mouth, I silently pleaded, don't fail me now."

Chris had told me about the big guy a few times in the past. He said he was a Vietnam war vet, and knew how to kill with his hands. Said his name was Bill Phillips. I never believed that was his real name and still don't. He interlaced his fingers and stretched out his arms a few times as he kept an eye on me while we walked to Chris's car. One of his fingers was as wide as three of mine. He never spoke. 

Chris and Bill Phillips sat in front and had me take the back seat. I knew Chris had a gun under his coat. Bill Phillips didn't need one. I started the bullshit story: 

"I ended up fronting all the dope to a couple I met a while back. They seemed cool, and they have money, so I saw no reason not to trust them. I figured they could sell everything a lot faster than I could because they stay in one place all the time and know a lot of people. But now, whenever I try to get money from them they just give me the run around. They live close to here. If you take me there I'll tell them they really need to pay-up now or there's going to be a serious problem. They live a short block from the Safeway store over on Jefferson. You can park in the Safeway parking lot and I'll walk to their place from there."

Sometimes I would hang out with a guy named Tony. We would play nickel, dime, quarter dealer's choice poker, smoke weed, and drink beer in his apartment. It was easy to cheat him at poker because he was really into his TV. I could take quick peeks at the top card of the deck, for example, when I saw that he was distracted. Once when I was at his place he showed me the .22 revolver he kept in a holster that hung from a hook just inside the closet in his bedroom. It was loaded. He said it was always loaded. 

My plan was to go to Tony's, tell him I was walking by and really had to piss so needed to use his bathroom. His bathroom was at the end of a short hall next to his bedroom. The room and bathroom were both out of sight of where he always sat watching TV. I would go into his room, grab the gun, go to the bathroom, close the door, check to make sure the gun was loaded, stick it in my pants, then flush the toilet, thank Tony for the use of his john, walk back to the car, shoot Chris and Bill Phillips dead, then run like hell.

Tony wasn't home. I couldn't run. I had no place to run to where I wouldn't be found. I had no money. No car. I did have another desperate pitch, though. 

When I got back in the car I acted all down-hearted and ashamed. I told Chris the people weren't home, but maybe it's just as well. They weren't going to give me any money, anyway,  and if we tried to get it from them they would cause a big ruckus with all their screaming and such. I know this sounds crazy, Chris, but I do have a way to work-off my debt to you. I know a guy on the coast called Fast Jack. He hangs around with the San Francisco Giants baseball team when they pratice. I think they have him scruff up balls or something to justify his presence, but they mainly want him there because he provides them with cocaine. Fast Jack asked me once if I had a connection for ounces of coke. Like I said, I know this sounds crazy after how fucked-up our other deal went, but if you want, you could bring me an ounce or two of coke every week or so. I'll sell it to Fast Jack for cash up front, and won't take anything for myself until enough is sold to make us even. 

The fact I didn't run while I had the chance bought me at least some credibility with Chris and Bill Phillips. As it turned out, Bill Phillips swallowed my story, hook, line, and sinker and felt bad for me, so didn't say anything to Chris that would discourage him from giving me a chance to make good. Chris went for the deal. He knew I was too scared to screw-up again.

After five or six weeks I had Chris all paid back. The day I was even with him I told him I didn't want to sell drugs anymore. He said that was fine. I'm sure he  had bigger things happening than me, anyway, so it was no big deal. Fast Jack was really mad when I told him no more coke. Fortunately for both of us he wasn't dangerous mad, so I didn't have to kill him.