Hard Case Crime: Dutch Uncle Read Free Page B

hadn’t said a word about these two. Presumably he’d been able to handle them. Maybe Leo wasn’t such a creampuff after all.
    The Swede was the one to watch, jonesing heavy for his blow, getting edgier by the second. Harry figured he’d have his hands full with this guy, who outweighed him by twenty pounds and, judging by the muscles, had to be strong. He took a glance, to see what he could use as a weapon, then lit a cigarette, the last of Manfred’s, which could always be ground into an eye or a pierced nipple. He looked over at Javier. Hard to imagine this skyscraper drag queen as an ally, but that was the way it was shaping up.
    Harry handed Sven the package. Sven took it out of the sack, dropped the sack on the floor, and unraveled the baggie. He held up the coke to the naked light bulb, kneading it, but the bulk of the ounce was one rock, and it didn’t break.
    Sven said, “Hmmmm.” He set it on the table. “You first.”
    Javier was on the bed, his back against the headboard, his ridiculous spider legs double-crossed. He dangled a backless slipper from the biggest foot Harry had ever seen. “Your drama is boring. This is our Dutch Uncle. All the boys are very dear to Uncle Manfred.”
    “This is not Manfred,” Sven said. “This is not Leo. This is somebody we’ve never seen, and you want to hand him a thousand dollars for a product we haven’t even tested. You stupid faggot.”
    Javier gave him a stricken look, then stared at his giant feet.
    Harry was done being polite. “Listen, sport, you either want the shit or you don’t. In fifteen seconds I’m walking out the door with this package or a thousand dollars. Your move. Make up your mind.”
    “My mother always said it,” Javier said. “Rudeness begets rudeness.”
    “Shut up,” Sven said. He took three steps to the dresser, and reached into the back of a drawer. Instead of the bundle of bills Harry was hoping to see, the Swede was holding a pistol, a Colt .45 automatic, and he was pointing it at Harry’s chest.
    Harry said, “Terrific,” and Javier started a gasp that got stuck in his throat.
    Sven wagged the Colt toward the chair that was cluttered with beach gear. “Move that shit and sit down. Javier,” he said, “get up. My hands are full.”
    Javier teetered on his mules. He dumped the one big stone and whatever shake there was onto a mirror, working the smaller pieces with a razor blade, slicing and dicing, a rhythmic clicking. His pink tongue poked through his lips in concentration.
    Harry eyed the gun, the hand that held the gun, the arm attached to the hand that held the gun. Here he was, kept at bay by a muscle queen in leather panties. Two comic book fags making him look bad. No getting around it.
    Javier chopped three lines. An entire half of him bent over the table, he had a straw to his nostril, about to suck up the powder.
    Sven stopped him. “He goes first.”
    Harry kept quiet about blow not being his thing, how it always got him in trouble. He already was in trouble. He huffed half the line into his right nostril, the other half into his left. A little sting, the coke was up his nose and into his head, trickling down his throat. He gagged. Too much. He gagged again. A-1 product. His heart was thumping and his palms remoistened.
    “Outstanding product,” he said, feeling brotherly toward the Swede threatening his life. “Excellent.”
    Sven looked unconvinced. He cocked one blonde eyebrow, flipping his gaze between Harry and Javier. He gestured to Javier, who deadpanned, “I know what to do. Trust me.”
    It was a long line, about five inches, and fat. Javier horked it all in one short sniff. He pinched his nostril closed and rolled his eyes heavenward.
    “Ho, yes, child,” he said. “Ho, yes.” He pressed his fingertips together and smiled a jack o’ lantern smile, except he had straight white teeth. Every single one.
    Sven took his turn hunched over the powder. He snorted. Half the line went up. He